#infernal battlefield | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reveluving · 8 months

Note

you know what I just thought of? Shy wife is used to going to neighbour cookouts and gatherings alone since Graves is often away. She gets hit on quite a bit but always reminds everyone she’s very happily married (I mean haven’t they seen the rock on her finger?)

Then one day she finally shows up with Phil at one of those gatherings and he’s so confident his relationship with her, he can’t help but laugh at those guys cause he knows she only has eyes for him 😌 (he prolly proceeds to fuck her within an inch of her life lbr)

Also completely unrelated but shy wife getting a tiny discreet tattoo of his initials or their last name, and he discovers it while fucking her after getting back from a mission

-🍬

*Rubbing my hands together like a villain* I kicked my feet in the air the second I received this!!! You, my dearest, are a MASTERMIND 🙏🏼😩

Includes: brief smut at the end (minors DNI!), petnames (‘sweetheart’, ‘pretty girl’), mentions of possessive!phil, you get a lil’ tatt for him, slight humour & loads of fluff!

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

Whether you’d like to imagine it while you’re Phil’s wife or fiancée, I’d like to imagine the latter more, since engagement rings tend to look more upscale than wedding bands. So imagine the immediate (but not enough) sting one would feel as soon as they boldly come up to you, hoping for a chance. It’s impossible not to acknowledge the large diamond cut around your finger, twinkling even at the smallest movements.

It usually drives them away, but you’ll also have insistent ones, keen on making you sway while they nurse their injured pride to health.

Or even when married, no doubt Phil gets you the most out-there-looking band—why should he settle for less for any occasion, after all?

For Phil, he’d rather be caught dead in a ditch than potentially lose his actual ring on the battlefield. It’s why he has a silicone wedding band instead, personally chosen by you, thus why it’s almost as special as his main one. While he’d rather not potentially let a single scratch on his actual band, he still wants a part of you with him. Remind him of the memories you’ve made and will make every time he comes home.

But on the other hand, it’s a possession thing.

Phil’s confidence in your relationship is just as massive as him carrying himself to the world, so the ring is more of a warning, as mentioned before, to those thinking they’d even have a grain of chance with you. He knows people take advantage of beautiful sweethearts like you because as soon as you give them a crumb of attention, you can only hope someone saves you from their infernal yapping.

The best part about it, to Phil, is that you don’t mind feeding his ego, just as he lives for them like a dog showering in its owner’s praises, because you know he achieves them all, be it his work or otherwise. But God knows if the men flirting with you were being truthful about the little stories they’ve conjured up to impress you.

Plus, you prefer Phil’s attention over theirs, absolutely no competition.

Especially when Phil finds the time (read: makes sure) to attend these cookouts.

Even if he doesn’t frequent to them as much as you do, he’s a household name. Literally. The hosts of the cookouts, Rick and his wife greet you like you’ve known each other for years; the same pair who’d save you from your demise each time they’d realize you were dragged into a one-sided or possibly uncomfortable conversation.

Phil is rare to be seen without you by his side, and none of you minded. A symbiotic system as Phil gets to flaunt you to all the desperate guys out there while playing guard dog. With unamused looks and sharp glares or even condescending smiles when they realize that he is the infamous Phillip Graves you and the hosts have been talking about. Somehow he knows which of them to send his warnings to, even if you’ve never given him their description.

"I did promise the missus I'd come one day." Phil joked with the group when Rick and his wife teased him for finally coming over, pulling you close to his side because he knew they were watching. You didn't, well, couldn't (not that you wanted to very much) spare even a second for them when your husband naturally had your attention.

And you get to seek comfort from him. Plus, it’s ten times fun with each other in these gatherings. Good food, good conversation and best of all, good company.

Now, tattoos. Ah, tattoos.

I imagine you’ve been considering one for a while and without his knowledge. Only because you know he’d be nosey enough to be able to draw an answer out of you. It takes a bit of time though, largely due to the commitment of it. You want one, of course, but to have one, you’ll want one that’s truly meaningful.

Should it be Graves or just G? Or should you opt for P.G. instead? What font would you want, how big would it be and where?

Even when you’ve finalised your answers, there’s a lingering bit of fear that it won’t be to your or his liking. But you’ve known the man long enough to know that so long that your heart belonged to him, cherished and cared for, you knew his heart will always belong to you too.

A small, single ‘G’ tattooed on your wrist in a flourish font. I initially thought of a finger tattoo but I heard not many artists recommend it, but that's beside the point!

Just imagine him coming home after a tough time at work, pent-up until he has his wife underneath him. He only notices the ink on your wrist as his fingers interlock with yours. He slows his thrusts, but not he's stopping either.

If anything it reaches deeper into you when he realizes what the tattoo indicates.

“Pretty girl,” He purrs, pinning your wrist to brush his lips along the semi-sensitive spot. There's something about the way he carefully presses his lips to your pulse, only for his eyes to flit to your glassy ones with such danger. Such passion.

Such… eagerness.

“Didn't tell me y‘had a surprise.” The way surged his hips forward rather suddenly, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes and a petulant pout had your lips parting, letting out a shaky moan even before you could protest.

“I–I wanted to…” You whined, silently begging him not to stop with your feet against his back, even if it fogged your mind from thinking straight, from making sense as you spoke, “I had it… L–Last month...”

It has Phil feel some type of way—the best way, that is. If seeing his love handling her wedding ring with much care doesn't make him go crazy already, then this definitely would. Be prepared to have your hands pinned, be it to the bed, the wall, in the shower, wherever, whenever, so long they—both the tattoo and the ring, face him for a little while.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

313 notes · View notes

hestiaswifey · 2 months

Text

Protective

In the shadow of Mount Olympus, the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, casting a warm golden light over the battlefield.

The air was thick with tension; the clash of swords rang like thunder, and the cries of warriors echoed as they fought for their lives against the Infernal armies.

Ares, the God of War, stood stationed at the forefront, his armor gleaming in the fading light, eyes aflame with determination.

Beside him fought you, a mortal warrior who had captured his attention and stirred emotions he rarely displayed.

With long hair pulled back and the heart of a lion, you wielded your sword with unmatched skill and bravery, determined to protect the land you called home.

Your laughter, even amid the chaos, reached Ares like a soothing balm, reminding him of why he joined the fray that day.

"You ready?" he called to you over the clamor of battle, his voice steady but with an undertone of concern.

You nodded, a fierce grin on your face. "Always."

But as the battle raged on, the tides began to turn. A wave of infernal creatures surged forward, larger and more grotesque than any your forces had faced before. You fought alongside Ares, avoiding danger with agility that would make even the most skilled gods envious. Still, the relentless onslaught was daunting, and now and then, Ares found himself forced to shift his focus, granting you fleeting glances.

“Stay close!” he warned, his stern demeanor commanding even in the heat of battle.

You laughed off his concerns. “I can fend for myself, Ares! You shouldn’t worry—”

But before you could finish, a massive beast lunged from the shadows, teeth bared and claws ready to tear you apart. Ares reacted in an instant, interposing himself between you and the creature, his sword cleaving the air with divine precision. The beast staggered back, but not before it landed a swift blow on your side, knocking you to the ground.

“Ares!” you gasped, clutching your side, blood seeping through your fingers. The pain radiated through your body like wildfire, your vision blurring as shock set in.

His heart raced at the sight of you falling, his stoic mask shattered. “NO!” Ares roared, a primal fear erupting from deep within him. In one fluid motion, he dispatched the beast with a brutal strike before kneeling by your side, cradling your head in his arms.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered urgently, his usual calm replaced by desperation. “You’re going to be alright.”

You tried to reassure him with a smile, but the dizziness threatened to pull you under. “I’m…. I’m fine, Ares. Just a scratch…”

“A scratch?” He seethed, his trademark calm shattered. “This is not a scratch!” His fingers brushed delicately over the wound, then he summoned the divine energy within him, his aura pulsating with a fierce light.

You felt warmth radiate from his hands as he worked to mend your injury. “Don’t move!” he commanded, and you obeyed, despite the pain. Realizing that this wasn’t just about a wound anymore—it was about Ares’ torment over your state—it dawned on you just how intensely he cared.

As the divine energy pulsed through you, the world around faded, leaving only the two of you. “You mean everything to me,” he confessed softly, his voice a rare blend of vulnerability and strength. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

And for the first time, Ares allowed himself to reveal the depth of his feelings, the fierce protectiveness consuming him like a flame. With every pulse of energy, you could feel the wound knitting together, the pain ebbing away. Yet that heartache etched in his expression remained.

With a final burst of light, your injury healed, and you took a deep breath, feeling whole once more. “See? I told you I’m fine,” you teased weakly, though you could still see the tension in Ares’ muscles.

“A true warrior fights without fear,” he said, his tone returning to its usual sternness, but his eyes softened. “And a true warrior understands the cost of battle. I won’t allow you to be reckless. I refuse.”

His words struck a chord in you. You knew Ares was often the embodiment of both rage and honor, but this moment crystallized the myriad shades of his character—his fierce protectiveness, his gentle heart, and the sacred bond forming between a god and a mortal.

“Then let’s fight together,” you proposed, lifting your sword high once more. “As one.”

Ares met your gaze, and in that moment, the battlefield around you vanished, leaving only the bond you shared. “Together,” he agreed, his resolve hardening like steel, and with that, the two of you surged into battle side by side, hearts aligned and spirits unbreakable, prepared to face whatever came next.

#blood of zeus x reader #ares boz

117 notes · View notes

cerys-scribbles · 7 months

Note

Prompt Idea:

Tav/Durge twists their leg and can't walk. What do the companions do?

(karlach or halsin please)

Karlach

Karlach is used to battlefield injuries. She has little skill with healing, but she can put together a splint with only some rope and wood. Her forehead crinkles as she works, a tiny adorable line between her brows.

“It’s fine,” you say. “It’s just a twisted ankle—I’ll be all right in the morning.”

Karlach snorts. “Soldier, with our luck, we’ll be attacked by kobolds at midnight.”

You open your mouth to protest… then shut it again. Because that is exactly what would happen to all of you.

And you understand that the splint is her way of taking care of you. She’ll ensure you can’t injure yourself further and she’ll sleep nearby.

The heat coming off her infernal engine soothes the ache in your leg and helps lull you to sleep. She’ll guard you when you can’t guard yourself, no matter how much you protest. “Spent ten years all by myself,” she says, “and I’m not going to lose you.”

Halsin

Halsin has dealt with his fair share of injuries. He has treated countless sprains and broken bones. He kneels beside you after the battle, his brows drawn low as he gently pulls your boot free. You try not to wince, but a hiss of pain escapes you. “Apologies,” he says, and you can tell he means it.

“Not your fault,” you say, your voice a little tight. “I’m all right.”

Once he can get a good look at your swollen ankle, he nods to himself. “Not too bad.”

“So I’ll keep the foot?” you say, smiling.

He gives you a tolerant smile. By now, he’s grown used to your quips and jokes. It’s your way of dealing with all of the chaos you’ve been thrown into.

He places his large hand over your injury and closes his eyes. His lips move, forming the shape of a healing spell. Cold spreads out from his fingertips, sinking into bone and sinew. For a moment, the cold-burn of it makes you grimace. But then the magic knits the injury back together, and the pain recedes. “You should rest it until the morning,” says Halsin. He begins unpacking your bedroll. “Magic can only do so much.”

You catch his hand and squeeze. “Thank you,” you say.

His green eyes meet yours. There’s a warmth in his face, a fierce protectiveness. “Of course.”

#halsin x reader #halsin x tav #karlach x tav #karlach x reader #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

152 notes · View notes

stormsthatrage · 1 year

Text

The Hair Thing

At some point, the hair stops being about what was stolen from Xanxus and starts being about what was stolen from Tsunayoshi.

Of course, in the beginning, it's like this: Squalo knows the Vongola Ring should have been Xanxus's.

It’s simple. Xanxus was first in line for the throne after his older brothers died — and damn whatever Timoteo says, those three were his brothers. Even considering the fact that Xanxus wasn't a blood son after all, the fact remains that for the majority of his life, Xanxus was a Vongola heir. He was claimed as one, he was raised as one, he was loved as one. (And again, fuck what Timoteo says. If Enrico had still been alive, Timoteo would have been dead for the mere suggestion that Xanxus wasn't family as well as Family). And as such, he should have been on the throne far before any other candidate could ever have been brought in.

Also? Xanxus had the skills to be just about a damn perfect Don Vongola. He knew how Vongola worked. After all the time spent learning at his brothers' knees, he knew everything that the Capo dei capi could possibly need to know, and had a bunch of practice at it to boot. He was familiar with the duties of the head and the duties of the underbosses and the duties of the lowest ranks on the street. He knew how to keep his people safe. He knew how to enter a hostile negotiation and come out on top. He was great at strategy, both on and off the battlefield, and, oh yeah — speaking of the battlefield, Xanxus was really, really fucking strong. And so on. Squalo could have spent a week listing all the reasons Xanxus would have made a perfect Tenth.

So yeah. Squalo was fucking pissed when Timoteo revealed his lies, revealed his betrayal, and revealed that Xanxus had never actually been in line for the throne at all.

And Squalo's anger damn near turned him insane when Timoteo put his fucking Sky in ice.

So yeah. The hair thing. It begins because of what was stolen from Xanxus. As permanent as the fury embedded in his bones (as permanent as the rage still twisting in the back of his mind, a quiet, infernal madness that doesn't heal even when they finally break his Sky out of a fucking ice-seal) is his determination to never cut it, not until what was stolen is restored.

His determination grows even stronger when he meets Timoteo's choice heir for the first time. Tsunayoshi is weak. Tsunayoshi is a coward. Tsunayoshi is slow, and inexperienced, and absolutely not qualified for the throne.

The only thing Tsunayoshi has going for him as a candidate is his blood, his freakish primo-like genes, but ancestry has no impact on capability, and Squalo has been by Xanxus's side for too long to be okay with the thought of Tsunayoshi leading the Vongola into the ground from incompetence and cowardice.

Squalo's initial impression of Tsunayoshi, of course, does not withstand prolonged contact with him. It turns out that underneath the weakling appearance is, in fact, a perfect Capo dei Capi — different from the type Xanxus would have been, but no less ideal for it. Tsunayoshi is strong, fierce, determined, protective, smart, skilled, and — as it turns out, most importantly — kind.

Tsunayoshi is unbelievably kind. Impossibly kind. So kind Squalo finds himself searching for proof that it's a mask, because it has to be, because no one could be that genuinely good — but no matter how hard he searches, he only finds more evidence that somehow it's not a mask, it's real. And Squalo can only watch in awe and terror as Tsunayoshi's compassion spreads out like a fucking fungus, infecting others and the world and the fabric of the underworld itself, until Squalo has no choice but to believe that Tsunayoshi is going to save everyone, both Vongola and outsiders alike, from all the blood and suffering they were once destined to stain themselves with.

Squalo gets a front-row seat to Tsunayoshi's... Tsunayoshi-ness, as shit goes down in the wildest year of his life. There's the undoing of a ten-year-apocalypse, the undoing of an ancient curse, the making of what feels like a thousand different treaties, hell, fucking earth flames. At some point, Squalo stops keeping track, because so many absurd things have happened. And after it all, Tsunayoshi turns 15, and the kid and his guardians finally come to Italy.

For some reason, as soon as they step foot on home soil at the airport, they're ditching their Iron-Fort appointed chaperones to infest the Varia Castle. The kid and his equally impossible guardians make themselves comfortable, and as another year passes, every single one of the brats manages to endear themselves to the Varia Commanders — not that any of them would say it, of course.

(Years later, Squalo will remember his initial amusement at their sudden appearance at the Castle, and will realize that instead, he should have been furious. Why, why, after everything, didn't he think to wonder why they didn't want to stay at the Iron Fort? Sure, Tsunayoshi was Timoteo's chosen heir, but that didn't guarantee safety in the bastard's presence. After all, Xanxus had once been Timoteo's chosen son.)

The year ends, and the time comes. Tsunayoshi takes the throne.

Squalo doesn't cut his hair. He doesn't cut his hair, and for a moment, for a brief period of wonderful relief, the abstinence is not performed out of fury. The rage, the hurt, the insanity clawing at the back of his mind — it's dimmed, as dormant as it could ever be, after everything. Xanxus is happy, and frankly, after the ice, more comfortable heading the Varia than the main family anyway. Tsunayoshi is a better Vongola X than anyone could have dreamed. Vongola is stronger than it has ever been, his Sky is happy, and Tsunayoshi is leading the underworld into an impossibly bright future.

So Squalo does not cut his hair, because he took an oath not to and he is a man of his word. But he can imagine a world in which he did not take the oath, a world in which the hair was not a vow, and was instead a mere visual expression of his fury and resolve. It is a world where, after the ceremony in which the kid donned the title of Vongola X and Xanxus called the kid "little brother" in front of half of Italy, Squalo went home and pulled out a knife and finally got rid of the damned ponytail.

That period of blissful relief lasts right up until seven months later, when Squalo finds himself exhausted and a little bit tipsy and no longer up for celebrating the destruction of the human-trafficking ring the Alliance had just broken open.

He stumbles up a secluded staircase in the Iron Fort, and down a quiet hallway, intent on locating a room in which he can fucking take a nap. He spies a door that looks promisingly abandoned, tricks the lock open, and enters the room to find Tsunayoshi curled up against the far corner, spine pressed tightly against the wall, head tucked between his knees.

Even from the doorway, Squalo can hear how rapidly the kid is gasping for breath, can tell how painful it is.

For a moment, Squalo thinks someone has had the audacity, the stupidity, to dare and poison his Sky's little brother.

And then he hears the strangled sob, and puzzle pieces that he didn't even know he had come slamming together with the force of a fucking asteroid impact.

He's across the room in a heartbeat, pulling on his rain flames to calm the kid down. As he tries to take Tsunayoshi's hands, the kid flinches back. Holds his hands away from Squalo, like there's something coating them and he doesn't want to get Squalo dirty.

All of a sudden, Squalo thinks of his initial impression of Tsunayoshi. Not suited for the underworld, and especially not suited for leading the Vongola. Best left as a civilian, far away from Italy.

He bites back a hysterical laugh as he realizes that he had been right all along.

Tsunayoshi. Sweet, compassionate Tsunayoshi. Too stupidly soft to not get maimed by all the suffering he sees, by all the people he can't save, by all the people he has to fight because they are too far gone to save. Too ridiculously loving to not loathe himself every time he sends family onto the battlefield.

Too strong to let any of that stop him. Too kind to turn his back on those who are defenseless, who need his help.

Squalo gives up on cradling Tsunayoshi's hands. He sits down next to the kid, legs splayed out in front of him, and then hauls the kid (still just a kid, god, they are all so young) into his lap, back to chest. He wraps his arms around Tsunayoshi’s ribcage, as tight as he can without causing pain, tucking his chin over the kid’s head, and pours rain flames into his shaking frame.

The hyperventilating stops. The agony and self-hatred, so strong that Tsunayoshi's flames are radiating it into the air, do not.

His Sky's kid brother sobs into his neck, shakes apart in his arms, and all Squalo can feel is, in the back of his head, that fucking rage flaring back to life from dormancy.

_____________

In the end, it's like this. Squalo knows the Vongola Ring should have been Xanxus's.

Tsunayoshi gets it anyway.

And so Squalo never cuts his hair.

______________________________________________________

Edited 7/14/2023. Crossposted to AO3.

(AN from 7/13/2023): Authorial Disclaimer: Normally I don't post fic hot off the press but in my defense I didn't know this was going to be a fic. I just wanted to post an idea! It was going to be like. 1 paragraph! Max! I swear! ...So I'm posting my definitely-short-idea, because I planned on posting today, and I'll edit and revise and add it to ao3 later. Because that is a thing I am going to need to do now. Apparently. Later, after bedtime. Dang, but these plot bunnies are out of control...

#khr #superbi squalo #squalo #sawada tsunayoshi #xanxus #this. this was supposed to be a short idea. but it's a fic? help?#squalo's hair #katekyou hitman reborn

462 notes · View notes

tornado1992 · 7 months

Text

I know it’s wholesome Sonic and Tails Wednesday eve and I shouldn’t be posting anything angsty BUT

Now that we’re exploring the potential of Tails being directly linked to the Chaos Emeralds…

Team Sonic and the restoration are fighting Eggman’s forces, it’s rough, they’re outnumbered and are getting close to being out powered, Silver and Team Dark’s assistance be dammed, Eggman did plan how to keep them occupied.

A foreign place, no citizens around, no remaining functioning facilities nearby, not any city, town or population, nothing close to them, everything has been rather evacuated or demolished by Badniks.

They’re scattered around the battlefield, everyone way too far from one another, but they have to cover more terrain, and no one’s better than Sonic to do that.

He’s going from edge to edge, dodging, punching, wrecking, they’ve been at this for hours but he can keep on for days, no doubt.

There’s yelling and shouting until there isn’t, a harsh sudden silence taking its place, weird. Sonic turns to the vibration in his arm.

His communicator illuminates in bright angry red, an alarm. Tails vitals.

Tails flatlines.

Way to sudden, no rising on vitals, no yelling from his side of the battlefield, it had to be a mistake, he needed it to be a mistake.

But the screen shows Tails’ communicator’s still attached to his wrist, and there’s no longer any silence when the shouts and cries of the fox’s name fill the place, It wasn’t a mistake.

He nearly trips on his own feet at how quickly he moved, his legs suddenly so weak to support him, but he had no time to freeze, he had no time to doubt he had no time-

He gets beside him in less than a second.

He’s on the ground, no badniks near him, the ground around him almost steaming, surrounding him in infernal smoke, he can feel the ground trembling, trembling, almost like how his body felt when a much younger Tails was purring while hugging him. Hell, why does he look so small all of the sudden?

His baby brother’s bright pretty yellow fur tainted if not bathed in a sick red. His chest fluff has no white left to show, a deep wound right over his heart. No.

He craddles him close, he knows he shouldn’t move him but he shouldn’t be so still, he wasn’t supposed to be this still, no, he was supposed to at least be crying he was supposed to hug Sonic back he was supposed to open his eyes-

There are no functioning hospitals in miles. The medic team is not equipped for this after hours of treating the wounded and preventing casualties. There’s no longer any medic team around, just wrecked badniks and his friends approaching.

Tails isn’t breathing. He doesn’t react to the speedster’s hand on his cheek. He doesn’t purr when his brother’s fingers run through his bangs. He doesn’t wake up when Sonic shouts his name begging him to please open his eyes.

Tails flatlined, but Sonic could tell his own heart threatening to stop.

He can’t hear anything. He can’t think. He can’t see anything but how still his little brother’s chest is.

He doesn’t think. He just knows he will not lose his little brother. Not now. Not ever. Not like this.

His body moves on his own when he practically rips a chaos emerald from Shadow’s hand, returning to his brother’s side not a second after, he doesn’t think even once about what doing next.

Sonic puts the chaos emerald over his kid’s small chest, right over his heart. Most would call what he made an “overpowered defibrillator”, but he knows he was just reaching for a miracle.

The miracle mercilessly shocks his kid.

One time, it doesn’t work. Two times, he can feel how the kit’s body can barely handle that much energy. Three times, his own hands are trembling, why is Tails face wet? It’s not even raining. Four times, someone’s yelling at him to stop, he’s only hurting Tails even more, he’s only damaging his body, but he can’t hear anything, Five times, he uses even more power, all his rage, desperation and… fear? Into that last shock.

Tails wakes up with a gasp. It worked.

It worked, Tails opened his eyes and started coughing loudly. Rough and harsh, but it meant he was alive, no wound visible anymore over his chest.

It worked, and that’s all that matters now.

Not how the skin in his hands got burned even through his gloves, not how his little brother’s eyes are no longer baby blue but an emerald green so much like his, not how long it took for Tails to actually look at him and answer when he asked if he was okay, not how he seemed more scared than confused about the fact that he was alive, not how even while Tails was fully awake and conscious Knuckles couldn’t find a pulse.

Tails is alive, and that’s all that matters.

#sonic the hedgehog #miles tails prower #sonic and tails #unbreakable bond #they are cosmic truth #they’re brothers your honor #this will have consequences #damn chaos emeralds literally giving him life huh #anyways don’t worry this time this is unrelated to you know what fic haha that one’s worse #i just needed to get this idea out before Wednesday because #✨not very wholesome✨#and now the bros have matching eyes ❤️#hope that doesn’t backtrack or anything

117 notes · View notes

missyandthemisfits · 6 months

Text

Obi/Hinawa x Reserved!Fem! Reader

A/N Requested a whiiile ago, I'm so sorry for the wait *cries in procrastination*

)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()(

Akitaru Obi

- Obi likes to think he's a nice cross between a serious, strong willed leader and a fun guy to be around - and he'd be correct in his assumptions.

- He doesn't take himself too terribly seriously but also knows when and how to command authority and as such, has experience handling all sorts of personality types; so meeting someone as even tempered and reserved as (Name)?

- Truthfully, it's almost like a breath of fresh air .

- He approaches her like he approaches anyone; with kindness and a warm smile, careful not to startle her out of her book but speaking just loud enough for her to know he's addressing her.

- Somehow, she's still a bit jumpy despite his approach but he makes sure not to draw any attention to it, introducing himself with an outstretched hand, patiently waiting for her to take it. They're pretty fast friends and from then on, it's like they lean towards the other's company more than they realize.

- It's subconsciously grained into them a few months after meeting; Anytime they're in a room together one will gravitate toward the other, sitting or standing, exchange glances and smiles all the while, even during team meetings.

- She just feels... really seen with him. And very safe.

- And she's always incredibly attentive, able to scope out his emotional state with pinpoint accuracy, even when he's trying not to make a spectacle of it.

- In fact, they soon realize how much emotional support the other provides, mere seconds later realizing just how much the other means.

- He wastes no time confessing his feelings.

- "-And I know this might be sudden, but I'd very much like to take you out to lunch some time. Honestly, I think you're a real catch (Name), and I'd hate to miss out on the opportunity. Life's too short."

- The confession is so forward yet well meaning it sends (Name) into shock; a blushing, stuttering shock.

- But he waits patiently, albeit slightly nervous, for her reply; it's a yes, of course.

Takehisa Hinawa

- Hinawa is...a very no-nonsense individual, one could take a single look at him and tell.

- It's because of this fact that he actually strongly prefers someone a little more reserved than most. That said upon meeting (Name), he was convinced that if the infernals didn't eat her alive, the rigorous Fire Force training would. To his surprise, he was dead wrong. In fact, she excelled.

- She was capable of taking out swarms of Infernals in seconds with expert offensive abilities partnered with spot on defensive capabilities. She was tactical and focused, something he noticed many of his peers lacked even on the battlefield. He grew to respect her prowess, honestly.

- "Excellent work out there, (Name)."

- "!!!"

- She gasped loudly, startled at the approach of the man and his seemingly random compliment.

- He watched in disbelief as she subconsciously backs into a wall, facing him, face reddened.

- He doesn't necessarily lose respect for her, but he certainly thinks twice before approaching her unexpectedly again - not hard for him at all, but she does feel pretty bad for overreacting.

- Works up the nerve to apologize but also stumbles into a very unexpected confession.

- "...Th-that is to say... I respect you as a Lieutenant and-,"

- "So am I wrong to assume you want a pursue a romantic relationship?"

- "Um...!"

- (Name) is at war with herself for a few more moments and he sighs, running a hand through his hair with the tiniest blush, gaze averted somewhere to the side.

- "...I only ask because I myself might be interested..."

- It's... less than romantic but (Name) can tell it took him a lot to say it. She could tell they'd be taking their time in this thing, together.

)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()(

#fire force x y/n #fire force x you #fire force x reader #fire force #akitaru obi #takehisa hinawa #Did I mention I have started taking requests???

129 notes · View notes

mumms-the-word · 6 months

Text

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 3

The first 40 days

Hello, friends, and welcome to the third and final installment of this little series about the Shadow Curse in BG3. Part 1 talked about Ketheric's descent into Sharran worship and how he built his Dark Justiciar army. Part 2 detailed the events of the war between the Harpers/druids and Ketheric's army, a bloodbath that culminated in Ketheric's supposed death and a high-cost victory for the Harpers and druids.

With Ketheric's dying breath, he utters a curse and the shadow curse takes full effect within hours. That's what this post is about. There are two journals that give us a day-by-day breakdown of the shadows as they roll outward from town, Olam's Journal and Oliver's Diary. Using these (plus other materials, naturally), I wanted to construct a kind of timeline for the first 40 days of the shadow curse as it slowly took over the landscape.

Quick cw: some descriptions of madness and implied sexual trauma from one note left behind by a Reithwin citizen

As always, long post ahead, under the cut!

———

Dear Diary, Day 1: Nothing ever happens in this town. I'm ready to go to the Gate. If Mother won't let me, I'll run away myself. She says my lungs are too weak for the smoke. But how am I living at all, when all I do is milk the rothe? [mumms' note: I imagine this diary entry by Oliver was written before the battle, but during the siege. I can't imagine him writing "nothing ever happens" when a battle is actively taking place.]

Let me set the stage. It is the third day of the battle between the Harper-druid army and Ketheric Thorm. The Harpers have already tried to surrender, only to be denied by Ketheric, who joins the battle himself. The death tolls are astronomical and the citizens of Reithwin are either cowering and trying to survive the battle that rages outside their doors or fighting as part of a volunteer force. The tides have turned in the Harpers' and druids' favor as reinforcements for Dark Justiciars inexplicably stop coming (thanks to the mason's infernal deal). At last, some lucky Harper or druid strikes the blow that finally fells Ketheric Thorm. Ketheric uses his last breath to utter a curse on the land, the actual words lost to time, and dies. Together with other Harpers and druids, Jaheira assists in dragging Ketheric's body from the battlefield and sealing it inside the Grand Mausoleum. But the damage has already been done.

It's day one of the shadow curse.

Day 2 of Darkness I stood calm as Ketheric uttered his final curse and then withered. As my fellow Harpers dragged his putrid corpse from the battlefield, I allowed myself to feel relief, even solace. A wrong had been righted, an evil thwarted. Victory had come - but I had yet to know its true cost. The darkness shrouded the land like a vast cloak. It began as a chill, as if the Claw of Winter had gripped us. Within hours, every breath was a dagger piercing my throat. I hungered for air like a wolf hungers for meat - yet I could still get my fill, thanks to my armour. Would that the men and women of Reithwin had been so well-equipped. One by one they fell, only to rise as shadows of themselves, intent on extinguishing all light, and all life. The shadows hang less heavy in this place. It still takes some effort to fill my lungs, but better to expend effort than to unite with darkness. My traps should keep me safe - or at least, safe enough.

Olam, an aasimar Harper who eventually fell victim to the shadow curse as he was trying to find ways to reverse it, is our best record for the first day. According to him, the first sign of the curse was a chill, as cold as the Claw of Winter, a reference to the winter month of Alturiak.

Months in Faerûn have two names, a sort of "official" name and a common name. The second month of the year, Alturiak, is commonly known as the Claw of Winter, a month of deep cold that sets in after Midwinter (the day right before Alturiak 1). Given that Ketheric's speech to his troops suggests they're preparing to face winter, and the fact that Thisobald's notes tell us that Ketheric was poisoned by the Harpers in Elient, the month that contains the Autumn Equinox, it's safe to suggest that the battle happened in late autumn. A sudden chill as cold as deep winter would be very alarming, especially accompanied by an unnatural darkness.

So, first comes the cold, so piercing and uncomfortable it makes it hard to breathe. Then comes the shadows, a darkness that settles over the town and begins to spread. If you're in armor, if you've trained your body to withstand magical and physical attacks, if you're resistant to any kind of damage, if you're one of the miraculous soldiers who hasn't been horribly wounded and weakened, you have half a chance to survive the initial shadows.

The untrained citizens of Reithwin don't have even that half-chance.

One by one they fall to the shadows. One by one they rise again as twisted, changed, ravenous undead, "intent to extinguish all light, all life." We've seen what the curse does ourselves to Harpers like Yonas, or to other living creatures like the hyena or the goblin near the mountain pass entrance. The Harpers and druids who believe that they can put battle behind them at last are now faced with a new enemy—the undead, shadow-cursed husks of innocent (and perhaps not so innocent) citizens.

Image: An armored arm covered by black and green shadow magic reaching out.

Not just citizens, either. The shadows soon claim Harpers and druids too. The shadows do not discriminate.

Halsin: Even in defeat, though, Ketheric turned to Shar. Not long after we sealed him away in his tomb, the shadow curse took hold. No one had seen the likes of it before. No one knew how to react…Then it started to claim all those within its reach. Those who had survived the battles now fell to the shadows - became part of the shadows. And worst of all…I lost contact with Thaniel. I wanted to try and find him, but we couldn’t stay. We would have all succumbed. When the Archdruid of the Grove - my predecessor - was seized by the curse, I had to lead the survivors to safety. That was my first day as Archdruid. An inauspicious beginning.

The Harpers and druids no doubt scatter, scrambling for light, caught flat-footed in a fight against the undead they must now kill, some of whom might even be their own allies, their own friends, and a darkness they can scarcely understand. As more and more people fall, more and more corpses reanimate. There's no use fighting. Their only real choice is to run.

Halsin, among the survivors, desperately tries to gather together druid survivors and rescue the wounded from the curse, going so far as to carry some on his back, according to unique dialogue with Jaheira. As they attempt to flee, the former Archdruid falls, seized by the shadows. Halsin is forced to leave him behind to ensure the survival of the other druids.

Halsin: It is an honour to see you again, High Harper. Jaheira: No need for titles. You may call me Jaheira, so long as you are content to be known as Halsin. And the honour is mine. Your stewardship of the Emerald Grove has made for something of a story among the circles. The apprentice who survived the shadow curse, and carried his masters home on his back. Who was raised their master in turn, and searches still for a way to save what was lost. [mumm's note: Halsin says he never met Jaheira, but this could be him being polite, or him referencing that he has seen Jaheira before, they've just never spoken or officially met.]

At the same time, he's lost contact with Thaniel. The spirit of the land has been pulled into the Shadowfell somehow by the onset of the curse as it spreads outward and begins to take over the landscape. Perhaps the Shadowfell claims others, as well, the moment the darkness falls over them, rather than transforming them into undead shadow corpses. We know this happens to Art, after all.

But Halsin doesn't have time to think about Thaniel, unfortunately. With the Archdruid dead, it is now his responsibility to look after the wounded and surviving druids and lead them to safety.

[This is an ancient notebook, whose ink is faded and pages are starting to crumble. It's not easy, but some words can still be made out.] Ketheric is finished, but it cost us the land. Darkness has fallen, corruption is everywhere. [...] ...chased by shadows, picking us off, druids and Harpers alike. [...] ...our wounded were safe, I returned, searching for survivors... [...] ...lost, but I found his shade. I put it to rest and took his glaive... [...] ...blade infused with shadow. I have locked it away, to serve as a reminder that even victory can taste bitter.

In the launch version of the game, the glaive Sorrow belonged to the old Archdruid. (In early access, it belonged to Halsin, but that is an entirely separate post.) Halsin's old notebook reveals the lengths he went to save the wounded, becoming the Grove's leader the very hour, the very minute that the old Archdruid succumbs to the curse. He doesn't stop to fight the Archdruid's shade. He must save whoever he can.

In town, others are trying to flee the curse as well. The first couple of days, it's all the citizens can do to stay ahead of the darkness and escape the shadows before they're taken. One person attempts to send word via a raven seeking help. The raven, too, succumbs to the curse.

[This letter is written on a scrap of paper. Blood and age have made it near illegible in parts.] HELP! A darkness has rolled into Reithwin, cutting us off on all sides. We’ve sent people through, but no one can make it more than a few steps before [the words are obscured by drops of blood.] This letter is our last hope. Send help - anyone, from anywhere, I beg of you. I will renounce our Lady Loss and kiss the Moonmaiden’s feet if that’s what it takes. Just don’t let the darkness take us.

It's nearing the end of the first day. Halsin has at last seen the wounded to some kind of safety and turns back, braving the shadows again to try and find the old Archdruid. He finds his shade and kills it, taking his glaive as a reminder, since the shadow-corrupted body must be left behind. With his duty at last done, Halsin departs the shadow-cursed lands to return to the Emerald Grove with the survivors. He does not return again until a century later.

———

Day 2 of the shadow curse.

Olam the Harper manages to secure something of a safe refuge in a hidden room of the House of Healing's morgue where the shadows hang less heavily. He sets up traps to deter shades and shadow-cursed zombies.

Citizens of Reithwin who haven't fled the curse on day one and are resilient enough to survive the first day are slowly succumbing, too. Some citizens seem to willingly give themselves to the shadow curse, or are taken entirely by surprise.

A couple on the roof of the House of Healing lay together, whispering poetry to one another as the darkness falls. Another couple lays curled up in their home, perhaps trying to hide from the shadows as the darkness presses against the doors and windows. Other citizens drag their feet, trying to pack up their lives and follow after more slowly. The result is the same for all of them. Death to the shadow curse, or the shades it creates from the dead. Their skeletal remains lay untouched for decades afterward.

———

Day 5 of the shadow curse.

Olam, sequestered inside the morgue, is simply trying to survive. The curse begins spreading outward, its borders expanding toward the outer reaches of the landscape.

Day 5 of Darkness The shadows ebb and wane. A torch flame is sometimes enough to burn them away, but no light can dispel the deepest of them. I called my familiar Corvin to my side, but he could scarcely take wing. Tomorrow I search, and not just for food and drink. I might find a scroll, or an artefact, or an arcane focus that can ward off this curse. Perhaps I might even find another survivor.

Olam is hopeful, but he is very likely the sole survivor of the shadow curse within the town itself. There are, however, survivors outside the town, some of whom are still trying to flee. Others, like Oliver and his mother, are forced to stay in their home as the shadows creep closer and closer.

———

Day 7 of the shadow curse.

Before Oliver held half of Thaniel's essence, he was a young boy (possibly a tiefling) on a rothé farm on the outskirts of Reithwin. He seems to have been born with or developed a chronic illness of some kind, as his mother worries about his lungs not being able to handle the smoke of Baldur's Gate (I assume this is a passing reference to some early industrialization of the city). But by day seven of his journal, the shadows have already started to spread outward toward his home.

Day 7: Ha, a strange fog is descending over our own town. Hasn't left in days. Getting hard to breathe. Mother is eating her words, saying we should head out to the city to stay for a while until it lifts. We go at dawn.

(I personally don't think the numbered days in Olam and Oliver's journals align, where Olam's Day 5 of darkness is also Oliver's Day 5 in his diary. I think it's more likely that they're offset by 2 or 3 days, with Oliver beginning his journal 2-3 days before Olam did, so Olam's Day 4/5 would be Oliver's Day 7, and so on. But for simplicity's sake, I'm just going to use both of their dates as if they were perfectly aligned.)

———

Day 8 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother try to brave the shadows to head west to Baldur's Gate, but the shadow-cursed creatures are too dangerous. They turn around and take shelter in their home once more. They spend another several days protected from the curse, somehow.

I suspect it's Thaniel's lingering presence near the house that is saving them. But they couldn't possibly know that.

———

Day 14 of the shadow curse.

Oliver and his mother have given up hope for any kind of escape. The shadows are too dangerous. It's too late to leave.

Day 14: We tried to leave, but there are creatures from beyond the grave, skulking around the outskirts of our land. It's too late.

———

Day 18 of the shadow curse.

Everything is dead or undead. Everything except Olam, Oliver, Oliver's mother, and the animals they care for...for now. The town is still, as if suspended in time, but not quiet. Things stir in the darkness.

Day 18 of Darkness It's a particular loneliness, in these shadows. Corvin shows great affection when I call him, even as he suffers. Those few minutes are at least some comfort, for us both. It is remarkably still in here, and even stiller out there. I have found a few scrolls and books near the House of Healing, as well as some scattered artefacts, but they hold nothing for me. The only answers call out from within the House itself, where I dare not enter. I hear the moans of the anguished, the shouts of the cruel. There are those who make their home in the shadows, but I am no less alone for them.

Olam's hopes are dwindling. The shadows had taken the life of everything they've touched. Many shadow-cursed undead lie dormant, waiting for something to stir them back into action. Others have been reduced to shades and towering living shadows. Still others, like those inside the House of Healing, have been transformed. In particular, it seems as though the nurses, if not Malus himself, have become twisted undead versions of their living selves, something different than the average shadow-cursed corpse.

Because, you see, being transformed into a shadow-cursed being doesn't simply mean death and undeath. Not always. It also means a descent into pure madness as you lose your entire sense of self. Some victims choose to venture more into the darkness rather than fight it.

Shadow creature transformation is like this: I am standing in a tunnel with one way leading into light and the other leading into darkness. The tunnel glistens and stinks like a tube of rancid sausage. Everything slick with slime. I've got to get out of here. I know I do. But which way? Light or dark? Not day and night. The light is coming from the face of my grandfather, who used to squeeze my knee under the dining table with his bony fingers. His wizened, grinning face is the face life wears. It has flayed off his face and is wearing it now, lantern bright, in the light at that end of the tunnel. The dark though. The dark is absolute. No faces there. No old family trouble there. No bad dreams or memories there, well, well that's decided then isn't it! Sauntering now, striding now, running into the velvety black, embraced, bones snapping, body softening, silking, feeling the change, old life left behind, new life new me let's go yippee!

(There's also weird poetry about the shadows, if you're interested.)

The shadow curse is still Shar's darkness, and the allure of the dark's embrace is still there. Victims who lose their minds to the shadow curse as they turn into shadow creatures are drawn to this twisted idea of a new life (an un-life, really). As we see with Yonas, they're eager to bring others down with them.

Harper Yonas: There you are...come...join me...

Reithwin may be dead, and it may be still, but it isn't quiet.

———

Day 21 of the shadow curse.

In the outskirts, the shadows have possessed Oliver's rothé. They too grow mad, attacking one another and dying, only for the shadows to resurrect them again.

Day 21: The rothe are all possessed, knocking down their fence, battling and bashing one another to death... Dying then fighting again. The shadows are everyone... right outside our window. I can't see more than a few strides out. [mumm's note: I think "everyone" is supposed to be "everywhere" here.]

The darkness is only getting worse.

———

Day 26 of the shadow curse.

Nearly one full month since Ketheric's death. The shadows have grown darker and darker. In Oliver's cabin, he and his mother can only see a few strides beyond their windows. In town, where Olam continues to try and search for ways to end the shadow curse, the air has darkened from grey to black and grown so thick that breathing it in is like swallowing molasses or tar.

Day 26 of Darkness I called on Corvin yet again, but I cannot bear his torment. Nor can I bear my own. Grey has turned almost to black, and the air might as well be molasses or tar, so hard as it is to choke down. 'All beings should walk free of fear', I was taught. Oh, if only were I granted such a fine fate.

This is the last entry in Olam's journal. After days of trying to break the shadow curse, experimenting with various spells to push back the darkness or dispel the magic, after days of him and his bird familiar, Corvin, being the only living things he has encountered since the onset of the curse, Olam finally succumbs to the shadows. Perhaps he chooses to end his own life, or perhaps the shadows have crept into the morgue and at last killed him. Either way, his body, tainted and ruined by necrotic magic, remains sealed in his morgue hideaway for another century.

———

Day 28 of the shadow curse.

There are only two people still living in the midst of the shadows. Oliver and his mother remain unaffected by the curse, so long as they stay within their home. Oliver has no idea why the curse does not push into their house—it certainly has no issue creeping into every other home in and around town.

But I suspect Thaniel is at work. Given that Thaniel's spirit was torn in half by the shadow curse, perhaps the part that lay behind took refuge in Oliver's home. Perhaps that half is already in Oliver himself.

But Oliver grows restless. Though the curse has yet to take them, living with it is not easy. His weak lungs can't handle the shadow-thick air, even if it does not corrupt him immediately. He begins to contemplate death.

Day 28: I'm not dead yet. But I'm going to die here, aren't I? I can hardly breathe. Why does it not get into our house? Why doesn't the curse take us already. Day 35: I can't stand this. I've been trying to write a memoir of myself but it's still no good. I'm too weak to pen fine words. I am going to die unremembered, be what may. It's getting pointless to cower in here. There is nothing we can do about this all-encroaching dark. Tomorrow, I will walk out into the fog, and I will laugh. With love, a farmhand, forever to be unknown.

———

Day 35 of the shadow curse.

Olam is dead. Everyone in town is dead. Most people in the outskirts are dead. Except for Oliver, and perhaps his mother, and even Oliver can no longer handle the loneliness and despair of the shadow curse. Oliver plans to leave the safety of his home and give in to the shadows, rather than die a much slower death as the shadows continue to creep in.

———

Day 36 of the shadow curse.

Oliver opens his door and walks out into the dark fog of the curse. Some flowers still bloom, untouched by the curse or the shadows, just outside his doorstep. The corpses of the rothé lie inert in the darkness, having died twice over days before. Oliver likely doesn't linger on either detail. It only takes a few strides for the darkness to envelop him.

It only takes moments for it to change him.

Oliver as he was in life is gone, taken by the shadow curse. But some vestige of Thaniel keeps him alive, keeps them both alive. But the shadows have already done their damage.

Oliver remains near his home as the years pass, his laughter and his games turning ever deadlier as the curse strengthens and grows.

———

Day 39 of the shadow curse.

Halsin and the other druids have long since returned to the Emerald Grove. The mantel of leadership weighs heavy on his shoulders. He has sealed away the old Archdruid's glaive, tainted as it is with shadow magic, and begins to turn his attention to leading the Grove. A task he never asked for, and doesn't feel he deserves.

Jaheira has moved on to other adventures, working independently or with other Harpers. It will be another several decades before duty calls her back into the shadow-cursed lands, back to the site where she fought to maintain balance and put an end to a corrupted Sharran general.

The town of Reithwin and the surrounding landscape is dead. Dead, but not quiet. The shadows sink into the land itself, twisting the trees, slowly cracking the very earth apart. Shadows continue to stir, corrupting everything they touch. The unlucky undead that are not granted blissful oblivion shamble among the ruins of the town, between the remains of the battle. Their actions are twisted recreations of their living days, as nurses or as patrons of the Waning Moon. Their minds are all but obliterated.

The town settles into a pattern of hungry shadows on the hunt and undead corpses shuffling mindlessly through the motions. This pattern will remain undisturbed for a century or more.

———

Day 40 of the shadow curse.

Inside the Grand Mausoleum, behind the sigil-sealed doors, the crypts of the dead are not as still and silent as they should be. Something, someone moves in the darkness.

Ketheric Thorm, pulled back into the land of the living, stands at the foot of his daughter's sarcophagus. He wants to forget. He wants the darkness to swallow him whole. But it does not.

A bloated, fleshy hand reaches out in the darkness, and Ketheric hears an all too familiar voice, deep and resonant with dark magic.

"Let us refocus our efforts, General. In here, we have everything we need to bring her back. It will only take time."

Ketheric, having lost everything, agrees.

———

Okay, so maybe Day 40 was just me guessing/wanting to get creative. I believe Ketheric probably woke up, since he's still functionally immortal thanks to Aylin, relatively soon after the shadow curse was unleashed. But because he was sealed in the mausoleum by the Harpers and druids, he must have spent the better part of a few years, maybe even a few decades, trying to gather the strength to blow open the doors and leave.

He's been defeated, and Shar has likely withdrawn her blessings on him. His only power now is his immortality (probably). We know he doesn't build an army again until a century later, when he does so under Myrkul's command. So I imagine he probably spends many decades in the mausoleum, trying to forget, or (failing that) trying to resurrect his daughter.

Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my own source of the barest comfort - the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me. If oblivion can fail, what defence have we against death? None except its mastery. Balthazar's words have never felt more promising.

Somehow Balthazar finds him. Perhaps Balthazar was sealed inside the mausoleum too. But Balthazar promises to find a way to restore the one thing Ketheric wants. Ketheric doesn't desire vengeance. Ketheric doesn't want another army. Ketheric wants Isobel. And Balthazar, a powerful necromancer, believes he can deliver.

So the experiments begin. And fail. And fail. Thisobald, Gerringothe, Malus. The Thorm family members rise again, except they're twisted, grotesque, a little mad. Not how Ketheric wants Isobel to be. But they keep trying. Until at last, nearly a century after his defeat, after a century of struggling to forget and fall into oblivion, ignored by Shar, Ketheric turns to Myrkul. He agrees to become Myrkul's Chosen and do his bidding, in exchange for the one thing he wants most.

Isobel.

Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?

Ketheric at last renounces Shar to pledge himself to Myrkul. And Myrkul, unlike Shar, keeps his promise. The death that began the spiral into Sharran zealotry, that led to the shadow curse itself, is finally reversed.

After more than a century of death, Isobel wakes up.

———

So ends the three-part series about the shadow curse. What a ride. I'm so fascinated by this entire act/history because it feels like diving into war history or something. So thanks for following, if you followed all three parts!! Let me know what other deep dives you want me to do!

Tags for those who wanted an update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash @cakenpiewhyohmy

#bg3 #bg3 discourse #bg3 meta #bg3 critical #halsin #halsin silverbough #jaheira #ketheric thorm #deep dive #long post #super long post #someone tell me why this was the easiest one to write

69 notes · View notes

pursuitseternal · 3 months

Text

“Our Blood: Into the Fire” 🔥 The Battle for Avernus🔥

Astarion x Cordehlia (Tav) | E | 5K

Summary: Arriving in Avernus, Cordehlia and Astarion reunite with old friends to stand with them along side Raphael. Facing Zariel, Mizora, and her legions is no small task, but they are an indomitable force, side by side (by side)

CW: canon typical battle gore, minor character deaths, decapitations, Wyll/Karlach flirty tension, Astarion and Cordy are that make out couple in every group, Raphael’s Ascended Fiend Form, Kill Your Abuser x 2

Prev Ch | Ao3 link | Orig. fic | List

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

The air was thick with blood and rife with soot. Cordehlia breathed it in and cringed. Too many times had she inhaled the same stink and been coated with the crimson droplets and smeared with black ash before. This wasn’t some skirmish against Cultists, not some half-brained attempt to save the realms with her closest companions. This was war. These were enemy lines soaked in gore and graves. A familiar scene for the Bone Picker, she shrugged off those memories quickly once she felt his gauntleted hand in her own.

Astarion cocked one hip, surveying the lands where they arrived from the portal. “Well,” he crooned, tone rippling with judgment, “you’d think the stink of sulphuric gas would cover the general rot of corpses. Guess I was wrong…”

Cordehlia’s lips pressed in a smile, her brows arching in pure sarcastic delight. “It's quite a sight,” she hummed in mock approval as she heard the devil’s footsteps draw along the other side of her. “Perhaps it is the most impressive battlefield I’ve ever surveyed.”

“A high compliment to come from my beloved, Bone Picker,” Raphael’s rumbling tones sounded right in her ear.

Astarion drew up beside her, rigid in stance. His armor gleamed in the infernal glow—the silver elven set they had found on their journeys. It was the armor he most trusted to protect his life, to guard him as he guarded her.

Raphael’s rumbling chuckle nearly caught him off-guard as the devil rounded behind them both. “Easy, Lord Astarion,” he drawled out that title. “Your consort needs only to draw on her peerless skills in combat, and then you two can go back on your merry way,” his thick brow arched, watching as his words only made the Vampire Lord hold himself all the more tensely. More fiercely. And he laughed louder still. “Just think, a few dead devils and cambions, and you can go right back to bed.”

The meaning was not lost on either of them. And Cordehlia only grew all the more determined. “Enough,” she snapped. “Battlefields are for silencing breath, not wasting it.”

Two sets of brows raised in surprise, one dark set and one silver. “Yes, my Lady,” and “Yes, my darling,” were both crooned out in response.

“I need battle plans and details on your enemy, how many imps, where have you last spotted them, how great is the strength of our foe.” She began her list of demands, making for the grand sprawling battle tents of Raphael’s camp.

That was when an old scream of joy sounded, the only warning Cordehlia got before two strong, red arms clutched for her and braced her against a warm armored chest. “For fucks sake, Cordy!” Karlach burst into cackling laughter. “I’d ask ‘what in the hells are you doing here?’ but I fear your hubby would bite me at that humor.”

Asrarion scoffed, even as he grinned from ear to ear, fangs on full display. “You’ve somehow managed to get worse at humor, Karlach,” he teased with a smirk.

“Most likely my fault,” a warm voice chimed in as Wyll approached, horns and all. “I am not known for the sharpness of my wit, only my blade.”

“Ha, ha,” Astarion pretended to chortle, a good show, despite the actual crinkling lines at his eyes that Cordehlia noticed, a true tell that he was happy to see their old friends. “You’re always such a good influence on people, Wyll.”

“Not on you, Lord Astarion,” Wyll smiles wide. “But regardless, we will see those Ascendant powers put to use once more in battle, and for that I’m glad. Zariel won’t be an easy foe to take down.”

“Zareil?” both vampires scoff, nearly identical in disbelief.

“That’s right, bitches,” Karlach’s chest flamed searingly bright, punching one fist into her own palm, a grin on her red face that was truly diabolical with joy. “It’s payback time, and there is no one else I’d rather have here for it than you two.”

Cordehlia’s vision went red, her body brimming with blinding rage. Rage at Raphael for hiding the identity of their foe, even more rage at him for bringing Karlach and Wyll under his thumb and service without informing her. Her jaw locked, her hands fisted, Cordehlia marched off on her long legs towards the grandest tent of the encampment. Astarion called after her, his own body leaning forward as he hurried after her with all his vampiric speed.

But her rage was too great to wait for him.

Arm flinging open the flap to the largest vermillion tent she had ever seen, she burst into its flame-lit shadow. “Fuck you, Raphael,” she snarled, unnanounced and uninvited.

The devil rounded, his own golden helldusk armor glinting in the flickering torch light. His swarthy face drew into a leering smirk. “Well, if you insist my beloved Bone Picker,” he crooned as he looked down his nose.

Cordehlia let the insinuation slide, too furious for such games. Before she could stop herself, that shining dagger steadied her palm, pressing against the little skin of his neck still visible. “Zariel?” she hissed, enraged and feral. “You brought us here for the Archduchess herself, not some mild-mannered gang of imps.”

Raphael’s rumbling laughter vibrated down the steel of her blade. “And isn’t she a foe worthy of your illustrious reputation, my lady?”

She pressed the blade just a little harder, enough to draw blood to the surface without breaking his skin. “I want to know your game, Raphael, not more deals or tricks or secrets between us.”

“For you, my favorite harbinger of death, I’ll give it to you, and I’ll give it to you straight,” the devil smirked, his lips drawn to reveal his flawlessly white teeth.

“Well,” that silken voice purred from the entryway behind her, “seems you’ve earned yourself a knife to the throat, devil.” Astarion drew up right beside his love. “Not many men earn that right, let alone survive it. In fact, I almost say I’m jealous…” He ran his gloved hand down Cordehlia’s pale, smirking cheek, and she shivered. “You never threaten me at knifepoint anymore, darling.”

“You’ve earned more than a knife against your body as incentive, my love,” Cordehlia purred right back, melting under that single brush of his finger as she resheathed her blade. Then she nipped at his chin with her own glittering fangs, just ostentatiously enough to make Raphael’s breath quicken. “Now tell me the truth of why we are here,” she honed her own scarlet gaze at the devil, “and you tell the exact details of your contracts with my other companions, or so help me, I’ll feed your balls to the next Orthon I find.”

Astarion chuckled, marveling at her brutality.

And so did Raphael. He eased his stance, fidgeting with the clasps of his armor. “There are no contracts for your dear Hellion and her beloved Blade,” his replied, his tone sweet like honey in its confidence. “They work for me for pay, a nice little livelihood and budding romance between them, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Don’t lie,” Cordehlia hissed.

The devil merely glanced at her as he wriggled his breastplate over the expanse of his chest. “And why would I ever offend you by lying, my bloodthirsty lady? I might be guilty of omitting details, or downplaying certain aspects of our relations, but I have never once lied.”

Those feminine eyes narrowed at him, assessing him. “Fine,” she replied. “Then no omissions or diminutions. What is your plan, what is your endgame for my lord and me?”

“It’s simple,” Raphael drew back to face them both, the Ascendant and his Consort. “It’s a small matter of balance. I helped you, Astarion, gain the power for which you longed, power to free you from your old master and to make your long-lost betrothed your eternal bride. I merely ask for your help in returning the favor ever so slightly. I want your blades in the final fight against Zariel, aiding me on my way to ruling Avernus for my own.”

His voice rang with greater ambition, and Cordehlia sensed so much more to those plans that laid beyond merely ruling Avernus. It made her fiery hair stand on end.

But it was Astarion’s silken purr that grounded her back in the present. “This is it, devil, our final act to free us from our debt to your favors.”

Raphael gave that deep, rolling chuckle. “Oh, I’m aware just how important freedom, true freedom is to you, Lord Astarion,” he taunted back. “You aid me against the Archduchess and I swear, all further deals will start anew, and they will be entirely mutually… satisfactory.”

“And our friends?” Astarion casually rolled his shoulders, letting his elegant elven armor clank. “We merely want to ensure even their roles in your court and employ are mutually… satisfactory,” he drolled out the same words in a mimicking tone.

The meaning was clear, the warning given that they were under his protection. And hers. Raphael’s eyes darted between the two undead warriors, that same old confident mask on his face. “I promise you, hand to your undead, beating, Ascendant heart that they are free to leave my employ when they wish, and that until such time, they enjoy my protection and my patronage.” He scoffed a laugh. “Do I really fall so short from your favor in your crimson eyes?”

Neither replied, but that tension between them snapped into place, that way their eyes flickered at one another a sign of their mental bond sending all sorts of silent commentary and secrets.

“Very well,” Cordehlia replied, a cold smile on her lips and a hardness at the corner of her eyes, “show us your battle plans, and we will help you conquer Avernus for your own.”

Pleased, his smile broadened, and Raphael gave that bass-toned chuckle. “It’s so refreshing to hear it put so bluntly, my lady. Thank you.”

“If there is one thing I am familiar with, devil, it’s recognizing the power of ambition,” Cordehlia appraised him, a brow arched, a hip cocked. “Whether it is an ambition to serve us or be check, that remains to be seen…”

“Oh, but don’t you know by now I live to serve you… Bone Picker,” he crooned. “You have nothing to fear in Avernus from me, my lady. But I can’t say the same of our enemies.” He gestured to the war table behind him, a massive circular table heaven-laden with maps and massive. “Shall we?”

Fire and blood in the air, a smile on her face, Cordehlia sliced through another imp as it flew straight for her face. Karlach’s hyena-laugh at her side as she took down five in one swing of her greataxe made Cordehlia’s heart soar. The hot air kept her battle braids off her face, letting the warrior-elf turn her head easily to see her companions.

“Never a dull moment,” she smiled, all fangs and teeth as she watched Wyll darting just beyond the Tiefling.

“Gods… I thought I was done hearing your little quips at every turn of our adventures,” Astarion’s voice panted at her right hand. His pale skin spattered already beyond recognition, blood blooming over his white curls. Making Cordehlia truly hunger for blood.

She just licked her blade clean in the brief breath of respite they had now between waves of foes. “My love, I thought you loved to… ‘go turn someone inside out…’” she taunted, another lick along the other side of her dagger.

His wry, humored look made her chuckle. “Seems someone is feeling vicious and nostalgic, hmm?” He laughed breathlessly, quickly spinning to dispatch another small imp as it curved toward them. One arrow through the infernal air from his bow, and it landed with a thud. Astarion gave a dark-humored grin. “And yes, my dear, before you can make the comment, yes, that… is… blood.”

Oh, the playful yet withering glare she gave him was delicious, so much so, he couldn’t resist pulling her into an armor-clacking kiss right there on the battlefield. Her mouth tasted of the burning brine of imp blood, but gods, it felt good. “I missed this…” he whispered against her fangs and tongue.

“Hey-o!” Karlach’s boisterous voice and presence drew near. “I forgot how much they locked lips on the battlefield. How ‘bout you Wyll?”

“I didn’t forget,” Wyll replied, panting and drawing closer to their Tiefling friend. His voice was strangely sweet like honey, given the rivers of blood under their feet and the stink of sulphur around them. “Makes you almost think they’re on to something…”

Cordehlia shoved herself away, nearly certain she was about to watch them kiss for themselves…

“Get your hands off each other and back on your blades, imbeciles,” that heated voice crooned from above. The beating of leather wings a portent of Raphael’s arrival again; he landed in the middle of them with a thud. He glared around, an icy stare in those fiery black and yellow cambion eyes. “If you are quite finished fraternizing with one another, we do have an Archduchess to overthrow.”

His wings folded in aggressively, sending a blast of stinging hot air in their faces.

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, we’ve broken through their flanks, just as you suggested, my dear…” Astarion raised Cordehlia’s bloodied and gauntleted hand to his lips. “So where, devil, do we find your foe to overthrow and the stinking, volcanic ledge from which to throw her over?”

Raphael leered, unamused at the jest. “Your humor is not as razor sharp as it once was, Ascendant. Let’s hope your blades still are.”

Cordehlia had to turn her head and ignore the pointed look Karlach was throwing her, if only to preserve her love’s pride.

Suddenly, fire swirled, the black, molten form of a devil started to form. Big navy wings, a lithe and curvaceous figure, bright orange hair… “Well, if it isn’t the pests Zariel has sent me to exterminate…”

“Mizora,” Wyll snapped, as close to enraged and feral as he could be.

The cambion looked fearsome, decked in her silver chain link mail, spikes of black, dripping blood lining her armor in rows. “Oh, Wyll, pet, it’s good to see you. But, for as much as I’ve missed you since your pact ended, I’m here to put you down for good, you and your pesky little friends…” She eyed Raphael, his own winged form bristling in her presence. “You too, hungry little cat, trying to take what isn’t yours with your greedy little claws…”

“This cat will devour all nine layers of the hells once I’m through,” Raphael snarled, his tail twitching. “Until then, I’ll have to sate myself on the blood of you and your mistress.” He flapped his great wings to rush in attack, but Mizora only cackled as she flew just as fast.

“Raphael!” Cordehlia screamed after him, making the devil draw up suddenly short in the air. “You can’t let her lead us off our quarry.” She drew out her blade. “We need you to face Zariel, not her minion.”

“I’ll take Mizora,” Wyll panted, his grip tight on his rapier. “It’s about time I made her pay for all her abuse. But I’ll need another at my side…” his mismatched eyes looked towards Karlach.

“Not me, Blade, I’ve got my own asshole to slay. If Zariel’s going to bleed, I’m going to be the one to see what color her blood runs.”

“I’ll go, Wyll,” Astarion clapped a hand on the Blade of Avernus’ shoulder. “Besides, Mizora tried to sleep with my Bride back in our adventuring days.” He raised his brow in wicked delight at the slightest taste of revenge. “And I’m not one to forget…”

“Who would dare?” Raphael leered again.

“Well, a better question is, who would dare to seek that without me, honestly. What an idiot.” Astarion pulled Cordehlia close. Nuzzling her neck, he took a shallow little bite, licking the small trickle of blood that flowed. “See you once it’s through my love,” he whispered.

She bit his neck and did the same, a small taste of him before they parted. “Yes, you will, my love.”

One more glance at one another, and the Blade and the Ascendant bolted off across the hellscape.

“Well, my Hellion and my Bone Picker, let’s go get us an archdevil,” Raphael grinned his pointy-toothed smile.

Scorching, volcanic air rushed around them as the Wyll and Astarion raced after Zariel’s right hand. Mizora dove and weaved around the field, making for the stinking waters of the Styx. At last, Wyll spotted an outcrop of black rock, running for it to leap off its sharp edge, reaching his blade just as she swooped in reach. “This ends now, for my father and for me,” Wyll shouted, his blade cutting down Mizora, steel slicing through the pink membrane of her wing. Three arrows struck into her with heavy thwacks, Astarion grinned savagely, delighting in his dexterous accuracy. Each arrow grouped right where a devil’s heart should be. The cambion tumbled awkwardly from the red skies, her wings thrashing with loud gusts of wind before her body crash landed on the ground.

“You maggots, think you can beat me?” Mizora flailed as she clambered to her feet. “You think your efforts in Raphael’s name won’t go unpunished by the rest of the hells? Zariel will wear your fangs as earrings, little Ascendant.”

“Oh, not if my Bride finds her first,” Astarion hissed, quicker than the eye could catch, he launched another arrow into the base of her blue-columned neck. Enough to maim, but not to keep her from talking. “But that’s why you tried to claim her for your own, isn’t it? Couldn’t resist my own little hellcat, my darling spitfire.” Two strong, pale hands held up her head by her horns. “No one takes what’s mine from me,” he hissed through fangs, “and no one entraps my dearest companions without facing retribution. Isn’t that right, Wyll?”

Astarion’s crimson eyes scanned his friend, the fearless Blade, only to notice his hand shaking on the hilt of his faithful weapon. Heart aching, he knew that look, had felt it before as he clung to Rhapsody’s hilt to carve the marching ruins in his own abuser’s back. “Do it now, Wyll,” he said, steady and sure, as if he could give Wyll the resolve for which he was searching. “End this, do it for those years you lost to her torment.”

Wyll’s mismatched eyes just glared wider, flickering between Astarion’s blood-spattered face and Mizora as each breath she drew grew weaker.

“Make her suffer your sting, once and for all,” Astarion smirked, yanking those horns harder, the stink of her blood’s acid making his stomach curl.

Fingers regripped around Wyll’s hilt, one swing of his rapier, and it was done. One cambion head hung in the vampire’s hands, one body fell at their feet with a heavy thud. And Wyll laughed— a deep, inane, rolling belly laugh, the kind Astarion had never heard before. His bloodied glove clapped on top of Astarion’s shoulder. “Vampire Ascendant, I, for one, am grateful to have not been a good influence on you. That felt….”

Astarion smiled, catching his own breath, “Really fucking good, right?”

“Yeah,” Wyll laughed again, more of his usual breathy chuckle as he took Mizora’s head by the horn in his own hand. “Really… fucking… good.”

Black stone walls echoed with the drag of his claws, their boney points scraping as he sauntered down the halls towards Zariel’s throne room. His throne room now. Raphael laughed from his distorted; deformed maw, his Ascended fiendish laugh like boulders crushed together. The only sound louder was the metallic dragging of his quarry behind him, Zariel’s armor torn asunder by his claws and his magic. He gave another bone-grinding laugh as he crouched his form low enough to enter the doors. Blood ran beneath his feet, red and hot and stinking, as his own chosen warriors decimated the remainders of her private guard. Their death cries were music to his fiendish ears.

He smiled, shaking his enormous, skin-tight abomination of a head, feeling inspired… words of glory coming to his tongue. He tossed Zariel’s half-mangled body to the foot of her dais, her human form crunching some more frail bones as she landed with a thud.

“To hells allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil!

I dare damnation. To this point I stand

That both the worlds I give to negligence.

Let come what comes…”

A wall of fire consumed him as he shrunk back in size but never in power, that swarthy face of man gloating unscathed down at his nemesis.

“…only I’ll be revenged.”

His arm extended, magic coursed through the air, hot and consuming, pulling the Archduchess taut by her appendages. Stretching her on the rack of his mighty power.

Barely more now than a bald head and pure hate, Zariel writhed in the tendrils of Raphael’s magic. “Mephistopheles’ outcast halfbreed, you won’t live to enjoy your victory. I can guarantee it; that’s the way of the hells.”

Raphael merely closed his fist tighter, stretching the Archduchess’ limbs taut as his warriors sliced their way through the last of her fiends. Every step they took splashed in blood, more steaming as it flowed with every swipe of greataxe and dagger blades. Breathless and grinning with glee, Karlach and Cordehlia flanked their devil commander, both their faces now reddened afresh with blood-spatter and gore.

“You’re lucky, Archduchess, as the first to bear witness to my own ascension to power. With Avernus as mine to rule, it will be a matter of time before all the others fall to the same fate as you, Zariel. How fortunate you get to serve as the example. Your bald head will sit nicely on the gates of this palace.” Raphael turned his wry, delighted grin towards the Tiefling, her infernal engine thumping and grinning faster with her magnificent bloodlust and rage. “Wouldn’t you agree, Karlach?”

“Yeah, but only after I get to piss on it a few times,” she scowled, her vocal chords frayed and strained from her battle cries.

Raphael gestured with pure gallantry to the Hellion. “She’s yours, my dear. Unleash that heat of rage once and for all…”

Kalach’s fire flared, sparks dancing from her hair and skin as she shifted her axe over her shoulder. With a twirl of his fingers, Zariel’s body bent to kneel in the pools of blood, her arms behind her back, her head bent low…

…As it should be before him, Raphael gloated.

“My delightful Bone Picker, do make certain our friend doesn’t struggle so,” Raphael crooned at the vampiress, the blood coating her armor and skin matching the bloodlust glinting in her blood red eyes. A look of delight on her face, she sheathed her sword and dagger, entering into the tendrils of infernal magic. The sole of her boot kicked square in the middle of her back, a laugh rippling from her fanged smile. With all her vampiric might, she kept their foe pinned beneath her heel, and a single nod to Karlach was permission enough.

Flames burst, a flare of vengeance and heat, and Karlach gripped her weapon. Chest heaving, eyes wide, it took only one barbaric scream and one fell swing of her axe to end it all—her life of torture, her source of horror, and the day’s battle. Her axe slung back over her shoulder, Karlach reached for her trophy and tossed it at Raphael. “Hope you’re a better Archdevil,” she commented casually.

“I have every intent on being far superior,” Raphael crowed in reply, taking his trophy in hand. He gave his most pleasant smile, and relished the way his Tiefling commander with an engine for a heart seemed to bristle less than usual as he gave it.

A figure of almost pure red approached, her fangs were the only part of her face left free from blood, most likely because she had already licked them clean. Cordehlia glided over, coated in a fresh spray of archduchess blood. “Well, Raphael, congratulations are in order. Crownless, and yet Avernus is yours,” she refused to bow her head, but her eyes flickered with approval.

Raphael grinned despite the potential slight in decorum. In fact, he’d be disappointed if she had bowed to him or bent a knee. “No small thanks to my favorite, bloodied warrior of this and every age, my lady,” he replied, those velvet tones unable to convey just how much he meant them.

Cordehlia tipped her head back, surveying the damage wrought around them. “Well, the day is ours, and a rest and a feast are well overdue.”

“Say no more, my lady,” Raphael chuckled, snapping his fingers to swirl them in smoke. The throne room faded, instantly replaced with the heart of Raphael’s war camp.

Two feet back under her, and Cordehlia couldn’t wait to rest, her body ached in places it hadn’t for almost a year, not since those final battles against the armies of the Absolute. The stick of congealed blood grew thick, and while she wanted to rest and bathe, she first wanted… no, needed her feast.

She needed to taste him.

She could hear his heart beating across the crowd, its familiar thumbing making her hunger flame higher. Molten need, to touch him, to make sure he was unharmed and victorious, it drove her to race past cambions and other infernal beings as she shoved them out of her way.

“My love,” she purred the second they locked eyes. He was just as covered in gore-filth as she, the red spattered elegantly over his silver waves of hair still, even if he had washed his face. He grinned at her hungrily the second he saw her at last. Crashing and clanging, their armor slammed together as they embraced, their kiss all tongue and fangs and breaths to be reunited again. His fingers clutched around her chin, bringing her cheek against his mouth, his warm tongue swiping a lick up her pale skin.

“Darling, you are as messy a murderer as I am an eater. Just look at the state of you, tch.” He ran his thumb along her bottom lip, gathering the blood from her chin before he sucked that digit clean.

Cordehlia’s face twisted into a mocking grin, grabbing him by the collar and pulling his taunting lips to hers. “We deserve a feast, my love,” she murmured against his lips, “and you’re the one who’s going to join me in it.”

“Mmm,” he purred, “I do rather like that, you know.” A playful growl in his throat, and he nipped that bottom lip of hers.

“Gods, you two have only gotten worse, haven’t you,” Karlach boomed her teasing laugh.

“You have no idea,” Astarion replied, his eyes still locked on that beloved bloodspattered countenance as he caressed her.

Giving Karlach a bump from his shoulder to hers, Wyll chortled. “Oh, we have some ideas. It’s not like we didn’t spend weeks having to share camp and common rooms at the Elfsong with you.” He shook his great horned head. “Not like we didn't have to stop in streets and battlefields so you two could kiss.”

Mischief flashed in Cordehlia’s scarlet eyes as she impishly snapped her fangs in the air in front of Astarion’s face.

“Ah, how sweet to see that your bonds of friendship haven’t withered over time,” that velvet baritone broke the camaraderie, making the easy company they kept with one another stiffen back to formality as Raphael approached. He swaggered in slowly into their midst, his helldusk armor still spattered from combat as well. A cambion servant followed in tow with a silver tray to wine chalices ready for consumption.

“A toast to the victors?” he crooned, handing a cup to Wyll first. “First, to the Blade of Avernus, a powerful weapon I’m glad to have in my magnanimous employ.”

Wyll tipped his horned head. “It’s been… refreshing to find a devil who did not demand soul nor contract.”

“I do what I can for those who eliminated the Illithid threat from your realm and mine,” Raphael smirked, raising his cup.

“Bullshit,” Karlach barked a laugh as she grabbed her own chalice from the tray. “You’re just soft on us because we conveniently freed the crown of Karsus from the Dead Three,” she barely stopped talking to down the wine to its dregs in one go. “That and you want to keep your Bone Picker on your good side, eh?”

Raphael arched a single thick, dark brow. “What kind of devil would I be if I didn’t ensure the faithfulness of allies of renown, so bloodsoaked and deadly. You all had your hands in a feat of great and mighty valor. I’d be a fool to let our longstanding connection slip from my claws.” His gaze settled square on the Tiefling. “That reminds me, Advocatus Diaboli. You’ll be Advocatus no longer, Karlach. Legatus Legionis, the title and position are yours. My commander in the field, my arm in matters of politics beyond the hells.” Raphael nodded in Wyll’s direction as Karlach’s face beamed with joy. “Perhaps a return to Baldur’s Gate to escort the next Duke Ravenguard to his proper place, now that Avernus is mine. You’ll need to be as effective in the politics of the material plane as you are in battle, my Hellion, so…”

“YOU’RE GONNA FIX MY HEART?” Karlach screamed at full volume, giddy and bouncing like a child.

Raphael’s rolling, rumbling chuckle sounded almost genuine to see her gratitude and mirth. “You’ll need it if you’re going to be my conduit of influence to our Duke of Baldur’s Gate, the Vampire Ascendant and his mighty Bone Picker…”. He turned to find the allies in question, two cups of a different sort of red liquid as its contents awaiting them on the tray. “To our victory, again,” the new Archdevil proclaimed, dulcet tone befitting his new status. Allies and an army and a circle of hell at his command…. Not much was missing, he grinned as they all downed their drinks.

“You know, that was fun,” Karlach added, a wide incorrigible grin on her face. Her heavy hand came squarely down on the devil's shoulder. “Thanks for a good time, Claws.”

Raphael’s brown arched, his swarthy face drawing into a grin that showed amusement and warning. “Claws?”

Karlach gaped at him, almost sloshing her wine as she huffed with her whole body. “Oh, come on! You know, like when we first met you… down came the…. Is your memory that bad?”

A sardonic sneer on his face, Raphael started to walk away, snapping his fingers to refill their chalices to near bursting.

“Am I still your Legal Whatever-it-was?” she called after him.

That easy camaraderie returned, laughter and claps on the back all around. “Don’t worry, I think he likes it,” Astairon grinned, nodding his head in twisted delight.

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

A/N: Raphael has a… soft spot… for Cordehlia, one that maybe clouds his usually twisted manipulative plans with wanting to earn her good will. His generosity towards Karlach and Wyll is maybe more a means of ensuring Cordhelia’s favor than any form of kindness.

And… just maybe… he’s going to cash in that favor in our next update. 🦇 x 🐦‍⬛ x 😈

2nd A/N: I stole from The Bard for my evil devil Bard. Raphael’s poem of victory is from Laertes in “Hamlet” 💀

41 notes · View notes

waterdeep-weavemoss · 1 month

Text

Mother

@dansnotavampire inspired this one. Musings on Raphael's mother.

'Do you know I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you?'

She has been trying to break in for thousands of years. Other shades wander the wastes of avernus, flickering in and out of its red valleys, the styx cutting like a wound across the heat and dust. She has no mortal weight, no body she can go home to, but cruelty hangs like air in this place; a single moment haunts her. A baby, or what might have been one in another life, drawn from the offal of her body crushed red like pomegranate seeds. The memory is torn at the edges, pain washing her vision in red as magic knits her back together. In the space of a few heartbeats, she sees what has been brought forth from her, the deep brown of her own eyes, the twisted, fanged little mouth.

Taken away.

She might have loved him, had she been allowed. Even with the stories whispered around the boundary of the House of Hope, the horrors on the inside, she might have. Not the devil who begat him. That particular trauma was still knifelike behind her eyes, or where they would’ve been if she weren’t a breath amidst brimstone and flame. She’d dreamed him, the devil, put the night from her mind until she began to change.

And the child looked like her. She’s been haunted since.

So she tries to break in, and fails, and tries again. He doesn’t even know she’s there. Just one of the millions of wretches wilting on a battlefield.

Then one day, a stranger. Mortal, striding into the house like she owns it, unshackling that poor girl bound beneath the sumptuous hall. She knows the layout, even if she cannot enter. She peers in the windows. She knows there is something that looks like him but is not him. He’s never glanced outside. That mortal sets everything on fire. And with the seals broken, whatever magic that kept her out, she sets foot over the threshhold.

He’s coming home. She makes it to the portal and waits, for just a glimpse. He is so angry, the house trembles with it. He materialises from nothing, stride so like his terrible sire.

She sees her son for the second time.

Raphael.

Named for an angel in a story from nowhere, his lips pulled back in an expression of fury and hate. She had hoped, like a fool, that it might fall away when he looked upon her. That he might smile. Instead, his eyes cloud over with something entirely unexpected.

Fear.

‘Not possible,’ he whispers. She can almost sense his human heart.

‘Raphael,’ she says, barely an echo. ‘My son.’

The doors bang open. That mortal girl wielding an infernal hammer, standing in the doorway. She frowns in confusion at the devil trembling before her, cowering under the gaze of a woman who barely reached his shoulder even in human guise.

‘What in the hells is going on?’ A spike of fear. If the devil is afraid…

‘It- my- she’s my-’ Raphael cannot form the words. For the first time in his life, he sounds so, so human.

But the girl can see it. In the set of his jaw, the defiant set to the mouth, the burn of his gaze. And he looks at her now. It might have been with hate, but his mother sees through, even now, even separated from his babyhood she knows.

The girl takes a step back. Her hands tremble; adrenaline is thrumming through her body, sweat on her brow from the heat. She balls her hands into fists.

‘You’ve done terrible things,’ says his mother. ‘The stories about you… I can’t be proud. I wish I could. I wish there could be love in this house. But you have lost your way, or never had it to begin with. But I would’ve loved you, if I was allowed to.’

‘Stop.’ His voice is a knife’s edge.

‘I wanted to. Keep you, I mean. Even though objectively it would’ve been the worst-’

‘That’s enough.’

‘No, child. You will listen. Your nature can be overcome, if you want it enough.’

‘I never stop wanting,’ he replies, voice cracking. ‘Never. And it hurts.’

‘I know.’

The girl is at a loss. Taking a step back, and another. But the woman catches her eye, roots her to the floor. Shakes her head. Save him, she seems to say.

‘Begone,’ says the devil. His mother does not move. He follows her gaze, alights on the mortal fool.

Comprehension in the girl’s face. He is looking at her in desperation. For help.

‘You can be better than this.’ He shudders when his mother takes his hand. Has he ever had a kind touch? He closes his eyes, tries to will her away. But she stays, and he buckles, knees hitting the floor, head bowing. She holds him like she would have done if he were a small boy, and for her of course, he was.

Tags:

@bluerosetarot @dansnotavampire @further-than-forever

@forget-me-maybe @poetryvampire @sasha199 @wandawillow

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana @amorgansgal

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

@netherese0rb @crimson-and-lavender @reeseykins @medra-gonbites

@roguishcat @weaverofnetheril @galedekarioswifey @hyperfixationstation128 @lastlight-inn

@astarryvamp @feedthepheasants @dabigstinky @dreamingofthewild @ladyofcrowsandcoffee

#mine #gonna tag #raphael x tav #bc it's kind of there #raphael the cambion #ah this made me fuckin sad

41 notes · View notes

moonselune · 2 months

Note

aasimar tav despite trying everything, failing to save her beloved tiefling karlach and has to watch her die. despite begging to her gods she will do whatever they want, sacrifice anything of herself. whatever it takes. just save the one person who she ever felt true love and a true connection for. only to receive their silence. a loayl servant asking once once for this one little selfish deed. and even that is too much apparently... and so karlach. in the hells. just chilling and fighting finds out who the newest member to join the realm being a certain familiar, cute and wonderful face has fallen into the hells.. and then they kick ass together.

yes yes yes so did a little informal drabble for this lmaooo enjoy

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

In the searing depths of the Hells, where the air was thick with the acrid scent of brimstone and the distant screams of tormented souls echoed through the cavernous landscapes, Karlach fought with the ferocity of one who had nothing left to lose. Her movements were fluid and precise, her dual blades slicing through the ranks of fiends with deadly accuracy.

Amidst the chaos of battle, a ripple of energy coursed through the infernal realm, drawing Karlach's attention. Through the haze of smoke and fire, she saw a figure materialize — a familiar figure that she had thought lost forever.

"Y/N?" Karlach breathed, disbelief mingling with hope as she recognized the radiant aura of her beloved Aasimar amidst the darkness.

You stood tall and resolute, your celestial wings shimmering with divine light as they surveyed the battlefield with determination. Despite the anguish and desperation that had brought you here, you now radiated a sense of purpose and resolve.

"It's me," You replied, your voice filled with a mix of relief and determination. "I've come for you, Karlach."

A surge of emotion welled up within Karlach as she realized the enormity of what you had done. They had traversed through realms and faced untold dangers to find her, defying the very cosmic order itself to reunite with the one you loved.

Without hesitation, Karlach fought alongside you, your blades moving in perfect harmony as you battled the fiendish hordes. Together, you carved a path through the infernal legions, your bond stronger than ever amidst the chaos of the Nine Hells.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

#ask seluney xox #karlach x tav #karlach bg3 #karlach x reader #karlach imagines #karlach cliffgate #karlach x aasimar tav #karlach x aasimar!reader #karlach angst #karlach x reader angst #karlach x reader fluff #aasimar #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate iii

26 notes · View notes

dartagnantt · 5 months

Text

The Greatwyrm Patron | The Warlock Patron so obviously missing this is the 7 billionth take this afternoon

PDFs of this and more can be found over on at my Patreon here! I release everything for free, so your support makes this possible

As a gift to everyone, I give the clearly absent warlock patron from the PHB. The familiars go

Archfey: pixie

Fiend: Quasit, and Imp (though, really just imp, since the fiend patron is clearly infernal in nature)

Great Old One: ???

???: Pseudodragon

Maybe I should make a goo familiar one of these days. Hmm… Admittedly, a dragon is not an otherworldly entity, but it's power kind of is, and that's what make them so dangerous, besides, the undying/undead isn't necessarily otherworldly either

Awesome Presence

What would a warlock want from their patron? I presumed their terrifying power, which is most mechanically expressed through its frightful presence. This is rather similar to the archfey's beguiling presence feature, and indeed a stronger version of it. To which I agree. But I also think that charming or fearing someone for a round once per rest isn't very appealing even at 1st level.

Treasure Sense

Not a very strong power, but definitely one I feel like you would get from a dragon.

Elemental Potency

This one's possibly a little bit strong, but magical great weapon fighter seemed fun, and I didn't really feel like stepping on the elemental adept feat's toes, especially since it very much would compliment this subclass

Dragonwrought Protection

Once again, I feel like an immensely old dragon of otherworldly might would probably have more affinity to their element than merely being immune to it, and this seems like an interesting gift for their warlocks that get this far.

Dracomorphosis

You came asking for draconic power, what more would you want than to become an actual dragon. Yes, I would probably give a revised dragon sorcerer something similar

Dragon Shape

I was never a fan of the draconic transformation spell. Sure, it makes you dragony-er, but for a spell that says it will transform you into a dragon, it doesn't really do that. So instead, a spell that polymorphs you into a young dragon. Why young? To both limit the power level, but also because most PCs aren't old enough to be adult dragons. I also specifically wanted it to be a 5th level spell, so I could give it to dragon themed subclasses. Why only druid? Because turning into the most powerful natural predator seems like a very druidy thing to do. I could make an arguement for wizards, but unless you were a dragon sorcerer, your magic wouldn't really encourage you to become one.

And now to plug my stuff. I release homebrews weekly over on my Patreon. Anyone who pledges $1 or more per post don't have to wait a month to see them, and also help fund my being alive habit.

At the moment, they have exclusive access to the following:

Breaking and Exiting

Dungeon Delver's Survival Guide

Oath of Integrity

Path of Iron

I also have three classes, and a splatbook over on DriveThrueRPG to check out:

The Rift Binder. A class specialising in summoning monsters and controlling the battlefield.

The Witch Knight. A class that combines swords and sorcery in the most literal way.

The Werebeast. A class that turns you into a half beast to destroy your foes.

d'Artagnan's Adventurer Almanac. A compendium of races, subclasses, feats, spells, monsters and more!

#d&d 5e #subclasses #d&d #d&d homebrew #d&d5e #warlock #otherworldly patron #dragons

40 notes · View notes

monstersdownthepath · 5 months

Text

Milestone Monster: Ragathiel, General of Vengeance

CR 26

Lawful Good Huge Outsider

Bestiary 6, pg. 114-115 (image taken from the cover of Chronicle of the Righteous)

There are many things in common between this Empyreal Lord and the last one we looked at on this blog. In most ways, Ragathiel and Vildeis couldn't be more different; Vildeis was born a perfect angel, while Ragathiel was born a devil and fought against his own nature and his very being to become one. Vildeis was so traumatized by the existence of Evil that she tore out her own eyes so she wouldn't have to see it, while Ragathiel's only wound of note was caused by his father, the Archdevil Dispater. Vildeis bears her scars openly and eschews any armor but the miles of bloodstained bandages over her form, while Ragathiel shields himself in gleaming golden armor to give the impression of an impervious, faultless soldier. Vildeis wields a simple dagger with terrifying effectiveness against single foes, while Ragathiel wields a dramatic two-handed, flaming blade.

But at the end of the day, both of them have the same goal: The eradication of Evil. And they both have the same problem: They're worryingly single-minded about it. Other Archons even worry about Ragathiel's bloodlust, something possibly justified considering how unfortunate his Divine Obedience is, demanding a death every time it's invoked. Despite whatever worry they may have for him, though, Ragathiel seems wholly committed to the battle against fiends of all forms, but especially against the devils and their ilk, whom he executes with impunity and without mercy. His mission is tireless, but one he performs without hesitation or regret. So long as Hell continues to reach its greasy little hands beyond its borders, Ragathiel will be there to stab at its fingers until it retreats... and, on occasion, venturing into the infernal lands to strike it directly.

The General of Vengeance is among the fiercest of all the Empyreal Lords, not afraid to lead his armies from the front at every opportunity, but his approach has some key differences from Vildeis'; she tirelessly wanders with no home or lair of her own, striking down Evil as it crosses her, effectively launching spontaneous campaigns which last only as long as they must in order to eradicate immediate foes before moving on to the next target. Ragathiel is more careful and arguably more thorough, retreating to a grand military base in Heaven to carefully plan his every assault to maximize its impact and the length of time it will take Hell to make another move. He's noted to be a brilliant tactician whose plans have rarely failed, but his prowess truly shines on the battlefield. Once he's landed in the fray he's a sight to behold, as though holy fire itself took up a sword to burn away the corruption trying to infect the world.

Let's see just what that looks like...

Let's start with the basics, since I feel like I have to bring it up every time I spot it: as an angel, Ragathiel projects a 20ft Protective Aura which shields everyone inside (himself included) from the forces of Evil, granting a +4 deflection bonus to AC and a +4 resistance bonus to saving throws against them. The aura also hedges out Evil summoned creatures, grants additional saving throws against charms and compulsions, and blocks hostile spell effects if they're 3rd level or less. No Fireball, no Slow, no Magic Missile, no targeted Dispel Magic, Blindness/Deafness, Silence... The list goes on, with both Ragathiel and any of his nearby allies benefiting from the protection.

It goes without saying that his allies aren't restricted by this; they can throw out all the Fireballs they want! In fact, Fireball specifically is encouraged, but we'll get to why in just a moment...

For now we'll continue with the basics, and it's hard to get more basic than Ragathiel. You take one look at him, and you can immediately tell what he is and what he's going to do: respectively, he's an angelic Paladin in specialized full-plate (Golden Armor, in fact; +5 full-plate with no downsides to his speed or checks!), and he's going to hit you very, very hard with a very, very big sword. His +5 Evil-Outsider-Bane Flaming Burst Holy Bastard Sword is a paragraph of a weapon created for the express purpose of beating devils back to Hell, dealing 3d8+21 damage at base, +2d6 vs Evil creatures and an extra 2d6+2 against Evil Outsiders specifically, and 1d6 Fire damage (1d10 if the sword critically hits, and it threatens a critical on a 17 or higher) as a ribbon on top. In addition to swinging his sword upwards to four times a round, he's got five Burning Wings that can be used as part of his Full-Attack, each one dealing 1d8+5 plus 1d6 Fire damage per hit and forcing a struck enemy to succeed a DC 39 Reflex save or burst into flames for 1d6 more damage a round.

And of course, he wouldn't be a Paladin if he didn't have Smite Evil. He's got it 7 times a day, in fact, and any of his allies within his Primal Aura can expend 2 uses to give all of his allies within the 30ft aura the benefits of Smite Evil against a single target. That's +9 to AC, +9 to attack rolls, and +20 to the first damage roll a given creature makes each round for a whole battalion against one specific target, +40 to damage if the target is an Evil Outsider (and ONLY Evil Outsiders; Ragathiel doesn't get bonus damage against Dragons and Undead!). If the General of Vengeance is leading a charge against a specific diabolic power, all his allies need to do is invoke his Primal Aura, and suddenly even meager footsoldiers can be hitting the main boss as hard as a Barbarian five levels above them! With health to match, as he can freely use Shield Other to help tank hits his more fragile companions would normally fold to.

Even if he has no reinforcements to invoke this power, he's got Gate 1/day to open a doorway right to Heaven to bring them in, shielding and empowering them with his auras. A quick Time Stop also lets him run around and use his 3/day Blessing of Fervor with no lost time to give two dozen plus Turbo Hastes out with each use, and throw out his 3/day Quickened Blade Barrier between each use to trim the battlefield into something more accommodating and prevent an easy enemy retreat.

Ragathiel fights best when surrounded by allies, for more reasons than just his long list of buffs and auras. His Righteous Mantle directly notes his bloodline relation to a demigoddess of fire, granting him numerous fiery blessings; namely, he absorbs Fire damage, treating all incoming Fire damage as healing instead, AND his Fire damage completely ignores any Fire Resistance and Immunity possessed by devils while dealing double damage to them! This is an INCREDIBLE ability... and would be far more useful in a vacuum if he had more than just token Fire damage on his attacks. Indeed, Ragathiel has only one bit of fire in his kit that isn't attached to his wings or weapon, a 1/day Meteor Swarm he's incentivized to drop directly into his own space once he's in melee with a bunch of devils, damaging them (and everything around them) while restoring a good chunk of his own HP. It also means his allies can freely throw Fireballs, Walls of Fire, Meteor Swarms, and other such effects of their own directly at him, which not only harms enemies, but restores his health!

No, his at-will Fire of Judgment doesn't deal any Fire damage, I checked; it burns an Evil creature for 1d6 (1d10 if they're an Outsider, Dragon, or Undead) damage each round with 'cleansing positive energy.'

At the very least, absorbing Fire damage means a great deal of devils suddenly have portions of their arsenal taken from them... though it, ironically, doesn't aid him against his own father, Dispater, who has no Fire damage in his kit. Rather, his Devil's Bane kicks in; this ability gives him +4 to caster level checks against devils, to his own saving throws when saving against diabolic magic, and to the save DCs of all his spells when a devil is being targeted, and this bonus becomes +8 when against Dispater. Dispater actually cannot affect Ragathiel with any of his spells thanks to this, and the General himself has a small chance of landing his own abilities against his father's otherwise towering saving throws!

And while we're on the topic of resilience, why not see how sturdy Ragathiel is? Because, as you may have guessed, the man's nearly impossible to harm in a way that matters. His DR 20 can't be pierced unless the weapon is Epic and Evil, while his Regeneration can only be suppressed by the powers of a deific or Mythic being. He's got the Demigod Suite of status immunities (notably NOT immune to disease, fear, paralysis, stun, or sleep, but those will be rendered non-issues soon) as well as immunity to Acid and Cold damage, and though his saves are ALREADY high, just look back upwards at everything he's got to bolster them!

And then. there it is, the penultimate quality listed on his statblock right before it gets into the rest of his abilities: Lay on Freaking Hands. 10 times a day as a swift action, Ragathiel can give himself an encouraging slap on the chest to restore 17d6 health to himself. Except it's not just 17d6! Righteous Mantle grants him +2 HP per healing dice rolled whenever he magically regains any health, which has no effect on his own healing spell (because it's freaking Heal at 3/day), but it means every LoH use grants him 17d6+34 HP. He can also apply ANY Paladin Mercy to his ability without restriction! And... well, here's the best part:

He can use Lay on Hands no matter what. There is NO condition or effect in the game which prevents him from using this ability as a swift action to wipe away whatever is inhibiting his actions. This means even if he's nauseated, stunned, paralyzed, asleep, staggered, or unconscious due to HP damage, he can wipe the condition off with all the difficulty of a particularly stubborn scab. Thanks to his empowered Lay on Hands and his own demigod immunities, there is NO status ailment in the game besides outright death that can inhibit him unless all 10 of his uses for the day are burned through, because he can use his swift action to break himself out of the effect and still have his entire turn afterwards.

It is probably not surprising that most of Ragathiel's enemies view him as an unkillable juggernaut, ridiculously durable even by the standards of demigods. In high level Pathfinder, rocket tag is ever-prevalent; you need to be able to shut down your enemies before they do the same to you. Well, when battling the General of Vengeance, it's likely you can't. He's all but guaranteed to get his round off, especially if he's high in the initiative order. Unless, I suppose, you put him to sleep, then nauseate, stun, and paralyze him in a single round, since as-written he can only wipe off one a round. Good luck with that, especially if you're a devil!

You can read more about him here.

#Milestone Monster #Monster Spotlight #CR 26 and up #Pathfinder #dungeons and dragons

39 notes · View notes

aurora-darling · 3 months

Text

Be mine

Zevlor x F!Reader/Tav

Working on zevlor/tav/astarion love triangle but I wanted to write a second meeting with zevlor x reader

NSFW warning; oral sex

It took two days, but you convinced Astarion to stay at camp with Gale. In truth, you did want alone time, mostly to bathe. Asterion beamed when you confessed your privacy reasons. You stated it would banish you from your coven if Astarion saw you naked, but it was a lie. Heading back from the spring, you decided to confront Zevlor about Kagha alone. You would need another plan. You walk into the tiefling refugee camp, your golden hair cascading down your back and drying in the wind. You donned a loose cotton shirt and tightly laced pants with leather sandals. Nothing like the armor you had grown used to as a cleric. You felt like you could fly. You were able to walk so quickly without armor. You looked through the crowds, your heart lifting and falling when you thought you saw him. You asked around and tried to get attention from any tiefling you could find until you heard him. “ Aria?” You turn to see Zevlor above you on a platform chopping kindling, and wiping the sweat under his horns. “How are you?” He asks. The sounds of the crowd disappeared with his voice.

Did you need me? You hear from his heart.

You were staring up at him, your mouth slightly open.

I missed you. You hear from his mind.

“ I’m fine I -” You reply as he jumps down in front of you. He was so close you could see the beads of sweat on his neck, his cotton shirt open at his chest. It was baggy and patched together. It was too large for his toned body. You knew the facts of war. Battlefields contained goods for the taking. Your heart broke as you thought about your commander needing shirts from fallen enemies or worse, his comrades. “I’m glad.” He says, propping the axe against the platform and now wiping the back of his neck with a hand cloth. “I wanted to thank you again for defending us against the goblins. “ He added and fiddled with the cloth in his hand. “Why? They attacked me first, I was just trying to stay alive.” You simply say and he laughs while you sit on the steps. “ I appreciate the honesty. I’ve never met a soldier who fought for their King.” He pauses to look at you “They fight to see their loved ones again.” He smiles and you can see the age of this tiefling. Fighting had ravaged him. Broke him. You push a rock with your sandal and look at his armor next to the platform.

What are you thinking about? Your mind hears from him.

“Kagha won’t agree to your terms. Or any. I’m so sorry. “ You admit, your head in your hands. The idea of children, women, and men being executed by pathetic green creatures tore at your heart. You couldn’t dare imagine Zevlor being hurt or else you would show everyone your true power. Before you knew it Zevlor had moved to squat in front of you.

Babygirl I don’t expect you to take care of my problems. I’ll handle it. Worry about me though. I crave you fussing over me. You heard from his mind, looking down at your commander while he held your hands in his.

“I appreciate what you did. It was brave of you, thank you. “ You gulp watching his lips as he spoke. “Avccase. “ He says moving your curls away from your face. His smile was dangerous, the light brush of his fingers on your face was enough for you to do anything for him. You stared at him and blinked slowly before you realized he said your name in your native tongue. “You practiced?” You whisper, your eyes beaming over him taking in every infernal curve of his face. “I did.” He whispers back and chuckles his voice now back to his normal tone “I had to ask your wizard companion for help. It took me a day but.. How did I do?” He asks.

Avccase. He moans in his mind.

You swallow your passion and try and address what you came for but you fail to change the subject.

“ It’s perfect- “ You say.

You’re perfect, you hear. Too good for me.

You wanted to kiss him desperately. His gaze was on your delicate hand in his, his long nails circling the back of your hand. He was focused on the freckles covering you. He smiled still circling his fingers over the back of your hand. He could see the calluses covering your knuckles. He knew the wear and tear sparring with your fists have on the skin. He would maul anyone who dared to touch you.

My pretty little warrior. He moans in his mind.

He brings your hand to his lips, a low primal growl comes from his mouth. His nose pressed on the back of your knuckles now, his mouth moving slightly to a light kiss. Your skin is also soft and delicate, the feeling was making Zevlor burn hot on the inside.

I’ll bet you fight like a Goddess.

Your fingers rub over his nose while his lips are pressed hard into them. He unravels at your caress. He could feel the coolness of your skin against his infernal heat. He takes a deep breath, his mouth opening slightly to rake his fangs against them. You had to do something before your passion got the better of you. “What should we do about Kagha?” You break the connection and the question resets Zevlor to his soldier mentality. “I learned that Kagha isn’t the true leader. A large elf named Halsin is. “ He lays your hand in your lap and clears his throat. He stands and you feel the insatiable need for his touch to return but you stay seated and watch him reassemble his armor. His hair is tied in the back, and his long ears are pointed high. Every part of his features were sharp and strong. His face was flushed as you watched him assemble his armor in silence. You continued your thorough observation of his features. His hair was a soft brown in the sunlight, highlights of red and strands of silver. There were curls at the base of this neck, and different layers throughout. Almost like he cut his hair with a dagger. You look down his back to the red tail swinging freely under his shirt. His face looks focused but his tail flickers excitedly. You giggle and your commander turns to you eager to see if he is the reason for your happiness. “ I’m sorry?” He asks joining you again with his breastplate on, now working to tie the shoulder pads as he sits next to you. “Nothing." You flirt, waving it away. Keeping a silly secret from him was exciting. Pleasurable. You watch as his fangs rake over his bottom lip. “Nothing you say?” He hooks a strap and slaps the pad into place on his shoulder. He looks at you with his eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips. “I doubt anything that serenades me with your laugh is nothing.”

Laugh for me, baby girl. Make me weak at your knees, I want to worship you.

It took everything to keep him from leaning in to kiss you. He would beg you to tell him your secret as he kissed his way down your neck. The thought was strong in his mind and making your body hot. You could feel him sitting closer, breathing you in. His tail flickers behind your back, his body leaning close over yours. You hear a commotion and you snap back to reality. “I’m just curious who cares for the commander when he protects everyone?” You thought he was magnificent. Of course, others would think so too. You look down his throat slowly and to his armor. He watches your eyes devour him. You continue staring at his armor, the images of people throwing themselves at your hero make you jealous. Your hand brushes over the strong plate covering his chest. “You probably have lots of people flocking to be with you.” You say and Zevlor shakes his head in disagreement and sits back. His face frowns but you continue talking failing to notice. “ I’m sure you have a lover or two. You’re so strong." Zevlor turns his head away from you to watch a couple of tieflings flirting with a soldier. His elbows move to his knees and he sighs. “No one-” He clears his throat and laughs at his pathetic love life. “No lovers for a solider like me I’m afraid.” He chuckles and you scoot closer. “That’s ridiculous, I’ll bet they’re in the crowd somewhere. You’re hiding them, aren’t you?" You flirt, pretending to scout the crowd for his ‘lover’ tiefling. He looks down at you while you look at his people, describing how beautiful they are. You smile and continue to flirt but what you say next tugs at his heart “ I bet they see what I see in you.” His eyes are soft and observing your every movement. You smile just for him and push your hair behind your small pointed ear. You can feel the heat rising to your face at your next confession. “How strong you are… I bet they love you.” You whisper and Zevlor is once again leaning closer to you, his eyelids heavy.

Could you love me Aria? I would fall apart if you loved me. Please love me.

“Zevlor?” You ask and he can’t bring himself to tell you about his past. What he was. He is- was a Hellrider. His horns never felt so heavy on his head. He knew the tieflings wouldn’t follow him unless they were desperate. He was a failure twice over. A Hellion. A devil. Evil. What kind of man is he for you if no one wants him? It shows how undesirable he is. He can’t compete with any man woman or monster. He’s nothing. He isn’t good enough.

No one is good enough for you, he thought.

Let alone that sickly elf following your every move like a cat looking for tit. He scoffs, shakes his head, and looks at the ground remembering the elf’s tongue on your neck. He cracks his knuckles and says nothing. You break the silence to share your world with him “Back home our Generals are worshiped like Gods." You tap his shoulder with your fingers. “It’s true. Seelies, pixies- a Satyr or two. Even dryads worship them.” You smile and look at his lips wondering how they would feel on yours. "I’m sure the fairies would love you. “ You add, blushing. You could love him. He laughs and your heart melts. He sniffs his nose looking down at the steps below his feet. “I’m never one to want anyone fussing over me I’m used to being alone." He admitted the truth. Loneliness. Craving a touch. Not just any touch. Your touch. He breathes in deep looking at you. His breath shakes and he shivers.

Stop looking at me like that. You are so beautiful it’s consuming me. You hear from his mind, his gaze looking over your face, down to your chest, he’s even looking at your thighs.

His tail now curving around your hip, the infernal tip caressing your stomach.

What could I do to get you to touch me? I don’t have much gold but I’ll pay anythin- You hear from his mind.

“Could we go for a walk?” You ask in a whisper, trying to keep your commander from behaving badly in public. He closes his eyes leaning in to you, your scent sending your commander into a heated trance. “ Zevlor?” You ask and he growls, he would never deny you. “Of course." He says and stands to offer you his arm. You stand and step forward. His eyes widen as the sunlight casts a bright aura around you. Your blue eyes brought out the pink in your lips and Zevlor’s heart sank. He felt your touch on his arm finally. You were airy and light. Soft. He had a hard time walking at first, his eyes glued to you. How you look on his arm, you’re ethereal. There was a prismatic glow to you. The shimmer of gold in your hair, your skin covered in freckles, and pink blush on every tip of your body. His mouth watered at the thought of your soft pale and pink body. He imagined you on his bed while he undressed you, taking the time to explore every part of you while he sniffed and groaned into your undergarments. He regained his composure as you spoke again “ -mostly singing but I heard this plane has different instruments and I’m curious.” He pats your hand on his arm. “I know a bard to introduce you to then.“ He says as he realizes he has walked you out of the Grove and near a creek. “Bard? I would love to meet them!” You exclaim and notice Zevlor has dropped his gaze to the clear water. He stays quiet as his body tenses and you drop your hand from his arm. He scoffs and kicks a stone into the water. “Are you alright?” You ask, your hands fumbling with a loose thread on your shirt. “ I have to ask. Why are you still talking to me?” Zevlor continues to look at the water. He has already made up his mind what you’ll say, nothing about loving him or being his. No, you wanted something and he was a fool to think of you as anything more.

I’m sorry I touched you. I know I’m worthless.

“ Why?” You scoff and his face drops. He’s on the verge of tears. ”Because I missed you and I’m worried about what’s going to happen to everyone... To you-” You broke off to see your commander rubbing his face with his hands. “ UGH. Why. Just- don’t.” He sighs and looks at you. “ You deserve someone better than an old man like me. I’m a reject, I’m not strong enough for you. I’m not good enough for you-” You step forward and are only tall enough to yank his neck to reach him for a kiss. You stand on your toes and push hard into his lips. He’s stunned and his eyes are wide but he doesn’t pull back.

Baaaby girl. He groans in his mind.

He wraps his arms around you and opens his mouth for a deeper kiss. He pulls you up into his chest.

You taste like fruit. I’m going fucking crazy.

His teeth part to lick under your lips.

Avccase.

Your mind goes numb at his confession. He picks you up and your legs instantly wrap around him. He carries you behind a rock and into a crevice for privacy. He would kill anything that tried to look at you like this with him. He is the only one to see you act this way. You acting hungry, inappropriate, and possessive of your lover. It’s a tight space but enough room for the two of you. He pushes you against the rock, pressing hard against you as his mouth moves to your neck. He doesn’t kiss, not after Astarion licked you. He bites, licks, sucks, and scratches his talon-like nails down your thighs. Zevlor has to devour you, to mark you. To make you all his. His lips leave tiny bite marks across your collarbone. You squeal in excitement and he freezes thinking he hurt you. You laugh and pull his head back to your neck begging for more. Zevlor obliges, his tongue licking long strokes up to your ear. He would never admit it, not even if he was under torture but you were the first person to make him feel wanted. He never knew what it felt like to be desired. To have someone love him. No one had ever touched him before without a transaction. Something in the way you moaned from his touch made him feel possessive. His breath is hot on your neck.

I could have killed that fucking elf.

He moves to your collarbone again. He licks his lips smelling your breasts over your shirt.

How dare he act like that in public to you.

You smile and redirect his mouth to yours while he pushes his hips between your legs.

Smell like me, my love. Wear only my scent.

“ Yes… please Zevlor” You moan and it awakens a deep hunger in him. Your commander sits with you in his lap. “ I’ll understand if you want to sto-” He says but you interrupt him with a kiss. His hands move under your shirt to touch your back. The heat from your skin was enough to set him on fire. He removed his breastplate again while placing your hands on his shoulders. “ Touch me, beahat. My Zev." You call him an endearing word in your fae language added with a nickname. Calling him yours, he becomes undone. His hands are now under your shirt playing and squeezing at your breast. You giggle at his open mouth and remove your shirt for him. He wraps his arms around you, afraid to share you with anything, even the wind. He closes his eyes, a tear forming at the corner of his eyes. He’s never had anyone go this far with him without asking for more payment. Now he had his goddess in his lap, her heat grinding into his crotch. If this was a dream he didn’t want to wake up. If he was in heaven he would gladly stay dead. His lips are quivering, you can feel him sobbing. It turns into you holding him.

Please never leave me. Be mine. My Aria. My Avccase. Mine only, my only..

He kissed your neck lovingly while tears streamed down his cheeks. His lips move down your neck to your collarbone.

Please don’t let him touch you anymore.

His mouth is now at your breasts, his lips over your nipple. You arch your back and roll your hips into his. Zevlor hisses at the pleasure of you rubbing against his hard member.

Fuck, baby. Don’t do that.

You smile at the challenge. You’re about to roll your hips again when you hear him say “Did you know I dreamt of you my whole life?” He looks up at you. “Are you real? How could you be real? You are so beautiful." He confesses, his hands on the sides of your face. You don’t know what to tell your commander. It isn’t uncommon for mortals to see visions of Fae but never more than a fleeting thought. Multiple dreams of a Fae are rare. “ Shhhh.” You comfort Zevlor as he sobs into your neck, clinging to you. You twirl his hair in your fingers as you look down at your commander. Your leader. “ Zevlor.” He lays his face on your chest. He whines thinking he has to let you go. “ …please not yet. I’m not ready to let go.” He whimpers, breathing in your scent over and over. The perfect balance of lavender and honey. He was sure you would push him off, scream how dare he touch you but instead, you stayed. He was just about to apologize and return you to your camp when he looked up at you. Your once pale blue eyes were flooded with tears, it was your turn to break. You had heard how vulnerable this man was. He was broken and afraid. “Aria?” He asks softly, his hands on your bare back. You knew no words would convince him you wanted him. No, it was actions he needed. He needed proof. You wipe your tears away and take control, your lips on his kissing over and over. You are hungry for him and Gods be dammed you were going to prove it to him. “I want you Zevlor. Can’t I have you please?” You were going to break him free of his torment. You bring his fingers into your mouth to suck. "I need my strong commander. I need to worship him." You move his fingers in and out of your mouth, sucking on them. Zevlor is speechless, he doesn’t utter a thought but a deep guttural groan. You roll your hips into his member, your hand bringing his wet fingers out of your mouth and to your pink nipple. He takes over pinching it and the pleasure causes you to arch your back and you start grinding against his cock. You both still have trousers on but he can feel how hot your pussy is. He bites his hand to avoid biting into your flesh. And you take the opportunity to drag your teeth against his neck. You hear him growl. Fucking hells. You laugh at your commander cursing again. You pull his shirt above his head and Zevlor yanks it over his horns, tearing it. He cannot have anything blocking his vision from you, ever. You giggle again and his confidence returns. His hands are now groping your ass so your hips roll into his.

I shouldn’t take you here baby girl. You deserve to be courted. To be adored. It should be special. I want to claim you in my bed.

He stopped kissing you to stare at you while you played with his hair.

You deserve something better than this. Our first time should be special.

You are too drunk with passion to hide that you can hear his tiny confessions. “But I want you.” You plead. It doesn’t occur to him you can hear his mind, he thinks you are confessing to him. “ Not here baby. You deserve more than that.“

I want to make love to you Aria.

Zevlor is unable to move as you kiss your way to his chest, to his stomach, and stop at his hips. His hand cups your chin. “Don’t waste your time on me." He says to you. You look into his eyes for his thoughts. You’re unable to read them until he sees the hurt in your eyes.

I’m sorry baby. I just meant I’m not worth you fussing over.

He moves his fingers over your lips.

Fuck your lips feel so soft, I wish I could taste myself in your mouth. Would you swallow your commander pretty girl?

You nod your head and Zevlor is shocked thinking you agree that he’s a waste of time. “I apologize Aria- “

Oh, Gods. I knew it. I fucking knew it. He swallows a sob.

You sit back and bring your hand to his pants, reaching for his member. “Stop. Apologizing. Commander. “ You push your thumb over the head. “I want to taste you.” His gaze is on you, his mouth hanging open. You can feel his cock throbbing under his pants. There was a wet spot at the end. You reach up to remove his cock free from his pants and wrap your delicate fingers around it. Zevlor growls, the flame in his eyes bright and hungry. You see his fangs as he nods in agreement while your hand begins stroking his cock. His head throws back and he growls low. He’s at a loss for words, his mind blank. He succumbs to his infernal beast. You drool over the head to moisten his cock, rubbing your palm and fingers over the head. You would show him real desire.

Baaaaaby.

He moans, leaning back against the rock. You finally realize the true size of his cock. It is long and thick at the base, curling up toward his abdomen. You stare in awe, unaware of any words from Zevlor. “You don’t have to-” He starts, you respond by taking him into your mouth. Long and deep strides with your mouth, you want him to feel your need for him. Zevlor slams his fist into the ground before quieting a groan.

Gods be dammed baby.

You swallow and tighten your mouth around his cock, the sides rubbing against the inside of your cheeks.

Fuck. You suck so gooood.

You smile at your praise and work your mouth up and down his length. “Aria..” He moans, his nails grazing your head.

Yes, love me. I love you, I love you, I love yooooou.. He cries silently.

There is a salty taste accumulating on your tongue. You instinctively roll your tongue over the tip, tasting the small bead of his seed. Zevlor moans, his fingers curl over your head stroking you sweetly. He finally looks down at you and it’s enough to send him over the edge. "Baby girl, what are you doing to me..” His fingers stroke your cheek, taking in your beautiful face, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your lips are messy, any paint you had on them is rubbed off and mixed onto his cock. Your hair has fallen around your face, sweaty curls sticking to your forehead. Your eyes are glazed over with lust for him. No one has looked at him like that before. His feral growl excites you and you suck harder and faster. Your head is bobbing on his cock and you aren’t scared of being loud anymore. Anyone approaching could hear the sinful sounds your mouth is making on his cock. You were milking him of his seed. Seeing his angel behave carnally for him sends him spiraling. Having her taste his cock, and behaving so perverse gives him an ego boost. Zevlor’s mind goes blank and before he can warn you, spills into your mouth and down your throat. He is still aware of his strength and keeps his hands from you. His nails could tear flesh apart if he’s not careful. You drink him down happily, his salty and thick seed burning your throat as it goes down. You keep going back and are stopped by Zevlor who cups your chin. “Hells.." He groans, wincing at pulling his member out of your mouth. It is limp but still throbbing and dripping seed. He chuckles at your eagerness to clean him. “Ah- Ah, shhhh baby. It’s too sensitive now. “ He chuckles and wipes his sperm from your lip. Zevlor stands looking to cover you. He picks up your shirt, covered with mud in some spots. He frowns and tries to dust off any dirt. You watch him as he turns to you. “Lift your arms, baby.” He commands and you follow his order. He slides your shirt over you, pulling it down over your belly. Zevlor adjusts his shirt back in his pants, looking at the entrance for any prying eyes. Your commander was protective of you.

Are you mad at me? He turns again to look at you. I’m sorry I finished too earl-

You stand immediately to kiss him. “Stop thinking so much.” You tell him. He laughs, his hands on your hips. “What?” He smiles, his tail playfully wrapping around your leg and up to your ass. You lay your head on his chest and he immediately holds you. He’s warm, you feel safe in his arms. “You mentioned Halsin?” You ask, his face buried in the top of your head. He closes his eyes before responding. “ Mhm.” He sighed as his reality returned to him in an instant. How he wished things were different, that he found you in Baldur’s Gate and he was free of any responsibility. He could bask in this moment forever if things were different, He would take you for a stroll in the market or pick you flowers. He doesn’t want this moment of bliss to end. You try to listen for his thoughts but fail, so you settle to listen to his heartbeat. His face doesn’t lift from your head, he buries himself further in your hair. “ He’s the real leader of this Grove. He could stop Kagha from completing the ritual if we can find him. They’re trying to seal the grove from any outsider. Permanently. “He says, the flame in his eyes weakening at the thought of having to depart.

Would you come with me? You hear from his heart.

He couldn’t leave you now. He finally found you.

I don’t have anything to offer. Please stay next to me.

“ Where is he?” You ask, your head still against his chest while he cradles you. “The last report was the Goblin Camp. That human from before was on a mission with him. I guess he abandoned Halsin when things got tough. “Zevlor clears his throat, his member still throbbing from your pleasure. “ So Halsin is trapped at the camp?” He pulls away to place hands on your shoulders and lean to face you “ Aria I don’t want you to go there.” He sighs and straightens his posture.“ It’s too dangerous. You could get hurt and I-” He rubs the back of his head.

I would kill anything that hurt you.

You shake your head, Goblins were practically target practice to you. He cups your chin, looking at you daring you not to disagree with him. You open your mouth and his thumb grazes your lip. His nail pulls your lip down and he can see the pink color of your tongue. His thoughts are on how amazing your mouth just felt. “I’m stronger than you think, commander.” That did it. That brought out the beast in him and Zevlor pushes you against the rock. His lips hurriedly kissed your neck and chest. His hands caress your breasts again while he pulls your leg to hook around his hips. “ Say that again.” He orders you, his voice deep and lustful. “I’m your what?” He demands, his member pushing into your thigh. “Say what?” You reply smiling up at him. He smiles wickedly at you, his talon dragging up your neck. You shiver at his touch, he is in control now. “What am I to you?” He asks, his lips close to your ear. He takes the piercing on your lobe into his mouth.

Tell me baby girl. I want to hear it.

You moan, “You’re all mine.” You say and your commander growls, sinking his teeth into your neck.

Fuck baby. Yes, I’m yours.

You can hear his mind reeling over your words.

If I see that elf touch you again I will skin him alive. His member is thrusting into your heat, grinding into you.

“ Zevy..” You moan, spreading your legs for him.

“ Commander?!” You both freeze as you hear a shout from toward the Grove. “ Commander!?” Shouts another, their voices coming closer. “Shit.” Zevlor curses, dropping your leg. He grabs his breastplate and hides you behind him. You compose yourself as well, smoothing your hair and shirt. There is no mirror around so you look to Zevlor for approval. “You look beautiful my love.” He whispers watching the tieflings walk in the other direction. “Just a tad dirty.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Always beautiful.“ He reminds you and walks you out from behind the rocks. “I just bathed." You say and his eyes flicker with lust. “ Maybe you need another?“ He jests, looking for who called for him. “ Maybe. “ You shrug. “Maybe I want to smell like you.” You jest back, knowing his desire. He stops in his tracks and looks at you. “Gods..” He moans, biting his lip before shaking it off. “ Commander!” You see a tiefling running toward you both. “ Ah, you’re with our savior. Hello.” The young tiefling greets you and is careful not to look at you for too long in front of Zevlor. “I’m sorry to interrupt but the druids are asking for you. They’re demanding we start packing. And soon.”

#zevlor x reader #zevlor x tav #zevlor #zevlor smut

20 notes · View notes