#the All Blades and the All Caste is the only thing he has. please use it. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writersdrug · 2 months

Text

Nectar and Bane - Pt. 1

Pairings: Hunter!König x Witch!Reader

Pt. 2

Summary: König is hired to hunt down a pesky witch by a warlock, who paints you as the most evil thing in the past three centuries. With the promise of finding true love (or, the closest thing the warlock can offer: a brainwashed woman who is forced to dote on the hunter), König sets out on his journey. However, you aren't what he was expecting at all, and he develops a newfound obsession with making you become his.

Warnings: dubcon, mentions of rape, manipulation, kidnapping, sex pollen (kinda? If you squint? not really, but better safe than sorry), corruption kink, mentions of blood and violence, mentions of consuming human organs, unrequited pining, angst at the end, death (not for main characters), cowgirl, missionary, mating press, biting, hair pulling, nipple play, power imbalance, handjob, obsessive thoughts and behaviour (please let me know if I missed any!)

Notes: thought I'd try my hand a fantasy au version of cod, or at least of König. This is really long (over 15000 words) so I split it into two parts. The next part is pretty much done, I'm just exhausted and wanted to at least crank out half. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt 2!

ps if anyone has any suggestions or tips on how to make collages or banners for fics, pleeeaseeee lmk

translations at the end

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Watch your every step. From the moment you step foot into those woods, you can’t trust anything you see.

That’s what the sorcerer had drilled into his head before he had begun his journey. He called you dangerous, cunning… “A sneaky, meddling bitch…” he had grumbled over the table in that crowded tavern.

Two small pouches, one of silver, one of gold, sat in between the two patrons on the table. Stains of ale and coffee rings littered the unvarnished wood. The wax of the thick candle had trickled down and formed small, hardened pools at the base – its flame flickered weakly, casting unflattering shadows against the man’s weathered features, and making the portentous hood covering König’s face only that much more ominous.

He'd listened warily as the sorcerer described the witch – you. Tens of centuries old, too much knowledge and too little wisdom to use it sensibly. You take whatever you want by whatever means possible, and your favored method was using your physical assets and the promise of sexual devotion to coerce those within your web to do your bidding. “Sometimes it’s for her personal gain – sometimes, she does it for fun.” The warlock added bitterly. “Akin to a serpent, she winds you into her embrace, and then crushes your bones before she swallows you whole, saving your heart for last.” You’d done it to him, ensnaring him into your alluring trap, before stealing his spellbooks, his potions, his most prized collections… and vanishing into thin air.

An enchantress, König had concluded.

The warlock’s request? “Kill her. And be quick with it. The sooner this earth is rid of that swine, the sooner we can all rest. And, better yet – bring me her eyes! Potent things, witches’ eyes can be – of course, that is if they’re still working. If the bitch has gone blind, don’t waste dulling your dagger. A handful of her hair would do just fine.”

König had killed much worse for much less, and this sounded like it would be on the simpler side of things. A few days’ worth of hunting and a quick, efficient kill – hopefully, one of his easier jobs, although with the way the sorcerer described you, that might not be. He’d dealt with magicians before; up until now, they had been rather boring to hunt – tedious, but nonetheless, boring. Most of the time, they tried to end him with some elaborate incantation in the few seconds remaining of their life after he’d ambushed them. His silver blade would be slicing across their throats before they could utter five syllables. They were always so intent on murdering their victims slowly and in a flashy manner. With König’s preference for a more immediate result, he was usually the one collecting the fingernails, teeth, and tongues.

(Over time, he’d had noticed that it was always sorcerers ordering the assassination of other sorcerers. He wondered why they had so much of an issue amongst themselves, but he didn’t question it. Whatever kept him fed and paid for his room, he would do it.)

The picture the warlock was painting of you, however, made you seem much craftier and more calculated. You couldn’t resist the glamorous ways of murder via magic – it was written in your nature as a witch. But you played the game with your charisma and wit, too; something magic users didn’t typically rely on (half of the time, because they weren’t charismatic, nor witty). You waited until your assailant would fall to your wicked charm, before dissecting him like nothing more than a toad for your cauldron. If not an easy kill, you at least sounded like you would be an exciting one – but König knew he could get something more from this client for killing you.

“What more can you offer me?” he asked.

The warlock chuckled. “The gold is insufficient, is it?” he leaned forward and hunched his shoulders, speaking in a hushed tone. “Tell me, what do you desire? Recognition and respect? Revenge against someone who’s crossed you? To bring back a loved one from the dead? Or, perhaps, to find a love of your own?”

König’s shoulders tensed, and the rest of the warlock’s utterances fell on deaf ears. Could he possibly give him a chance to find himself someone to love? Someone that he and only he can worship? It was true that he would be happier to live alone, in whatever way that would allow him to be independent of society… but the thought of being able to live alone with someone, someone who was devoted to him, someone who could decorate his hut with signs of life and warmth, someone with a kind smile and a sweet voice, someone who he could spend hours upon hours with, memorizing each curve of their body, the taste of their nectar on his tongue…

He called it love. Others would call him insane. He’d heard it all before – how no one would ever love him, given his profession, his awkwardness in carrying a conversation about anything normal other than how sharp his knives are, and how he uses them… that, and the fact that he never shows his face (“He must be hideous under there…” they would speculate). Nonetheless, he still craved the devotion of an obedient, warm body waiting for him in his cabin at the end of the day – once he did get a cabin. Why should he be denied what everyone else wants?

He knew he was a hypocrite; he couldn’t expect someone else to be so willing to leave everything and run away with him. Not with his insane ideations and obsessions – hell, not with who he was as a person. But if he killed enough healthy rabbits to keep her fed, and if he fucked her hard enough that her eyes rolled back into her head and she couldn’t muster enough strength to escape the mattress… would she ever care about what kind of man he was?

The warlock smiled slowly. “Of course… that’s what all of you sick bastards want.” He said, leaning back and folding his arms. “If it will seal our contract, I will give you whichever woman you choose. I’ll make her yours, and only yours, with unconditional love – even for your damned soul.”

A fair deal, König had thought. Which is exactly what had him currently trudging through the dense woods, searching for any traces of a witch – a sack with two loaves of bread and some apples hung over his shoulder, along with his well-worn tashka stuffed with the coin he had earned over time. His sword was strapped to his hip in its sheath, his dagger (a short sword, when it was compared to the average person) stuffed into the lead-lined, deerskin sheath on the side of his boot; and a pelt, heavy and thick, hung around his shoulders. All he had to his name.

König had done a day of research on you – testimonies and sightings of you ghosting the perimeter of the woods at an early age, hoping to lure some poor soul away as your very first victim. “I imagine she was a succubus in her previous life,” the warlock had spoken, “maybe too much of a whore for even the devil to handle.”

He had caught you one night by luring you to his cabin with the scent of a savory meal. Guessing by your inexperience, and the way you avoided using words as you snarled and thrashed in the warlock’s grip, he assumed you had not yet reached one hundred years old. You were still young and fresh-faced, appearing no more than twenty to human eyes. “After a few decent meals, and reintroducing her to the work of her past life – she’d settled in as the perfect student. It almost felt like having a pet.” He added with a smug smile.

König questioned how happy you were with being reintroduced to the work of your past, but he didn’t comment on it.

After living with the warlock as his student and whore for a few centuries, you turned into a strong, young witch. You didn’t care to go into town, preferring to stay at the cabin and watch over the brews whenever he had to make deliveries or run to the shops. The warlock had no complaints about your desire to stay holed up in his home – fewer people to ogle at you, fewer glimpses into a more civilized life that might tempt you to run away. He’d much rather you be a brooding, antisocial bitch, than watch one of his clients stare at you with a yellowed, lustful grin, like you were some harlot in the window of a brothel.

On one particular day, without any indication of what you were planning, he had returned home from his rounds to an empty cabin – not just empty of you, but of his potion stock, his rarest ingredients, and his most prized spellbooks. He’d run into the woods in fury, screeching your name and hurling threats into the trees around him – but you were gone. Not a trace of you could be found within a five mile radius of his home.

It was like you had never been there, save the absence of his personal belongings.

In König’s opinion, you didn’t strike him as an extremely dangerous individual. Sure, the warlock had harped on and on about how cunning and deceiving you were – but all you had done was lie to him. And from the way he had described the conditions you were under, König didn’t exactly blame you for running away. Maybe this job was a waste of his time…

Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain, despite the nip of the mid-autumn air, and the fact that he was embarking on what might be one of the most treacherous endeavors of his career. He was getting a decent payout for it – that is, if he lived to finish the job. Additionally, the scenery was a comfort to his journey; wiry birch trees stood high and thickly clustered, their brown and black spots like ever-watchful eyes, staring at the gargantuan hunter as he moved. Their golden leaves mimicked the light of the sun, the real thing blocked out by the overcast skies. A whisper of wind flew by his ears, carrying down and blowing the leaves further along his path with a gentle sigh. As if nature herself was telling the world to be quiet, be still, and prepare for winter.

It was times like this where König became unsure of himself. What if he hated having someone else to care for? What if, deep down, he preferred the silence and the solitude? But then, the loneliness would strike him. The longing to be understood (if that was humanely possible), and the desire to have something warm, alive, and sentient to acknowledge him. It consumed him on those sleepless nights, perfectly warm by the hearth of whatever inn he resided at, yet so hollow without having someone to wrap his arms around.

A swaying movement in the branches above pulled him from his thoughts. Hanging down by a twine thread, tied to one of the spindling birch branches, was a tiny, burlap pouch. It reached a few feet above König’s head, and was drenched in a dark, thick liquid that dripped rhythmically onto the forest floor. Looking to where the drops landed, he noticed the matter on the ground was decaying – a steaming pile of rot was all that was left of the leaves that were once there.

He frowned. The trap was clever – for a witch in their first century. König had expected something a bit more dangerous for someone your age. Maybe the last hunter had been too gullible, and you stereotyped them to all be oafs. Or, maybe you were too old and couldn’t craft traps with the same skill and precision as your younger self.

He drew his dagger from his boot and quickly sliced the twine thread. The pouch dropped to the floor with a squelch, landing in the very puddle of death it had created. The liquid beneath it bubbled and hissed, and the bag soon dissolved to reveal its contents: bits of bone – a kind of reptilian foot, from the looks of it – dried pomegranate seeds, and a fuzzy layer of mold, all appearing to be drenched in some kind of blood.

He carefully stepped around the stinking mess, his eyes turning back onto the path to continue his hunt. He both hoped for and against finding more evidence of your existence. He wanted to get back to town as soon as he could, so he could hole himself up in an inn until his money began to run out – all the same, his mind craved a puzzle and a chase. Though, with how old you were, he doubted there would be much of a chase.

More leaking, swaying hex bags hung from branches as he trudged on, pointing him in the right direction. He didn’t bother to quiet the sound of the leaves beneath his footsteps – the rustling of the wind through the foliage was doing the job well enough. He held onto his dagger tightly, his other hand on his longsword, as he carefully toed through the dense forest. He had to be close – the smell of fennel and turmeric settled around his presence, along with the babbling of a nearby stream.

The sound of a distant tune danced through the trees. The voice was soft, yet clear, and whoever it belonged too was much too confident that they were alone in these woods. König wondered if it was actually you, and not some poor soul who had been foraging for the autumn mushrooms and berries – but he was nearly a day’s trek into the forest. No one would dare come out this far, unless they wanted to be alone. And, they were potentially hiding from something; their own past, perhaps.

He cautiously followed the sound of the tune, still disguising the sound of his own steps within the rustling leaves and wind. His heart thrummed with both uncertainty and excitement; he always did get too thrilled at the idea of a struggle and blood covering his hands. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, focusing his attention on the voice that carried through the trees, pulling him closer and closer… He gripped his dagger tightly as he crept, reminding himself of the warlock’s warning: cunning, sneaky – be on your best wits.

The voice brought him to the edge of a clearing. The birch trees parted and encircled a few meters of earth, and a few bushes huddled along the far edge, dotted with purplish berries and thorned branches. A wicker basket, woven clumsily and rather lopsided, sat on the ground and caught each berry and branch that was tossed into it. A figure knelt in front of the bushes, carefully plucking the berries with thin, delicate fingers, stained purple from the juice of the berries, and nails that might need a trim soon, unless they were intended to be claws.

The cloaked figure confused König. The voice was too melodic, too clear and fresh for an old witch. He had assumed you weren’t much younger than the warlock, but still old. He remained a few yards away from you, shrouded by the trees and dense foliage outside of the clearing.

It was when you turned your head, dropping your handful of berries into the basket, revealing your face, that he realized how wrong he had been in his assumption.

Your skin was soft, he could tell even with the distance between the two of you. Your lips delicately moved as you sang your tune, your eyes sparkled in contrast to the dull autumn colors that surrounded you. Small wisps of your hair danced around your cheeks as the wind caressed it. Your entire body looked soft, warm, and pliable… exactly what he needed. Craved.

It wasn’t hard for him to imagine it: leaves tangling into your hair as he pressed his fingers around your neck, pushing you to the cold ground and watching as you gasped for air. He’d use his knife, but not to kill you. He’d drag it over your hardened nipples, watching them perk up even more at the prickling sensation, before he’d carve his name into your stomach. Smear your pretty blood all over your pretty face, watch as your eyes widen with horror, as you question how someone can be so deranged and cruel, how he can take so much pleasure in something so vile and horrible-

Or maybe, he could convince you that he just wants a fuck. You looked like you could use one – when was the last time you’d had someone’s lips on your breasts, or their cock in your cunt? It had certainly been too long for him… he couldn’t imagine how long you had gone without being thoroughly ravaged, living in these woods all alone. He could take care of that. He could be gentle, for a little while; holding your wrists above your head as he pushed you against a tree, whispering praise and encouragements into your ear, “… so gut, so Schön, genau so…” taking you from behind as your nipples perked up from the rough texture of the bark, listening to you whine and moan in that sweet voice of yours as he lets out months’ worth of pent up frustration by thrusting his cock into your warm pussy, over and over and over until you scream and tighten around his length, milking the cum right out of him as he fucks you deep, maybe sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck-

He growled quietly, palming his rapidly-growing erection as he tried to clear his head. Stay focused. Kill the witch, and then you’ll get what you want.

Remember the warlock’s promise.

Even if he didn’t need you to satisfy his needs, he could still make this interesting. Not like you could outrun him, anyway.

He stepped into the clearing, and as if by some ironic joke, the wind died down immediately. The crunch of his heavy boots was enough to make his presence known to any living thing within a mile radius.

Your singing stopped. You whipped your head in his direction, and immediately a look of fear fell upon your face. For a moment, the two of you were frozen in a staring contest. You reminded him of a doe, staring at the crossbow of the hunter you had noticed, wondering if this being was actually dangerous, or nothing you needed to worry about. He wondered what he must remind you of, and he wished to hear the panicking thoughts flitting through your mind.

Finally, you broke the trance – you gasped, stumbling backwards and awkwardly standing as you ripped a pathetic, little knife from your boot. You faced him and pointed the knife at him – you held it improperly, and if he truly wanted to make this messy, he could easily make you stab yourself in a struggle. He wondered what it would feel like when your nails dug into his rough skin, dragging marks down his forearms (or his back, if he played his cards right).

You pulled the thick cloak tighter around your body – you were tiny. Well, everything was tiny compared to König. But you were unexpectedly small. With the way the sorcerer had described you, he had expected you to reach his shoulders at least. But there you were, craning your neck to look up at him with fearful, owlish eyes.

“State your business!” You demanded, your voice cracking slightly.

König chuckled in response. You really were too pathetic for your own good, weren’t you? He took you in – your lips were pulled into a frown, parted slightly to reveal your perfect teeth, the way the fabric of your cloak quivered where it bunched in your fist… perfectly ordinary things that ordinary people do. But, besides the fact that you were a witch, something about you made it all so captivating.

“Hey!” you shouted, bringing his eyes back to your gaze. Your fear had given way to a judgmental ire. “Gods, have you ever seen a woman before?!”

König scoffed. “Woman? Yes, of course. I’ve seen witches, too. None as young as you, however.”

Your eyes widened in panic once again. You stretched your knife out towards him as he stalked over to where you stood. “S-stay back! I’ll kill you!”

Your meek threat didn’t slow him down. He continued his advance until he had corralled you against a tree, your one hand bracing against the trunk behind you, and the other holding the knife under his ribcage. The only thing between his flesh and your blade was his linen tunic, which wouldn’t do much to protect him should you decide to stab him – but were you capable of that? Your eyes were so filled with fear as they stared at him, your chin to the sky to take all of him in. Your fingers trembled around the handle of your knife as if the prospect of having to nick him made you uneasy.

“Not with magic?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the bush next to you. He plucked one of the berries between his thick, gloved fingers, rolling the onyx sphere between his thumb and middle finger before squashing it.

You pouted (a sight König could never grow tired of). “I’m not a wi-“

He snatched your forearm, and you yelped, dropping the knife to the forest floor. His fingers easily wrapped around you; he wondered how easy it would be to break it.

“Don’t lie, now.” He ordered, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance. “You’re not good at it.”

He released your arms with a shove. You scrambled back with a fearful expression, swiping the blade from the ground. He watched with interest as you stood several yards away from him, pointing your weapon towards him once again.

“Fine.” You said, holding yourself a bit taller. “You’re right. What’s the crime in that?”

For a moment, König was lost. Why weren’t you trying to weaponize your magic? It was almost as if you had forgotten you weren’t a human. For someone who was supposed to be a cunning bitch, as the warlock had put it, you weren’t very smart.

“I’m not here for justice.” He replied, wiping his glove on his shirt. “Just doing my job.”

“Hunter?” you asked.

He extended his arms – gods, he could have crushed a pillar between those arms – as if presenting himself to you. “Was it not obvious?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his tone.

You huffed. “Well, you’re not a very good one. Most hunters don’t make conversation with their prey.”

Prey. He liked that you understood your position, that he was the one in charge here. Maybe you were a clever girl…

“I like to listen to the begging.”

“Begging?”

“For your life.” König folded his arms over his chest, inspecting you closely. The only thing you had to protect yourself was your cloak, and that hardly provided a shield against the wind. Even though you were obviously wary of him, it wasn’t wary enough. You had spoken too many words with the hunter, and had it been anyone else, you might have been dead long before now.

You seemed malleable – book-smart and spitfire, yet all too gullible. Easily manipulated. Just what he needed to brainwash you into loving him. Or, at least, being his pet. You’d never truly love him, he had come to learn that from experience. But maybe, if he could somehow convince you that you needed a big, scary man, who could protect you and fuck you nicely, it would be enough to make you stay. After all, you were too naïve to be alone out here, weren’t you?

Could the warlock perhaps make you his prize? It’d kill two birds with one stone, he could convince you to return whatever knickknacks you had stolen, and your presence would never bother anyone ever again – besides him, but of course, it would never be a bother to bed you every night.

Your expression turned sour. “I don’t beg.”

The tone of your voice sent a shiver down his cock. He’d have to pound that little attitude right out of you.

“Who hired you?” You asked indignantly. The knife in your hand had slowly lowered, now pointing at his feet. Your initial fear seemed to have worn off. Were you brave, or just that stupid?

“It doesn’t matter.” König replied.

“It does to me.”

“You don’t know? How many people have you wronged?”

You scoffed. “I haven’t wronged anyone. People just don’t like it when you call them out on their atrocities.”

König hummed. You had a point. “Your teacher – the warlock.”

For a moment, you scrunched your face in disgust. Teacher. Only a fool as mad as the warlock himself could consider he was any such figure in your life, other than a torturous one. Then, you sighed, shoulders slumping defeatedly, the knife now aimed straight at the forest floor. “That old toad can’t even kill me himself…” you muttered. “What payment did he offer you?”

“He promised me anything I desired of your possessions.” König replied, taking note of the change in your presence. He purposely left out the warlock’s promise to find him a “companion.”

“And what would you do with cursed fig seeds, or stag’s blood?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest (which, König noted, framed your breasts perfectly). “I have no gold – not enough to be a reward for the trouble of killing me.”

“He gave me three hundred gold coin, too.”

Your lips turned down into a scowl. “That’s all?! That absolute hypocrite!” You lodged your knife into the tree behind you and placed your hands on your hips. “I took everything from him, save that disgusting old shed he called home, and that’s all he’ll pay to kill me?!”

Your outburst pulled König from his obsessive staring. “You’re… insulted?”

You turned back to him and huffed. “Well, obviously.” You retorted. “I stole all he had to his name, and he treats me like a fly buzzing in his ear. I deserve a bit more recognition than three hundred gold coin.”

“You admit to it, then.” König said, stepping closer. You appeared to be too angry to notice how near the hunter was to you. “You are a thief.”

You laughed – a sound that König did not expect to be so sweet. “I’ve done much worse than thieving, mind you.” You shook your head. “And he’s done even worse to me.” You sighed, pulling the dagger from the tree trunk and sheathing it back into your boot.

Once again, he was reminded of how small you were. Why weren’t you afraid of him? Sure, you had the advantage of magic while he did not, but you weren’t even acting defensively anymore. You treated him like a traveler who had stumbled across your path, starting up conversation and sharing your story.

“What has he done?” he asked, his interest in you growing by the second. An outcast, despised, hated by others. He felt that the two of you were kindred spirits, and he would not risk losing a connection so rare – one he had never felt.

“You mean he didn’t even tell you?” you said, sounding more hurt than anything else.

“He did.” König sheathed his own dagger as a peace offering. “But I’m coming to think he was not entirely truthful.”

You sighed, looking down at your basket, then back at König. “I suppose I could tell you, since he brought you all this way to kill me. Walk with me – but keep your dagger away. And if you try anything, I’ll slit your throat. Understood?”

He suppressed the urge to laugh. Could you even reach his throat? “The warlock said you would lure me away to your hut, and carve out my heart.”

You huffed disappointedly, walking back to the bush near König. Completely calm, like he had only ever come up to you with the intention of finding a friend. “And yet, he’s still alive, after all the chances I had to kill him. We can stay outside of my hut, if it eases your mind. I’ll let you make your own tea, too. But if you aren’t set on killing me right this minute, I really should return to start drying these out.” You held up your basket. “Before too much time passes, and I can no longer use them.”

König had never given his prey more than a few moments to try and beg their way out of his crushing hands. He couldn’t believe he had even given so much lenience to your baseless trust in him – what he should have done was take the opportunity to grab your face and snap your neck. But he was starting to doubt the warlock’s testimony; you were a thief, yes, but had you really committed any crime? Or were you simply just taking the revenge you deserved from your captor – or, as the warlock called himself, your master?

König sighed. He gestured his hand out, signaling for you to lead the way.

You frowned. “First, give me your word.” You demanded.

“I will not harm you.” He said, with a hand over his heart. He didn’t care about forcing you to make the same promise – you were harmless enough. He did, however, make sure to avoid saying that he wouldn’t touch you. Although he was developing a few ounces more of respect for you, who knows? Maybe you would find a reason to drag him into your hut and satisfy both of your needs – and, if he was lucky enough to get that far, maybe you’d offer for him to spend the night in a warm bed, and he could be saved from sleeping on the cold earth for one night.

His word seemed promising enough to you. Threading your arm through the handle of the basket, you began marching through the woods, watching the ground carefully as you stepped over roots and twigs.

König followed by your side, watching you from the corner of his eye. You really were helpless – all it would take is a strong push from him, and you’d be tumbling down, maybe hitting your head on a stone, or rolling down the mountainside until your neck snapped. Even if the fall didn’t kill you, he could easily land one hit to your chest and pierce your lungs with your own ribs. But here you were, worrying more about the uneven forest floor than the lumbering creature by your side.

“What did he tell you?” you asked, pulling him from his fantasies. “About the beginning, when he took me.”

König laughed in pity. “He made it sound like he caught you, not that he took you.”

You sighed. “He didn’t catch me… well, I suppose he did. More like how animals are caught.” You adjusted your grip on the basket, still watching the ground beneath you. “I was the botanist’s assistant before he came along. Stared at me like I was naked. He would come more often than he needed to - asked me where I was from, who my father was – things I didn’t understand why he needed to know. I still don’t.”

König didn’t understand himself. He continued to listen, the sounds of his footsteps drowning out your quiet ones. He began to wonder just how much of the warlock’s testimony was true.

“He came to the shop one night.” You continued to recount the story. “I was lighting the lanterns in the greenhouse. It was storming, and I didn’t hear him. He bludgeoned me and dragged me into the streets like I was some sort of animal.” You paused, turning your own words over in your head. “I suppose I was, to him.

He brought me back to his cabin – that’s when he started the curse. All I remember when waking up is feeling sick. I tried to stand, but it- everything felt heavy, like I was stuck in mud. I managed to crawl outside, and he was there. Saying my father wouldn’t recognize me, that he had killed the old lady at the botanist, that everyone would think that I had killed her… that I would be burned if I returned to the village. That I would forever be an outcast as long as I lived – as a witch. As what he made me.”

You paused again, for longer this time. König looked down at you, observing how your face twisted in… disgust? Anger? Your eyes were somewhere else, possibly somewhere where you could light the world on fire, drain the life from everyone who had ever done you wrong. König had felt that same hatred before, and he had learned to let it pass. You were still stuck there, wishing you could drive a blade into the warlock’s neck – and more.

“You stayed, then?” König asked, returning his gaze to the trees before him. “Why?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like I could go anywhere, not during the change. For the first fortnight, I couldn’t do anything but crawl on the ground and wail. And he let me – I’d get to the edge of the woods, and he’d be there to drag me back. Drug me into the hut at night and held me, fucked me, saying he was protecting me and similar bullshit. Of course, he was right; at that moment, I was as good as dead if I had ventured out on my own. And once I’d gotten my strength back, I was still a new witch. I’d never be accepted into the village – witches never are, despite the warlocks being the vile ones – and I had no idea how to live as one. So I relied on him for a while, until I knew enough to make it out on my own.”

König hummed in thought. Despite the initial desire to snatch you himself and have his way with you, his fists clenched at the thought of you being dragged around by the warlock. This life wasn’t one you had chosen, and yet the very person who had forced it upon you was killing you for it. It made something within him boil, something deep and buried, that he had thought had been tucked away for good.

You didn’t deserve any of this. He was fighting with himself in that moment, but the desire to show you what you should have been given was consuming him. He wanted to tell you that he knew what it was to be an outcast, he knew what it was like to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. To wish that you had the power to hurt anyone you deemed deserving of it, yet to have that someone who would never hurt you.

He would do it. He would be that person for you, he would be the one to kill for you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself – after all, he was hired to kill, you, not fall for you. And he knew it was just another one of his delusional fantasies… but he couldn’t help himself. You were like him, which was something that he had not yet been able to find. Something primal in him told him to sink his teeth in, to hold onto you until you stopped your struggling and realized that this would be good, for the both of you.

He was insane. But did it matter what he was, as long as he could give you what you needed?

“So, yes-“ you continued, bringing König out from the depths of his thoughts. “- I stole from him. Took the books he used to teach me, maybe a few ingredients for potions, a few seeds to start my own garden… but compared to what he took from me, I might as well have taken a loaf of bread.”

You stopped suddenly, and König came to a halt beside you. You nodded your head to the scene before you. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

König looked ahead: the trees parted into another clearing, larger this time. A rickety hut leaned against a wall of rock, made of thin, birch logs and mud slathered on top to keep out the wind. In the center of the clearing was a large stone, positioned near a pile of ash and rocks. A log lay near it, possibly another place for someone to sit. A small garden sat closer to the creek before your hut – it didn’t look to be doing very well, but that was expected as winter approached.

By the creek, there was a large, twisted oak. Its roots hung directly off of the bank and down into the water. Its leaves had fallen to the earth and mingled with the rest of the foliage by now – the entire thing had crimson paths winding around it, hauntingly similar to blood-filled veins. Several pieces of clothing and fabric hung from the branches and swayed in the autumn wind.

As you marched ahead, placing your basket down by the makeshift firepit and disappearing into the hut, König took a few, cautious steps forward. He was both charmed by the simplicity of it, and despondent that you were forced into this lonesome sort of life. He wanted to drag you from this measly hovel and show you something better.

But how? He was no better off than you were. All his earnings were spent on a room at the nearest tavern and a decent amount of ale to help him fall asleep. He never cared about having a home, as long as he had a place to keep out the cold. He didn’t think it would be good enough to drag you back to the village and convince you to spend the night with him in a thin-walled, noisy inn… but, even if he didn’t end up killing you today (something that seemed more and more likely with each passing second), he refused to leave you in this hell. If it was a cozy cabin, built so far away from civilization for the sole purpose of privacy and comfort, he could understand. Maybe even plead his case to you so you would let him stay. But this – this was a last resort. A broken down spot in the woods that you made for your banishment, for hiding. This wouldn’t do.

Call him insane. Call him crazy, hopeless, sick in the head… maybe his desires were founded on the thought that he would give you what he had never received.

You emerged from your hut, the thin, wooden door clanging shut behind you. You looked at him with a puzzled expression. Why was he still standing at the edge? You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and made your way over to him, your hair blowing across your face.

He watched as you stopped in front of him, your brow creased with question. Your head tilted back to look up at him, yet any traces of fear that you had shown earlier were gone. You looked at him like you’d known him for the past hundred years. It made his heart ache within his chest.

How could anyone have painted such a wretched picture of the woman who stood before him?

“Is everything alright?” you asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Like I said before, if you’d rather we stay outside-“

König interrupted you, reaching down and grabbing the sides of your arms firmly. You sucked in a breath warily, but you were still not afraid of him.

“I- you-“ Scheisse, what is he trying to say? He wanted to take you away, he wanted to show you how similar the both of you were to each other, he wanted to show you what (he thought) love was – slow, gentle, possessive, and strong. He wanted to keep you in his pocket, both to keep you safe from the world, and to make sure you couldn’t be taken from him. He wanted you, you, you –

This is insanity. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the fire in his chest, and the questionable throbbing in his trousers.

You knew. Your eyes said everything as they softened, as your lips pressed together into a knowing, sad smile. Were you going to turn him down? Would you say that you preferred it this way, that you liked being alone and living like a prisoner on the run? You took his face in his hands, and he had a foreboding sense in his gut that you might tell him to leave.

Quickly but gently, he cupped one hand at the back of your neck and pulled himself down to you, pressing his lips to yours before you could speak. It was only right, he thought, as he held the kiss – you didn’t understand that he could help you, he could build the life you deserved and keep you safe from any other hunters and warlocks. He placed his other hand on your lower back and pulled you in, moving his lips against your own and praying you wouldn’t deny him.

Like an angel answering his prayers, you tilted your head and wrapped your arms around his neck, standing on your toes and kissing him back. He tugged his teeth at your bottom lip, and you so graciously allowed his tongue to slip past your teeth, letting him taste you. He whined, flooded with relief that you didn’t try to shove him away and call him deranged.

His cock was quickly growing hard, but he ignored it. Right now, he needed to figure out exactly what he needed to say to make you-

A raven’s call tore through the air, piercing his thoughts. It was much too close than any bird would naturally be.

He tried to turn his head in its direction, but you dug your fingers into his hair, making him stutter and freeze on the spot. He grabbed your hips, about to pry you away-

You pressed your lips firmly to his, and he heard you faintly muttering incoherent words against him. The world around him was suddenly showered with colors: purples like the berries that had stained your fingers, oranges like the leaves that were scattered across the ground, silvers like the thick clouds that blanketed across the sky… The black spots on the birch trees suddenly blinked and flitted across his vision; thousands of them stared at him, and he heard your sweet laughter echoing in the distance as the world spun, spun, spun…

He felt the cold earth press to his cheek, and the last thing he remembered was a sickening ache in his stomach.

He should have heeded the sorcerer’s warning.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"… so gut, so Schön, genau so…”

... so good, so beautiful, just like that...

#konig #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x yn #konig cod #konig fanfiction #fantasy au konig #cod fantasy au #cod x reader #konig x reader smut #konig smut #konig nsfu

456 notes · View notes

shadowshrike · 5 months

Text

Astarion on Halsin Leaving

I can't stop thinking about Astarion's lines when Halsin chooses to leave your party, so have a fun mini-analysis. Note that this text is pulled via datamining because I don't have all the appropriate saves atm. Since the context of your personal story is everything in this game and can wildly change how lines come across, please take my thoughts here as a fun exercise with the text and nothing more.

I think the things that are needed to fully understand where my head is at regarding his lines are two fold:

1. How Astarion talks about other companions leaving

Shadowheart and Wyll can both also leave in Act 2. His responses are as follows.

Astarion: I don't see what Shadowheart got so upset about - it was not that nice of a temple.

For Shadowheart he gently deflects the crux of the matter. This isn't surprising because he is a master of minimizing other people's grievances when he thinks they're legitimate but inconvenient. Otherwise, he responds fairly mildly.

Astarion: So, that's how the legend ends. The Blade of Frontiers, cast down to the Hells. Hardly a fitting ending. But so few are.

Unlike Shadowheart, Wyll is forced to leave by being dragged to the hells. There's no justification he needs to rebuff for Wyll leaving the party's side, so instead, he uses it to double down on his philosophy that 'nice guys finish last and the world is a dangerous and horrible place.' Which, ironically, is not entirely unreasonable given the circumstances.

2. How other companions talk about Halsin leaving

The Good companions don't blame Halsin for leaving. Wyll even blames himself for not doing enough. Karlach also regrets the loss of another strong person around, reminding us once again that Halsin is physically imposing in the narrative, even if the stats say otherwise because of how D&D balance works.

Gale: Druids will always follow nature's purpose over any mortal threat. Halsin goes where he is needed, as must we.

Jaheira: Halsin long urged the Harpers not to abandon this land to the curse. I cannot blame him, for being unable to bear it a second time.

Wyll: I can't blame Halsin for leaving. We could have, should have, done more for him and for the cursed lands. They may never again feel the breathe of life on them. What a shame.

Karlach: Pity about Halsin. I was getting used to having an extra Strong around. He smelled nice, too. Like outside.

(Fun fact regarding Karlch's comment: Astarion has a line where he refers to Halsin as "musky bear-fellow" - musky is also the word used to describe the attractive smell of corpse flowers - and Halsin's underwear smells like an herb garden according to its flavor text. Apparently, the guy canonically smells really good?)

Even Shar Path Shadowheart expresses regret in losing Halsin. Not because she wants to end the Shadow Curse, but because Halsin's nice to look at.

Shadowheart: This land remains cloaked by Lady Shar's power - good. A shame it cost us Halsin as a travelling companion though. He may have been misguided, but I liked looking at him.

That brings us to...

Astarion's tantrum over Halsin leaving

Go ahead and listen to it yourself first, and then I'll dive into both lines.

Astarion: Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff. I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people.

"Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff."

This first statement is not only indignant and deflecting, it's so factually false that it's laughable. Halsin is always calm and regretful when staying behind no matter how you treat him.

Player: You have to come - I need you. Halsin: This place needs me. I wish it were different - I truly do. As long as the curse remains, so must I.

Player: Do as you wish. Halsin: This isn't what I wish. It's simply the way it has to be - I'm sorry.

Player: The shadow curse was always your burden - not mine. Halsin: Yes, and so it must remain. I wish you success on your path. Had things been different, I might have walked it with you.

Player: Perhaps we can still do something to lift the curse. Halsin: No. If you linger, you'll only jeopardise your own mission. This is my burden alone now until either the curse is lifted, or I breathe my last.

Halsin is renowned for letting people treat him horribly and taking it on the chin. Him pushing back is usually related to calmly setting boundaries or expectations. The only times I can think of offhand where he raises his voice in anger is with Kagha, if you interfere with the portal, and briefly after certain parts of the Evil companion routes, though not as intensely (I might do a write-up on that later because his reactions are interesting). He certainly never "stomp[s] off in a huff", and he's not doing it now either.

However, the way this is worded gives me pause. Because "just like [him]" said so angrily gives the impression that Halsin has reacted this way to Astarion before. Given Astarion's habit of rewriting exactly how events went down to absolve himself of accountability, it makes me wonder if Astarion's tried to get a rise out of Halsin in camp and been shut down. Since Halsin is the only Good companion at that point who is also old and worldly enough to not get flustered by Astarion's cruelty, mind games, and flirting, it wouldn't surprise me if Astarion has built up resentment. Halsin refuses to be manipulated or confirm Astarion's cynical worldview, and Astarion isn't ready to consider changing his mind with Cazador on the horizon.

"I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people."

This is, again, a false statement wrapped in a little more truth than the first. Druids are indeed infamous for putting nature above humans (see: Shadow Druids), and Halsin talks a big game about Balance and Nature. However, Halsin is probably the most people-oriented traditional druid we see in the game, going so far as to cause chaos in his grove by aggressively taking in refugees and personally traveling with an undead and servant of Shar because they need help. He chooses people over Silvanus' classic teachings so often that it's fascinating.

That aside, given what the shadow-cursed lands are doing to anyone on the way to Baldur's Gate, choosing to stay and attempt to lift the curse is hardly serving plants over people - the Absolute and the Shadow Curse are both significant threats to people. What Halsin is doing, however, is prioritizing his own problems over those of Astarion. He's setting aside the tadpole cause, not because he's selfish or duplicitous, but because he's not willing to abandon the other people he swore to help a century ago and has obsessed over ever since.

Some fun implications

Given all this information, there are many interesting ways to read Astarion's language beyond a surface "he hates Halsin and/or druids" level (gotta love his charlatan background making almost every line capable of ambiguity). Some personal favorite interpretations of his feelings:

Begrudging affection towards Halsin. Astarion has no reason to get so angry and make such absurd statements if he didn't want Halsin to stay. He certainly didn't make such a big fuss about other companions. However, since Astarion isn't in an emotional place to be able to consider Halsin's worldview seriously now that he's staring down Cazador, that admiration gets bungled into a "well screw you, I didn't like you anyway" attitude, much like how he handles some partner breakups.

Resentment and fear of being left behind or rejected. Astarion is selfish. He's been fairly consistent that he doesn't want to help others, but he also hates when no one helps him. That self-fulfilling prophecy is a rather large part of how he moves through (un)life and can easily continue through Act III depending on whether your dialog choices give him an opportunity to express it. Seeing a good person that he truly believes is good choosing something else over him makes the 'truth' of this cynical, self-centered worldview sting harder, especially as he is at his most vulnerable heading into Baldur's Gate.

Guilt for not doing more. Halsin has been clear about his priorities from the start. He's one of the most straightforward, reasonable communicators in the whole game. That means Astarion knew he would leave if the Shadow Curse wasn't lifted, especially since Halsin doesn't have a tadpole and, therefore, has no reason to risk his life for them. Since Astarion is almost universally unwilling to take blame for his own actions or inactions, he's trying to push the responsibility onto Halsin by painting him as unreasonable for following through on his stated priorities rather than let himself feel bad about not helping Halsin.

I'm sure there are even more readings you can think of, too. Hats off to this hidden bit of dialogue, the incredible delivery, and how much depth it brings to a relationship which is easy to ignore.

#halsin #astarion #halstarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #analysis

283 notes · View notes

ladythornofrivia · 7 months

Text

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Three)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader bloody and beaten up but the prince interrupted the scene.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: please read chapter 2 before reading chapter 3 to know what’s happening. I hope you don’t mind long chapters.

Chapter Three: The House of Black & Green

~ Aemond’s POV ~

Thunder and rain barraged outside the Red Keep. So does Aemond’s heart, thundering and disoriented, clashing like the volcanos in the Doom of Valyria.

Aegon, on the other hand—surprisingly—stopped drinking; silently looking beyond the carved hole and examined the events unfold.

A gush of blood tainted onto the stoned floor when Ser Marrow thrashed your body forward, collapsing with a wet thud.

In the house of the dragons, Targaryens and Velaryons immediately stood from their seats, watching the events unfold. Ser Marrow huffed with his might, abiding for the Targaryens to come to an understanding with Ser Marrow’s reasons.

Alicent rose onto her feet and hoisted you up, but only meet halfway by you sitting up, bleeding as Alicent untied the blindfold and shielded you with her arms, as if Alicent has regret something in the first place.

“Explain yourself, Ser Marrow,” Alicent demanded, brows furrowed in ferocious temper.

Rhaenyra got up from her chair at a slow pace, mouth opened with terror at your current state. She knew that you were hurt from the battle; poisoned by the blade piercing through your youthful flesh.

“I was only doing good for the realm, to keep the peace intact,” Ser Marrow explained. “For Targaryen dynasty!”

“Lady (y/n) rescued my daughter from falling off the bridge, and you call it a ‘threat’,” Alicent defended.

Rhaenyra contained her wrath when Ser Marrow spoke for the ‘good of the realm’. “She saved my son,” she scolded him. “If it wasn’t for her, my son would’ve been killed from the wretched fools.”

“Yes, the wretched fools that this thing brought to the Red Keep!” Ser Marrow accused. “People are dead because of this monstrous bitch!”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Ser Marrow, you forget yourself. What in the Seven Hells are you thinking? Beating her to a pulp, causing an uproar in the room was no good of excuse for you to gain sympathy of your ranking from us! Why do you think so highly of yourself? Have you had no shame on what you’ve caused?”

Ser Marrow hesitated for a moment, looking at you, then looking back at Rhaenyra. “I only did my duty, princess. Should she stay here in King’s Landing, death and destruction will bring upon the Targaryen line.”

“She did what she had to do to keep my family safe—”

“She’s a monster!” Ser Marrow bellowed. “A monster hiding beneath the human skin. She’s isn’t ordinary! Dangerous and filled with malice and lascivious intents to destory Westeros!”

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. Prince Daemon, who stood the corner of the room, watched the events unfold.

Meanwhile, Alicent still embraced you tight, lessening the anxiety you were trying to suppress.

Aemond watched you from afar. Even awake, he found himself focused on your features—all fragile with grace and beauty within quietude. Droplets sank onto your tainted dress and your once immaculate hair has disarray from hair pulling. Aemond kept his composure and cast his sentimental aside.

Behind him, Aegon took notice of this, but said none; only amusement etched onto his drunken face.

“How dare you raised your voice against me, your future Queen, an heir to the Iron Throne and Seven Kingdoms?!” Rhaenyra declared.

Ser Marrow chuckled. “We all know in our hearts that you will never be queen or inherit the throne like that Rhaenys bitch, stringing along in a comfortably life with that old and weak man like that Sea Snake fucker!”

Everyone’s eyes snapped at his statement. Even Aemond’s and Aegon’s—halt from their tracks.

“Oh yes, surely you think it’s time to realize that you, a woman with big tits, hideous face and a loose cunt will never stand a chance against the son to rule to Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne. Sons are meant to rule, never the daughters.”

Rhaenyra had gone pale.

The silent gasps ensued.

Alicent stood up and approached Ser Marrow. “Remove your cloak and sword; you are hereby exiled from Westeros and reside at the Wall.”

Ser Marrow snorted without batting an eye on Alicent. “I don’t take orders from an ugly, vicious cunt.”

Alicent withstood her ground. “I won’t ask again, Ser Marrow.”

Anger blazing, Aemond make haste outside of the secret passage to enter the room, but Aegon hauled him back.

“Release me, brother. I have no time to indulge with your silly antics,” Aemond warned.

Aegon clutched Aemond’s arm tighter. “You’ll get in trouble. In more ways than one,” he warned back.

“Since when do you give a shit about your younger brother other than your wine and whores?” Aemond yanked his arm off from Aegon and entered the scene without noticing him; everyone is too focused that they’re unaware of Aemond’s presence hidden behind the thick pillar, his sword in hand, with his watchful eye, he was waiting for a moment to strike.

~Your POV~

Clutching your stomach as you were urging not to cough more blood. Behind you, the shadow overcast the ground, revealing Rhaenyrs Velaryon offered you a comforting smile and hands on your shoulders, though appearing more apologetic and saddening.

“Ser Criston, take Ser Marrow and escort him outside the Red Keep at once,” Alicent demanded in a low tone.

Ser Marrow shoved Criston back; Criston held his sword on his throat as the other guards in the room held their swords directly in front of Criston and Marrow.

“I will take no part in this charade,” Ser Marrow replied.

“Stand down now, good sir,” Criston said. “And walk away from the Red Keep.”

Ser Marrow. “This is your doing, Criston! If you haven’t brought that bitch here in the Red Keep, I would’ve still be part of the Kingsguard!”

“This is your own choosing to beat Lady (y/n),” Criston responded, apathetic.

“If only the monster hadn’t save the Rhaenyra’s bastard son, the succession to the Iron Throne would be secured. But he’s no son of the late Prince Laenor”—chuckled—“no, rather both monsters brought great ruination.”

For once, you’re glad Jace isn’t here.

“Fuck you,” you choked, blood spattered. “Admit it, you couldn’t handle a woman who bested you.”

Ser Marrow’s mouth clenched so tight, veins protruding from his neck. “You vile, insolent de—”

All the guards’s swords lowered, except for one blade tip kissed on Marrow’s neck with a pointed end. “A war hasn’t even begun and you’ve beaten a young maiden. Do you really think that have you a chance of walking out alive,” a voice said. “I dare you to say the word “demon” again, Ser Marrow.”

All their eyes turned to Aemond, who was looking down, gazing at you.

Though your eyes nearly dwindled, you heart beat pounded against the cage in your chest at the sight of him.

“Aemond, what are you doing here?” Alicent asked, rushing to his side, tugging the upper sleeve of his leathered jacket.

“I was only here to defend her,” Aemond answered with a droned hum. “After all, she saved my dear sister,” Aemond said coolly without averting gaze away from Ser Marrow, though given the exception of looking towards you ever so benign.

“Get back out in the hall, Aemond. This is no fight of yours; Ser Marrow must stand down and leave from the Red Keep,” Alicent said, frantic.

But Aemond ignored her, deepened the blade. “If you touch her again, there will be war.”

Everyone held their breath as they watch Aemond, his cautions ingrained into their minds.

“Aemond,” Alicent hissed, nudging him.

Aemond lowered his blade, and as soon as he did, Ser Marrow rushed towards you with his fist high up, but the sword cleaved Marrow’s head into two, leaving the guards already held their swords to disarm Aemond, as the table clanged loud; one guard bled from his head; Aegon slammed the guard down from trying to stab Aemond on his blind side, and held a short sword; the blade’s tip scraped the guard’s cheek.

“I wouldn’t do it again if I were you,” Aegon said to the guard and caught sight of you with a faint smirk on his wine-stained lips.

Prince Daemon lazily made his way to the crowd to retrieve Rhaenyra as the guards collected Ser Marrow’s body. But before that, Aemond said, “Feed Ser Marrow’s corpse to Vhagar. His service is no longer needed.”

Spectators stared in awe at the sudden events; not one utter a word of objection or sputter disagreement with the one-eyed dragon prince, as Aemond swept his sword clean with a cloth, not sparing a glance to anyone.

Once he sheathed his sword, Aemond advanced towards you and lifted you up, leaving everyone staggered at his proclamation for you.

Taglist: @galactict3a @toodlesxcuddles @daonenonlysandman @hufflepuff1700 @me753 @fredskum @danika1994 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

271 notes · View notes

rosieofcorona · 8 months

Text

The Shape of Your Hands

Guess who's back with another soft Halsin x Tav fic. Literal (but very mild) hurt/comfort themes, so TWs for: blood, stitches, minor injury. Also on AO3, if you prefer. Thank you for reading! 💕

“You seem impatient,” Tav observes, as Halsin fiddles with his whittling knife.

In his opposite hand, he holds a piece of wood so sharp it could rival a blade. He had intended it to take the shape of something pleasing, something soft– a songbird, perhaps, or a poppy flower. The shape of her hands. The long fingers, the slender wrist.

Instead, he has made a weapon.

He is consumed by thoughts of Thaniel, resting fitfully in his tent, and of Oliver, somewhere out there beyond camp. Of the curse that split them, ripped the very fabric of nature down the middle, and cloaked them all in unending, unyielding night. He slices absently at the wood, over and over, the shavings piling in little coils at his feet.

“It’s been a century of this,” he sighs, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. “I am anxious to end it.”

“As we all are.”

“Then why idle here in camp?” He takes a tone he doesn’t mean to, but cannot seem to help.

“We are not idling,” Tav bristles. “We are spent. Even your magic– even Gale’s magic– is depleted in this place.”

It’s the truth, though Halsin is loath to admit it. The Shadowlands weaken even the most powerful among them. Bend them. Break them. He has seen it.

“We will gather ourselves,” she goes on, “And we will finish this. After a hundred years, what’s one more day?”

“What’s–?” Halsin’s frustration sneaks up on him, crashes over them both like a rogue wave. “You do not understand. One more day is one more day, when one more hour, one more moment is insufferable–”

His knife cuts in, literally, the sharpened edge slipping past the grain and into his finger, deep enough to make him drop the wood, to suck in a breath through his teeth.

It distracts him for a moment, forces his anger back onto himself. Or perhaps that’s where the anger’s always been. It is his fault, he knows, that this has gone on so long, that the shadow-curse has been allowed to linger. If he had been wiser, less distracted, less careless–

Careless. He almost laughs at the irony of the moment, the cut on his hand pulsing.

“Here,” says Tav, softening. “Let me help.”

She comes to kneel before him, takes his blade and sets it gingerly beside her on the ground. It glints in the firelight in a way that makes it look like it’s winking, taunting him as a little rivulet of blood flows down his palm.

“It’s nothing,” Halsin insists, though the grimace on his face gives him away. “I can heal it.”

“You ought to save your energy. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

She is holding his big hand in both of hers, turning it carefully this way and that, examining the damage.

“I can stitch it, if you like,” she offers, flicking her eyes up to his. “Astarion’s been teaching me.”

“To stitch wounds?”

“Well, to embroider.” She gives a sheepish little grin. “But he says I’m very precise. And he’s not the type to lie to spare my feelings.”

Halsin nods his consent.

Tav stands and walks toward her tent, and Halsin presses his other hand into the cut to stem the bleeding. It would be easier to cast something simple, he thinks, but she’s right– to use his magic on so small a thing, with all that was still to come, would be a waste.

Through the firelight he sees her silhouette returning, supplies in hand.

“Come closer,” she says, settling cross-legged before the fire. “Put your hand here.”

She shows him, places her own hand on the edge of her knee.

“I’ll get blood on you,” he cautions, but she only laughs at that.

“You would not be the first.”

Halsin does what she asks of him, sits across from her and rests his hand, palm side-up, on her leg. She bends close to examine it again, to wipe away the blood with a soft white cloth.

“I owe you an apology,” Tav says softly. “I forget, sometimes, how long you have been fighting, when I have only just picked up a sword.”

He feels the prick of the needle, the pull of the thread. The whisper of breath on his skin.

It is equal parts reward and punishment to have her this close, this way. To have her tend to him, to touch him and not be able to touch her back. Not in all the ways he wants to.

This is the part he doesn’t tell her, the part she doesn’t understand. It’s not the shadow-curse alone that feels so urgent. Each day in darkness is a day he cannot make his feelings known– a different kind of torment, but not lesser.

They sit in silence until she finishes. A final knot, a cut of the thread, and she sits back on her heels to inspect her work. Six tidy little sutures in a tidy little row.

Astarion was right.

This is the kind of thing he taught his students in the Grove, before the war, before the curse, when he was not yet named Archdruid. When things were simpler.

When he thanks her she relaxes, swipes at her brow with the back of her hand. She leaves the barest streak of blood trailed like a comet across her temple, and Halsin, without thinking, reaches forward to wipe it away.

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. Tav seems to turn into his touch, to feel as much of him as possible, to rest the softness of her cheek against his fingers.

He wants to kiss her in this moment, just like this.

It would be easy to lean forward and press his lips to hers– only gently, at least at first, harder if she reciprocated. He can imagine her soft hair woven between his fingers, later wrapped around his fist as his mouth moved down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone.

He can almost feel her weight on him, can almost hear the little sounds that he could draw from her if she would let him try. If he would let himself.

“Does this mean you forgive me?” Tav smiles.

She sweeps the thought from his mind like a hand passing through smoke. It’s for the best, Halsin thinks. They cannot afford distractions now.

Still, it doesn’t stop him placing a kiss against her forehead, or stroking her cheek with his thumb one final time.

He reassures her. “There is nothing to forgive.”

He resolves that when they leave here– if they leave here– he will tell her all the things he feels out loud.

One more day.

#halsin #bg3 #halsin x tav #halsin x reader #baldur's gate 3 #hurt/comfort #halsin fanfic #bg3 fic #fluff #all the tenderness in the world #my fic #like I know I already did this in a different proverbial font but #he needs so much comfort #LET TAV COMFORT HIM #tw: blood #tw: injury #tw: stitches #halsin x fem! tav

211 notes · View notes

thatfreshi · 9 months

Text

Rage To The Point of Hysteria (Astarion x Reader)

Third part in this little series (I Want To Mean It and Take This and Leave are both before this.)

Recommended Song: Forgiveless - SZA Ft. Ol' Dirty Bastard

"Well thank the gods you're not upset, because I have a feeling Gale wouldn't try to reverse it at this point."

Astarion's ear perk up at your comment.

"What do you mean darling? I'm sure he'd try if you asked him."

You hesitate to speak again, knowing your fiance will be pissed as soon as he hears about what happened in Gale's tower. Rightfully so, of course, but Astarion is not the type of man you want to make angry, especially when it comes to his lover.

"We aren't exactly... speaking?"

His eyes narrow.

"Is he being a dramatic sad boy again? Because first of all that's my thing, and second of all he has a wedding to be in tomorrow."

"I have a feeling you won't want him there anymore."

"Why not? He's our best friend! Gale has stood by us loyally as long as we've been in love."

You pause, he knows you're not telling him the whole story, but he doesn't push it, knowing you're nervous.

"You do love me... right?"

Suddenly a sadness casts across his eyes, wondering why you would even ask such a question.

"Of course I do my sweet. I asked you to marry me, didn't I?"

You sit back down on the bed, beckoning him to come sit with you.

"Well, Gale said some really horrible things. Horrible things about me, about you, about this whole relationship."

You tear up a little.

"You know he speaks without much thought darling. Not the brightest among us."

"No, Astarion, he was really awful. He said that I was a naive idiot for thinking you were in love with me, and how you've just been using me to keep yourself safe all this time, and that this marriage is just an extra layer of protection for you."

Rage. You still think to this day that somehow his eyes get redder when he's mad, even though that's probably impossible.

"He called you, what?"

His fingernails dig into the sheets, wishing they were around Gale's throat. He could care less about what was said about him, he's been lied about all his life. But you were crying because of something Gale said, questioning his love for you over some foolish man.

"Yeah, and I think he's like weirdly in love with me, and he just never said anything? It was all super gross, and I just can't believe he was like that."

"Funny, I'm in love with you and I would never call you a naive idiot like that. Of course, not outside of the times that you enjoyed it."

Astarion gets back up off the bed, making his way to a chest full of old weapons, memories of your journeys. He squats down, unlocking it, gazing at the various dangerous items.

"Aster, what are you doing?"

He laughs.

"Deciding what I'm going to flay him with my dear, what else would I be doing?"

Rage to the point of hysteria, enjoying the image of exacting revenge. The last time you saw him like this was before he killed Cazador.

"You can't just go over there and cut him up!"

"You're right, I have to do worse. You're so smart my dear."

He grabs a couple of blades out of the chest, and you walk over to where he's scavenging.

"I love you-"

"I love you too darling."

"I love you but, this is only going to make it worse. If you kill him, all of the alarms in his tower will go off, you'll probably be arrested-"

"Worth it."

"Astarion, please just listen to me."

"I am listening, I just happen to be scheming at the same time. I am a wonderful multi-tasker after all."

You'd be frustrated if you weren't worried. He really doesn't like seeing you hurt, or upset, and now you're both, all because some raggedy wizard decided he wanted to cause strife.

"Astarion, you can't even go out right now, it's the middle of the day!"

Now, that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Damn it!"

He tries to ponder for a moment, wondering how long it would take to dig a hole from your house to his tower. After doing some rough math, he lets out a cry of frustration.

"How dare he throw around baseless accusations, and insult you to boot! He's a coward, a slimy, rotten, coward, who's trying to ruin something perfectly good because some goddess told him he should die for the greater good!"

You reach out, grabbing his hand, squeezing it tight.

"Aster, please."

Your desperation snaps him out of his stupor, realizing you're still crying, and his murderous plans aren't helping. He sighs, sitting down next to you, pulling you into lay on him.

"I'm sorry my sweet. I just... I hate seeing you get hurt."

"I know, but killing him doesn't solve anything."

He shrugs.

''Well, it would solve the problem of him existing."

"Astarion."

"Right, right, you're lecturing me about proper emotional maturity and such. Sorry, please continue."

You fiddle with his hands, staring at the details of his knuckles.

"I'm really upset with him too, but I don't need you to go turn him into a human filet, I just need you to sit here and listen to me. I'm mainly upset by what he said about you anyway."

"Well, you know he's wrong."

"Yeah, but to lie about being your friend, and then claim you're still just this horrible person? It's not fair, you've grown so much."

"We're the only people that need to know that Tav. If everyone hated me but you, I'd still be right where I am, loving you, and only you."

You lose a little tension, melting into the warmth of his embrace.

"I suppose you're right."

He leaves a kiss on your head.

"Now, we're going to enjoy our little time left as unmarried lovers, and when dusk comes, Gale and I are going to have a little talk. But until then, you can rant and rave as much as you'd like darling. Does that sound alright to you?"

You draw a little heart with your finger on the top of his hand.

"Sounds great. Thank you."

"Of course whatever you need, always."

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #angst #comfort

368 notes · View notes

moonsaver · 3 months

Note

It’s me @pix3lplays back at it again, not a request, but you mentioned a SLEEPOVER with the Stellaron hunters and it isn’t leaving my head so please have some thoughts…

First of all oh my gosh just IMAGINE their pajamas I’m crying that’s so funny…Silver Wolf’s is just straight up a Pokémon onesie or something-

Kafka has some very pretty, tasteful silk pajamas with lace…

Blade. Idk I imagine he probably sleeps shirtless or something (I’m normal about his scars I swear) but if he knows they’re having a guest he wears some random t-shirt alongside his sweatpants. Like. He doesn’t care what he wears at night…it’s a t-shirt with a really bizarre Picture or incomprehensible writing on it and you’re just like ??? Okay….

The human cast? Each of them have long enough hair…for a braid train…Kafka doing something really nice with Silver Wolf’s hair…while Blade just does something basic for Kafka, and then y/n gets to experiment with Blade’s hair…if he’ll let you. Important stuff I’m telling you.

Trying to play a board game with them that results in Kafka having to use her Spirit Whisper at LEAST once to get you all to calm down. Do NOT play Uno. Blade got +four carded like five times in a row, you felt so bad for him…

PILLOW FIGHT GONE WRONG!!! SO MANY INJURIES!!! Sam and Blade took it WAY too seriously.

At least one incident of Blade asking you to smother him with a pillow.

Silver Wolf who stays up LATE. So late. You’re all watching her play a video game, and the girl just doesn’t STOP, haha. Eventually you all would like to go to sleep…not her. You try so hard to stay awake to watch her but you end up falling asleep on the shoulder of another Stellaron Hunter.

Kafka eventually makes Silver Wolf go to sleep, but Silver Wolf does that thing I used to do as a kid where I’d just. Hide under the blanket while playing my DS. That’s Silver Wolf.

Blade getting a mara flare up in the middle of the night kinda killing the mood. Sam holding him like he’s a feral animal while you and Kafka calm him down.

Sam who I’m assuming doesn’t have to really sleep? Combined with Blade waking up really early results in them waking up the rest of you by accident in the morning haha.

Cooking breakfast for the Stellaron Hunter humans…please I NEED- (don’t mind me not really knowing how to cook but I CAN make pancakes and scrambled eggs lol)

I just…need a Stellaron Sleepover. Elio needs to put it in the script, I’m BEGGING.

Hello, Pixel! Glad to see you in my inbox, hehe.

The sleepover is a very fun concept!

I think your descriptions of their sleepwear is quite spot on. As for Blade.. does.. does he sleep? I feel like.. he just only takes off his normal clothes for wash day. Otherwise he probably just has.. some ripped up, old clothing that's begging to be put out of it's misery. Kafka has to come to the rescue once again and fish out some more appropriate wear for the sleepover and force him to change into them.

As for the braid train, I love it! They're all chattering and snickering, and y/n gets to experiment with Blade's hair. I imagine they temporarily dismantle the train to look at y/n's progress on his hair, and go back into their positions after. I think Blade's hair would actually be kind of silky near the roots, and in the middle. Most likely because he uses either Kafka's, or Silverwolf's bare minimum shampoo products which is miraculous for his hair. The ends are.. crusty, to say the least. But hey! It's not everyday you get to braid and shape his hair all silly. Make most of it!

The card game.. aww. Uno is probably the only thing all of you can really play, monopoly's not interesting enough for Blade to keep his attention, and other board games like Ludo makes Silverwolf too competitive, and Kafka's tried one too many times to cheat the dice. So.. Uno's the only simple option, not like they can't cheat, but.. it's a small card game, so.. whatever. They just stay dormant. Until all of you simultaneously pulled out a +4 and Blade had to pick up almost half of the card stack.. yikes.

Pillow fighting is probably the only activity that gets Blade actively engaged,but it's not long before the threads all snap except a few and the pillow is begging for mercy, Blade swinging it with such force to the point there's only a small bunch of cotton and fabric left.. injuries are even worse than that. Sam is a hair's breadth away from shooting someone through the pillow itself. So pillow fighting is banned until both Blade and Sam learn how to take it easier.

Silver wolf staying up to play extremely late.. makes sense. She would. Forms a small tent with an ominous glow from the inside, and it's just her console. At least, she doesn't quite disturb you as much as the others.

Blade.. poor thing. He himself probably doesn't want the mara flare up. After a while of calming him down everyone's just docile and kind of concerned about his shuddering state. Except Sam, of course. Deathly iron grip. Asks if he's done and if he can go. Dude, read the room!

Breakfast! Silverwolf's definitely not awake by then. Kafka's up and ready, miraculously. She offers you.. questionable substances, if you can even call it edible. But don't worry! Just close your eyes, take a mouthful, and leave it to Kafka if your stomach feels weird. Blade.. isn't someone that's partial to cooking, but all the Stellaron Hunters quietly watch him cook from the side.. watching him struggle a bit, but manage to cook an average breakfast with a few burnt sides. And of course, y/n gets first dibs.

#moonink #hsr #honkai star rail #stellaron hunters

41 notes · View notes

xxladyballadxx · 8 months

Text

Colliding Memories

Clive Rosfield x *Brainwashed* reader (Angst)

Summary: You were about finish off the vulnerable Clive Rosfield, until your head began to hurt and your memories of him started to appear.

Clive Rosfield gif credits: @obiwaned

(Note: Just a heads up, this has nothing to do with the events from the game.)

“(Y/N)! Snap out of it!” Clive parried your attack, he tried to pin you down to the ground so he could face you properly and talk his way into you. You teleported behind him and blasted him away in the distance using the magic of wind. Clive grunted, his body slammed by the wall. You smirked in return, watching him suffer. “Pathetic…”

The King of Waloed seemed to enjoy the performance. Until he grew tired of just standing and watching, Barnabas then joins in the fight and gets surprised by Clive’s attack which he manages to evade easily. The two point their swords at each other and sounds of their blade came clashing on like a powerful storm.

You heard the dominant of Shiva coming your way and swung your dual blades to Jill’s rapier sword who failed to land a strike on you, “Please, (Y/n), don’t do this!” ignoring her words, you knocked the rapier off her hand and cast wind magic to blow her away. Jill fell unconscious after getting body slammed to the stonewall.

Joshua sweeps in and fights you after gaining his strength back, “(Y/n), we’re your friends! The only friends you ever had in Rosalith!” he evaded your blows and took a step back, “I have no intention to hurt you but you leave me no choice!” He used the flames of Phoenix, aiming the shots of them towards you. You somersaulted up in the air to avoid the blast. Joshua heads in quickly and thrashes his sword against yours.

Clive, with all his might, desperately attempted to get to you but Lord Barnabas kept getting in the way, preventing Ifrit’s dominant to save (Y/n) by saying the most utter worthless things to put in your head.

“Do you think you can save her, Mythos?” says Barnabas, causing Clive’s anger to explode like a ticking bomb, “Your dear, sweet, little dove will never remember you. So amusing watching you say those ridiculous things to dear (Y/n) who no longer have you in her memory.”

Clive semi-primed into Ifrit and aggressively thrashed his blade towards him. Barnabas dodges and summons his long, dark sword. Pinning the sharp surface against Clive’s Invictus sword. Barnabas plants a smirk across his face, “When this is all over, Mythos, I am going to make (Y/n) (L/n)...” his next words set Clive off, angering him more, “My Queen…the Queen of Waloed…”

“You…YOU FUCKING DEPRAVING BASTARD!” The anger in Clive rises high, turning more violent and aggressive. Landing his fiery blows on Lord Barnabas as the King dodges them swiftly, “Yes, that’s right, Mythos! Let the rage consume you!”

“I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” All the rage began to take over Clive, making him more vulnerable for Barnabas to land strong attacks on him.

The King bested Clive, watching him drop weakly to the ground. Barnabas motioned his sword to Clive’s face of defeat, pointing the tip of his blade, “Bow before your king, Clive Rosfield.”

You grabbed the collar of unconscious Joshua’s red shirt, dragging him along as she marches over to Lord Barnabas. You dropped his unmoving body, standing with the King. “(Y/n), my soon to be queen, would you like to do the honours to finish Clive Rosfield in my stead?”

“As you wish, Lord Barnabas.” You unsheathed one of your dual swords with Barnabas taking a step back as he watches you finish off Ifrit’s dominant. “(Y/n), please!” shouted Clive, crawling back in his weak state “(Y/n)...my love…come back to me…”

As you were going to pierce him through the heart with your dual sword, you felt your hand on the sword’s hilt shaking for some reason. Your head began to throb, the pain growing heavier. You screamed in agony causing you to drop your dual sword as you backed away, head down with hands to the sides. “Ah! Ugh…” feeling the pain increasing, you shrieked with your eyes closed looking up to the sky of darkness. It felt more like a cry for help. You drop your head looking to the ground while suffering with headaches.

“(Y/n)? (Y/n)?!” Clive rises up quickly to come and aid you. You pushed him away and sorrowful tears appeared in your eyes. Memories popped up in your head, there were so many of them. Sad, happy memories. Most of them…had Clive Rosfield in it. Remembering the momentous days you spent time with him. The laughs you share together, the happiness and the joy…

You started to remember something that you lost…

“(Y/n)...” Clive called out your name in a calm tone, walking up to you at a slow pace. You slowly held your head up, your eyes focused on him, “C-Clive…”

Finally, you came back to him, “(Y/n)...” Clive swept you in his strong arms, holding you tight in an embrace, “My dear (Y/n)...I knew you were still in there.”

You continued to have your arms wrapped around Clive, remembering the last time you embraced him. “Oh my, this is very touching.” you pulled away from your lover for a moment as Barnabas looked at both of you with a smirk, slipping out his sword, “Never thought this day would come where (Y/n) (L/n) regains her old self. Even her memories.”

“Stay back, my love. I will deal with him.” Clive urges you to step aside, grasping the hilt of his sword and facing towards Barnabas’s direction. “Clive…” you mumbled , saying his name worryingly. You didn’t want to know what would happen next but you just envisioned it anyway. Things are about to get ugly.

“Tell me, Mythos…you think you can protect your precious dove from me?” Barnabas questioned, semi-priming into the dark eikon Odin. His voice goes demonically deep, “Do you truly believe you have all the strength to protect your precious (Y/n)?”

Clive, once again, half transformed into his Ifrit form. The roars of the flames floating all over him, standing his ground, “I will never let you take her away from me again, Barnabas.”

“Come then, Mythos…” Barnabas raising his sword, the sharp point focusing on Clive Rosfield, “Let’s see if you have the power to defeat me.”

And so the two raging dominants clashed on, blades clicking together as they fought like wild beasts in the fight. You just stood there, frozen. Watching them battling against each other.

You thought Clive would win. Barnabas outsmarted him somehow, sweeping him off the ground. “Ugh!” Clive groaned, blood dripping from his mouth. “Clive!” You pulled out your dual sword and rushed to him as quickly as you could.

“It’s over, Mythos!” Barnabas laughed devilishly, levelling his sword mid-air. Planning to kill the love of your life. “Fuck! Am I going to make it in time?!” you thought after realizing how far you are in the distance from them.

As you watched Barnabas in panic who was about to end Clive’s life, you sped up rapidly and made it in time to kill the King. Your dual sword pierced through the chest. Barnabas spat out blood when he was stabbed by you, his hand dropping as his dark sword vanished. Transforming back to his human form. You drew your sword back, stepping away from him. A dying Barnabas twisted in your way, facing you, “Well…I never knew you had it in you…” He crept up to you in his weakened condition. “Get back, you fucking psycho!” you yelled in a threatening tone while walking a few steps back, drawing out your sword at his stone-hardened skin. Clive comes to your side, shielding you from Barnabas.

“You have outdone yourself…(Y/n) (L/n)...” At long last, the King of Waloed is dead. His body dropped, his entire body turning to stone. You let out a sigh, throwing your sword in sorrow. Remembering the horrible things you’ve done.

“(Y/n)..” Clive comforts you, tucking you into his arms, “It’s over now, my love.”

“You’re finally free from him, (Y/n).” A conscious Joshua finally awakened, healed enough to walk over with a small smile appearing on his face. Even Jill recovered her strength, “Welcome back to the real world, (Y/n).” happy tears forming into her eyes, she was so glad that you were back to your normal self.

You hugged Joshua and Jill, crashing them into your arms. Being careful not to squeeze them too tight since they’re still slightly injured. “I’m so sorry…” your voice lowered, tears falling down onto your face.

“It’s okay, (Y/n).” Joshua reassured you.

“It wasn’t you, (Y/n). We both know that it wasn’t you.” Jill spoke in a comforting manner.

You returned to Clive as the two of you nuzzled up to each other, “I miss you, my darling. Thought I would never see you again.” Thinking you were never coming back to him. If you didn’t, he would still be in a very dark place. “I’m here, Clive…Never forget that I will always come back to you..”

Clive moved in closer to kiss you, your eyes shut tight falling into the moment where you circle your arms around him. Jill smiled warmly, seeing the two lovers reunited at last. Joshua chuckled nervously, knowing this was bound to happen. He cleared his throat, gaining the attention from you and Clive, “We should head back to the hideaway and inform the others about what happened here.”

Jill added, “And let’s not forget to tell them that we have (Y/n) back with us. Our long lost dear friend of ours.”

Clive nodded, agreeing with them. He held your hand into his, tightly so he never lets go. His blue eyes shining up on you, “Ready to head home with us, my darling?”

You chuckled, smiling sweetly at your lover, “Let’s get the hell out of this miserable place.”

✩࿐⋆*

(A/n) - Truly sorry for not writing him for A VERY LONG TIME! I hope you all enjoy reading it! UNTIL NEXT TIME ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

✩࿐⋆*

#final fantasy xvi #ffxvi #final fantasy 16 #ff16 #clive rosfield #clive rosfield x reader #clive rosfield x you #clive rosfield angst #ffxvi x reader #cliverosfield #cliverosfieldxreader #ffxvi angst #x female reader

129 notes · View notes

inkwingsinc · 1 month

Text

Darkfluff Outtake #2: bit my gun with my black-gold gums

[ this is a drabble outtake from my ongoing darkfic, still might sneak it into the story somewhere ]

Darkfluff Outtake #1 Link Here

Fandom: Dune

Character Focus: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Female OC (established relationship) x Female OC (handmaiden to other female OC)

Parent Fic Rating: Explicit (written by an adult, for adults)

Drabble tags: domestic "fluff", inappropriate family dynamics, "my wife and her girlfriend" kinda vibes, unedited

Word Count: 504

To combat writer's block and darkfic fatigue I write little "fluffy" scenes using the same characters to freshen things up a bit. This is an unedited barebones sample, just for funsies.

Full Story w/ Context:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54217396/chapters/137290048

Scene: Feyd-Rautha doesn't have qualms exposing himself to his (or his lady's) handmaidens

Laera was sprawled on the low lounge chair in the Na-Baron’s antechamber when he sauntered in from the bathroom, fresh from the tub and still dripping. Raya had laid her head in Laera’s lap and was enjoying Laera’s soft, idle strokes against the smooth skin of her skull; it was comforting to both women to be physically close, and with Laera’s attention still fixed on the open book propped on the chair’s arm, Raya was free to gaze up at her Mistress in lazy adoration. Her black dress spilled like silky oil around her legs, the hem hiked indecorously to her thighs and fluttering sideways to the stone floor. The fireplace behind them was unlit, and the glowglobe had been called to aid in Laera’s reading.

The cut of light made Feyd-Rautha look obscene, shadows casting in the furrows beneath carved muscle and highlighting his warrior’s body. His wet, naked warrior’s body.

Laera looked up and said with a gasp, “Absolutely not! Put something on, please,” she cried, slapping down one quick hand over Raya’s pretty black eyes. “There’s no need to offend my handmaiden.”

Raya, cheekily enjoying the claim of her Mistress’s touch, smiled a wide, black smile and wriggled happily.

Feyd-Rautha rolled to a stop before the lounge and dripped absently all over the floor. “You’d tell me how to conduct myself when in my private apartments?” he asked. His expression was hard, but the amusement in his rumbling voice gave him away. He clicked his tongue. “Rude. Little Raya would be so lucky to see my cock. Wouldn’t you, sweetling?”

“That is your niece you’re speaking too, for Great Mother’s sake,” Laera bit out. She batted away Raya’s small hand when it raised to her face, presumably to push away Laera’s hiding hand. Naughty little thing, Laera thought fondly.

Feyd-Rautha cocked his head. “Your pet bastard girl is no niece of mine. I assume your prudishness is leftover sensibilities from Caladan. They do things different there, don’t they? I bet your nighttime kisses to your brother were so boringly chaste, Lady Druegelle.”

The thought of kissing Walden with anything other than simple familial affection made Laera blanche. “Whatever Geidi Prime has done to you is poison, Feyd-Rautha. Come on—you’re a fighter, not a lover. Go put on some pants and find a blade to hold.”

His laughter was sudden and chest-deep, and Laera found herself smiling at the sound despite herself. “You’re a delight,” he purred. He moved to step closer, but Laera pointed back to the bathroom with a cocked brow.

“Have some decorum in front of Raya, seriously. She’s only a girl.”

“That is a grown woman you’re cradling in your lap, Laera.”

Laera rolled her eyes. “She’s a baby. She’s, what, a decade younger than me? Come on.”

Feyd-Rautha gave a long-suffering sigh, the sound a performative, mocking gesture. “If I put away my cock will you let me trade places with your little pet? I’ll send her to go soak and you can stroke me instead.”

#bmgwmbgg #Dune fanfiction #darkfluff I call it it is now a thing #Laera Druegelle x Feyd-Rautha #ok but there's this intensely troubled woman and you're her handmaiden. And she's kinda thick and bad ngl #of course Raya is obsessed with her #OC Raya mention #Drabble outtake #There is a good chance this will make it into the story somewhere #spoiler? is this a spoiler?#Midjourney #I literally could not get Midjourney to give Laera her proper skin tone. Ugh.

28 notes · View notes

breannasfluff · 8 months

Text

Too Little, Too Late - P3

Whump Rating: 3/5 (first paragraphs sad, then comfort)

TW: MCD (kinda), suicide, we reach the happy ending!

When Hyrule reaches Legend, there’s only dull apathy as he looks at Four, prone on the ground. Even from here, he can see the swelling disfiguring his head. He never should have let the smith walk away.

Legend sits next to him, running his hand through the smith’s hair. He doesn’t look up when Hyrule settles next to him.

“Are you hurt?”

The vet shakes his head. “Where are the others?”

“Dead.” Maybe he shouldn’t drop the truth like that. But Hyrule is numbing to everything. Too much has happened in too short a time.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah.”

Legend finally looks at him. “You didn’t save them.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls over his knees. “I know.”

“What’s the point of all this? This journey? If this was the end goal, why did the goddesses send us on this journey?” Legend’s next words are as sharp as a blade. “Why didn’t you save us?”

“I tried,” he sobs. “I tried Ledge. I promise. I just—I’m out of magic and—

“Excuses.”

“What? No, it’s the truth!” He looks up to find disgust on his predecessor's face.

“If you cared about us, you would have tried harder.”

“I did! I did, I swear, I did!”

The vet pulls a knife from his hip and slowly turns it. The blade catches the light, reflecting back red. Then he offers it to Hyrule. “If you were a true hero, you’d remove yourself from the equation.”

Hyrule stares, heart sinking. “You want me to—” to kill myself, hangs unspoken. “You’d really ask me to do that? For, for not trying hard enough?”

Legend shrugs, still holding out the knife. “Your blood carries a curse, doesn’t it? Killing yourself is the least you can do. This whole battle?” He gestures at the field and bodies of the heroes, cast aside to lie with monsters. “This is all because of you.”

Shaking his head, Hyrule scoots backward. “No. No, that’s not true. Something is wrong with you; with this situation.”

The vet snorts and finally pulls the knife back. “Figures you’d say that. I can’t have my line continue to spawn such a pathetic excuse for a hero.” He fixes Hyrule with a glare. “You are a coward, Link.”

Then he stabs the dagger into his chest.

“No! No, no, Legend!” Hyrule throws himself on his friend’s body, even as it slumps into the grass. How many times has hot blood stained his hands today?

“Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay? You’re right, it’s all my fault. I should have told you about the curse! I should have—look, there’s a lot of things I should have done, okay? Just, please, don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Legend takes a ragged breath, face paling. He stares at Hyrule, disappointment thick. “Why didn’t you save us?”

Then his eyes roll back and he lies still.

“No, no! Legend! No! Please I can’t—I can’t live without you all! Please! Come back! Legend! Anyone! Please!”

There is no answer. Hyrule is alone.

Someone is screaming. There are hands on his shoulders and voices, but all Hyrule can hear is the screaming.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the curse!”

“Hyrule! Snap out of it!”

“Time, what do we do?”

“Just hold him still so he doesn’t hurt himself! Wars, see what healing supplies we have!”

Hyrule tries to move, only to find hands holding his limbs in place. He struggles against them, but it’s hard to concentrate past the screaming. His throat is sore.

A blurred shape enters his line of sight. “Hang in there, Hyrule! You’re okay! You were hit by a curse, just try to breathe.”

The screaming cuts off as the traveler tries to follow the instructions. Oh. That was him screaming.

“That’s it, just breathe.”

“Here, I’ve got the potion!” Glass nudges his lips and he takes an obedient swallow. It helps settle the racing of his heart and he takes another.

“There we go. See? You’re okay.”

Hyrule blinks and the Chain shimmers into focus. Warriors and Time lean over him, surrounded by the rest of the group. Looking up shows Legend supporting his head in his lap. One hand gently pets his hair.

The vet smiles at him. “Hey Rulie, you back with us?”

Hyrule meets each of their eyes—alive and worried—and bursts into tears.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” Legend curls over him, one hand cupping his cheek and wiping away tears. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“B-but I couldn’t save you and—and—”

“That’s just the curse. None of that happened.”

Hyrule continues to sob, unable to process the vivid memories still pulsing in his head. “I’m so sorry, Ledge. I never wanted to disappoint you!”

“You didn’t.” The vet plants a soft kiss on his forehead and gives him a gentle smile. “You’ll never disappoint me. I’m proud of you, Link.”

Despite the tears that still stream down his face, Hyrule tucks the words deep in his heart.

By the time Hyrule is allowed to move around, he’s hugged all the heroes at least twice. “I thought you were dead,” he sobs into their shoulders. “I couldn’t save you!”

“Nothing is getting me down!” Wind says, but all the traveler can remember is how scared the sailor was.

When Wild offers food he turns it down. The last thing he needs is to be sick. Curse or no curse, the memories flare bright in his mind. Blood, injury, agony—gruesome detail on replay.

It’s not real, he tells himself. It was just the curse. Somehow, it doesn’t help.

“Got space for a few more?”

Hyrule looks up from where he’s staring at his blanket to find Legend with his sleeping mat and blanket. He nods and the vet sets up his bed directly next to Hyrule.

“I get the other side!” Wild joins him, dropping his bedding on Hyrule’s other side.

The traveler frowns at the motion. Wild normally sleeps by Twilight, curling up into his wolf pelt. The champion shoots him a sunny smile. In hyrule’s memory, his throat gapes. No, that’s not real.

Sky is next. “No fair! I wanted to cuddle!”

“You get a head or feet.”

Sticking out his tongue at Legend, Sky sets up by his head.

The rest of the chain join him, jostling and grumbling to set up their beds in a circle around him. Hyrule finds himself completely sandwiched on all sides.

“Move over!”

“You’re shoving me!”

“Sky, your elbow is poking me.”

“Let me hold you, then.”

Legend is pushed into his side and, while he grumbles, he doesn’t move. One hand digs under the blankets to find Hyrule’s, squeezing tight.

The traveler squeezes back, running a finger over the ring bands within reach.

On his other side, Wild chuffs and burrows into his side, trapping an arm within his. Sky, with Four now clutched to his chest, reaches up and pats Hyrule’s hair. The rest of the Chain settle, most with a hand on Hyrule somewhere.

By the time their breathing is evening into sleep, he can finally let go of some of the lingering tension. With so many close bodies it’s impossible not to feel their hearts beat, their lungs breath, and life—vibrant and rich—in all of them.

Hyrule isn’t trapped in a cursed vision. He’s here, with his family, tucked at the center like something precious to be protected.

No matter what, he will give everything he has to save his brothers. And in return, they will support Hyrule if he breaks.

He’s not alone.

#don't go where I can't follow #tw blood #tw injury #happy ending!#comfort #whumptober2023 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu whumptober #breannasfluff #mywriting #lu hyrule #lu time #lu legend #lu wild

53 notes · View notes

firstknightvulion · 2 months

Text

Now, there is some discourse regarding Minthara and her romance. Specifically, that it feels out of character for her to romance a Masculine presenting Tav. I respectfully disagree.

Minthara is all about power. Ya gotta prove yourself to her. Be vicious and direct. She don’t give a hoot about your gender identity, she’s looking at your kill streak.

But it did give me an idea. Minthara has spoken about going back to Menzoberranzan and burning that fucker to the ground to spite Lolth (paraphrasing). My Seladrine Drow Tav (half Drow/half moon elf) would join her because he’s got a hate boner for the religion of Lolth that’s been turgent since his family and friends were killed by a Lolth Warband’s attack on his Eilistraeen compound.

Now, I imagine her first target would be her house. Minthara would want to twist the knife. Make them suffer.

Minthara’s Mother stands in the great hall of her house. Two of her daughters stand by her side. They are the last of their house. Hours before a shadow descended into their home and started systematically killing every living thing inside.

The great doors to the hall fly open with an explosion. Shrapnel and smoke fill the space. A heart beat later, two arrows fly through the air with deadly intent. They find their marks in the two daughters. One is hit through the eye, she drops instantly. The other is struck in the throat. She does not die quickly. She gurgles and grasps at her throat, feebly trying to stop the escaping blood. Her hands fall limp as the sound of deliberate footsteps fill the hall.

Minthara’s Mother looks away from her daughters’ corpses and up at the dark figure walking towards her. It is dressed in Drow leathers, a hood and mask covering the face. Two green eyes stare at her from shadow of the hood.

Minthara’s Mother: What pit spawned you!?

A chuckle is heard from behind the figure, a deep and dangerous sound. Minthara walks in, blood and a wicked smile painting her face.

Minthara: Hello, mother.

MM: Minthara?! You heretical traitor! Why haven’t you had the decency to die?!

Minthara: The Spider Bitch’s webs will burn, mother. The house Baenre will be the first of the kindling.

MM: You would have us become ash for the sake of such blasphemy?! Deeper and deeper you fall into a pit of shame!

Minthara: To feel shame, I would need to feel remorse. I assure you, mother, I feel only joy. The fact that you were cast down by one so low shall keep warm and smiling for many decades to come.

Minthara pulls back the figures hood. The scared face of Drow male greets her. His eyes a green and while sporting the dark skin of a Drow, it is very pale, almost ashen.

Minthara: This male is of the traitors that stole away to the surface to follow Eilistraee!

MM: How?! How were we defeated by such an inferior being?!

Minthara: Stealth is very broken in this game, mother.

Tav: Minthara! The fourth wall!

Minthara: He was conceived by a loving union that bridged the gap between Drow and our surface kin! In the missionary position!

MM: *gasps*

Tav: *giving Minthara a very confused look*

Minthara: He is not only a third son, he is a sixth son! You were beaten by a third son times two!

MM: *clutches her metaphorically pearls*

Tav: *is an only child but knows enough of Menzoberranzan culture to be slightly offended*

Minthara: He is my romantic partner! I treat him as an equal!

Tav, somehow, feels the sensation of someone vomiting in his thoughts.

MM: You disgust the Spider Queen! Next you’ll tell me you don’t even peg him!

Tav: No, she does.

Minthara: Mother, please. I’m a genocidal conqueror, I’m not debased.

Suddenly, Minthara pulls the sword out of the scabbard hanging from Tav’s back. Within a blink of an eye, it is driven through her mother’s chest. Minthara leaves it embedded in her mother’s body half the blade sticking out of her back. With a gasp, she falls over.

Minthara: *kneeling down to whisper in her mother’s ear* The blade is of Eilistraee. Fitting, don’t you think, mother?

Minthara stands, throwing her head back and raising her arms, as if soaking up sunlight. She begins to laugh.

Minthara: The first conquest is done.

She walks over to the Matriarch’s throne and sits down.

Minthara: Come, fuck me.

Tav: Now?

Minthara: What better time and place than this? My former house is ended, my mother dead-

Tav: She’s not dead.

Minthara: What?

Tav: Still gurgling.

Minthara: Oh, for the love of-she can’t be long for this world.

Tav: Do you want to wait? I don’t want to pull out the blade in case that kills her. I’ll be hearing about taking the honor of killing the mother for years after.

Minthara: No, I don’t want to wait!

Minthara quickly jogs over and pulls the sword out of her mother’s chest. She plunges it in again, hitting the ground underneath. With pure malice in her eyes, her mother reaches up to clutch Minthara’s leg.

Tav: Wow, she is resilient.

Minthara: Enough of this!

Ripping the sword out of her mother’s chest, Minthara makes a wild swing and cut the Drow’s head clean off. The pair watch it roll down the length of the hall. Before another snarky comment can leave his lips, Minthara’s mouth collides with his. They stand, kissing, amongst the skeleton of Minthara’s old home for several moments.

Minthara: Come, there is a duty to which you must attend.

Tav: You have a thing for thrones, don’t you?

Honestly, I should get an Ao3 account cause my posts are looking like fanfiction chapters.

This post was all to get to that line Minthara says about the sixth son. That and the 4th wall break.

#funny #shitpost #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #minthara x tav #bg3 minthara #bg3 tav #drow elf #dnd drow #black comedy #dark humor

25 notes · View notes

wellthebardsdead · 21 days

Text

Clow Good end 1 pt2 (Infernal Stalemate/Paved with Good intentions)

Part 1 here

———

*6 months later*

Clow: *arrived to withers party in a burst of hellfire, tail swishing slowly and icy horns glinting in firelight as he walks between circles of his friends reminiscing and enjoying company he’d been without for a while* godfather- I- all I did was get rid of your engine and give you your heart back and you’re giving me that honour?! I-

Karlach: *now several months pregnant after Clow used his new found powers for the first time to help her* only?! You’ve really no clue how much everything you’ve done means to us do you you dingbat! Yes we want you to be our tater tot’s god father! We’ve already decided their middle name will be Do’Urden!

Wyll: and our next ones middle name will be Clopin!

Clow: *visibly tears up and sets his drink down* c-can I have a hug please?

Wyll & Karlach: *both smile seeing how far he’s come since they first met*

Karlach: oh sweetums you didn’t need to ask- *pulls him into a hug with Wyll, before immediately pulling away and grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling it down as she sees a bruise* has he been hurting you?!

Wyll: gods- *looks to the other side of his neck* did he choke you?! What is-

Clow: *visibly blushing knowing what they’re actually looking at* no he didn’t choke me- th-those are- *coughs* l-love bites. He and Haarlep got carried away again.

Karlach: Again- I, so he’s not hurting you then?

Wyll: you can tell us if he is Clow we-

Clow: he’s not hurting me, I promise, not without… my consent at least. *looks down with a shy playful grin* they take good care of me… I promise. *smiles and hugs them both again before walking off to continue mingling* I’ll see you both later.

???: Clow?…

Clow: … *turns around to see Gale standing behind him* …

Gale: I know I’ve no right to tal-

Clow: *pulls him into a gentle hug and smiles as he lets go and steps back* you don’t have to be sorry… my plan still worked out in the end… we get the hammer, Mystra gets the crown. My soul gets sacrificed. I expected to be enslaved for eternity or violently tortured and compressed into a soul coin but… Raphael had other plans.

Gale: I… sacrificed?… you were going to give me the crown?…

Clow: Mhm. I knew I couldn’t give it to Raphael in the end and he certainly lets me know how upset he is about it. And you needed the orb gone. So, give up my life to fix yours and save millions more. I never really had a life or concept of freedom to begin with and… it’s been good. Raphael treats me very good. It’s been an adjustment being a devil at his side and all and no longer needing food or having a great concept or grasp of passing time. But… I’m getting there.

Gale: you… You only just got your freedom, a chance to live life on your terms and I took that away from you. Now you’re stuck with that fiend how- how are you not angry? At me? At him?!

Clow: *sighs* Look. you did what you thought was right. And so did I… besides… *smiles and swishes his tail* I love him… *gives him another hug* goodnight, Gale. *walks off*

Gale: *standing there mortified that he could just be okay with all this* goodnight… *looks over at Wyll and Karlach before nervously approaching* Karlach… do you know anything about the sword of Zariel?

Karlach: just that it’s surrounded by an ever growing scab, why?

Wyll: what’s wrong Gale?… *looks past him to see minthara creeping up on him*

Gale: I think… I might need the blade if Raphael and Clows relationship isn’t all he’s telling u-

Minthara: *grabs Gale by the nape of his neck and yanks him back* You three listen to me and you listen very well. I did not cast aside my distaste for water and spend hours swimming until I collapsed to search for his body after you attempted to kill him just for you to try and ruin his life again. He has a good thing now, an existence he is happy with, and so help me I will end you if you attempt to take that from him. *lets go and storms off after Clow with a huff*

*a few hours later*

Clow: *returns to the house of hope and immediately runs and jumps into Raphael’s arms as he sees the devil waiting for him* I’m back!

Raphael: I’m glad~ how was your little party?

Clow: good, everyone is doing very well!

Raphael: that’s good- *gives him a kiss and whisks him away back to their room* welcome home, my love…

#minthara is very protective of him o3o #Raphael bg3 #Clopin Do’Urden #Clow Do’Urden #Clow tav #Clow oc

14 notes · View notes

i-did-not-mean-to · 6 months

Text

Thanksgiving

Thank you, anon, for this prompt. I would never have thought of that one myself.

To all my friends who celebrate: Happy Thanksgiving. I certainly am very grateful for y'all!

Characters: Fingolfin and a slew of others...(and Finrod)

Words: 1 850

Warnings: resentment, regrets, reproaches, a lukewarm bird, and a lot of love (it's not that serious, don't get mad!)

Fingolfin stared at the ominously glistening carving knife in open dismay.

“You can’t tear the bird apart with your bare hands,” Anairë cautioned under her breath. “Please, do not make a scene about blades. Not today. Not with all of them here.”

He nodded ponderously and turned to the assembly, entirely made up of his blessedly numerous descendants.

“Good evening, I welcome you warmly at this unprecedented feast of profound gratitude for the invaluable blessings we have received. Let's rejoice rather than elegize morosely. Anyway, my name is…”

“Eru bless, he’s forgotten his own name,” Aredhel stage-whispered, which earned her a punitive glare from Turgon and a hard jab in the ribs from Fingon.

“Ñolofinwë,” Fingolfin finished his sentence slowly. “Fingolfin? Golfin?”

He sighed deeply. “Call me whatever you want—some of you I have had the honour of meeting, and others I am looking forward to getting to know.”

“The food is getting cold!” Argon complained—he had died young and had not sired any children, so his stomach’s yearnings were of more importance to him than the painfully awkward introductions at their first annual family reunion.

He was not even sure that one could call this a “reunion” when they had never been gathered in this constellation before.

“I agree,” Aredhel piped up, much to the chagrin of her surly, overly quiet son who just gave her a pleading look. Maeglin suffered still under the repercussions of his betrayal, and he felt supremely uncomfortable, sitting motionlessly at the same table as his uncle and cousin.

“’Rissë,” Anairë intervened sharply. “I, for one, am delighted and grateful to see so many generations congregated here.”

“Turno is the best,” Fingon jeered, but his voice was warm and infused with benevolent humour. “He has single-handedly secured a legacy for our family. You’ve won that one, I think--isn't that another thing to be thankful for?”

“You forget my wife,” Elrond reminded him suavely but fell silent instantly as the memory of his brother and daughter welled up like acid in his weary heart. “She begs you to forgive her absence, but her mother…”

“Is absolutely right to wish for her only daughter to be by her side,” Anairë mediated once more with impeccable grace. “As the mother of a wayward daughter myself, I understand that only too well.” “As far as I can see, I sit here with my son as well. Why don’t you hound Fingon, your golden child, or Argon, your precious baby, about their abject failure to produce valiant heirs to join our merry round of traitors and murderers?”

“’Rissë!” Fingolfin thundered with much less parental indulgence than his wife had shown. “Can we please just share a meal and exchange some pleasant stories? I would very much like to hear about the lives of my descendants.”

“You could have been there,” Fingon muttered, “but you had to go and get yourself killed.”

“Says the one who went to the exact same place to save his ginger menace of a…friend?” Turgon commented dryly.

“He could well have been there; he would not have found you anywhere though, would he?” Fingon shot back, fire flaring in his eyes.

“And that’s why I didn’t want any weapons,” Fingolfin sighed, clutching the carving knife to his chest and casting dark looks at his progeny.

“Children,” Anairë cried. “Children! What shall the young ones think of us if we squabble and argue like fishmongers?”

“I’m used to it,” Elenwë declared calmly.

“So am I,” Idril laughed. “Sorry, I have known my very own father for too long not to be used to his sharp tongue,” she added when the others stared at her in shock.

“Grandfather has ever been kind,” Eärendil—who had been dispensed of his duties for the evening—remarked generously, patting his son’s hand. “Worry not, dear, it’s normal.”

Elrond merely shrugged. “I have spent large parts of my life with Lady Galadriel, Gil-Galad, and Celebrimbor, besides the Dwarves, the Hobbits, the meddling wizards, and the many Men who have come and gone. Thus far, I’ve heard nothing that could even scratch the surface of my equanimity!”

Fingolfin rubbed a weary hand over his eyes—when Anairë had announced, an unimaginably long time ago, that she was carrying Fingon, he could never have imagined what profound joy and heartbreaking misery was to follow.

Looking over now at the beautiful, sensible creature he had desperately loved and despicably deserted, he felt his throat tighten with overwhelming emotion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Anairë laughed. “I can safely claim that this wilful, wicked streak is entirely passed down from your side.”

“Mother has disavowed us, and there is no food,” Argon exclaimed dramatically.

“How do you know?” Maeglin asked in a cautious tone; he was ever eager to see others shift blame because it made him feel less wretched about his own shortcomings.

“I’ve spent a long time in close conference with both Nerdanel and Eärwen,” Anairë explained as she plucked the lethal knife from her husband’s hand and started cutting the festive offering of meat and fruit into thick slices. “We have come to the conclusion that the alarmingly wild and reckless streak in all of our beloved children must surely come from the same source.”

“Again, my mother-in-law and wife are nothing if not measured and wise in their words, actions, and decisions,” Elrond opined calmly.

“So you say,” Aredhel mocked. “I could tell you stories about your cherished mother-in-law that would make your blood curdle.”

“Ha!” Fingolfin cried. “Surely, ‘Rissë’s savagery cannot be laid at my poor father’s feet!” He sought his wife’s sparkling gaze once more.

With a chortle, Anairë strode over and pressed a tender kiss onto his high, chiselled cheek. “They are very much yours,” she hummed. “Taking off in a huff on a petulant, vexed whim, riding into lethal danger with a song and a prayer and doing exactly what they were told not to do seem to be constants in your family. Did not two of three of your father’s sons die in ludicrously brazen and irrational feats of unparalleled heroism?”

Fingolfin grimaced. Anairë, smiling still, meanwhile made the platters of steaming food go around the table—much to the delight of Argon and Aredhel—so their spell-bound guests could at least feast while witnessing the epic showdown between long-estranged spouses.

“Resentful words from you, wife,” Fingolfin muttered dejectedly.

“Oh, but love,” Anairë chuckled soothingly. “They are also faithful, hopeful, and laughably stubborn thanks to your blood. I shall grant you this: I have doubted your sanity but never your love. So, I always knew that this alone would be enough to make sure that you’d be returned to me in time. Nothing can detain your line where it no longer wants to abide, and nobody will ever be able to keep you from pursuing what you earnestly desire.”

“They have your patience,” Fingolfin replied, mollified and touched by her understated confession of enduring love and imperishable admiration. “No doubt, the ability to remain—hidden and watchful—despite their yearnings and duties comes from you. Though I am less rash than my half-brother, I admit that I have never managed to emulate your graceful talent of lying in wait, ready to pounce at the first good opportunity.”

As one, they turned back to gaze lovingly upon the faces of those who had sprung from the source of their long-forgotten, innocent hopefulness.

Discreet munching was halted as the heavy, noble regard of their patriarch fell upon each one, and more than one positively squirmed under the benevolent scrutiny of one so old and allegedly wise.

“I’ve died too early,” Argon then said flippantly. “Maybe Turno wants to tell us about his hidden city?”

“I do not,” Turgon barked around a scalding hot potato—a staple in every household since the arrival of the Hobbits—and glared at his youngest brother. “I built a city, people came, people left, people died. Then Gondolin and my humble self fell. Let’s skip that part.”

Catching Aredhel’s grateful look, he nodded imperceptibly and even tried to smile at Maeglin; what was meant as a gesture of goodwill and forgiveness was marred by the potato grotesquely distending his cheek still, though, and—as was his wont—Turgon simply shrugged it off.

“How about you, my darling?” Elenwë said, addressing Idril. “How have you fared?”

With a small sigh of fatigue—for she had told the story many times before—Idril launched into a tastefully abbreviated recounting of her life after the fall of Gondolin.

When her narration came to an end, Eärendil, eager to speak to others again, took the tale up where his mother had left off.

Soon, all eyes turned on Elrond who had lived a long time and had been a key player in a conflict all of them had missed on account of being detained in Mandos or mending in the gardens of Lórien at that time.

“Well…” Elrond mumbled, unsure where to start and how to explain the circumstances of his youth without reopening old wounds and reawakening grievances and family feuds. “After—”

He fell silent. His father sat right beside him, and he did not seek to make him or his mother feel strange or guilty about the unfortunate incident with the Silmaril at the Havens of Sirion.

Was it even recommendable to bring up the unfortunate stone? How about the ring of Sauron? Did they call him Sauron, or would they know him under another of his many aliases?

He groaned quietly.

“Káno and Russo took you, yes?” Fingon said encouragingly, his eyes feverishly bright, and his lips pale with tension as if he was forcefully holding back a flood of questions.

Elrond exhaled audibly and steepled his fingers against his chin in a bid for more time to find an appropriate answer that would not kick off another slew of recriminations and fighting words.

“AH! We have arrived just in time to listen to our dear cousins being disparaged!” A bright, chiming voice resounded from the doorway, and Finrod strolled in, accompanied by his sister and his niece. “I have taken the liberty of escorting darling Artanis,” he explained.

“You’ve come for the gossip,” Turgon commented dryly, but his eyes lit up at the sight of his old, much-beloved friend. “Have a seat; you are indeed right, and we are about to hear about the parental talents of our Fëanorian kin.”

“Does that make me the worst of all?” Elrond asked dolefully. “Am I the compounded result of all the noxious strains of which Lady Anairë has just spoken?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Galadriel declared decisively. “Whatever good was in any of us, I am certain that you young ones must have harnessed it.”

Her warm, proud gaze shifted to her daughter who merely rolled her eyes at her and went to kiss her husband tenderly.

“Go ahead,” she whispered under her breath. “Tell them about the many people you’ve known and loved. Who knows? You might plant the seeds of forgiveness and renewal on this very night.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

29 notes · View notes

boxfullaturtles · 1 year

Photo

tbh been sitting on this for months and was intending to post the characters together, but no one else is finished yet so here, take him

Kingdom Hearts Rise AU

Leonardo Hamato The self-designated Face Man of the group, he’s all smiles, charm, and wit. His charisma might be lacking in certain areas, but he knows how to please a crowd and he’s more clever than he gives himself credit for. He tends to get reckless during battle, either to show off or because his ego got the better of him. This has gotten him into trouble several times and it’s only the good graces of his brothers that have saved him. His battle style relies on speed and exploiting his opponent’s blind spots, keeping out of range until he rapidly closes the distance with his foe, delivers a devastating strike, and pulls back again.

Keyblade: Arc Hope A highly unusual Keyblade with its own special effect. It provides a balanced boost in Strength and Magic. Strength: +5 Magic: +5 Length: Medium Ability: Portal Chopped: A unique ability that allows the Keyblade to split into two separate blades.

[extra details under cut]

Team Attacks: + Michelangelo: Primetime Team up with Mikey, trap enemies in a cage of chains and portals, finishing them off with an explosion of fire and lightning.

+ Raphael: Odachi Bomb Team up with Raph and wield a gigantic sword made of energy from atop his shoulders, end by getting launched into the air and crashing into stunned foes.

+ Donatello: Disaster Duo Team up with Donnie, auto-lock onto nearby enemies and bury them under barrages of missiles, ending by dropping a huge bomb on them.

+ April: Thrill Seeker Team up with April and rapidly attack nearby enemies with a flurry of blows, finish them off with a blast of combined magic.

+ Casey: Hope Team up with Casey to summon pillars of light that shoot out of the ground around the battlefield, stunning any enemy that isn’t instantly destroyed.

------

More stuff about KH Rise Leo:

- He is the fastest of his teammates, moving so quickly he often appears to teleport in a streak of blue light. Moves significantly slower in water.

- Arc Hope sounds like silver bells when it strikes enemies and its particle effects are blue stars and lightning bolts. The runes on it pulse with a soft, blue light. Before the Fall sounds like swords clashing when it strikes, and its particle effects are red starbursts. After the Rise sounds like chimes when it strikes enemies and its particle effects are little baubles that flicker with the brothers’ colors. The pieces representing each of Leo’s brothers will occasionally glow softly and that light with travel up the blue lightning until it fades at the spikes.

- Leo is capable of making portals in this AU. Eventually, he becomes strong enough and gets good enough with them that he can use his portals to travel between worlds without the aid of a Gummi Ship.

- Raph made him wear the Power Band.

- Actually the worst about maintaining “world order” and regularly screws things up.

- Not allowed to drive the Turtle Tank Gummi Ship. He did once. Donnie almost skinned him alive afterwards.

- Still the team medic in the sense that he’s always got a surplus of Potions and Elixirs on hand. Also bandaids and neosporin for scrapes and cuts. He’s not great at Cure magic, but he knows how to cast it if he needs to.

- Doesn’t actually used the Portal Chopped ability a whole lot. He’s not overly fond of Before the Fall and is still struggling a lot with the concept that where there is Light, there must also be Darkness. He’s really got it in his head that Darkness equals Bad, and having a representation of Darkness (the Krang) as part of his Keyblades hurts and confuses him.

- Besides, he can’t abuse the hell out of his Portal Fever Command Style when Portal Chopped is active. And he does like to show off.

[ask me about him and the au I will talk about it all day]

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt leo #tmnt #tmnt leo #kh rise au #i was originally gonna try and post everyone at once but like #i've been sitting on this for months so just. here. just take him.#sage draws turtles

115 notes · View notes

thunderwavesolveseverything · 5 months

Text

I'll Take Your Secret to the Grave

[Astarion x Named Tav]

Gandrel reached for Phayelynn's hand, pulling her towards him, only wanting to help, “Please, I can help you. If you’ve encountered the spawn-”

There was the flash of a dagger in the sunlight as a gloved hand latched itself onto his wrist, nearly making him drop his hold on Phayelynn. He looked over to the man in the group who had been dressed in black, getting a good look at his piercing red eyes that were just as sharp as the blade he drew from his belt.

Astarion spoke slowly and with malice, revealing his fangs as he threatened the Gur, “If you plan to keep that hand, I suggest you remove it right now.” The snarl on his face made it clear that he was not in the mood for games, and Gandrel knew he had made a grave mistake.

Okay, so this chapter is lonnnggg.... BUT I had so much fun writing it. I also went a little crazy and wrote out the next three chapters after this sooooo I'll probably post again before the week is over!

(word count: 4,623 )

Read on AO3 or below :)

Masterlist for Phayelynn's adventures here

I'll Take Your Secret to the Grave

The five strolled through the lush wetlands; the sun shone down on them, casting a warm glow over the vibrant landscape. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and the sound of chirping birds was like tranquil music to the ear. Sheep lazily grazed on the nearby grass, hopping past them as the party walked by. The small ponds and bogs were alive with the croaking of frogs, adding to the sense of magic that permeated the area.

Despite the beauty of the place they had stumbled upon, Lae’zel was the only one who expressed her reservations. Irksomely so. She didn’t hold back in her insistence that this was all a waste of their time, much to the annoyance of everyone else.

“If this creche of yours doesn’t work,” Shadowheart’s tone was tinged with a hint of skepticism as she addressed Lae’zel. She eyed the gith suspiciously, “Then what, Lae’zel?” She wasn’t the only one in the party not convinced that the githyanki would be much use to them. She was just the only one brave enough to challenge her.

Lae’zel, however, was unfazed by Shadowheart’s doubt. “Then it will be my fault and mine alone,” she replied confidently. “My people would never fail me.”

The rest of the group groaned collectively at Lae’zel’s blind loyalty, but she paid them no mind. As she walked alongside Shadowheart, she fixed her with a hard gaze. “Not like how your insistence on seeing this old woman will fail us. It’s clear the woman has lured you into a trap,” she added, her voice laced with a touch of disdain.

That resonated with them as they walked through the seemingly perfect place, its flawless facade almost too surreal, as if it came out of a fairytale. Lae’zel’s warning that this was a trap was only reinforced by Phayelynn’s hum of agreement. Shadowheart glowered at her as the bard walked to her left. As they trudged on, her frustration grew with each step.

When Phayelynn sang out in a sing-song voice, “Auntie Ethel’s a hag,” Shadowheart’s annoyance boiled over.

She abruptly halted and turned to face her companions. Her voice was pointed and biting. “I refuse to let this chance slip away like the last one. I can’t bear the thought of this thing,” she motioned to her eye and what was planted behind it, “lingering in my head any longer. Is that perfectly clear to both of you?” she spat out, her eyes blazing with determination.

Lae’zel wrinkled her nose in distaste, a sharp click of her tongue punctuating her disapproval. Phayelynn, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at Shadowheart’s reaction. It was her fault after all that they hadn’t talked to the Grove’s healer.

Shadowheart noticed the distant expression on Phayelynn’s face and furrowed her brows with disapproval. She didn’t want to come off too harsh, still wanting to keep some favor within the group. But even with Phayelynn’s detachment, Shadowheart stood by her initial conviction and refused to retract her statement.

“I just don’t want to put all my eggs in the same basket,” She gestured toward Lae’zel, earning a huff from the gith as they continued walking.

“That expression must sound curious to a Githyanki’s ear,” Gale piped up. He’d been trailing behind the group with Astarion in tow, listening to the bubbling argument between the three. He positioned himself next to Lae’zel and continued, “Given how they’re birthed.”

Phayelynn seemed puzzled by Gale’s statement and made a face as if she didn’t understand what he was implying. She looked at Gale and then at Lae’zel with a hint of concern on her face. “I’m sorry, the way they are what?” she asked, hoping for a clearer explanation.

Lae’zel seemed to perceive Phayelynn’s confusion as an insult and looked unimpressed by it. Gale, however, always eager to satisfy curiosity, decided to explain further and said, “The Githyanki aren’t born from a womb. They’re hatched.”

“Like from an egg?” she sounded like she still didn’t believe him.

“Yes, Phayelynn, from eggs.” Gale let out a light chuckle.

His explanation still didn’t help her. In fact, it only seemed to pique her curiosity further, inciting a flurry of questions. She whipped around to face Lae’zel, walking backward to keep pace, “Wait a minute, you lay eggs? How!” she exclaimed, eyeing her stomach. “How big are they?”

Lae’zel’s face twisted into a sneer as she grew tired of the girl’s incessant and foolish questioning. She could see a sign for the healer’s home up ahead. She’d rather get this pointless endeavor over with. She moved to walk around her but suddenly stopped in her tracks.

As they approached Ethel’s, a pungent odor filled the air, emanating something metallic and sickly sweet. Lae’zel sniffed the air, her head turning to the left towards a small clearing on a low hill. A man stood, fiddling with some sort of bear trap. Lae’zel watched him as he noticed them, her hand instinctively moving towards the sword on her back, ready to strike if needed.

Shadowheart and Gale maintained a composed demeanor as they observed the stranger, trying to discern his intentions behind setting up those traps. Phayelynn watched him too, but more so in disgust as she wrinkled her nose, struggling against the overwhelming stench that filled the air. The trio remained cautious and alert, keenly aware of the potential danger that lurked before them.

Astarion languidly made his way to stand beside Phayelynn and Shadowheart with a sense of purpose. His gaze fixed on the man, scanning him from head to toe. Rough-hewn clothing, rugged and worn, long, messy hair, and a beard to match- all tell-tale signs of his kind. Astarion’s demeanor immediately changed as he realized the man’s heritage. He was a Gur. And Astarion already despised every fiber of his being.

The man greeted them with a friendly wave, “Forgive the aroma, strangers! This area is teeming with all sorts of creatures.” his smile was warm as he put down the trap he’d been setting as if to prove that he meant them no harm. “An old hunter’s trick. Powder iron-vine. It makes most monsters think twice before making a meal out of me.”

Astarion strode closer, his every movement exuding a predator’s grace and confidence. His suspicions were confirmed, and a smirk fell on his lips.

“So, you’re a monster hunter?” he said, his hand resting casually on his hip. He tilted his head, studying the Gur with a mixture of ill contempt and delight. “Well, color me surprised,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t expect to meet one of your kind with manners. I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats.” He made sure to keep his smile tight-lipped, not revealing his teeth.

“Astarion!” Phayelynn hissed, taken aback by his upfront rudeness.

She crossed her arms against her chest. She quickly shot the Gur an apologetic look on behalf of her companion. She tried to ignore the strong odor of the Gur, bobbing her head toward Astarion.

“I’m sorry about him.” she outreached her hand for him to take, hoping the gesture would ease the tension. “I’m Phayelynn.”

“Gandrel,” the Gur took it despite Astarion’s initial rudeness, shaking Phayelynn’s hand with a welcoming smile.

She tried to look over Astarion’s face to read his expression, but he kept his face well hidden behind his hood. She attempted to reach him through the tadpole, but he severed the link the moment she established it. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Something was off. Astarion, the usually brooding and mischievous, only a tad bit sadistic, companion, seemed on edge and tense, like a provoked animal waiting to strike. It wasn’t in his nature to openly seek out conflict. He was the one always emphasizing the importance of self-preservation.

She turned back to Gandrel, who was clearly the cause. It struck then her. Gur were notorious monster hunters, and by definition, Astarion was a monster himself- a vampire. He felt threatened.

She recalled the tales of the Gur people. They were legendary monster hunters, famous for their daring feats. They slayed mighty dragons and beheaded towering giants. But still, they were viewed with suspicion. Rumors of their misdeeds spread like wildfire across Faerûn, from pilfering chickens, cursing crops, and seducing daughters under the veil of darkness.

Phayelynn couldn’t help but wonder if the Gur were any different from the monsters they hunted.

“What kind of monster are you hunting?” she asked carefully.

“Something terrifying, no doubt,” Astarion spoke for him. He swayed from side to side, his eyes now locked on Phayelynn with an excited glint. Then he turned to the Gur and continued, “Dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

But before Astarion could keep carrying himself away, Gandrel stepped in and held a hand up bashfully, “Nothing so dramatic,” he said. “I‘m on the hunt for a vampire spawn.”

Phayelynn and Astarion both went pale. Neither said a word, only sparing the other knowing glances.

Gale noticed their reaction and became curious at what that shared look meant. He brought his hand to this chin, his eyes lighting up with interest. He nodded towards the Gur. “Ah, you don’t say.” He said. “We encountered the remains of its prey the other day.”

Gandrel stood with his arms crossed and a look of attentiveness. “Really now?” he asked with eagerness to learn more.

Gale chuckled softly, as if this was a casual talk with old friends, as he turned to Phayelynn. “It was nothing serious,” he said. “Just a boar that startled us a bit. Isn’t that right, Phayelynn?”

When he noticed Phayelynn giving him a slight shake of her head, he creased his brow. Just the other day, she had been so determined to find the culprit of the murdered boar that she couldn’t let it go, and now she looked like she would thunderwave him if he talked about it any further.

“Are you alright?” he prodded lightly.

Phayelynn’s heart pounded as she tried to conceal her panic and fear for Astarion’s safety. She knew that Gandrel was on the hunt for Astarion, and she couldn’t let Astarion be discovered.

She understood the deep-rooted anxiety being on the run brought.

In a feeble attempt to steer the conversation away from the topic, Phayelynn tried to play the role of a meek and terrified girl. She spoke softly, batting her eyes just enough, hoping to be convincing enough to deter any further discussion about vampires.

“Yes,” she spoke with a rather convincing, vulnerable look in her eye, “It was so scary.” her voice quivered. “I- I don’t want to talk about it.”

As she spoke, there was a hint of amusement from her companions. She could feel Lae’zel’s eyes on her, and Shadowheart stifled a laugh.

“I understand. Vampires can be quite frightening, but it is good to be aware of them no matter how much they might scare you.” Gandrel pressed, trying to give her a comforting smile.

Phayelynn stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Her brow twitched, the tadpole behind her eye spasming. Astarion’s festering discomfort and anger hit her involuntarily through their connection. She shot him a sympathetic look and bit her lip.

A timid and frightened girl wasn’t going to work. She’d have to play a different role.

Batting her eyes, Phayelynn looked the Gur up and down, transforming into something more sultry than the damsel in distress. With a confident sway of her hips, she moved closer to Gandrel. Pursing her lips, she then brought her hand up to rest on his chest, trying to suppress a shudder of embarrassment.

She spoke with a sensual roughness, “But the Gur are fabled. I guess I can sleep better at night,” she plucked out her next words carefully, weaving a little bit of magic through them to make sure they worked their charm. She gave a soft squeeze to his chest after each honeyed word, “knowing such a burly and skilled, not to forget handsome, man is hunting the creature.”

Gandrel blushed at her lust-coated compliments, eating them up and shooting her his own flirty grin. He looked down at the hand on his chest, a sudden craving to know what it would feel like against bare skin. “That may be true, my lady. I do have experience.” he smirked, “but I’d still set up watches at your camp tonight.”

Phayelynn had picked up on the double entendre, and she gulped before hiding away her discomfort with a giggle. Taking her hand off his chest, she started to fiddle with her hair, twirling a strand around her finger. She was glad she couldn’t see her companion’s face. She was embarrassed enough already.

“Right,” Gale felt uneasy after watching that display.

The rogue and the bard were hiding something, conspiring together. It only made sense after Phayelynn’s disappearance this morning, only for Shadowheart to find her inside Astarion’s tent. He glanced at Shadowheart, hoping to find some agreement, and she nodded back, confirming that she was on the same page. Trying to gather more information, Gale turned to Gandrel and asked, “To better prepare ourselves, what can you tell us about this spawn?”

Phayelynn recoiled at her wasted efforts. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was how everyone else felt when she couldn’t let go of a matter. A growl escaped her lips as she wordlessly cursed the wizard, only to be met with a disdainful glance from Gandrel. Trying to conceal her anger and reel him back in, she looked up to him with blinking doe eyes, forcing out a breathy, fake laugh.

As Gandrel flashed a toothy grin down at her, he shifted his gaze towards Gale, “He’s from Baldur’s Gate. His name is Astarion.”

“Astarion?” Gale hissed, reacting with shock and betrayal.

He looked between the two conspirators, realizing why Phayelynn had tried to manipulate the conversation. It was to protect Astarion. How long had she known, and was Astarion planning on telling the rest of the party himself?

Phayelynn’s ears picked up on the distinct sound of Shadowheart’s chain mail clinking together as she moved uneasily at the revelation of Astarion’s vampiric nature. It was followed by the clicking of Lae’zel’s tongue. She turned her head slowly, trying to catch Astarion’s reaction. Despite his attempt to hide behind his hood, Phayelynn could sense his anticipation filling up as if he were bracing himself for an inevitable attack with pitchforks and stakes.

“You know of this spawn?” Gandrel asked, noting the look of recognition on Gale’s face.

Phayelynn was cautious as she turned back to Gandrel, reaching out to the others through the tadpole first, Shut up. Trust me. Please.

“We’ve never met anyone by that name.” Phayelynn shrugged, “Not that I can recall.” Phayelynn smiled, her fingertips gently caressing the air as she let her hands drop down to her sides. “But I guess whoever this Astarion, you said his name was, is only a spawn.” she said, bringing a hand up to lay over her heart, “Silly me, why was I so afraid? That’s not like a real vampire.” She then turned to Gale, “But still, we should let him get back to setting those traps of his,” she eyed the discarded bear trap, “and stop distracting him with your questions, Gale.”

Astarion decided he stood quiet long enough. He leaned back, his eyes raking over the Gur as if he were sizing him up. “I don’t know,” he drawled, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out if he felt like it.” He let out a low growl that shivered down Phayelynn’s spine.

Gandrel agreed with a somber tone, “Unfortunately, he’s right. We may have the advantage in daylight, but at night, when they come out to hunt, you’ll meet no less of a deadly quarry. The creatures we’re dealing with are weak only when compared to their masters.”

Phayelynn’s body tensed, but she tried to hide it with a laugh, “Ha-ha, yeah, I bet they sneak right up on you,” she said, feeling a sense of unease creeping up on her as she shot Astarion a ‘what are you doing’ look.

Gandrel noticed her sudden change in demeanor, studying her body language with new intent. His instincts told him something was wrong. These people weren’t just a group of harmless travelers; they knew something. It was then that Gandrel’s eyes fell upon the unmistakable bite mark on her neck that peeked out from underneath her collar- evidence of a vampire’s attack.

“You’ve been bitten.” His pupils dilated from his wrath as he spoke.

She quickly moved to hide them, pulling strands of hair over her shoulder in a failed attempt to conceal them.

“They’re just birthmarks,” she tried to sound convincing, “I’m really self-conscious about them, so I would appreciate it if we could just part ways now, please.” The ‘please’ was mostly towards her companions.

Astarion was dumbfounded by her unexpected determination to protect his secret, even though her efforts were futile now. He drew in a deep breath, impressed by her loyalty.

Gandrel reached out to Phayelynn with the intention of offering his help. But, in a moment of recklessness, he made the mistake of grabbing her hand and pulling her towards him. “Please, I can help you. If you’ve encountered the spawn-”

The sunlight shone brightly down on them all, casting a warm glow on everything it touched. It was perplexing. It defied the laws of the supernatural world. Vampires were known for their inability to withstand the rays of the sun, yet here one stood unaffected. And then there was a human who was fiercely guarding him as if her life depended on it. The situation seemed implausible, and there was only one explanation for that.

His face twisted into a sneer as he glared at the two, his eyes darting between them, trying to make sense of everything. “He’s compelled you.”

“What? No!” Phayelynn gasped. “Let me go, asshole,” She started trying to tug her hand free, but Gandrel didn’t loosen his grip, despite Astarion’s own hold on him.

Phayelynn’s eyes widened in horror as she watched Gandrel reach for his dagger, his intent clear. But before any of them could react, Astarion was already in motion. He held Gandrel’s arm steady, his grip unyielding. And then, in a sudden and shocking move, Astarion plunged the dagger into the soft flesh of Gandrel’s forearm near down to the hilt. The sound of flesh tearing was sickening, and blood exploded from the wound, splattering across Phayelynn’s face in small speckles and causing her to flinch.

Astarion had a sinister smirk on his face as he licked some of the droplets that had landed by his lips. He seemed to be taking pleasure in the painful cries that were pouring out of Gandrel’s mouth, almost as if they were a beautiful melody. After a few seconds of relishing in Gandrel’s agony, Astarion yanked the dagger out of Gur’s forearm. Gandrel held onto the wound tightly, trying to stop the bleeding, while Astarion chuckled. He pushed the Gur back and then pulled Phayelynn behind him, shielding her protectively. His eyes remained locked on the Gur.

Phayelynn’s jaw was left hanging open as she watched the situation escalate before her very eyes. The sudden rush of adrenaline caused her pointed ears to twitch. Looking towards her companions for support, she saw Lae’zel already with her sword drawn, ready to cut down the Gur. Shadowheart, on the other hand, seemed to be waiting for Phayelynn’s decision, her expression unreadable.

Gale was the only one left unsure of what to do, torn between Gandrel, the stranger only doing his job, and Astarion, his traveling companion who had lied to them about his true nature as a vampire.

Unlike Phayelynn, Astarion had no interest in seeking their approval. He kept his sights on the Gur as if he were the prey being hunted. As soon as the Gur made another move towards the dagger strapped to his hip, Astarion sprang forward. With his off-hand, he thrust the blade into Gur’s side and then delivered a second strike between his shoulder and collarbone. Astarion pushed the Gur away with a forceful kick to his gut.

Following his lead, Lae’zel charged forward from behind Phayelynn and Gale’s right. She wielded her sword with both hands, raising it high above her head before bringing it down with all her might on the monster hunter. Her attack was a warning to anyone who dared to make a move against one of them.

Gandrel stumbled back, clutching his chest as blood seeped from the wound that ran down his front. He refused to give up, fighting through the pain that coursed through his body. He couldn’t let a vampire’s spawn defeat him, no matter how outnumbered he was. His mind raced as he quickly reached back for his crossbow, grimacing as he felt the pain of his ripped flesh.

“Impero Tibi,” He muttered the spell and aimed at Lae’zel, ensnaring her in a tangle of thorn-covered vines. With his eyes then fixed on Astarion, he reached for another arrow, determined to take down the vampire spawn.

Astarion let out a bloodcurdling cry and attempted to shield his eyes as he was drenched with acid. He could feel the skin on his body burning and bubbling beneath his clothes, causing him to writhe in anguish.

“Astarion!” Phayelynn had shouted, watching him stumble on his feet.

Shadowheart, like the well-trained cleric she was, acted swiftly, rushing to Astarion’s side. With a gentle touch, she placed her hands on his arm and cast a healing spell, hoping to alleviate his pain. Sensing the danger that loomed large, biting back any pettiness that brewed within her, she then cast a shield of faith to protect Lae’zel from the sharp thorns that encased her.

Gale was stuck, struggling to decide on the right course of action. On one hand, Gandrel was an innocent man who didn’t deserve to be ruthlessly slaughtered by the likes of them. And on the other, Astarion had apparently enticed Phayelynn to his tent the previous night, and fed on her, manipulating her into defending him.

Phayelynn watched with weariness as the usual chaos that followed hit in full swing. Astarion was grimacing in pain, his body heaving as Shadowheart stood over him, her spell slowly working to heal him. Lae’zel stood fighting against the vines that bound her. Her muscles strained as she tried unsuccessfully to break free. And then there was Gale, who seemed perpetually on the fence about whether or not he wanted to be useful.

Gandrel saw her hesitation. It marked her as an easy target, and he wasted no time in trying to sway her to his side. “I can help you,” he said, his voice low and persuasive, “His kind are master manipulators. Whatever he’s told you-”

But Phayelynn wasn’t so easily swayed. “Shut up,” she spat, her hand reaching for her lute out of habit, only to remember with a scowl that it had been broken in the fight against the Orges. “Damnit.” she hissed but didn’t relent, snatching up her dagger and surging forward, determined to take down the hunter before he could harm her or her companions.

Gandrel retched as the blade skewered through his flesh, blood gushing from the wound. He raised his bow, thrashing it across her face. Phayelynn gasped as her lip burst and her nose crunched. Gandrel grabbed her before she could fall, seizing her up by her ponytail. After letting go of his crossbow, he effortlessly tore the dagger from her grasp, driving it in between her rib cage.

Her scream was hair-raising. She’d never been stabbed before and didn’t care that she now knew that feeling. She let out a choked sob. Gandrel pulled her close, the dagger weeding its way deeper through her. Phayelynn saw spots.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, girl,” Gandrel said, his voice heavy with regret. “But if you side with a vampire spawn,” he spat, pushing harder, hearing the dagger rip out from the other side. “You give me no choice.”

Phayelynn’s cheeks were flushed with heat as the dagger was pulled out from her, making her choke on her breath. The look in Gandrel’s eyes was crazed and far gone.

She gasped. Icy fear trickled down her back, tears welled up in her eyes, streaking down her face as she let out a strangled plea for him to stop. She tried to push herself away, only for him to grab her tighter, pulling her close by the hair and stabbing into her stomach, over and over, until he didn’t.

Gale finally did something.

“Ardere!”

The air crackled as he shouted the incantation. His voice was filled with fury, aimed at everyone and everything in sight. He seethed with rage towards Gandrel for his barbarous attack against Phayelynn. He was incensed at Phayelynn for risking her safety and well-being for Astarion so foolishly. The sheer resentment he felt towards Astarion was almost unbearable, as it was Astarion’s keeping them in the dark about being a vampire that ultimately led to this.

But he was most angry with himself. Realizing that he had been idle for far too long made his blood boil.

Phayelynn stumbled backward, watching as Gandrel met his end with rays of scorching fire. She fell to the ground, too weak and dazed to keep herself up, sighing at the feeling of the sun’s warmth spreading across her skin.

The world around her was a blurry mess, but she could hear Lae’zel breaking free from the magic that held her captive. The magic dispersed in all directions, causing a sudden burst of energy to fill the air. Lae’zel retrieved her sword, moving to ensure that the enemy was dead.

Phayelynn’s eyes fluttered closed, unable to adjust to the brightness of the sun overhead. She winced as she was jerked up, hands pulling at her shoulders.

“No, no, you can’t die.” she heard Astarion shout at her. “Get up, damn you!”

She squinted as her eyes opened again. The sun’s rays were blocked by Shadowheart as she kneeled down beside her, muttering spells of healing under her breath. Her hands were cool to the touch, and Phayelynn hummed at the feeling.

Astarion’s face appeared on the other shoulder of her, his hood pulled down and concern etched across his features. She struggled to make out the rest of his words as his lips moved. She watched his brow furrow, his fangs once again bared, directed this time towards Shadowheart.

Phayelynn let out a low, guttural groan, feeling utterly exhausted and drained. All she wanted was to bury herself back in Astarion’s soft furs and fancy pillows and drift back off to sleep. Maybe if she could just shut her eyes and block out the noise, the pain would subside, and maybe she’d feel better when she woke up.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #tav bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion romance #bg3 spoilers #astarion x reader

32 notes · View notes