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justsalpals · 6 months ago

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Jace knew pain. He could handle that.

No, the worst part of dying was the fear. That split second before the end when pain took a backseat, a fluttering consciousness latching onto the only thing he knew for certain.

This was the end. This was it. No more. Over. Dead. Gone. Finished.

His chest spasmed in wild aborted half-breaths, choking on bloody phlegm his body wanted desperately to expel but lodged in his ragged throat. Fingers twitched as if to form the somatic components for a spell he lacked the energy to cast. The world shifted and sputtered, fading no matter how tightly he tried to grasp it close to his chest.

For all the world it almost felt like being back in high school again, desperately willing his eyes to stay open as the teacher droned on and on about material components even though everyone in class had an arcane focus. Just as he had back then, Jace was powerless to resist as his eyelids drooped and he finally dropped down into the long rest waiting for all adventurers in the end.

Pathetic.

End of the line. So where did that leave him? Caught between divine domains, having never pledged himself to any one divinity. The astral planes, the pits of hell, or even following the innate magic in his blood back to the feywilds of his ancestry?

End. The end. It was the end of him.

Is this all you are?

Was this his legacy? A young and powerful sorcerer, the potential of the universe sparkling at his fingertips, all the world open to him.

Spent the prime of his life getting heckled by fourteen-year-olds who only cared about learning how to cast fireball.

(I can't teach it to you, he always had to explain to the new ones, with their dead eyes and dumb gaping fish mouths. More of a coach. We're just spitballing back and forth what it might Feel Like to have the option of summoning a giant sphere of fire to raze down one's enemies.)

Is this what you're dying for? A handful of self-centered, idiotic, ungrateful brats?

Beyond the veil of death, every nerve in his body dulled to utter numbness, something in Jace's chest pulsed.

For a boss who'd fuck a flaming pigeon out on the bloodrush field before he considered giving you an ounce of respect?

In the darkness of the in between, caught in the steps before final death, the air turned hot and tacky. Blond hair curled limp against his forehead, drenched in sweat, heat clawing across his skin like a furnace trying to burrow its way back home.

The sort of heat that made it hard to think, hard to move, for fear that the slightest twitch would cut through the atmosphere and sear your skin straight from the bone.

Something crimson crackled through the darkness. A feverish crescendo crawling in every direction, hateful and ferocious in every shattering shower of red.

It didn't have to be the end. Not if he didn't let it be.

Get up.

And really, what had the goddamn gall to keep him here? What universe thought he would just roll over and stay down like a good little corpse?

He just had to. Reach out. Had to. Take it.

Get the fuck up, Stardiamond.

A fistful of rubies sparked and flared in Jace's palm, before he tilted his head back and poured them down his open maw.

On the material plane, Jace Stardiamond's eyes snapped open.

Jace thought he'd known what pain was. A lifetime of arcana, adventuring, of teaching highschoolers, he'd taken his fair share of hits over the years. Not like this. Nothing like this.

Jace thought he'd known pain, and he was a goddamn fool.

This

was

agony.

Writhing on the classroom floor, his back arched into an unnatural contortion of joints and limbs. The feral thing tore from Jace's throat could hardly even be called a scream, mangled as it was with a century's worth of rage buried in the name of a paper thin mask. It bubbled from his mouth as limbs thrashed about, eyes rolling back into his head with the anguish of it all.

"There you are."

A hulking fifteen foot shadow loomed over his twitching corpse, greedy eyes simply watching as Jace's fingers began scrambling across his own chest. A spellcaster's fingers, ordinarily so nimble and precise, nails once filed to a perfect smooth arch now ragged and bloodstained as they clawed through the layers of his own scarf and shirt.

He tore and mangled the flesh underneath until fingertips hit jagged gemstone.

"I knew you had it in you, somewhere under that bone deep smarmy front you put on."

Ruby splintered across Jace's skin, crystalized in his collapsed lung, sparkled in the lining of his throat.

"Bitterness, frustration, jealousy, hatred, judgement, call it what you want, but you've always been bursting at the seams with rage. Just waiting for the right person to come along and break the seal."

Flecks of ruby crusted to Jace's lips, pulled back to bare his teeth in a rabid snarl. The giant above only chuckled, the sound of his laughter like the grinding of stone when a whole mountain collapsed inwards.

"Why?" The word barely scraped free from his raw throat, lingering in the palpable heat clogged air.

A large hand gripped Jace's chin to force his gaze upwards, the bones in his jaw straining and cracking with the force of the gesture. Yet above him, Porter just clicked his tongue as if reprimanding a misguided child.

"Because, Stardiamond, you piss me off more than I can even begin to describe." His grin was too wide, too clean, a little too sharp at the edges. "That's holy, in its own sort of way."

#jaceporter #starbreaker #because let's be clear: I absolutely mean this in a gay way #we love a homoerotic horror with a side of workplace comedy #dimension 20 #fantasy high #fhjy spoilers #jace stardiamond #porter cliffbreaker #my writing

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rrrrinmaru · 9 months ago

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bury me (raf x mc, nsfw)

wc: 3949 rating: E warning: pussy eating, strip tease

Up until the moment you’re sat in the entertainment room that’s apparently been renovated on emergency notice, you don’t quite believe the situation you’ve found yourself in.

It started as an off-handed comment you didn’t think much of. Frankly, you didn’t think anything of it—the two of you were watching a movie (ok, Magic Mike, it was Magic Mike) and you mentioned, casual as ever, that you’ve always wanted to see a lap dance up close.

Rafayel went still. But Rafayel goes still at the strangest things—he once froze up at the sight of you petting a cat on the sidewalk and fell to the ground right next to the fire hydrant, in broad view of everyone walking down that very pavement—so again, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe he wanted to see a lap dance up close as well. Maybe, irrationally, he got a little jealous at the thought of you thinking of watching other men grind against flushed women, eyes bright as they watch the sheen of sweat on thick muscles centimetres away from their face.

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect—

“You spent how much on the lights?” You ask, bewildered. “You got these custom made?”

“I wasn’t about to install cheap LED lights in my house,” Rafayel replies, fiddling with something in the corner. “The cost doesn’t matter. The real expensive baby was the audio system, but I already owned that before I got the bright idea to remodel this place.”

“You spent money to turn a room in your house into a strip club?” You say, voice slightly hysterical on the last two words. You almost don’t want to know the answer to your next question, but things have already progressed far enough. There’s no coming back from this. “Where’s the stripping pole?”

Rafayel shrugs. He’s wearing this thin, sheer fabric; so pale it’s almost transparent. It clings to the width of his shoulders, dipping down between the slope of his shoulder blades and the top tapers off at his waist. When he turns around, you can’t help but stare at the (quite frankly) whorish cut at the front.

The front of the shirt has this deep plunge all the way down to his abdomen. It’s practically two strips of fabric loosely folded over each other, and if he bends over, you get a full view of the hard planes of his chest and the curve of his tits.

He’s also wearing leather pants. Did you mention that? They look like they were painted on. The material stretches tight over his thighs, making him look even taller than he already does.

His feet are bare, toes curling into the rug covered floor. Rafayel stands there, weight shifted to one leg as he always does, and he practically preens under your undivided attention. Under your greedy, hungry gaze as you run your eyes up and down his body.

Behind him, the stereo system flares to life. This persistent, thumping drum beat slowly starts to build.

“Can’t we just—you know?” You say without thinking, leaning forward instinctively at the thought of getting your mouth on Rafayel. Has he even looked in a mirror before he decided on this particular set of clothes?

Rafayel smirks. Fuck, you swear you can see the literal imprint of his cock through his pants.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, voice honeyed as he takes his sweet time to walk over to you, that casual, loping stride that you can’t look away from. “Be patient.”

“This is the first time you’ve turned down my offer,” you say petulantly. “Please?”

“We haven’t even gotten to the good part,” Rafayel says, eyes glittering as he leans over. His hands land on the back of the curved sofa you’re seated on—they frame you like a solid wall of muscle, caging you in his embrace. His legs are on either side of your thighs, close enough that you swear you can feel the kiss of leather against your skin, the sheer heat radiating off his body.

The beat is loud, now. It’s loud enough that it sounds like you’re at a club; it sinks through your chest, filling your body up like a balloon as it seizes your senses. Your heart pulses in time with the heavy, throbbing bass—you stare up, eyes wide as all you hear is the sound of your heart and all you see is Rafayel’s eyes.

You could drown in that gaze. You know you could.

“No touching,” Rafayel breathes out. When he bends over, cheek barely milimetres away from your own, your breath hitches at the view down his shirt. “First rule of the club, Miss. No touching the performers.”

“Raf,” you whine, fingers curling desperately into fists by your side as you trace your eyes over the curve of his Adam’s Apple, the crook of his shallow collarbone, the slope of his tits and the fucking sight of his nipples, pebbling from the cold. You want to flick them. You want to put your hands on his abdomen and cup his tits and you want to mess him up.

“It’s better when you wait for it,” Rafayel murmurs. His breath is hot against the crook of your ear, and you can feel the break in his breathing when he laughs. “Do you like this?”

“Do something,” you whine, tilting your head back just to get a better look at the lithe line of Rafayel’s body hovering over yours. It’s driving you insane, having him this close but not touching—you’ve been conditioned to expect skin contact from Rafayel, his little absent-minded touches as he grazes his shoulder against yours, a hand curving around your waist to gently nudge you aside when he walks by, fingers wrapping around yours.

When he exhales, you swear you can see it. The shadow of smoke in the dim light, swooping down in the empty space between both of your lips. It’s maddening having him here, having this sliver of space between you two. You could reach up around his waist and drag him down; you could wrap one hand around the base of his neck and pull and he would go, sweetly, obediently, and he would make the most delicious sounds into your mouth.

You know this. You know it like you know the back of your hand, because he’s done it a million times before. You think you’ve never known anyone as well as you know Rafayel—like looking into a deep pool of still water and finding your reflection looking back.

Rafayel hums, the heat of his breath scattering over your collarbones as he rolls his hips. You swallow, mind spinning from the slightest scrape of tight leather against your thighs. He does it again, hips grinding in this slow, torturous move right above your core.

“Your muscles,” you say weakly, eyes riveted to the tension in his abdomen. His muscles are taut, pale skin clearly visible through the dip in his shirt. A bead of sweat drips down, tracing a path between his pectorals and down, down, down—

Your eyes follow it greedily, wishing you could chase after it with your tongue.

“You look delirious,” Rafayel whispers, his voice low and hoarse. There’s a husk to his words, and you can’t help the way you swallow, fingers tightening further into fists. You’re familiar with that voice. That’s how he sounds after he’s been worked up beyond belief, until all he can think of is laying you out and eating you clean.

This is clearly doing it for him too, just as much as it’s working on you. The lights flicker, bleeding from one color into the next. It’s crazy how Rafayel looks bewitching in every color; the neon red light looks like crimson splashed across his face, highlighting the cut of his cheekbone and the glint of his teeth when he smirks at you. The blue light casts his face into darkness, smoothing his features out and the shadow stretches over him, the color melting into his hair. He looks like a siren rising out of a water surface, eyes half-lidded and lips barely parted, fingers itching to steal your soul away.

You’re possessed by the sudden desire to dump a glass of water on him. This look would be greatly improved if he was drenched to the bone, you think dizzily, with crystal droplets hanging off his eyelashes, dipping in the crook of his lips, pooling in his clavicle. His shirt, translucent as it is, would turn completely transparent. It would cling to his skin even more than it already does.

“Please,” you beg, not even sure what you’re begging for. His hands on you. His mouth on you. His weight on you, pressing you down, holding you in place as he does whatever he wants to your body.

His smirk is so self-satisfied that you want to kiss it off his lips.

“Patience,” he murmurs. Rafayel braces his knees against the seat of the couch and leans back, wearing a brazen look as he looks at you. His smile spreads as he crooks his fingers at you—you bend forward, lips parting as if ready to use your tongue to trace the grooves on his abdomen.

Rafayel laughs. It’s a smug sound, but you can’t even fault him. He cuts a stunning figure like this, thighs spread and framed in shining leather, shirt so low and open that you don’t know where to look; the light drips over his skin like someone poured liquid gold all over him, drenching him in a moving pattern of red and blue lights.

He holds a hand out. “Your hand,” he says, and you quickly put your palm in his like you’re no better than a dog.

“Thank you, baby,” Rafayel teases, flipping your hand over to press a kiss to your fingertips before he pulls it to his jaw. You flex your fingers, trying to swallow past the sudden thudding of your heart as he presses your hand to the slant of his jaw, down to the line of his neck.

You’re not given any time to linger on the heat radiating off his body. He pulls your hand further down, your fingers grasping uselessly at the meat of his chest, trembling as your palm flattens against his skin.

And then, as if he’s been doing this all his life, Rafayel arches his back. His muscles roll in this slow, sinuous movement as he drags your hand down his abdomen.

You can feel it in aching clarity. The expanding of his rib cage as he breathes, the tension in his muscles as he clenches his abdomen to even out the grind of his hips. The heat, that absurd, blistering heat that you’re certain will melt your fingerprints clean off your fingers.

He does it again. Leans forward, eyes glittering in the flickering lights as he arches his back, letting you feel the way his muscles move under his skin as he rolls his hips.

Without thinking, you reach forward with your other hand. You’re not even sure where you’re aiming at—you just want to get your hand on him. The details can be handled later.

But Rafayel catches your wrist before your fingers even scrape past the loose material of his shirt. “No touching the merchandise,” he chides, holding you in place.

Your fingernails scratch pointedly at his abdomen. It makes him huff out a laugh—a surprised, breathy sound that for some reason gives you the urge to get your mouth on him now.

“I’m already touching you,” you breathe out, eyes glazing over when Rafayel clenches his abs just to watch the way you lose focus.

“I let you touch me,” Rafayel shoots back, smug as ever. “You don’t get to touch me without permission.”

“Raf—”

“Just enjoy it, Miss,” he murmurs, nudging one knee in between yours to slide your thighs apart. “I’m putting on a show. Don’t you like it?”

You like it a bit too much. All of a sudden, you realise why people like to keep pretty things in cages. Rafayel would look entrancing like that, you think, eyes wandering over his body. Lounging in a long column of water with transparent walls, like a fish tank in an aquarium large enough to store a whole pod of dolphins. Stuck with no where to go.

But your breath catches in your throat before you can reply with something intelligent. Rafayel presses his lips to the underside of your neck, at the spot where your jaw meets your throat—featherlight, so quickly that you almost miss it.

While you’re frozen, breath trapped under your tongue, he hums and traces a faint path down your body. His lips on your neck, your collarbones, the dip between your tits—he leans down, switching to your bare arm when the fabric of your slip dress gets in the way.

Surely he can feel it. The pulse of your heartbeat under your skin, a mile a minute, fluttering at the sight of his half-crescent lips trailing against the sensitive underside of your forearm.

And then he gets on his knees. He’s right there, eyes bright and glittering like jewels under the dancing lights as he leans forward to press the side of his cheek against your thigh.

You can feel the way his breath heats up against your knee. It feels like he’s burning a mark into you, etching the shape of his lips into your skin. You won’t ever be able to remove it. It’ll be branded into your inner thigh, the crimson half-moon stains that mark you as his.

“Spread your legs for me,” Rafayel whispers, lips curving into a smile. “Open up, baby.”

The flush in your cheeks feels absurd. You must look drunk, inebriated after one too many shots as your thighs spread instinctively to frame Rafayel in between them. He reaches up, each hand wrapping around the outside of your knees, fingers dipping into the crook at the back.

His grip is light, barely any pressure on your legs, but you feel like his hands may as well be two shackles against your knees, holding you in place.

“Wider,” he says, eyes brilliant in the flickering lights. You could drown in that gaze, if the heat in your core didn’t kill you first. “Come on, gorgeous.”

“Raf,” you groan, thighs spreading even further. It makes you slip from your position on the sofa, inching further down just to make space for your legs to open wider.

The fabric of your dress rucks up around your hips. It folds messily, and Rafayel holds your gaze in this heartstopping, torturous moment as his fingers creep up and under your dress.

There’s something about it. Something you can’t explain, not even with an entire dictionary at your disposal. There is something about the way you can’t see his fingers, his palms as he slides them further up your thighs, below the crease of silk. The way the back of his hands and his wrists slowly, gradually disappear under your dress. While he keeps his gaze on you, eyes burning with such intent and desire it makes you breathless.

His fingers bump up against your underwear, the way the fabric digs into your thighs. The shock of it all makes you yelp a little, hands flying forward to feel blindly for Rafayel’s hands under your dress.

You’re not sure what purpose you want to achieve. You’re just—it’s just—it’s just a lot, okay, and the way he looks at you is so—

Rafayel doesn’t do anything. His fingers go still, frozen under your grip, but you can feel the bracing heat of them through the thin fabric of your underwear. Your damp underwear. If his fingers were to slip, you know he would be able to press his thumb against the wet spot right at your slit, or slide higher to press at your throbbing clit.

You make this low, reedy noise, and let go of his hands. You shift even lower on the sofa, back curved as you lean your head back against the headrest. Your thighs spread just a little bit wider.

“Thank you, baby,” Rafayel murmurs, eyes finally lowering as he lifts the skirt of your dress. “Look at how pretty you are.”

“Get on with it,” you bite out, voice shaky from arousal. The music is getting to you—the deep, pulsing bass throbs at your temples, holding your heart in a vice grip. The singer is crooning something; his deep, low voice rumbling on and on about sex and you’re too out of it to properly register the lyrics.

Rafayel pays you no mind. He takes his own sweet time to push your dress further up your hips, exposing the line of your thighs and your underwear to his hungry gaze.

And then, right under your eyes, he leans in and presses a kiss to your stiff clit.

“Raf!” You try to shut your thighs on instinct, hips jerking at the sudden pressure against your clit, but Rafayel’s hands are firm against the inside of your thighs and he holds you open. He forces your legs wider, and he looks up at you as he fits his mouth to the middle of your panties, tongue flat against where your core burns the hottest.

Fuck, you think, mouth open as you try to gasp for air. Rafayel is good at this—too good, you think, to the point where you flush when you catch yourself staring at his mouth for too long sometimes—and he breathes out on your cunt, relishing in the way your clit twitches in your panties.

“You’re so fucking cute,” Rafayel murmurs, pulling the fabric taut over your pussy so he can see your swollen clit straining through your panties. He gives it another kiss, and you arch your back at the electricity that lights your body up when he does that. Rafayel knows what you like, and he wields that knowledge like a weapon.

You gaze at him, eyes half-lidded as you try to reach for his hair. Rafayel ducks away from your searching fingers, giving you a smile when you scowl at him.

“No touching the merchandise,” he reminds you.

A disgruntled noise leaves your mouth. How are you supposed to hold him in place when he won’t let you touch him? “Take them off, Raf, please—”

It’s as if Rafayel was put on this Earth specifically to raise your blood pressure. Even when he has his mouth on your cunt, face between your legs, he’s still possessed by the overpowering urge to do something that goes against what you say.

“Not yet,” he says, nonplussed, and drags your underwear to the side to expose your dripping center. “Look at how wet you are.”

Rafayel’s voice is gravelly, hoarse as he stares at you. Your pussy clenches instinctively—his gaze feels heavy, like a physical weight bearing into you. You’d really like a physical weight bearing into you right now, actually, and you know exactly where you can find one.

He presses his tongue to your clit. Your hips spasm, eyes rolling into the back of your head when he closes his lips around your swollen bud and sucks. It feels like fire burning through your entire body, pleasure sparking in your veins when he laps at your clit. You could cum like this, his clever tongue working your clit over and over in the soft wetness of his mouth.

“So pretty,” Rafayel murmurs to himself, not even caring if you hear. He drags his tongue down, licking along the length of your cunt, spit mixing with the wetness dripping from your pussy. He rearranges his grip on your inner thigh—his palm frames the vee of your hips now, thumb pulling at the side of your cunt to open you up for his taking.

Rafayel eats you out like a man possessed. There’s this wild, desperate hunger in him, in the way he moves his mouth, the way he surfaces to gasp for air before going back to dip his tongue into your pussy and lick at your insides. He eats you out so greedily that you can truly believe he would be happy here, trapped between your legs and buried in your cunt for so long he goes breathless while you go cross-eyed with pleasure so overwhelming it makes you dizzy.

“Fuck,” Rafayel groans, panting against your cunt. His breath feels like he’s blowing hot smoke against your clit, making it twitch uncontrollably with every gust of air over it. You’re so worked up that just this is enough to make your hips jerk forward, chasing the ghost of his mouth to try to get it back on your cunt. “You taste so fucking good, Miss—”

“More,” you beg, straining against the sofa to try to get leverage, any kind of leverage to tilt your hips up. “Please, Raf, I’m close—fuck, I’m—”

This time, he doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves his head, tongue curling as he fucks it into your throbbing pussy. You’re so close, right on the precipice—it’s like your entire body is a livewire, hips jerking uncontrollably whenever his tongue hits that sweet spot and making your nerves light up with pleasure. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open; you want to keep your eyes on Rafayel, to see the way his curls bounce as he mouths hungrily at your cunt. But the pleasure is so devastating, so mind-numbing that you can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut, your body unable to concentrate on more than one sensation at once.

Your clit is so stiff that it aches. And when Rafayel licks at it, flicking his tongue against your swollen clit and relishing in the desperate, needy sounds falling from your mouth—

It crescendos like a tsunami wave rising to its peak. Your body freezes, mouth falling open as you arch your back, pushing up, up, up against Rafayel’s tongue. It spreads through you like a wildfire, burning you up from the inside out. Your mind is blank, you can’t think, you can’t even make a sound.

You just gasp, silent as the orgasm crashes over you like the tide, taking you under and drowning you beneath the water. Rafayel keeps fucking going, sucking at your clit to keep you right on that knife’s edge, pleasure melting into overstimulation because he knows you like it when it aches. When it becomes a little biting, when it starts to hurt just a little.

He laps at your clit until you shiver, hands weakly pressing against his forehead. Rafayel gives your cunt one last lick, sucking at the lips of your pussy and licking his lips when he catches your gaze.

“All done?” He asks, reaching up to wipe the visible remnants of your orgasm from his jaw. “Another one?”

“I want to suck your cock,” you say, the breath still mostly fucked out of you. “Come—come here.”

“Nuh-uh,” Rafayel tells you, rising back to his feet. The music is still thumping through the walls, resounding in the room as you tilt your head back and stare up at him. “I’m not done. It isn’t a strip show until I’ve gotten naked.”

You blink at him. He still—

“Okay,” you say uselessly. You can see the thick outline of his cock through his pants, so visible that you’re almost certain the leather will burst. “Go on.”

He gives you this smug, confident smile, and you politely don’t mention how the bottom half of his mouth is still wet from your cum.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace x reader #l&ds rafayel #rafayel #恋与深空 #祁煜 #러브앤딥스페이스 #恋と深空 #rin writes l&ds

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sasha199 · 4 months ago

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You Promised Me

Hey yall, posting my first ever BG3 fanfiction here, about my Tav a she/her female high elf wizard name Gwyneth. She is widowed at the start of the nautaloid adventure and doing research work in the city of Baldur's Gate when she is abducted. She does end up pairing off with out favorite Wizard of the Deepest Water. Trigger warnings for some gore and ickiness, lots of smut coming soon! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

(3 years after the death of Professor DeMarco Daneil and on the cusp of the beginning of our story.)

"I just don't understand it, Professor."

Gwynnie smiled slightly, exasperated and amused. She set her wine goblet down absently on a passing tray that was floating through the room of its own accord. "Gerrett, please don't address me as professor here. This is an informal setting." She had thought long and hard about what to wear to this event, the black form-fitting gown she'd chosen was perfect, formal and floor length but sexy with an open back, revealing and hiding just enough. DeMarco would have loved it, or rather he would have loved getting her out of it, once all this posturing and networking with the bigwigs of the wizard community was done.

She sighed and picked up a fresh drink from another floating tray, DeMarco had always hated attending industry and academic conferences and galas. It all took time away from the actual work he could be doing preferably in the field, but research needed funding so Gwynnie had always ushered him into some formal robes and taken it upon herself to lead him into the fray of their colleagues' annual dinners, cocktail hours and other social events. The department needed to put faces to names and they deserved to know what an asset he was to the industry, how wonderfully funny and witty her husband was… She took a long slow drink from her goblet and blinked hard. She could do this, she could bear it for DeMarco.

"Are you alright pro- ah sorry I mean, Gwynnie?"

She blinked again, adjusting her spectacles, "Yes, Gerrett, much more than alright. And in response to your statement I quite agree. Very little makes sense regarding the progress made by the department of Transmutation. They claim that many of their recent breakthroughs prove theories that the gods themselves, while divine are not infallible. In fact, some deign that we are not as far removed from the higher powers that rule our lives as they would have us believe."

"Would that it were true," Gerrett tugged absently at his collar, "but if the veil between the mortal and the divine is so thin, why have the gods at all?"

"Do I hear you casually speaking heresy, Mistress Deneil?" came a gruff voice from over her shoulder. Gwynnie felt a genuine smile spread across her face for the first time in months as she turned to see the Sage of Shadowdale shambling over. His formal robes were threadbare and his cheeks ruddy from wine. Long winded though he was Gwynnie always found the archmage amusing, and she never had to work hard to be taken seriously by him, unlike a few of the mages in his entourage that were following in his wake. Rumor had it that he had spent some time in his long existence on the material plane as a woman. She couldn't say exactly why but she found the idea of this powerful man choosing to spend centuries as a woman hopelessly endearing.

"Always, Magister," she inclined her head politely, "though I'm sure your sweet and forgiving mistress will spare me from the ire of her silver fire."

"Mystra spares those who deserve it, or who have earned it. She does what she does for divine reasons, I know my place in that equation." He suddenly turned serious and took Gwynnie's goblet free hand between his own. "My personal condolences are long overdue, my dear," his voice was low and somber, "DeMarco was such a talented and forthright elf. I know he is sorely missed by many."

"Thank you." Gwynnie felt a mask slip over her face, "the flowers you sent were lovely." She glanced sideways at Gerrett who was standing to her side slack jawed at this informal exchange. "May I introduce you to Gerrett Highchamber, he is our - my - primary research assistant and a great talent regarding Abjuration magic. I would not be standing here before you without him."

Gwynnie tuned out the continuation of the conversation, silently congratulating herself for being so composed. She was so tired of all the condolences, the sympathy. Her face ached from smiling somberly and graciously, it was all beginning to feel like an act, a performance. She missed DeMarco deeply, of course she did. Everything and everyone was a reminder of his absence, being here mingling among their colleagues and friends on her own felt as if someone had cast Inflict Wounds on her heart again and again. Part of her wanted to disappear, to vanish to become someone else.

Hours later she made her way back to her home that evening alone and exhausted. Gerrett had been a perfect escort, and she was grateful for his help this evening but he had a family to get home to. She trudged up the stairs to her tower, still strange to think of it as her tower now, slipping off her high heels at the door. She padded barefoot into the kitchen unzipping her dress as she went, letting it pool on the floor around her and leaving it where it hit the floor.

There was nothing in her icebox but a half pint of frozen sweet cream with the spoon sticking up out of it. She popped the lid on a half empty wine container and took a swig directly from the jar. She pulled the pins out of her chignon until her hair brushed her bare shoulders in pink waves. Sticking a spoon full of the sweet cream into her mouth she half-heartedly waved at the dusty piano covered with documents in the corner of the room. Something began to play, she didn't recognize the tune but it was better than the immensity of her own thoughts.

She looked at the scroll spread before her on the table where she'd left it that morning. Baldur's Gate. She had never been there, but from what she knew it was a big city, not as large as Neverwinter or as grand as Waterdeep but still, easy to get lost in. She had never heard of this Lord Gortash, the noble who had signed the document, but his seal did look official.

"Fuck it," she muttered around the cold spoon, "I can do research anywhere. The work will get done." She glanced up at a painting of her and DeMarco, that hung over the mantle, there were cobwebs in the corners of it. His face was bright, looking at her caught in the moment between a laugh and a smile. Could she still remember his laugh? Worry suddenly gripped her belly through her drunken haze and with a flash she conjured Silent Image. Suddenly a shimmering translucent copy of a dark-skinned curly-haired elf with grey eyes appeared before her. He took out a book from his pocket and crossed the room towards her. She stood there naked, metal spoon still in her hand, she opened her arms wide… and let the image walk through her. She felt nothing as it became invisible for a moment, became one with her and continued on. She turned to watch it dissipate as it reached the opposite wall behind her and hot tears spilled unbidden down her cheeks. "The work will get done, DeMarco. I promise you."

Thanks for reading!!

#gale romance #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale oc #gale x oc #baldurs gate gale #bg3 fanfiction #gale smut #galemance #smut #grieving #loss #baldur's gate 3 #elminster #bg3 mystra #fuck mystra #you.promised.me

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wildfallproject · 4 months ago

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Fundamentals of Intent (Magic)

Every being is created from a constituent of three elements. A Body, Mind and Soul. Without one or the other, it is believed that a being will have their existence thrown out of balance, either physically or ethereally.

The Body acts as a surrogate for a beings capacity to interact with the physical world. Assumed to be a mixture of the elemental chaos that first collided with the material plane, bringing with it strict laws for which all matter must follow. The body is only a material manifest of the mind and soul, possibly imperfect, but providing an avenue for the conscious to have effect on others.

The Mind is the literal manifestation of a being, its thoughts, wants, aims and rational. It is conjured through the Ethereal plane, for which serves as the plane of platonic forms that overlaps all of Wildfall.

The Soul is the Ying and Yang forces that counterbalance the previously mentioned Mind. A being is able to ration, understand and even form emotional connections without a soul, but it is unable to form the link between interpretation and objective; i.e Seeing a sword and understanding it is a blade, vs., seeing a sword and understanding it means danger or glee. The soul is believed to be a combination of forces from the Negative and Positive energy planes.

The Interplay between ones Mind and Soul is commonly referred to as consciousness. Due to the close connection between the Ethereal and Material planes, when the consciousness intends something with such conviction, it is actually able to conjure things into being. This conviction must be incredibly powerful however, even on deaths door, the intention must be hyper-focused and powerful. Because of this, many that want to be a practitioner in this form of magic must use certain tactics to hone their intent. Some may turn to a philosophy of the natural world and/or intense study to take significant load of the their need to manifest; or others may use music/poetry/imagery to emotionally fixate on an intended outcome.

Causal Schools of Magic

Causal Schools of Magic refers to the traditional forms that only rely on creating effects that otherwise fit within the material laws. Causing fire to emanate from your hands, conjuring images in thin air and/or mystically tricking another mind into believing, you no questions asked. The Causal School of Magic include...

Evocation, Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Illusion, Transmutation.

Perversion Schools of Magic

Perversion Schools of Magic, or arcane taboos, refer to forms that rely on not just creating effects in the material laws, but fundamentally changing them in the process. These forms can often come with disastrous effects and require significantly more intent to conjure. Perversion Schools of Magic include...

Necromancy, Graviturgy, Chronomancy, Ethelleturgy.

#creative writing #dnd #dnd campaign #dnd5e #drama #dungeons and dragons #fantasy #worldbuilding #writing #magic #magic system #youcantsee

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heart-gamer · 2 years ago

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ONE OF THE BEST CARDIOPHILE STORIES

You've been trying your best not to let the woman sitting next to you on the plane affect you, but she's far too stunning to let that happen. From the moment her lush, round bottom rubbed up against you on the way to her window seat (her thank you in response to you politely standing up to let her go by sounding as sensual as silk) your blood has been on fire.

You piece together the rest of her appearance by the (hopefully) sly, sneak peeks you've been taking to the right of you: wild ebony curls surrounding a flawless caramel complexion; almond-shaped eyes with a tigress-like tilt at the corners; an upturned nose, and a broad, full lower lip paired with a cupid's bow shaped upper lip. The voluptuous breasts (jiggling at the scooped neckline of her jersey shirt) generous hips, and thick thighs that perfectly complemented that gorgeous fat ass of hers, has you lying your jacket across your lap as though you're a pre-teen instead of a grown man on his way back from a transatlantic business conference. If you were actually able to stand, you'd try to move to the empty aisle seat beside you, or settle yourself with a quick jerk-off in the lavatory.

Except jerking off was getting old. It's all you've been doing to quell your sexual frustration, and alleviate the stress that came from your recent promotion at work, the latter leaving you little time for a social life to take care of the former. For the first time since you'd lost your virginity, you were in a drought. All your friends used to be jealous of how frequently you got laid. But now it's been months since you have, and it's been driving you crazy. All that pent up energy within you was easy to ignore when you were distracted with work, but once you got into bed, the hot blood that seared throughout your veins fueled your pounding heart; you could feel it against your chest, see it pushing against your shirt, hear it in your ears. The sensation of it all always got you horny, because of your heartbeat fetish; thanks to PornHub, you discovered that this is called cardiophilia, and that there's plenty of videos in that category. Before then, you'd just been using a cheap stethoscope you'd purchased on Amazon and used it to listen to your own heart as you masturbated (but never used during your sexual encounters, because you worried it'd weird out the women you were with). At first, those videos gave you more than enough material to satiate all that unleashed lust, but it didn't come close to replacing the touch of a woman.

And the one next to you is exactly what you need.

Shortly after take off, the woman puts in earbuds - and falls asleep in minutes with her head propped against the window. The posture exposes her long, graceful throat, and the vein that throbs there rapidly. Even more tantalizing is the sight of her heartbeat moving very visibly beneath her skin, thrusting through the thin fabric of her shirt, making the tops of her breasts tremble. It's like one of your fetish videos brought to life, right before you, a fantasy practically at your fingertips, yet one you can't quite touch. Or ignore.

The wild pounding of your own heart increases with each second even as you try to keep your breathing under control, stifling a moan as your cock begins thumping and straining against your jeans. You force your eyes closed, hoping to will away your latent arousal, but it's too late - the image of the woman's pulse pumping away in her throat is burned into your memory. And despite yourself, you begin to imagine what it would be like to lay her down, slowly removing her top to reveal the rest of her gorgeous breasts, watching her heart beating between them, then taking your stethoscope and pressing it right to that sweet spot, the cold diaphragm raising goose bumps on her smooth skin, causing her nipples to harden...you'd feel the diaphragm moving up and down between your fingers...then you'd slip in the earpieces of the stethoscope and listen to her heart pound away, deep and loud and thumpy and fast...and then you'd slide your fingers inside her where she'd be moist and creamy and ready...the faster your fingers moved, the faster her heart would pound...thump thump thump thump thump thump...you'd feel her heart pushing hard against that diaphragm as your fingers went deeper inside her, thrusting in and out, in and out...thump thump thump thump thump thump...she'd arch her back and start to moan, coating your fingers with the sweet honey inside her...thump thump thump thump thump thump...you'd hear her heart start to go out of control, hear her getting closer and closer to the brink as the sound of her heartbeat became deafening...

Your eyes pop open just when the orgasm tears through you; you grit your teeth, both hands clinging to the armrests, biting your lower lip to stifle a shout, squeezing your knees together as you cum hard in your pants, for what seems like ages.

Spent, you slump back into your seat, waiting for your breathing to normalize and the insane hammering of your heart to slow down. Once you're much calmer, you risk yet another glance at the woman beside you. She's still asleep, except you can swear - if you're not mistaken - that there's a hint of a smile on her lips.

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goodlucktai · 1 year ago

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one prize i’d cheat to win

pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3k title borrowed from willow by taylor swift time travel fix-it (of sorts)

read on ao3

The fire was everything that Aziraphale could see. It burned hotter than the physical plane could account for, melting air and light and sound and smell and taste until it was nothing but heat, nothing but the snap and roar and teeth of flame.

Hellfire, blessed by the archangels. It was like napalm.

The bookshop folded around him like paper, ceasing to exist, and the fire inched ever closer. It was all ending, he realized. Everything was over.

The hand clenched around his tightened, and then let go. Aziraphale turned to follow it, only to find himself gathered up and held fast, thin arms like steel bands around his back, clawed fingers digging into the material of his coat.

He turned his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck, breathing in the smell of his skin. He was shaking, and he was terrified, and he was not alone.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, his heart breaking with not having said it before.

“Save it,” Crowley replied, short and sharp. “Tell me later.”

He was—humming. When Aziraphale pulled away to look at him, his face was tight with concentration. He didn’t appear given up in the least. The fire was ten feet away on all sides, and Crowley had a look on his face reminiscent of the demon who delayed the eruption of Vesuvius for an impossible half hour, who held back the ash and smoke with his bare hands and an objective sense of what he was and was not capable of, for the sake of a few hundred lives spared that otherwise would not have been spared.

The fire was still moving. The humming was louder. Crowley’s eyes were all yellow, the pupil a thin, stark slit through the middle. He was holding Aziraphale with the desperation of someone who didn’t want to let go but knew they must.

His wings opened suddenly, a brilliant snap of midnight black against the fire. The primaries caught almost immediately and Aziraphale let out a wounded noise, reaching out uselessly to pull them in again.

Crowley caught his hands and stilled them.

“I mean it,” he said, anguished, burning, rebellious, beautiful. “Tell me later.”

And then, with a wrench, those yellow eyes and ruined wings and familiar hands were gone.

Everything was gone.

There was nothing, and then there was the garden wall.

The Eastern guardian is an alright sort, Crawly thinks, with wary optimism. Not like that knob over on the Western wall.

They met the morning after the very first Sunday, when the world was factory new. The principality had his feathers all ruffled, wild-eyed and breathless as if he’d given his corporation a good workout. Eve liked to run through the greenery with the big cats in the morning, her powerful limbs pumping, chest expanding, dark hair flying like a flag behind her. The angel’s discomposure seemed of a different sort.

He approached Crawly with a quick step, and Crawly—well, never let it be said he’s slow on the uptake. And he’s learned over the past twenty-some hours on Earth that angels very much strike first and apologize never.

So he backpedaled, keeping a healthy distance (and a large ficus) between himself and the guardian, and didn’t mind if it made him look like a coward.

Only—the angel certainly looked stricken by that maneuver. He froze mid-step and wrung his hands, eyes wide and lamplike and strangely human.

So maybe the ficus was a bit much.

Crawly stepped out from behind it, but didn’t come any closer. He wasn’t stupid no matter what Hastur and Beelzebub and Dagon all said.

“Hullo,” he said carefully, well-aware that even that much was dangerous. The Western guardian had nearly smote him just for slithering too close. “Don’t think we’ve met. I’m called Crawly.”

Later on, when the earth was much older and this garden was nothing but a footnote in a book that people took much too seriously, a very willful and compassionate human who devoted most of her life to helping and healing would invent the model of the five stages of grief. It was a framework for coping with or understanding a great loss.

And the first thing it would make Crawly think of is this very moment, and the look on the angel’s face when Crawly said hello.

The angel’s expression crumpled and his wings curled in around his shoulders and—bright and shining as he was, as perfect a creation as anything could be walking in Her light and love—he made himself very small.

He was like a black hole of misery. It made Crawly feel small, too.

It could have been minutes or hours—time was still a new concept, and took some getting used to—but finally the angel seemed to settle. He folded his wings neatly, loosed the painful-looking clench of his hands on his elbows, and let his arms fall from where he’d hugged them to his middle.

If he was still upset, Crawly couldn’t tell. They’d only just met, after all. Still, he found himself searching the angel’s face for a trace of that sadness, disquieted by it.

The angel smiled, and it was beautiful. It was warm and wry and not at all Heaven-perfect and it was beautiful.

“Hello, my dear,” the angel said. “My Name is Aziraphael.”

The Holy resonance of it burned—not enough to send Crawly sprinting for the nearest hidey-hole, but enough to make him wince. It’s not as though Aziraphael—ow—could help it. They just were naturally incompatible conversation partners, that was all, Crawly realized with a sinking spirit. Probably shouldn’t make a habit of it.

“But between you and I,” the principality continued smoothly, “I made a slight mishap when signing for this body of mine.”

Angels don’t have between-you-and-Is with demons. They don’t have mishaps. And his tone was almost playful, as if he was inviting Crawly in on a secret.

It was the best thing Crawly had ever heard. He wouldn’t have moved from that spot for anything, not even if Michael himself came by and offered Crawly his old job back.

“I must have been nervous about the promotion,” the angel admitted sheepishly. “Somehow I misspelled my own name! Can you believe that? I wrote down Aziraphale.”

(The first time around, it had taken Aziraphale a shamefully long time to realize that his Name caused Crowley outright pain. The demon couldn’t even speak it without cutting his tongue on his eyeteeth. After that belated discovery, it would take several more years still for Aziraphale to muster the courage to—accidentally flub one of his signatures. He’d held his breath, wondering if it would work, and amazingly, ineffably, it had.

This second time around, he hadn’t flubbed a signature yet. He didn’t even feel guilty for the lie. Tenses could be tricky when Time itself was such a new thing, after all, as Aziraphale would explain remorselessly over scotch some thousands of years later. Crowley would slam his glass down in vindication and declare that tenses—and all the other illogical snares and contradictory pitfalls of the English language—were some of his best work.)

“Aziraphale,” Crawly parroted without thinking, and when it didn’t hurt, he lit up. Trying not to sound too eager about it, because that was the best way to get things snatched out of your hands, he added, “That rolls right off the tongue. Might stick to calling you that, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do,” Aziraphale said, as if he was happy to hear it.

And so—Crawly thinks this angel is alright. More than, if he’s being honest, which he tries not to do. It tends to give the other Fallen hives.

The angel treads carefully sometimes, as though he’s trying to find his footing in the dark, as though there are things he can and cannot say. But he never shuts Crawly down outright, never leaves him in a sudden fit of righteous anger the way Crawly is always braced for him to.

In fact, he hardly leaves Crawly’s side at all.

They talk as though they were made to spend hours just talking to each other. Crawly is starving for conversation. He’s curious about everything and he has questions, and for the first time, here is someone willing to discuss them.

They share fruits from the trees and forage for mushrooms and shellfish. They wade through the clear pool by the waterfall to get a closer look at some impressive flowers growing on the opposite bank, even though it would have been more practical to fly, and then spend an entire afternoon airing their wings dry. The sun sets and rises and sets overhead and the angel stays.

“Don’t you, er,” Crawly says at one point, hesitant to remind the angel that he almost certainly has more important things to do than wander the garden with a demon, “have to—guard?”

After all, the other principalities haven’t left their posts to so much as stretch their legs. Aziraphale isn’t even carrying his sword.

Aziraphale politely finishes chewing his fig before speaking. “From what, exactly?”

“Er,” Crawly says again, and then gestures at himself, as if to say ‘me?’

The angel raises an eyebrow at him. And, okay, granted, Crawly isn’t being very adversarial at the moment. He’s got an affectionate onager in his lap, and its long velvety ears are so soft Crawly can’t help but pet them. But he could be adversarial if he wanted to. He’s very wily .

“I think I can thwart you just as well from down here,” Aziraphale says, and offers him a fig.

They even meet the humans. Aziraphale introduces himself, and then introduces the massive black serpent wound shyly around his shoulders as my friend, Crawly. Eve puts out her hands to hold him without a second of misgiving. It makes it easier to tempt her, in the end.

That’s what the book will say happened, anyway, but Crawly doesn’t think of it as tempting. He didn’t set out to hurt her. He wasn’t even snake-shaped at the time. They were only talking, and he wondered aloud all the same whys and what-fors that got him in big trouble Upstairs. And Eve got a look on her face that Crawly recognized, and that look never really went away, and the next thing anyone else knows, she’s biting into an apple.

“Oh, well done, Crawly,” Hastur says with mean glee, when the memo goes around. “Looks like you’re good for something after all.”

It didn’t feel very good. And Adam and Eve were very sad and hurt by the whole thing, which made him feel even worse.

At least Aziraphale is good-natured about it, when Crawly tentatively seeks him out. He makes a joke about ineffable plans even before Crawly could, as if he can tell at a glance that Crawly is afraid he may be angry.

“They sent you up here to make some mischief, and you certainly did that, at least,” the angel adds ruefully. “We can’t help what we are, my dear.”

They watch the human’s exodus together. Adam and Eve climb through the garden wall and step out into the vast sands with their heads held high, each carrying woven palm leaf bags filled with nuts and fruits, Adam with his arm around the neck of Crawly’s sweet onager, and Eve flocked by the big cats who love her more than they would love any paradise without her.

When it begins to rain, Aziraphale offers up a magnificent piebald wing without a second thought, so perfunctory about the whole thing that Crawly automatically looks over his shoulder for whoever that wing must actually be for.

With a little scoff, Aziraphale closes the distance himself. The curl of his wing draws Crawly into his side. Not close enough to touch, but—close enough. Here, on the edge of the wall, on the edge of—whatever is going to happen next—they’re standing together instead of apart.

He tries to feel normal about that.

Through the rain, he could just make out Adam drawing his wife closer in a similar fashion (not that Crawly was going to spend the next two hundred years thinking about those similarities, or anything) and in the opposite hand he raises what looks like….

“Now hang on,” Crawly says, squinting. “That sword looks familiar.”

“Good lord I’ll never live this down, will I?” the angel beside him mutters.

“You—that’s yours!” Crawly jerks around to look at him, bewildered. “I’d recognize it anywhere. Guardian-grade, that is. Your counterpart to the West nearly skewered me with theirs.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flash. “They what?”

“Nevermind them. What’s Adam doing with your sword? He can’t have invented stealing already! We’ve literally only just started.”

Aziraphale is too busy glaring Westward to answer for a moment.

It’s the closest he’s come to Holy Wrath in Crawly’s presence. The snake shuffles a little, made anxious by the angel’s obvious anger. His reptile brain starts throwing up flags. His human brain, however—troublesome, marvelous thing that it is—refuses to entertain the idea that Aziraphale could ever be a danger to him.

Other angels, maybe, but not his.

Hm. That might come back to bite him. He writes it off as future problems for future Crawlys.

Aziraphale finally jerks his head forward again, a scowl on his perfect face. He curls his wing in, giving Crawly no choice but to press against his side.

“I swear, the standards are abysmal,” Aziraphale mutters with vitriol. “They’ll give just anybody a halo.”

“Not anybody,” Crawly thinks it fair to point out. He waves a hand above his own head where a shining, resplendent crown of light used to sit. It was a gaudy, heavy thing. Secretly, he’s happy for the excuse not to have to haul it around.

The angel huffs, his mouth twisting into a reluctantly amused smile. No matter how many times Crawly reminds him that he’s a demon, he isn’t bothered.

“You’re worth a thousand of any one of them, my dear.”

Even if he doesn’t mean it, Crawly likes that he said it. It’s nice to be told he’s worth something for a change. Before he can get any more distracted, or start wriggling around like a happy lizard, Crawly says, “The sword, angel?”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale says ruefully. “Adam and your clever Eve needed it more than I did.”

“Oh,” Crawly says aloud. It’s all he can say. His heart is racing, so he presses both hands to it before it can run off without him. The angel is gazing at him with something in his eyes that Crawly doesn’t recognize. Is Aziraphale waiting for him to speak again? Crawly swallows, and opens his mouth, but all that comes out is another, overwhelmed, “Oh.”

Aziraphale is watching, this time. All of his focus, all of his attention belongs to the being at his side.

This time he sees the way his wily, lovely Crowley’s face changes in lieu of this new piece of knowledge. His yellow eyes are wide and full, his lips parting. Wonder, Aziraphale recognizes. Fascination.

Infatuation.

The snake is a new creature and his human shape is newer still. Someday he will know how to perform with the best of them, will know how to hide all of his thoughts behind implacable yellow eyes as deftly as closing a door, but for now he wears them on his sleeve next to his heart. His mouth twitches into a smile and he lets it, because he doesn’t know better.

He looks up at Aziraphale with the curious beginnings of love on his face, surrounded by Aziraphale’s feathers and sheltered against his side from the storm. But for the first time, Aziraphale is leagues ahead of him.

Aziraphale adores him. He adores the person Crawly is going to become—the frustrating, endlessly clever, self-conscious and compassionate love of Aziraphale’s entire stupid life—and he adores him now. This somewhat shy, always-curious creature with a million questions about every single thing in Creation that Falling and burning and damnation were not enough to snuff from his soul.

Aziraphale spent the entirety of his former existence feeling torn in two, always anxious, forever guilty, wanting and craving and denying himself, every new day a new exercise in self-flagellation. But there at the end, he had finally figured it out. Too late, of course, but he had.

Love is not a sin.

And his love had somehow given him this. At the end of everything, at the unraveling of their hard-won happy ending, his Crowley had given him this marvelous, impossible second chance.

Aziraphale is going to be worthy of it. Aziraphale is going to live every moment the way he should have done the first time around. He’s going to care for Crowley the way he deserves to be cared for. He’s going to fight tooth and nail for them for once in his goddamn life.

LANGUAGE, he hears in his head, a wry admonishment.

Aziraphale doesn’t startle badly enough to fall off the wall, but it’s close. Crawly clutches at him in alarm. He looks bewildered, but he doesn’t look as though he’s hearing the voice of the Host, because he certainly would have fallen off the wall. Small blessings.

Aziraphale clearly remembers the last time his Mother spoke to him directly, when She asked about his sword and he as good as lied to Her face about it. It wasn’t a particularly good lie, but he was nervous about it for years anyway. This time, he doesn’t feel any particular reason to tell Her anything but the truth.

I’m keeping him, he says stubbornly.

THAT’S THE IDEA, God replies, the definition of impossible to surprise. JUST TRY NOT TO UPSET THE ENTIRE APPLE-CART AS YOU GO.

Good Lord, Aziraphale thinks, I am so sick to death of apples.

He’s ready for something brand-new.

“When the rain stops,” he says, “let’s leave here together.”

“Uh-huh,” Crawly agrees automatically. He doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s still holding Aziraphale’s arm, until the angel covers his hand with one of his own. Then he blinks, and his face colors magnificently, and his brain seems to catch up to his mouth. “Ghk—guh—where?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Aziraphale says, and smiles at him. “We can figure it out as we go.”

#good omens #gomens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #gomens fic #in honor of season 2 im back on my bullshit

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arachling2 · 10 months ago

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𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒑 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕,

( You wake in the middle of the night to a strange scent wafting in the air. The smell is strange to you, a dark perfume of umbral flowers & ancient temples. It's alluring to you, enveloping you in the promise of tantalizing secrets as you follow the dim purple glow between the trees. )

This event occurs as an interruption to the sleeping character, the nose tickled by burning incense & the eyes captured by the amethyst glow that flickers between the trees like a fire. Communion with the gods is a delicate thing, it is a moment of spiritual & emotional vulnerability as the mind seeks connection with greater entities beyond the material plane.

𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁 isn't just his Goddess, she's his mother. Though he wasn't directly raised by her, she still maintained an overwhelming presence in his life & he'd always been lead to hold a great reverence for her. She was everything to her 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗐, their matron, their Queen, the only higher power to acknowledge their ancestors struggling to survive after being torn asunder. Without her, they would've faded into nothing more than myths on the pages of history books.

However, that doesn't absolve her of her tyranny. The way she's perverted the culture of her 𝖤𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗌 to become so cutthroat & hostile is a betrayal in & of itself. This, coupled with her callous decision to allow his house to collapse out of petulant jealousy, cuts a wound deeper than he knows how to even begin to mend.

Stuck in a horrific tug-of-war between his heartbroken anger & his desire for her maternal bond, all he can do is kneel before a makeshift altar & talk. Of course, he doesn't have an altar in the traditional sense, he carries a woven cloth made of his own silk & bundled inside are: An ornate brass & silver candlestick, coated in a thin film of wax from so many years of regular use. A few small shards of 𝘓𝘰𝘭𝘵𝘩'𝘴 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦, the quartz still flickering with a dim light despite its distance from the 𝖴𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄. A small round incense burner, the brass lid emulating a complex web pattern through which the tendrils of smoke rise through.

Various other objects join the collection from time to time, he rotates the incense used between scents he knows she favored, offerings tossed into the fire on a day he's feeling particularly sentimental, but he lays it all out across the cloth in purposeful positions before beginning his rituals. That is how he is found in the woods, cross legged on his woven altar & deep in concentration, face illuminated only by the haunting glow of 𝖴𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 candlelight.

Succeeding in a religion check will reveal the 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 origins of this kind of worship, the Spider Queen has a poor reputation on the surface & interrupting the silent prayer will result in a very calm ' it's not what it seems like ' scenario. During which, he will state he has no current plans to kill you in your sleep or feed you to spiders.

Rebuking his practice will sour the relationship greatly. He is not able to completely abandon 𝖫𝗈𝗅𝗍𝗁, he is connected to her & her domain like an umbilical chord connects an infant to their mother. Of course this wouldn't be known at the time, but not bothering to care or acknowledge that you clearly are missing context in the situation will make him form the opinion you're not worth wasting that much breath on.

#ˊ 🕸️ ﹙ 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 ﹚ ﹐

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bruinescence · 11 months ago

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@callidusdryadalis cont.

As lithe fingers curled around the saw grass-adjourned peaks of his bicep, the Archdruid made the most of the rescue by lifting his oddly met company clean of the water, even if that meant cradling him closer than what a charity fair goer and a booth-beholden volunteer called for in terms of proximity. Before there had been but a wooden box between them, and now there was but a thin (but painfully chilling) layer of river water between the dry heat of his flesh and the soaked shivering of doused skin. He hated the idea that his company had fared better in the enclosure than with him in the wild, but... such was the will of Silvanus.

As he felt the shifting stir below him, he allowed his gaze to drift down to the waterlogged expression pitched up at him. Oh, how he did feel a tad responsible for the poor lad's condition. Still...there was naught he could do for it now except ensure the other made it to a warm fire where he could dry off and cure the subtle shivers that the Archdruid felt against his chest the more he guided his company against the firm fortitude of his chest. The other would need it once they'd taken off again if he wanted to ensure he did not fall through the spell and back into the chilling dunk of the river.

"I suppose one with the fortitude of surviving a full twenty four hours within the confines of a booth would be." He mused when his pale-haired company confirmed that he was still around...or at least conscious considering Halsin knew he was there by a soft squeeze round the waist. As the shivers against him continued, the druid frowned and only tightened his grip around the other elf. Such a nasty night for traveling, for sure. And the direness of their journey so far only seemed to invite doubt in his company. Inviting the glum chin upwards with the tips of his fingers, Halsin offered a candid smile.

"A burden does not inspire me to make it unhindered to the bankside, I'll have you know. And besides..." A series of tuts followed, along with the older druid's curious yet brief nuzzle against the grass lining that made up the other's druid-issued shoulder pads. "...perhaps you are a tad too harsh on yourself?" With that issued, he squeezed his company upon the river rock's waist firmly before drawing a free hand to his chest once more. A heavy mist summoned about them provided the conduit needed for him to teleport them back over to the solid ground of the bank, albeit with the exception that they appeared into the material plane once again with the Archdruid's face buried contently in the persisting warmth of his passenger's neck.

"...there we go. Back on our feet. Should you need it, I can carry you to the nearest campfire."

#callidusdryadalis #long post

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divinegrey · 2 years ago

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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐞 / 𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐲𝐧 𝐱 𝐠𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summoning my arcane girlies and gays we got some CAITLYN UP IN HERE WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

prompt: Caitlyn with a sell sword that is a very bold flirt 👀 And Caitlyn is just a blushing mess but keeps trying to hide it [requested by my bestie u know who u are]

words: 1300

warnings: strap jokes, mel being sneaky, caitlyn being dommy mommy, innuendos, MORE innuendos

It isn’t every day that you get to work for the Kiramman’s, and it certainly isn’t every day that you get posted to watch the daughter of the Councilor, Caitlyn Kiramman.

If you weren’t at a party, dressed to the nines with a rifle strapped to your back and gilded gun holster around your leg, you’d spit on the floor, just for the sake of it.

But, as it is, you have to be respectful and make sure you aren’t interrupting the event being hosted by the Kiramman’s on their wealthy summer estate, just outside the main gates of Piltover and facing the ocean. It’s a nice place, a little large, but it’s nice.

You focus on the event itself, scanning your eyes around the place. Your coterie of guns-for-hire were signed on to guard this event, and guarding is something you’re good at, especially when you’re assigned to watch one person.

It’s only a bonus that Caitlyn is drop dead gorgeous in her blue silk dress, shoulders bare save for the thin straps of dark blue material. A gold necklace is settled around her collarbones, firm and rigid like plate armor. Her hair flows behind her back, pin straight, and you watch her tuck some of her hair behind her ear while conversing with Councilor Medarda in low tones.

Interestingly enough, you notice Mel gesture in your direction, artfully disguising it with her champagne flute. Nothing escapes your gaze, however, and when Caitlyn glances over her shoulder toward you, you give her a wink paired with a slight upturn of your lips.

Mel’s eyebrows raise at the flush that sinks over Caitlyn’s cheeks, and before you realize it, you’re being summoned with a crooked finger.

Doing your duty, you peel yourself off the wall and walk over, pulling on the bottom of your black coat lined with gold; the standard uniform for classy events like this. You fold your arms behind your back as you approach, giving Councilor Medarda a respectful head tilt combined with a small bow.

“This one has manners. I thought you liked them wild, Kiramman,” Councilor Medarda says as you realize her hand from a chaste kiss in greeting to her knuckles.

“With all due respect, Councilor, I assure you my manners are only attached to my clothes,” you quip, delighting in the laugh that Councilor Medarda makes and the slight glare that Caitlyn gives you. Adding fuel to the fire, you add, “I can be wild when asked to be.”

“Oh my!” Councilor Medarda fake fans herself, leaning over to the side, “Caitlyn, dear, do you mind if I take them once the event is over?”

“This holster on my leg is multi-purpose,” you say, shifting your right leg forward to show them the sparkling clean leather harness strapped around your thigh, containing the six bullet chamber revolver nestled within.

Caitlyn’s face is pure red, between the alcohol and the flush on her skin that goes down toward her chest.

“Miss Kiramman, I can come back over once Councilor Medarda is done having her way with me,” you suggest helpfully, and that only serves to make steam come out of Caitlyn’s ears (metaphorically, of course). You watch Mel’s gleeful grin turn toothier with the smile that she gives the young Kiramman.

Caitlyn slams back the rest of her champagne in one move, exposing the smooth planes of her long throat. You can’t help but think how pretty that skin would look with dark marks caused by your tongue and teeth.

“Dance. Now.” Caitlyn’s command is sharp.

“Of course, Miss Kiramman,” you reply, unable to hide the smug grin on your face. Turning your body slightly to the side, you say to the Councilor, “Rain check? I’m afraid my attention is required.”

“I’ll be waiting, darling,” Councilor Medarda says, giving a squeeze to your cheeks that makes even you flush.

You’re swept away by Caitlyn, her hand in yours as you’re brought to the dance floor just in time for another round of the waltz to start. Training kicks in, and you assume the proper dancing position, offering your hand for Caitlyn to take.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Kiramman, but I’m pretty sure that dancing was not listed in my job description for tonight,” you say, your feet moving in time with Caitlyn’s, and you’re grateful that you’re taller than your average fellow, because Caitlyn is a goddess in her four inch heels that boost her height to the clouds. You’ve always had a thing for tall women, too.

“Caitlyn, please. I had to make it clear that you’re still my hired guard,” Caitlyn says, looking down at you with a slight curve to her lips. “What would my mother think if she saw you flirting unabashedly with a Councilor? Slacking on the job so boldly?”

“Then perhaps I should thank you for keeping me in line,” you reply, twisting Caitlyn into a very elegant dip. “Though you should be aware I’ve only ever had my eyes on you the entire night.”

Caitlyn grips your arm, and you feel the rings on her hands digging into your skin. “I’ve noticed.”

“Have you?” You bring Caitlyn upright, only for her to pull you close, her eyes smoldering. “Perhaps you’ve simply caught me in a trance, Caitlyn.”

You whisper her name an octave lower, catching the roughness in your throat. There’s a spark in Caitlyn’s eyes, an ember you could easily blow into a raging inferno, should you so choose.

And who would you be if you didn’t take an opportunity?

“All you have to do is ask, Caitlyn,” you whisper toward her ear, surveying the room for any wandering eyes looking your way. You find a dozen, all observing with quite curiosity. Councilor Medarda is among them, mirth sparkling in her hazel eyes. “Ask, and I’m all yours.”

That does it.

“We’ll see how multi-purpose your holster is then, hm?” Caitlyn all but growls into your ear, shifting her leg forward to press between your own and you have to disguise the rush of pleasure that tingles up your skin.

The two of you walk off the dance floor. You assume your guarding position, a pace behind Caitlyn as she leads the way. She dismisses anyone that even tries to talk to her, a determination set in her shoulders that you will say is very attractive. It sends heat down your back, and as you wind your ways through the halls of the Kiramman estate, you find yourself being pushed into a room.

You barely manage to pull off your rifle, and you’ve only just started to pull at your jacket when Caitlyn raises her leg and pushes your stomach. You flop into a recliner, hazily taking in your surroundings; a sitting room of sorts, with a fireplace that is lit and lights hanging overhead.

It makes Caitlyn look like a god, and you a mere worshipper.

Caitlyn puts her leg in between your thighs, the slit of her dress paving way to show all of the smooth skin, and you swear you see the edge of lace panties underneath the dress.

“For someone so keen on making their desire obvious, you’re not doing much to prove yourself,” Caitlyn remarks, leaning forward to grab your jaw.

“There’s your problem, princess. I take instructions,” you reply, winking.

Caitlyn makes a low sound from her throat, her eyes darkening with what you dare call lust.

She pulls her leg away, straddling your lap. Her hand moves to your throat, not to squeeze, but to hold a certain pressure that clearly screams I have control here. And she does.

“Then I order you to kiss me.”

“Yes, Miss Kiramman,” you whisper, sliding your hands around her neck and pulling her down onto your mouth.

~~~~~ A/N: i would sell my soul to the devil for the opportunity to shove my face into caitlyn's ti- [gunshot]

#caitlyn x reader #arcane caitlyn x reader #caitlyn kiramman #arcane caitlyn #arcane caitlyn imagines #arcane imagines #arcane netflix #arcane

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missymurphy1985 · 3 years ago

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Negotiations - Jackson Rippner one shot

Warning - smut / public sex / dubious consent (at first, anyway...) / Unprotected sex

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @ntmynouis @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @noctvrnalmoth @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen

You were frantic - scribbling 18F has Bomb onto the bathroom mirror in a complete panic before taking a deep breath to calm yourself. Opening the door, you nearly screamed as Jackson suddenly pushed you back inside, hand over your mouth, swinging you hard so your back was pressed against the sink. He clocked the writing on the mirror and quickly locked the door behind him.

His face inches away from yours now, holding your jaw in his strong hand, his eyes peering into yours. You were absolutely terrified, and yet part of you couldn't help but feel hot.. you'd felt an instant attraction when you'd met in the bar hours earlier, and even though Jackson turned out to be a psychopathic terrorist with your father tied up back home at gunpoint, just waiting for Jackson's signal...

"You don't have to do this..." You whispered, seeing a glimmer of desire in his eyes.

He didn't answer. Just glared at you, before his eyes dropped down slightly, catching sight of your cleavage and the small scar across it. His fingers pulled down the material of your thin camisole top to see it properly, and your body shifted against him, making him push up against you a little harder. Both of you groaned slightly at the extra contact.

"I have no choice but to do this.." he whispered back. You could feel an extra pressure against your leg suddenly and Jackson's eyes closed slightly as you pushed your body up against it.

"You always have a choice, Jackson.." he was clearly attracted to you, and your core was on fire as he pushed himself against your leg a little harder now, groaning deeper.

"How did you get the scar.." you told him the story of the scar.. how you'd been attacked in a car park, the men taking advantage of you... His breathing became slightly laboured, as with every word your voice got unintentionally deeper. You tried to pull away from him but the limited space in the bathroom made it impossible.

"Why are you doing this, Jackson?" You asked, voice shaky.

"Because I have a job to do."

"I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about this..." You looked down, his hardness obvious now between you.

"Because I want you."

"You're fucking delusional..."

"Not really. I can feel how hot you are from here sweetheart.." his right hand remained on your jaw, while his left moved down to your hips, squeezing the flesh slightly making you jump.

"Don't do this... Please...?" You wasn't sure how much you meant that, admittedly..

"See now, I would believe you but the way you're grinding against me y/n.. I'm thinking you want this as much as I do..." You hadn't even realised you were moving, but sure enough, your core was flush against his. You froze, not wanting to provoke him any more but he ground his hips against yours making you shudder - the zipper on his trousers brushing over your clit perfectly.

"Jackson please..."

"Please what, sweetheart? What is it you need?"

"Release my father."

"What?"

"Release my father and you can take whatever you want from me. Do we have a deal?" You could see the cogs turning in his mind.

"I get to fuck you senseless in this bathroom, as long as I let your father go?"

"Yes..." You moved your clit over his zipper again, you were desperate for the friction.

"And if I don't?"

"It's going to be a really uncomfortable flight with this between your legs..." Your hips rocking against him now, and his eyes fluttered closed again at the contact. You could see the decision had clearly been made, and he wasted no time in lifting your skirt up over your hips, pulling your underwear down your legs.

Moving his body back up against hours, your fingers were soon working on his belt buckle and trousers, dropping them to the floor and biting your lip as his cock sprung free, already leaking a little. You wanted to take him in your mouth but you knew you both had limited time. His fingers were soon between your legs, sliding over your slick folds, smiling at how wet you were already.

"Turn around y/n..." He moved back, allowing you to face the mirror, and you bent over slightly, letting him open your legs a little before lining himself up against you.

"You on anything?" He asked before he pushed inside.

"No..."

"Better remember to pull out then hadn't I..." He smirked before thrusting into you with a deep groan, his hand covering your mouth quickly to stop you screaming from the sudden invasion. He built up a hard, fast pace quickly, and your body soon adjusted to him, your core throbbing and pulsing against his cock. You couldn't speak due to his hand covering your mouth, all you could do was groan quietly.

"Keep your eyes on me y/n..." He pulled your hair with his free hand as he pounded into you, lifting your face so you could see him in the mirror. "I wanna see your eyes when you come..."

That surprised you, you'd have thought all he was interested in was getting his own end away, but the way he angled himself inside you, it was obvious he was looking for that one sweet spot inside - he needed you to come. He found it, and smirked when your eyes widened suddenly, keeping up the pace as he fucked you hard, hitting it over and over again, making your legs shake underneath him.

"If I move my hand, will you stay quiet?" He whispered, and you shook your head, his hand over your mouth was turning you on even more, you didn't want him to remove it. He raised an eyebrow at you, and continued pounding, his left hand moving down to squeeze your ass under him. He wanted to slap it, but the noise would've been too much of a risk.

Your legs shook harder, that familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach, you were so close. You moved your mouth slightly, allowing him to push two fingers inside it as you sucked and licked them, making him gasp. Looking at him through the mirror you could tell he was close too, his lips hanging open slightly, teeth gritted underneath them.

"Need to feel you come y/n..." And you did, your orgasm flowing through you like a hurricane as your mouth sucked harder on his fingers to stop yourself crying out.

With a deep, quiet groan he reached his high, thrusting deep inside and you felt his hot, thick cum line your walls.

"Fuck, Jackson I told you I wasn't on anything..." You gasped, realising what he'd done.

"What can I say, you felt too good..." He smirked, pulling out of you and pulling your pants up from around your ankles, holding your leaking juices in place. "You're gonna keep them there for the rest of this flight, and if you're lucky I might make you come in your seat before we land..." he pulled his trousers back up and kissed your lips hungrily.

"What happens when we land?" You asked as he pulled away, cleaning the writing from the mirror.

"Your father's release will be arranged when we sit down, I always keep my promises. The assassination goes ahead as planned, and you will help us with that. As agreed."

"And if I don't?"

"You can forget any more orgasms on this plane."

"I'm gonna need more than that, Jackson."

"On this plane, at the hotel, in your bedroom, you'll never get a piece of this again..." He held your hand against his crotch, you couldn't resist giving it a small squeeze.

"You release my father and I'll help you."

"You help with the assassination and you get to cum on my fingers when we get back to the seats."

"Deal..." You both tidied yourselves up and left the bathroom separately. You saw Jackson on the phone to your father's kidnapper, telling him to let your father go. He even showed you the call and let you speak to your Dad, confirming the whole thing. You sat back in your chair, and smiled. Jackson's hand resting at the top of your damp thigh under your skirt, his jacket placed over your lap as he leaned over to whisper in your ear.

"Ready for orgasm number 2 now y/n?"

#jackson rippner #jackson rippner x smut #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian smut #cillian x smut

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monstersdownthepath · 3 years ago

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Milestone Monster: Fafnheir, Father of Linnorms

CR 24

Chaotic Evil Colossal Dragon

Land of the Linnorm Kings, pg. 56~57

Ancient beyond reckoning, the Father of Linnorms was one of the first creatures to cross from the First World into the Material Plane, settling on a large forest in Golarion’s northern lands where he has dwelled for tens of thousands of years. He witnessed the arrival of Dahak on Golarion, fought alongside the Serpentfolk, knows the Norn by their names, tutored the greatest Runelord of Pride, and his presence alone has warped the Grungir Forest into a land where the veil between Golarion and the First World is thin as paper. He is Fafnheir, and in all respects he is to dragons what a dragon is to a human. Something ancient, powerful, and sometimes uncanny; something to be feared.

It is prophesied that whosoever slays Fafnheir will unite all the Ulfen tribes of the northern Inner Sea Region, but whoever made such a prophecy has a sense of humor as twisted as any cruel fairy. Many warriors in the past have marched single file into Fafnheir’s lair, only to have all of their equipment and magic items added to his hoard, and such would-be leaders must march to his lair, for the Father of Linnorms is no fool and can never become bored. He has never left his forest and only rarely ever leaves his lair to feed. He’s not going to come to you for a fight, you are going to him, and you’re going to brave every single danger of the Grungir Forest, every trick of the fey that live there, every trap and magical distortion that Fafnheir has caused with his presence alone, and every ward against trespassers he has erected in the millions of years he has lived.

But we’re not focusing on the dangers of the forest, today. No, we’re talking about the beast at the center of this labyrinth, and if you’re anything like me, as you read you may begin wondering if the prophecy really was a trick by the fey...

Fafnheir’s legendary nature comes in part, like many high-level beings, from his incredible resilience. Finding a single weapon capable of penetrating his hide is a quest in and of itself, his DR 20 only bypassed by a weapon that is both cold iron and Epic. This requires either forging your own or, more likely, having the DM dangle a bunch on a thread for each martial member of the party. While he has no other elemental resistances, he’s immune to Fire and Electricity damage, his draconic lineage renders him impervious to paralysis and sleep effects, his Linnorm lineage meaning that curses and poisons are completely worthless, and his ancient nature means mind-affecting effects have no effect on him. He’s also got SR 35 standing between casters and half their arsenals, with their other halves canceled out by his immunities... and his movement options.

Fafnheir is an all-terrain dragon, you see, able to burrow, swim, and even fly at varying speeds (30ft, 50ft, and 100ft, respective). With unrestricted access to the Z-axis, his angles of attack are impossible to count and any caster trying to manipulate the battlefield will be rendered completely useless as he flies over or tunnels through every obstacle. Any attempts at wrangling or controlling him will similarly fail, as he has an eternal Freedom of Movement effect on himself that flat-out states it cannot be dispelled! Interestingly, he’s not immune to death effects, petrification, or ability score damage, opening up avenues of attack normally closed off for such high-level monsters... IF you can make it past his Spell Resistance, of course, and IF you believed the effects would work in the first place and brought them. Sometimes, assumptions about high-level monsters can get you killed!

And even if you DID know about his weakness, if Fafnheir knew you were coming (and he likely did, all things considered), he’s likely layered one of his 3/day castings of Spell Turning on himself to bounce back any spell that makes it past his shielding. The book also notes that with age comes wisdom, and I don’t mean his actual Wisdom score (27, if you were curious); I mean he’s spent millions of years learning every single possible trick and trap that armed and determined humans can level against him, and as such the DM is fully encouraged to have him use his 3/day Limited Wish to its fullest possible extent to screw with the party as directly, personally, and cuttingly as possible. When you’ve seen potentially THOUSANDS of adventurers--some prepared for anything, most not prepared for him--come marching in covered in the blood of every fey and fiend that failed to stop them, you learn a few tricks to dealing with them as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Even without Limited Wish, he has Wall of Force and Quickened Greater Dispel Magic available 3/day each (and an unquickened Greater Dispel at will) to strip an enemy combatant of their strongest buffs before cutting them off from magical assistance, leaving them helpless when he closes in and unleashes one of the most terrifying Full-Attacks in all of Pathfinder, and not just for the outright damage! His twin claws deal 2d8+17 damage each, while his horns gore his foes for 4d6+17 damage, but the danger his lashing tail doesn’t just lay in the damage it can deal right away, but over time. Anyone damaged (4d6+8) by the tail is also Grabbed, and failing to break the crushing grapple causes a further 4d6+8 constriction damage each round... and then there’s his bite.

The bite of Fafnheir is legendary for the quick death it spells for even the greatest of warriors, should they forget to pack some proof against poison. While all Linnorm possess extremely lethal venoms (I’m talking 6 rounds of Constitution drain) that assure only warriors with poison protection can safely combat them, don’t forget that he can freely dispel any non-permanent protection, and if THAT fails he can always use Limited Wish to strip a foe of whatever item is shielding them in the first place. His molten fangs deal 6d8+17 damage and infuse his victims with a superheated venom that tears them apart mind, body, and soul. Anyone who fails against Fafnheir’s venom will then have to deal with TEN ROUNDS of making saves against poison that deals 10d6 Fire damage with every failed save! 10d6 Fire damage, and 1d4 drain to every ability score.

Read that again. Here it is, a second time, for emphasis: Fafnheir’s poison deals 10d6 Fire damage and drains ALL of your ability scores by 1d4 points every time you fail a DC 34 Fortitude save for 10 entire rounds. Get bit again? That’s a DC 36 Fortitude save every 15 rounds. Once more? DC 38 for 20 rounds, so even if you defeat him or flee you may simply keel over dead two minutes later. Curing Fafnheir’s poison requires three consecutive saves, as well.

Let’s say you rather wisely decide to stay at a range, then. Let’s say somehow this is allowed--for the sake of this argument, you’re not in his cavern labyrinth or trapped in his Walls of Force. Well, remember that he can still fly 100ft a round and use Greater Vital Strike with his bite (turning it into 18d8+17 damage), but even still let’s ignore that for a moment. Like all Linnorm--and indeed, like all Dragons in general--Fafnheir has a Breath Weapon. A colossal 90ft cone of superheated wind so devastatingly hot that it deals 26d10 Fire damage to everyone and everything in the area... And there’s more! Because there’s three potential effects that can be laced into his stiff breeze, and he can choose any two of them:

Deafening: Everything in the area that fails a DC 38 Fortitude save is struck permanently deaf by the roaring wind Tornado Force: The winds from his maw blast out at over 300 miles an hour, automatically dispelling any fog and mist in the area and causing everything affected by blast to make a DC 15 Strength check or be blown 1d6x10 feet backwards and get knocked prone. Flying creatures must make a DC 25 Fly check or be blasted straight out of the air and crash into the ground. And Storm-Laced, which causes a bolt of lightning to fire from between his teeth at the closest creature to him in the area of the exhalation, hitting them for an additional 20d6 damage (halved on a DC 36 Reflex save).

While Tornado Force and Storm-Laced are his typical go-tos, there’s nothing like a little bit of party-wide deafness to completely screw up a team’s ability to communicate with one another and collaborate their efforts. That tasty 20% failure rate to spells with verbal components is a cherry on top! ... wait, no, the cherry on top is Fafnheir using his calamitous exhalation as a standard action, then flying 100ft to land directly on top of the most dangerous enemy he can see to just ever-so-cheekily ask if they really want to try and stand up with his Combat Reflexes ready to beat them right back down.

And after ALL THIS? If you manage to pierce his hide, weather his damage, push past his defenses, and fight through the penalties imposed by his Limited Wishes? You’re not the first. You’re likely not going to be the last. Though effectively unheard of, Fafnheir has fallen before. Perhaps even multiple times, if it can be believed! Sometimes, people--especially a coordinated party--can manage to beat the Father of Linnorms!

Only to be destined to become the next.

Linnorms all possess nasty Death Curses. Final, spiteful utterances that cling to the very soul of the victim that can do everything from make them vulnerable to a specific element, to fill their lungs with water at random intervals just to catch them off guard. Much like how his poison is a step above the poison of other Linnorms, and his Breath Weapon is apocalyptic even when compared to others of his kind, his Death Curse is a step above theirs as well; anyone who fails to resist his curse plays host to his parasitic soul, which begins to quickly consume and subsume theirs.

1d6 Charisma drain each day is the manifested form of this curse, the victim’s personality and memories slowly being overridden by that of the Father of Linnorms. The moment they fall to 0 Charisma, they fall into an eternal coma from which there is no awakening... And they must succeed a DC 32 Fortitude save each day or simply die. But this is not the end, for if the victim dies from ANY means while cursed by Fafnheir, their remains explode in a 60ft burst of devastating, burning winds (identical to his breath)... and the great dragon is reborn on the spot as if by True Resurrection.

Perhaps there’s... another way to unite the north? Anything? Literally any other way to unite all of the Ulfen? Please, guys, I’m begging you to find another option here--

You can read more about him here.

#Monster Spotlight #Milestone Monster #CR 21 to 25 #Pathfinder #Dungeons and Dragons

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svartalfhild · 2 years ago

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Dreaming in the Dark and Waking in the Light

Rating: T

Genre: Gothic Romance, Tragedy

Words: 4,680

Summary: After ten years of playing a dangerous balancing act as a double agent between the Kargat and the resistance, the other shoe finally drops for Vrae Zilivna.

Content Warning: it gets really dark and violent, lads

A/N: This is a small story that details an important moment in the life of my new DnD character, a drow bard who is from Ravenloft but escapes to the Prime Material Plane for our campaign. This story takes place during her life in Ravenloft.

Previous Stories: The Oracle and the Officer, (Un)bearable, Shattered, The Mirror is in the Eye of the Muse, Cold, For the Dead We Revel, For the Living We Mourn

~ ~ ~

“We’ve secured them at the safehouse. The Kargat won’t find them, and they’ll be put on a ship to Liffe as soon as we’ve made arrangements to get them to the docks safely,” Shaena explained, and Vrae breathed a sigh of relief. She was glad that the information she’d copied and passed on from Caspar’s journal hadn’t arrived in the hands of the resistance too late to save the Kargat’s latest target: a servant from the house of the local baroness who was wanted for their involvement in an assassination plot.

“Thank the gods. I was afraid I’d be too late. It’s become harder to get ahold of intelligence these past few weeks.”

“Why? Is Caspar having a harder time taking his eyes off you or something? If so, maybe you’ve been too effective at the seducing and you should ease up a little.” Vrae gave her friend a sideways look at this comment and pulled her dressing gown a bit tighter around herself.

“It’s not that. I think this assassination business has him being more cautious about what he carries on his person.”

“In that case, you’ll have to be equally careful. Don’t reach for anything you aren’t sure you can hold.”

“Shaena, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been doing this for ten years; I can handle myself.” As much as Vrae appreciated Shaena trying to look out for her all the time, sometimes it felt a little patronizing, and in this particular moment, it seemed that wasn’t the only vibe the stalwart halfling was throwing at her.

“It’s precisely because you’ve been doing this for ten years that I’m concerned.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vrae’s brow furrowed as she stared at Shaena, who gave a resigned sigh and took a moment to consider her words carefully before answering.

“You’ve been letting that man touch you for a long time now, longer than any of us thought even you’d be able to endure. That’s been a bloody boon to the resistance, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t deny that it’s clearly changed you. I don’t see the same fire in your eyes that I once did, and I can’t remember the last time you spoke a single word against Caspar. You can see how that might make us worry that you’ve been compromised.” Shaena wrung her fingers together as she spoke, obviously uncomfortable with crossing the line into being confrontational with Vrae. For her part, Vrae felt panic begin to rise in her gut. She’d been successfully lying about the nature of her relationship with Caspar for years, convincing everyone it was purely manipulative and transactional from her side, but if her friends were starting to ask questions, she was walking on very thin ice indeed. Sure, Shaena had expressed concern before, but not like this, not speaking for the whole resistance cell.

“I’m not compromised. I’m as dedicated to bringing down the Kargat as I ever was,” she replied carefully, knowing that the best way to lie was to tell a little truth first. “I’ve simply made peace with my situation. Yes, my mark is a decent lay and he’s generous with his money, but that just makes it easier to bear, nothing more.”

“So if Olvenriel told you to end the arrangement, you’d be able to do it, no hesitation?” Shaena asked pointedly, and it was like being slapped. Vrae wasn’t prepared for this. Her breath hitched in her throat as her mind reeled, trying to find something, anything to say that wouldn’t incriminate her.

“Is that what Olvenriel wants?”

“No, but would you be able to follow the order?”

“Yes.” That was a complete and outright lie, and Vrae felt like she was choking on it, but she did her best to keep her voice calm and even. Shaena eyed her for a long moment that felt like an eternity, scrutinizing her response for any hint of deception. Her mouth fell open as her gaze dropped to Vrae’s collar.

“What is that?” A jolt of terror shot through the young drow as she looked down to see that in the course of her gesturing while speaking, her dressing gown had slipped open enough for her silver locket to fall out. Damn Shaena for showing up to her flat so early in the morning before she could properly dress to hide it. She looked back up at her friend and visibly struggled to come up with a reply, but that in itself was enough. Shaena reached out and opened the locket to see the engraved stars on one side and “for my beloved” in Elvish on the other. Something like pity creased her expression, and Vrae felt ill. “Shit, Vrae. What have you got yourself into?”

“He’s not what you think.”

“He’s Kargat! They’re all liars and a murderers! Surely you haven’t forgotten that!” Shaena aggressively shut the locket and let it go. In turn Vrae clutched it tightly over her own heart.

“I know what he is, but I know he can be more. I’ve seen it.”

“Just because he loves you and treats you right don’t mean he’s a good man.” Those words echoed the mantra Vrae had told herself for so long, trying to deny what she felt for Caspar, trying to convince herself of how wrong it was, but time and circumstance had shown how fruitless that had been. Maybe it was still wrong, but at least she knew what she wanted now.

“No, but when he lies awake at night, wracked with guilt and wondering if he still serves justice, I know I’m looking at a good man led astray. I have to help him find the right path.”

“You’re gambling with an awful lot of hope, luv, and that’s the weakest currency in the world,” Shaena advised, the anger in her small face giving way to sadness as she placed a gentle hand on Vrae’s arm.

“He’s worth it.” The conviction in Vrae’s voice astonished Shaena, and she gaped up at her as if she’d just witnessed a carriage crash.

“By the gods, you really do love him,” she responded, aghast. “When did this happen?”

“I…I don’t know,” Vrae answered after a short pause, tears welling up in her eyes as she started to realize the ramifications of her feelings and choices. “Maybe it was the first time he laughed. Maybe it was the first time he told me he loved me. Maybe it was when he gave me this locket and promised himself to me. Maybe it was a moment I don’t even remember. I spent so long lying to myself that I’ll never be sure.”

“You know I have to tell Olvenriel. You’ve been compromised, and that concerns us all.”

Vrae nodded solemnly. As much as she would have liked to ask her friend to keep her secret, there was no point when the leader of their resistance cell possessed a ring that allowed her to see through lies. Besides, Shaena was right, she had a moral duty to report this to the group.

When the halfling left, Vrae finally let her tears fall, but even alone in her flat, she bit back every sob that threatened to leave her. She had had enough of her own weakness for one day, and the light of dawn had only just begun to peak through the curtains. Spitefully, she drew the curtains further closed to shut out the light completely, even knowing that the light would help warm her flat. She needed the comfort of total darkness right now.

~ ~ ~

In the next few days, Vrae heard nothing from Shaena or Olvenriel, and though she tried to put it out of her mind, it became the undercurrent of her waking hours. She was often restless, and she caught her hands shaking when she was making tea for a customer one afternoon. She was able to hide this from them, but when Caspar came to see her, he could tell that something was wrong.

When they lay in bed together, bodies entwined under the comfort of her heaviest blanket, and Caspar was quietly telling her about a few things he wanted to draw, she found herself staring at him in a way that went beyond simple attentiveness. Her gaze wandered over him, taking in every detail. The green of his eyes. The strong, angular shape of his thick eyebrows. The sharp lines of his elven ears, his jaw, his cheeks, and his nose. The way the stray mussed locks of his short black hair fell across his forehead. The way the dark leather braid she’d made him hung around his neck. The way his lips curved in a subtle smile as he spoke excitedly about his ideas. He was beautiful and brilliant, and as she looked at him, she was screaming inside from the agony of wanting a life she could never have and knowing the world would take every chance to deny her even this simple comfort. Tears welled up in her eyes, betraying her pain to him. He caught it almost immediately and stopped mid-sentence, his smile fading into a look of concern.

“Vrae?” He reached out and brushed her white hair back a little before resting a calming hand on her shoulder. She said nothing and only continued to stare at him longingly while her tears began to spill from her eyes. “Vrae, what troubles you?” he pressed and she curled up against him, burying her face in his chest and holding him tightly, as if he were a rock in a stormy sea.

“I love you so much,” she told him, her voice muffled against his sternum. “I wish we could live a bonded life.” At this, he relaxed and held her tightly in return.

“I feel the same,” he replied, kissing the top of her head and soothingly stroking her long hair. She took several quiet moments to allow her tears to run their course before she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“I have this silly little fantasy my mind wanders to occasionally where we get married in secret and run away together, taking a boat across the sea to some beautiful forgotten land where no one knows or cares who we are,” Vrae confessed, admittedly nervous that he would see it as a frivolous thought, but her fear was assuaged when he gave her a curious look and indulged her instead.

“And what do we do when we get there?”

“We build a little house by the sea where we are left in peace. You spend your days sketching the world around us, and I write songs under the stars. We read books to each other and dance on the beach. We scream our love to the wind and the waves, and they roar back in thunderous blessing for all that we share.” A pause followed these words as Caspar took them in, and a wistful smile graced his lips.

“That’s a beautiful dream,” he responded, entwining his fingers with hers. “I wish I could make it real, but I’ll settle for dreaming it with you. Thank you for telling me.” He kissed the back of her hand, and she couldn’t help but give him a watery smile in return.

“You always know just what to say.” At this, he wiped the last of the moisture from her eyes and offered her a look of gentle amusement.

“I should hope so. A man of my position can’t afford to blunder.”

“And which position would that be? Your nobility as the Arden heir? Your station as Chamberlain of Vradlock? Your rank in the Kargat? Or your place in bed with me?” she questioned, playing along.

“Take your pick,” he told her with a small shrug, and a wicked grin spread across her face.

“I have a clear bias for any position you take with me.” She drew her knee up the side of his thigh, delighting in the subtle way his eyes widened as she did so. He quickly committed to the playful direction they’d taken, however, and he rolled with her onto her back, looming over her with the glint of a challenge in his eyes.

“Would this be acceptable, then?”

“Yes.” Vrae reached up and traced her fingers along the edge of Caspar’s ear, half teasing, half soft and sincere. He closed his eyes and leaned his head into the contact until her hand drew away. In return, he kissed her slowly and carefully, and she let him be her entire world for a little while, forgetting about her worries and losing herself in his touch.

Later, as they lay together in contentment once more, Vrae quietly sang a song she’d written a few years ago that only Caspar knew was for him. It spoke of a woman who fell in love with the voice of the sea, who would emerge from the water as a shadow each new moon, bringing her a lantern lit with one of the stars from the edge of the horizon, and when the lantern’s light faded at the end of the night, he would return to the waves, leaving her to pine at the shore for the next new moon, his distant whispers and the lap of the water against her ankles her only comfort. As Vrae sang, she carded her fingers through Caspar’s dark hair and watched him drift into rest.

On any other night he came to visit, she would have gotten up the moment he was out to search his things for Kargat intel, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it this time. She was tired of being a spy. She was tired of lying to and betraying the man she’d come to love so deeply. It was destroying her. But she knew she had no choice. This was as good as it would get for her, and she’d be a fool to ask for anything more.

Feeling a sudden need for guidance, she reached to her nightstand for her tarokka deck and pulled three cards. The Charlatan. The Traitor. The Broken One. Each one felt like a twisting knife in her gut, as if the spirits were not guiding her, but accusing her. She was hit with the sensation of a dozen insistent hands pulling at her and her skin crawled with fear. She quickly tossed the cards back onto her nightstand and held Caspar more tightly, closing her eyes and suppressing a sob.

~ ~ ~

A few days later, Vrae finally received a reaction to the news of her ill-advised entanglement from Olvenriel in the form of a letter. It had been wedged in the sill of the window near her bed during the night for her to find in the morning. It read, in elegant script:

You have done a great deal of good for our cause, and for that we are grateful, but you have been compromised by the affections of your target, and we now must call into question your ability to do the work. Understand that even if you have not strayed far enough to do harm, we must be certain that no harm can be done in the future. The continuation of our cause and the safety of the group must come first above all things. As such, we must ask you to kill Caspar Arden by poison or any other discreet means you can devise. Do this and we will consider the problem resolved. If you refuse, you will have lost our trust completely, and we must take appropriate security measures. Do not fail us.

- O

Panic consumed Vrae as she took in these words. She felt as though the life she had carefully built was slipping between her fingers like water. She didn’t know what to do. How could she save both Caspar and herself? Logic told her a sacrifice had to be made, but her heart refused, leading her to dress and throw on her coat as quickly as possible to head to the bakery a few streets over. There, she found Shaena already hard at work before dawn as usual, shoving loaves of bread into the large oven. The halfling was not surprised to see her and gave her a fresh look of pity as she observed her haggard and desperate appearance.

Their conversation was short, consisting primarily of Vrae demanding that Shaena arrange for her to get an audience with Olvenriel as soon as possible and Shaena promising to try. Olvenriel was a noble, and that made her difficult to safely contact and see, but Shaena at least had an in through the kitchens of her estate. Knowing this was all that could be achieved for now, Vrae returned home and prepared to open her shop for the day, where she would have to pretend that everything was fine.

Four days passed at an agonizing crawl as Vrae waited for news. Worse still was the fact that the spirits refused to answer questions about herself and her predicament with anything other than the Traitor card. How was she supposed to respond to such judgement from the dead? Was what she was doing truly so wrong?

Olvenriel finally came to her unannounced at the end of the week, well before dawn and disguised as a peasant. Vrae could only be certain it was her because she’d met her twice before, and the moment she pulled back her rough woolen cowl and straightened her posture, her commanding presence was undeniable.

“The halfling tells me you wish to discuss the terms of my letter,” she began, not taking the seat Vrae offered.

“I do. I understand the alarm you and the others feel at what’s happened, but you cannot ask this of me.” Vrae held up the letter emphatically, and Olvenriel’s crimson eyes hardened.

“Are you choosing to forfeit yourself, then?”

“No.”

“Then what is left? Would you have another carry out the task for you?”

“No!” Vrae cursed herself as she failed to hide her panic, and Olvenriel gave an impatient sigh.

“How are we to protect ourselves, then? How are we to trust you while that male still holds influence over your heart?”

“I have been working very hard to bring him to our side, ma’am, and I have made progress. To throw all of that away now would be a terrible waste, especially when I’m so close to achieving my goal,” Vrae reasoned, and Olvenriel raised a single, perfectly sculpted white eyebrow.

“I must admit, that’s not what I expected from you, but I can see the value in it.” The noblewoman’s tone was more measured now, and Vrae felt she had gained at least a little respect, enough to embolden her to speak further.

“Give me time, ma’am, and we can both get what we want. You can add a powerful tool to your arsenal and secure our cause. I can save the man I love.”

“Very well. If you’re so far along and so certain of your impending success, I give you a fortnight. Don’t make me regret it,” Olvenriel declared, and before Vrae could say anything more, she watched her imperious guest pull up her cowl, turn on her heel, and leave.

The moment she was gone, Vrae fell to her knees, clutching her chest as she tried to fight another wave of panic. Olvenriel was as terrifying and uncompromising as one would expect a follower of Lolth to be, but Vrae had managed to talk herself into a better position, and she could at least hold onto that, small victory though it was. A stay of execution, however short, would give her a chance to get through this, but it was difficult to celebrate knowing what would happen if she failed.

When she’d calmed down enough to stand back up, she snapped her fingers to light a candle and set the letter on fire before dropping it in the cold hearth to be lost in the ashes. She then went about her day once again, trying to pretend to the world that she was fine and nothing was amiss, but all the while wracking her brain for what she could possible say to Caspar to convince him to turn his back on the Kargat. Everything she wanted was within sight, she just had to reach for it quickly and carefully enough.

Caspar arrived at her shop that evening in good spirits, despite being covered in a heavy dusting of snow. As Vrae helped him brush off, he told her of how he’d actually gotten to just sit in his office in the mayor’s estate all day and do nothing but check ledgers and send missives for once. He hadn’t been able to relax in several weeks, save for the handful of nights he’d spent with her, so the slow work day had been incredibly welcome.

“Why don’t you go right upstairs and warm yourself while I close everything up down here, and when I’m done, we can curl up by the fire and demolish the fresh tin of ginger biscuits I got my hands on a few days ago,” Vrae suggested after getting on her tip toes to kiss Caspar’s chilled cheek. His severe features cracked into that surprisingly sweet smile of his, and he gave a small laugh.

“How do you still manage to get ahold of those so often?”

“It’s harder than it used be now that the Shroud has closed off the borders, but I know a bloke who knows a Mistwalker who goes to Falkovnia on the regular,” Vrae answered smuggly.

“Seems like a lot of effort for some biscuits.”

“It’s worth the pleasure of your smile.” This earned her another laugh and a kiss. “Alright, alright, go on. Go get warm. Some of us did have to work today.” She shooed Caspar on up the stairs, leaving her with a few moments to lock up, count the day’s earnings, clean her tea set, and so on. Just as she was about to put out the candles that lit her shop, however, she heard the door to the upstairs flat slam open, and she barely had time to look up and see Caspar’s tall, dark form racing towards her before she found herself pinned against the wall by his forearm. The violet glow of an identifying spell faded from his intense glare as he held up a charred and shriveled fragment of paper with the words “kill Caspar” still legible on one side. He knew everything.

Fear shot through her with such intensity that she wasn’t sure she would ever move again, and as she gaped up at him in abject terror, tears began to well up in his eyes and he slowly pressed on her harder and harder.

“Caspar, I would never. I could never. Surely you know that,” she tried to assure him, though the tremor in her voice was unmistakable.

“It seems I know nothing. Ten years and I didn’t see it. Ten years and all I was was the unwitting pawn of a dissident traitor,” Caspar seethed through his mounting tears.

“No! I-It wasn’t like that! I-”

“You’re a criminal in the service of those who would see Darkon destroyed. I will not be made your fool again.” He punctuated this statement by making the piece of paper burst into flame and fall as ashes from his fingers, all while he stared at Vrae, shaking with devastation and rage. With his hand free, he threw her to the floor and drew his rapier to point it at her throat. This finally spurred her to action, and she rolled out from under the blade to her feet, swiftly backing away.

“Caspar, please. Don’t do this,” she begged, each word growing close to a sob. “Caspar, I love you.”

“Liar!” he bellowed, his tears finally spilling down his cheeks as his heartbreak began to consume him. He lunged at her, and she drew a dagger as if from thin air to parry the blow.

“If I am a liar, then what are you? You lie and kill in the name of a king who cares nothing for his people and would keep us beneath his cruel heel. If you think you serve justice, then you have made yourself the fool, not I,” Vrae told him, her sadness and bargaining giving way to bitterness and anger. He lunged again and she spun to the side. He swiped at her and she ducked. He had trained her in swordplay, and she knew all of his moves, but still they danced, driven by every raw emotion ripping at their hearts.

Though Vrae knew Caspar’s tactics, he was faster, stronger, and more experienced, and she had only a dagger to defend herself. It was easy for him to back her into a corner and push aside her blade to grab her by the throat. Before he could choke her, however, she let out a haunting scream, layered with the voices of the dead, and a wave of rippling pale green energy blasted out from her, throwing Caspar backwards, along with every loose object in the shop. Dozens of glass jars shattered on the floor, and the table and chairs splintered against the wall in a great cacophony of destruction.

Vrae’s boots crunched on broken glass as she leapt for Caspar’s fallen sword, but a spectral hand snatched it up before she could reach it and delivered it to him. He rolled to his feet and muttered a few arcane words, sending three projectiles of energy from his hand to crash into her like the hardest punches she’d ever felt in her life. She doubled over and looked back up at Caspar with barely restrained anguish in her eyes as she clutched her ribs.

“Stop!” she cried in a last ditch effort to save them both. The word reverberated throughout the room as her eyes flashed green, and Caspar staggered, dropping his rapier. He looked dazed for a moment, but then he gave a few hard blinks and wrath returned to his face, lips trembling with rage. He charged at her and grabbed her by the neck again, pushing her once more into the wall.

“I loved you,” he said, his voice wavering between heartbreak and cold resentment. There was nothing she could say in return as he closed his fingers around her throat. She could only gape at him, fresh tears streaming down her face. Realizing that he was truly lost to her, she pulled a knife from the shaft of her boot and plunged it into his side. He cried out in pain, a sound and sight that pierced her soul with the knowledge that she was hurting the person she loved, but it was necessary. He let go of her, stumbling back and growling in further agony as he pulled the blade out and tossed it to the floor. She used the opportunity to summon the Illusionist card into her hand, and with a grand sweeping gesture, she went invisible.

When Caspar looked up, she was gone, and he stopped to listen for the crunch of glass under her feet. She tried to tiptoe around the shards, but just as she neared the door, she caught the edge of one, and his gaze snapped towards her. Knowing she was made, she dashed for the exit. With his wound, he was too slow to grab her, and she managed to slip out into the night, dashing down the snowy street and ducking into an alley to drop her invisibility in favour of willing herself into the air, thus ending the trail of footprints she had left behind.

As she made her way through the quiet darkness, the cold biting into her bones, it slowly began to sink in that her life had finally come crashing down around her. Everything she had built, everything she had loved, all gone in a matter of moments, leaving her with nothing but the clothes on her back and the weight of her sins in her heart.

#Dungeons and Dragons #Ravenloft #Vrae Zilivna #DnD

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call-me-doll-face · 3 years ago

Text

Acquiesce- part 2

Warnings: once again guys, this does have noncon elements. If you are triggered easily please don't read. In no way do I approve of behavior like this, no means no. Consent is key. This is strictly just for the story. No minors! Smut, angst, friends to lovers, protective steve.

A/N- this is for my friend @rogershoe thank you for reading my stories and always giving me words of praise, and for always listening. I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it!

P.s I'm sorry for any mistakes! I haven't gone through and proof read!

Part one

Steve slept over that night, refusing to leave my side. I honestly don’t know whether I'm supposed to feel thankful or annoyed and hell who knows, maybe it’s both.

Yes, him being here eases my mind. Knowing that he’s there to protect me if, heaven forbid, something happens. At the same time though..... maybe I would rather be alone.

Ever the gentleman, he willingly takes the not so comfortable couch in my opinion with zero complaint. We work together in silence to put the fitted sheet on before standing side by side, just staring at it.

“Ya know, I’d almost prefer sleeping on the floor.” He cracks a joke, looking over at me with that cute lopsided grin of his. Scoffing in fake offense I smack his chest playfully causing him to cover his chest with a very over exaggerated wounded expression.

“Hey! Don’t hate on my couch! You could always go sleep in your OWN room!” Before I could even finish my sentence he had flopped down onto his back, big arms folded up behind his head and a satisfied smile gracing his lips. It was hysterical, seeing him trying to fit his big body on my tiny couch, long legs hanging over the armrest. I snicker at him softly, running a finger up the arch in his foot as I go to walk away, knowing damn well how ticklish the man is.

I try to make a quick getaway; wanting to avoid the awkwardness I could feel slowly creeping back in between us. However when I hear “Calla,wait.” I groan internally before slowly turning around to find that he’s already standing right there before me. Curse him and how damn sneaky he is! A man of his size shouldn't also be stealthy!

“Stevie I-” I’m pulled into his embrace, fingers moving up to tangle in my long hair to scratch comfortingly against my scalp. All the tension leaves my body at the action, sagging against him and almost purring like a cat, eyes drifting closed.

“Calla... My lilly...”He murmurs softly against my hairline as he pulls me even closer to him, if that’s even possible. My heartrate spikes at his words as my belly erupts with butterflies. We had always been close but never has he been this tender with me.

His lips press one last kiss to my forehead before bidding me goodnight and gently urging me in the direction of my room where I had been so ready to escape to moments ago but now have to force my body towards.

“Goodnight Stevie.” I whisper softly on my way, Knowing he’d hear me.

I don’t know what wakes me. My eyes slowly flutter open and my lips part with a deep yawn. It’s not until I’m stretching that my body freezes as I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

‘You’re being watched’ my mind tells me as my muscles lock up with panic, eyes staying on the wall directly in front of me, terrified to move let alone look around.

In the back of my mind I already know who’s in the room with me. It’s him. He’s come for me, to finish the job. Bucky....

Then just like that, as if materializing from thin air, he’s there. His hand wraps around my ankle like a vice, jerking me down the bed towards him, sheets getting bunched up around me as he does.

No, no not again! please no!

Crying desperately I kick out at him and miraculously the heel of my foot comes into contact with the middle of his chest, causing his grip to loosen just enough to slip away. Rollin on to my hands and knees I start to crawl away from him quickly in an attempt to put distance between us, but with a deep growl he’s suddenly on top of me, using his big body to pin me to the bed.

“No, Bucky! this isn't’ you!” He lets out a sadistic chuckle at my words before he reaches down and rips my panties roughly from my body. I cry out as my skin burns from the fabric, leaving red welts in the wake.

“Please don’t do this, don’t do this! I’ll do anything!” I sob but then he’s thrusting into me once against without a care as his chest rumbles against my back.

“You will submit.” He snarls in my ear as his hips snap violently against my ass.

You will submit.

YOU WILL SUBMIT.

“Calla...Calla!” I fight against the vice like grip holding me in place, writhing and thrashing against him. A scream is ripped from my raw throat as I get a hand free, digging my nails into my assailants skin. “Damit, Calla! Calla it’s me! Stop!” With one more hard shake I’m pulled back to reality and I whimper shaking my head.

“Open your eyes Calla.” When I refuse to do so I hear his soft sigh then his big gentle hands move up to cup my cheeks, thumbs moving over them soothingly. “It’s okay my lilly... I’m here... It’s just me, I’ve got ya. Now open those big beautiful eyes and let me look at ya.” Under his gentle coaxing I reluctantly let my eyelashes flutter open to meet his very concerned blue ones, watching as he lets out a relieved sigh.

My legs are tangled in the damp sheets, body slick with sweat, and chest heaving as I desperately try to get some much needed oxygen into my lungs. “He... He was here...” My voice shakes out the words and I launch myself at steve, sobbing into his naked shoulder and clinging to him desperately.

He just lets me cry, holding my body against his as he whispers soft words against the side of my head. Eventually when the sobs die down enough he gently moves me back to the head of the bed. Pulling back the blankets he slides in beside me without my even having to ask before tucking me under his arm.

We lay there silently for a while, my cheek pressed against his warm chest as my arm snakes around his waist to keep him with me. I let his even breathing calm me, nuzzling closer to him as the panic finally dissipates.

“You know.... I used to have nightmares too. The last thing I can remember is my plane breaking through the ice. The cold of it. I knew it was the right thing to do, and never for a second have a regretted it. But god did it scare me.” I glance up at his words, seeing him staring at the ceiling with wrinkled brows with his arm that wasn't holding me folded behind his head. “Then I woke up and there you were, lookin like and angel. I done thought I’d died and gone to heaven doll!” We both laugh softly at his words, my chest blossoming with warmth. I squeeze him gently and he squeezes me back in turn.

“If I hadn’t had you there when I woke up, To teach me all the things I’d missed out on and needed to learn... to help me get through the realization that everyone I’d known from my past life were gone.... doll I never would have made it.” This time when I looked up my breath caught in my throat at the look on his face as he looked down at me... Cheeks flushed a soft pink, lips slightly swollen due to being bitten so much, eyes shining with something akin to what I can only describe as love.... Adoration..

Slowly he gently reaches down with the arm that isn't holding me and gently pinches my chin between his forefinger and thumb before stroking it softly. His tongue flicks out over his lip and my eyes follow the movement....

I squeal in surprise when in one sweeping movement he has me straddling his lap with his hands once again cupping my cheeks. I’m very quickly becoming convinced it’s his favorite place to have them, but in this moment I’m thankful for it, nuzzling my face against them as our eyes meet once again.

“I promise you Calla, my lilly, that I’ll NEVER let anyone hurt you ever again. Ever. I’ll kill them first. You are the most important thing in my life. I’ll do anything for you, to make you feel better, to help you through this.”

My heart swells at his words, tears forming in my eyes as I give him a watery smile. Slowly reaching up to mimic him I cup his cheeks, watching as his eyes slowly flicker closed and his lips part to let out a soft breath at the touch. “Anything?” I question quietly.

“Anything.” Before the word has even left his mouth all the way I lean forward and press my lips softly against his.

People say that when you have your first kiss with something it feels like fireworks, like your life is exploding. Not with steve... No, kissing stevie feels like home. Like a cup of hot cocoa in front of a warm fire on a cold december night. Like fuzzy socks and warm blankets... like coming home after a bad day knowing that your person will be there to make everything feel right again.

And god does he make everything feel right again as he kisses me back with everything he has. Moving my hands up to tangle my fingers into his silky soft hair I let him tilt my head back so that he can press his lips firmer against mine to gain better access. A breathy whine escapes me and my lips party willingly without him even having to ask. He instantly takes advantage as his tongue slips in to massage against mine before exploring my mouth.

My whole body burns under his gentle ministrations. I burn for him, and I’d willingly burn for him over and over and over again...

Keeping my head leaned back I bite my lip as he leaves hot open mouthed kisses down the line of my jaw... slowly moving back to that spot behind my hear that he just seems to know will drive me wild.... groaning my name he nuzzles his nose there affectionately as his warm breath fans against my overly sensitive skin.

Wrapping those big arms around my waist he pulls my body even tighter against his before pulling back to press his forehead against mine, giving me a gentle smile. I can’t help but smile back before leaning back in and teasingly taking his bottom lip between my teeth and pulling slightly.

With a grunt his hips thrust up against me, pulling a surprised gasp from me as I feel how painfully hard he is beneth me. My pussy clenches as the feeling as my body automatically grinds down to meet his thrusts. Instantly those hands grip my waist tightly, stilling my movements.

"Calla... we can't." He grunts out, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched. I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion as I look down as him. I know he wants this...

"Stevie... please.. I want you... I've never been so sure of anything in my life.." shaking his head at my words his kisses my shoulder softly as he hugs me.

"No doll... I don't want you to want me just because you want to feel something... just because you want to forget. I want you to want me because you can't live without me... I want you to want me because I make it easier to breath... because that's how I feel about you."

#steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers #captain america #dark bucky x reader #dark bucky x you #dark bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #avengers smut #marvel smut #slight angst #nonconsent #marvel #mcu #the avengers #romance #these idiots #friends to lovers

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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

Text

window to the soul

Octoberfest 3: ghost (from geraskier hollow) + stare

“It’s drawn to strong emotions,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew that he was about to become bait.

The monster of the week was a wraith, but of an unusual type. Over the years of traveling together, Jaskier had seen plenty of wraiths - noonwraiths, nightwraiths, even a plague maiden once. He probably could take one on himself, knowing what he did about the process of destroying them, though it would be difficult without the use of yrden holding them in the physical realm. Luckily it was Geralt’s job to dispatch them. Jaskier usually didn’t even go along to watch anymore, unless the story behind the haunting was particularly ballad worthy.

This time, the wraith was different. Geralt had quickly identified the lost soul, a young woman who had recently died. She’d been deeply in love with a merchant that had regularly come and gone from the town, and had tried to cast a spell to trap his heart. Jaskier knew, after everything with Geralt and the djinn, that there was no curse or potion that could truly emulate love. Her spell had made the merchant obsessed with her, the man driven slowly mad by a fixation that he did not want and could not escape. In the end he had killed the girl and then himself, to escape from the madness that she had struck into his mind. The strength of her grief and the magic of the binding spell had changed the spirit of the woman into something else entirely, something extremely dangerous.

“It’s a sort of hybrid between a vampire and a wraith,” he explained. They were in the field beyond the village, and Geralt was meticulously checking over his potions. His blades were laid off to the side, the slick oil that he used to slay spectres shining across his silver blade. It was nearing sunset, the twilight hour that made it easier for apparitions to make themselves seen in the material world. Jaskier was sitting across from him, nervously stripping leaves from a small twig. Geralt continued. “The emotion she felt and her unrequited love turned her into a heartwraith. Sometimes people call them ‘hungry ghosts.’ They’re never satisfied, and they feed off of people’s emotions to try and fill the void in them.”

“Sounds like a truly awful existence,” Jaskier mused, watching Geralt. The evening light played across his broad shoulders, turning his hair from silver to gold. Jaskier thought he might be able to understand where she was coming from, even if he’d never have tried to bind Geralt to him unwillingly. It was a terrible thing, to be so deeply and unfortunately in love with someone who didn’t want you.

“I need to draw her out,” Geralt said gruffly. “She’s seeking out powerful emotions, like the couple that were attacked and the man who was beating his wife. I’ll need your help.” Jaskier sighed. Of course, it didn’t make much sense for Geralt to try to draw her out. Though Jaskier didn’t subscribe to the notion that witchers felt less than regular humans, Geralt was what Jaskier would dub repressed. The man couldn’t look an honest emotional conversation in the face without getting flustered and running away.

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier said, like he always did. He didn’t love playing bait, but he knew Geralt would never let anything bad happen to him.

Geralt nodded and picked up his silver sword, his steel one still securely in its sheath on his back. “Come on. We need to build a fire to destroy her locket.” The girl had kept a locket with a small lock of the merchant’s hair inside, which Geralt had guessed helped tie her to this plane. Over the next few minutes, the two men built a small pyre. Geralt pressed the locket into Jaskier’s palm, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s skin. He tried not to blush at the contact.

“When she’s distracted, throw this into the fire. It’ll weaken her,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded mutely, clutching the warm metal close. The fire crackled merrily beside them, painting the landscape around them in swatches of ocher and dark blue. It was truly approaching night now, only the barest hint of sunlight still left on the far horizon.

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked. “To get her attention, I mean.”

Geralt gave him an odd look. “Nothing. I’m going to draw her in.” Geralt’s face was pinched in a way that Jaskier had come to realize meant he was experiencing some kind of emotion, though it was always hard to tell which one. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain all translated into relatively the same expression - tight jaw, drawn eyebrows, thinned lips. Jaskier wanted to reach out and sooth the tension from his friend’s features, but luckily the locket demanded his hands’ wandering attention. Geralt gestured to the soft earth beside the fire, clearly bidding Jaskier to sit. He did so, flopping gracelessly into a crossed legged position, back straight from tension. It was hard to forget that a wraith could appear any moment to wreck the quiet evening.

Geralt settled next to him, dropping into the kneeling position that he favored for meditation. His eyes were grave as he looked over Jaskier’s face. “Just… sit still,” he said softly. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with that tone, so he just tried to do as Geralt asked. He settled in, waiting for something to happen, but Geralt just stared at him.

For a moment it was awkward. Jaskier felt a blush spread across his cheeks as those golden eyes regarded him, sweeping over his face and following the line of his neck. Geralt was a man who always split his attention half a dozen ways at once, one eye always on the door and an ear out for trouble. Jaskier had accepted long ago that Geralt never fully listened to him, and that was alright. It wasn’t in his nature, and Jaskier didn’t need participation to hold a conversation. Now, though, he felt the full force of Geralt’s focus on him, looking back at him as if trying to see beyond a mask. Geralt’s own face was impassive, that slight frown still marring his features.

What could he hope to accomplish through this? If he wanted to elicit strong emotions, there were certainly easier ways to do it than a staring contest. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever elicited strong emotions in anyone that he wasn’t actively singing to. It was he who was often overtaken by the whims of his own heart, prone to fits of temper and weeks of lovesickness by turn. Geralt never seemed to feel anything other than mild annoyance. Gods, what if Jaskier annoyed him so much that just looking at him made the witcher angry enough to summon a spectre? Jaskier knew he could be infuriating, but surely if Geralt detested him that much he would just leave Jaskier behind. Right?

Anxiety filled his chest, but he’d been instructed specifically not to move. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier found himself taking the opportunity to just look back for once, something he so rarely had a chance to do. He absorbed all the details of Geralt’s face that he never allowed himself to - the way Geralt’s left eyebrow was ever so slightly interrupted by a tiny scar, the slight wrinkles on his forehead from years of frowning and the even fainter ones around his eyes, the ever so slight part of his lips. The dramatic light of the fire and the moon overhead made his face into a patchwork landscape of color, the valley of purple shadow in the hollow of his cheek highlighted by soft gold. Jaskier committed every feature to memory, thinking of the notebooks he could fill with songs dedicated to Geralt’s eyes and lips and brilliant white hair. He loved him so much it felt like it was going to drown him, leaving no room in his chest for his lungs.

After he’d finally taken in all the abstract elements of Geralt’s face that he could in the low light, Jaskier’s eyes dragged back to meet Geralt’s. The gold of his irises were nearly consumed by dark pupil, his eyes expanding to take in as much light as possible in the darkness. In this lighting he looked both more and less human, and it made Jaskier feel helplessly fond. Their eyes met, and suddenly the situation struck Jaskier as a bit funny. Two men sitting in a field, silently staring at each other, one pining away like nothing else while the other tried to summon a ghost. It was ridiculous. He quirked a playful eyebrow at Geralt, as if to say, Aren’t we just a couple of fools?

Jaskier watched Geralt’s face shift, a second of surprise flitting across his face. And then, without warning, there was something new there, something Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. A softening in Geralt’s eyes, in his brow, as he looked at Jaskier, open and affectionate. The expression hit Jaskier like a punch, or a kiss, demanding and devastating. Geralt’s mouth opened on a low exhale, and Jaskier leaned forward, wondering if he dared, if Geralt might -

There was a screech, and the wraith was upon them.

Geralt was up in an instant, silver sword flashing as he blocked a clawed hand from coming down on Jaskier’s head. Jaskier yelped as he scurried out of the way, clutching the locket he’d almost forgotten. There was a sudden burst of purple light in the field, making the shadows around them dance and twist eerily. The wraith made a horrible noise, like flint scraping across metal, endless and clearly annoyed. Geralt pushed her against the wall of the magical trap, cutting off bits of wispy energy with his sword.

Jaskier wasn’t sure when the exact right time was, but the wraith was certainly distracted. Jumping forward, he tossed the locket down into the fire, watching as the clasp popped open and the little lock of hair fell into the embers. It caught quickly, and Jaskier heard the wraith shriek again, this time a haunting and mournful sound. When he turned back it was just in time to see Geralt shove his sword in her chest. The strange, cottony fabric of her ragged dress seemed to dissipate in the wind, her dry flesh cracking and falling away like old paint. After a moment there was nothing left but a pile of ash.

“Go in peace,” Geralt said, and turned to Jaskier. Dropping to one knee, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier pushed himself into a better sitting position. They were close, too close. He hoped the warmth of the fire would mask his blush. “I’m fine, thanks to you. Is she really gone?”

Geralt nodded. “Should be. She has no tether to this world anymore without the locket.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. He paused. “So. Um. What you did there seemed to work, at least.”

Geralt leaned back away, out of Jaskier’s space. He missed the proximity immediately. “I wouldn’t have exposed you if I could think of another way.”

“Well, it’s not easy to find someone as irritating as me on such short notice,” Jaskier said nervously. “Hardly efficient.”

Geralt gave an almost comical shake of his head, surprise slapped across his features. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Jaskier shifted, uncomfortable. Giving a forced laugh, he said, “Well, I can only imagine that you were conjuring up strong emotions of the, ah, annoyance you so often display when I do something like, I don’t know, sing or eat or breathe. I know you’re not so easily swayed by my charms.” He tried to pass it off like a joke, but he knew it fell flat even as he was saying it. There was too much hurt in his throat to make it come out anything less than bitter. He stared into the fire, watching the locket turn a liquid red from the heat.

A warm hand suddenly came up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier blinked in surprise as Geralt’s fingers urged him to look up. “It’s not that,” Geralt said forcefully. “You must know, Jaskier, you have to - When I look at you, it’s so...” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound. Words had never been his strength. “I feel many things for you, bard.”

Jaskier swallowed. “You do?”

Geralt’s eyes were hot on him, and Jaskier wondered if one could be branded by a glance. It certainly felt like it. “Yes,” Geralt said. “Intensely.”

“Oh,” Jaskier stammered. “Um. I’m not sure if I’m reading all this right, but assuming that you’re saying you don’t hate me, then, ah -”

Geralt gave an annoyed huff, and Jaskier was just about to comment, say something like, see, I am irritating, but then Geralt was kissing him, and he decided to let it go. He leaned into the press of lips, gasping softly. It was brief, nearly over before it began, but Jaskier could feel the warmth of it after Geralt pulled away, breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier shivered.

“Quite the opposite,” Geralt said softly. His eyes were molten gold, hotter than the locket still melting in the fire at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier never wanted to look away.

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

this fic was heavily inspired by Somedrunkpirate’s piece A Lover’s Lament, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. If you read it you’ll be able to see exactly what scene I borrowed from, and I need you to know that it lives in my head rent free.

edit: for some reason tumblr ate everything but the heading for this fic and I didn’t realize until this morning, so thanks to the ten people who liked it with no content LMAO. yall the real

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