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charliemwrites · 7 months ago

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Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry.

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair.

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead.

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs.

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold.

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy.

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #nikto fic #nikto cod #nikto x reader #witch reader #afab reader #mind the warnings #heavy kink

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sitepathos · 5 months ago

Text

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 10: The Meeting

As the Megamycete watches as you stomp around your room and vent your frustrations about the last few days, it begins to wonder how the Bats came to remember their little black sheep and why they are so insistent you return to Gotham.

It searches through your memories and experiences all the sadness, fear, anger, hatred, and loneliness you experienced for years, all those emotions still so potent even after your departure from the manor four years ago, having been dredged up by their unwelcome visits. It was clear that, besides the butler, none of them considered you a part of their merry band of misfits, not even bothering to spare you a passing glance.

The exception to this is the youngest one, Damian, who constantly went out of his way to make your life harder by mocking you, hurting you, and releasing his menagerie of pets on you, forcing you to run through the endless halls of the mansion barricade yourself in the closest room you could find.

Now, after four years after your escape and maintaining little contact with the family butler, they show up on your door, one after the other, trying to force you to leave your perfect life for one that brought you nothing but pain and misery.

Why?

Why do they want you so much?

Why do they insist on you returning to a place you clearly hate?

Why do they now wish to give you the love they denied you for so long?

Why—

Wait, they are meeting in their little cave, gathering around the massive computer in the center of the massive cavern.

Its roots have long since surrounded the cave and it is still connected to the main colony back in Gotham, but when it took you as its host, it has had no need to tap into its roots to see the world above when it can see the world through your eyes and experience it through your senses.

Using its roots to see the outside world no longer has the same appeal when your senses are far more vibrant and provide far more detail.

When it proposed you become its host, it must admit, it never thought it would be so mutually beneficial. Of course, it would be able to leave the cavern and finally experience a world firsthand that had been forever just out of reach for over four-hundred years, but you would recover from your injuries and be akin to a god among men with your newfound abilities. You were the one who had more to gain from your joining, but it was willing to trade one prison for another if it meant finally seeing the world above and having someone to talk to.

But you proved it wrong.

When it became a part of you, you treated it like a person, not a thing. You value its input and alter your plans if it desires to see or experience something. You frequently talk to it, telling it things that you haven’t told anyone else and speaking to it like it was a lifelong friend.

It has no further use for that toxic city and its citizens when it has the warm haven of Goodsprings and you to keep it company.

It has come to admire you, even going as far as to see you as a friend and confidant, and wants nothing but the best for you as you so rightfully deserve and to see you suffer teaches it a new definition of rage.

“Running blood tests,” your failure of a father says as he types on the keyboard, causing a machine next to the massive device to make noises.

“If Master Y/N does test positive for the Meta Gene, what do you intend to do, Master Bruce,” the butler, the only one in this crowd it respects, asks.

“If Y/N is a meta, I’ll have to find out what his powers are and how to counter it.”

So that’s what this meeting is about, they managed to put the pieces together that you are no mere human. But how did they manage to get a sample of your blood? Since your joining, you have had no need for doctors as its influence makes you immune against common illnesses and diseases.

“Getting his blood was a simple task,” Damian taunts. “Honestly, this would have been solved already if you sent me, Father.”

Of course. It should have known the little menace gave up too easily.

While you hate Bruce Wayne in every sense of the word, Damian Wayne is right behind him. From the moment you met him, he went up of his way to make your life a living nightmare and was allowed to get away with impunity due to obvious favoritism from Dick Grayson.

The memory of Dick defending Damian after he gave you a scar made the Megamycete furious. No matter his upbringing, he had no right to harm you, and yet, he was allowed to draw his sword on you. It was only pure luck that you managed to move to avoid being critically wounded, only resulting in a scar.

The Megamycete has seen your many fantasies of hurting Damian and making him feel inferior and wants to help you make them a reality.

“Results are in,” Bruce announces, making them all crowd around the computer.

“No Meta Gene,” Tim remarks, staring at the monitor with alarming intensity.

“Yeah, but look,” Jason exclaims, pointing at one of the results. “He’s got something in him that doesn’t belong.”

“For once, Todd is right. The tests show foreign substances in his blood.”

“Wait,” Tim mutters as he leans over and begins typing on the computer, bringing up an extensive menu and going through various files. “That looks so familiar.” An image is pulled up on the monitor. “Here it is! The stuff in his blood matches the stuff found in what remained of Joker.”

Well, this is rather unfortunate. It had hoped that there would be very little of the clown left to examine after his execution by your hand, but as usual, these people cannot resist poking into areas they do not belong.

“If this is substance is in Master Y/N’s blood, does that mean he is responsible for Joker’s death?”

“Bruce, you can’t lock up Y/N after bringing him home,” Dick whines. “You have to admit, your thing with Joker was only going to end one way!”

“We don’t even know if Y/N killed Joker,” Tim interjects. “It’s possible this strain of mold was in both of them and Joker’s was somehow activated, killing him.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, Drake,” Damian responds, glaring at Tim. “That means that Y/N could be in danger. If I had my pick, I would he be responsible for Joker’s death. Knowing he can take down as formidable as the Joker is proof he is a Wayne and my brother.”

If it had eyes, the Megamycete would roll them. This insecure little terror spent years making it clear he saw you as an interloper into his “perfect world” and not as a brother and that you are a disgrace to the Wayne bloodline (although that bloodline was tainted far before you came to be). He has some nerve to call you his brother now.

It still made it angry that he had the nerve to critique your mother (your memories of her painted the woman as a saint) when his mother, the daughter of a millennium-old maniac with delusions of grandeur (yes, you are very aware of his familiar secrets) who drugged Bruce in order to bring him into the world.

“We need to bring him back here, Bruce,” Dick says, defusing a fight between the two. “If he’s in danger, he needs to be back home.”

“I agree,” Bruce responds. “Cass, you and I will go. I’ll distract him and while he’s busy yelling at me, you’ll sneak up behind him and inject him with a tranquilizer.”

The mute nods and the Megamycete wishes it has a mouth so it can scream. Not only is it offensive that they believe you are stupid enough to fall for such an obvious trick, but that they believe they have the right to decide something like this on your behalf.

If they have failed to realize that you want nothing to do with them after you have yelled it at them, perhaps they will understand if it tells so itself.

And it knows the perfect form to take.

He stands up from the chair and makes his way to the armory where they keep the tranquilizers meant for the larger criminals, like Bane and Killer Croc.

He hates the thought of using such methods against you, but you’ve made it clear you aren’t going to come back to Gotham willingly and the discovery of this mysterious mold inside you has forced their hand.

Nevertheless, improvisation is one of their many skills, a requirement in their line of work. Once they have you back home, they’ll be able to conduct more in-depth tests and be able to find out what’s wrong with you and go from there.

As much as he hates the idea of you possibly being in pain and may even be in danger, he can’t deny there’s a small inside him that’s glad this has happened. This discovery accelerates their plans and will have you brought home far sooner.

And, there’s the chance that this mold may explain most of your hatred towards them. Sure, he knows you have every right to despise them, but when he saw the look in your eye when you pushed him down that night of the award ceremony. He could tell you enjoyed inflicting pain on him.

This stuff in you must’ve made your temper more volatile and made you lash out at them.

It’s the only explanation.

“Excuse us,” a familiar voice calls throughout the cave, stoping his dead in his tracks.

That voice… No, it can’t be. There’s no way…

He turns around to see you, standing in the cave, all of them looking right at you. The small smile on your face making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“We believe there are some things we should talk about,” you say as you walk closer to them, making his children back up with each step you take.

“No fucking way,” Jason remarks, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Wait,” Tim says as he rushes over to the computer and rapidly types on the keyboard. “You can’t be Y/N. His phone says he’s still in Goodsprings and we’ve been monitoring his GPS signal, so there’s no way you could’ve come all the way to Gotham from Nevada without us knowing!”

That’s right, they’ve been monitoring your phone ever since Alfred helped them remember you, tracking you every move and committing your searches, social media usage, and all your texts and phone calls. They would’ve done the same to your computers that are linked to your phone, but your cybersecurity is tougher than they anticipated (clearly custom) and they haven’t been able to crack the encryption.

He knew you were skilled at making videos games, but he didn’t know your skills with technology expanded into cybersecurity. Ever since they made that discovery, Tim’s spent nearly all day trying to pierce your firewalls, but hasn’t made any progress. He’s also made it clear he wants to have lengthy conversations on computers and programming with you once you’re back home.

So, you’re still in Goodsprings, so who the hell is this, why the hell would they take your form, and how the hell did they get into the Cave without setting off any of the dozens of alarms or sensors?

“Who are you” Damian hisses, taking a defensive posture. “And what gives you the right to assume the form of my brother?”

“You have some nerve calling him your brother,” the Not-You hisses back, the smile morphing into an all-too familiar snarl. “He is too good for you, for any of you.”

Even though he knows this isn’t you, hearing those words in your voice still hurts him.

“Do you know Master Y/N,” Alfred interjects, trying to bring tensions down, most likely so he can learn more from this person.

“Yes, we do,” Not-You responds, looking at the butler, the snarl morphing into a look of… admiration? “And we know you, Alfred Pennyworth. We know of you and how you helped him during his stay in this wretched mansion. You have our gratitude.”

“Look, whoever you are, stop taking Y/N’s form,” Steph exclaims. “You’re obviously a shapeshifter, so turn back to normal! Or the very least, take a different form!”

“Oh, do you all wish for us to take another form,” the Not-You asks, a ghost of a smirk gracing “your” face.

“Yes,” Bruce says without hesitation.

It’s bad enough to see you look at them with such hatred, he won’t tolerate some imposter doing the same thing.

“Very well.”

Before them all, the Not-You turns into a shifting mass of some type of black organic mass before taking on a humanoid shape once again and Bruce’s heart stops when he takes in the new form.

“Hello, Bruce,” the shapeshifter says in a voice he hasn’t heard in years.

Not since that fateful night in Crime Alley.

“Good God,” Alfred says, his eyes wide and his jaw practically on the floor.

In front of them is his mother, every detail exactly how she was that night, still adorned in her favorite pearl necklace and wearing her green dress.

As he stares at her looking at him with those eyes that use to look at him with nothing less than unconditional love, he feels his breathing start to become erratic and eyes begin to mist up.

“What’s wrong, Bruce,” the shapeshifter says in her voice (god, even her voice was exactly how he remembered) as they begin to walk towards him, making him step back. “I thought you would be happy to see me. It has been so long since I was killed.”

“No,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “You’re not her. You can’t be.”

“But I am. Do you not see? I know everything you have done.” His mother’s face then morphs into a disgusted snarl, making him sick to his stomach. “And I am absolutely disgusted in you! Why did we have to die that night? Why not the disgrace we once called our son!”

He knows this isn’t his mother and she never would’ve called him a disgrace, but hearing those words in a voice he’s longed to hear for so long makes him want to cry.

He’s had dreams of seeing his mother’s in the flesh again and now he has to endure this berating? Is he truly that horrible of a man to deserve this?

“Stop it, you bitch,” Jason exclaims as he steps between Bruce and the shapeshifter. “Take another form or get the fuck outta here!”

“Oh, you want us to another form?” His… the shapeshifter shifts once again and in his mother’s place is…

“Hiya, Dead Hood,” Joker exclaims before exclaiming in that all-too familiar cackle and waving around a crow bar in his hand. “Did you miss me?”

It doesn’t take a detective to notice Jason tense up and his breathing stop; Joker left a mark on Jason that unfortunately will never be erased (another shortcoming that eats away at Bruce everyday) and whenever news of Joker escaping Arkham would bring up all the anger, fear, and sadness that was planted in Jason that night he died.

After Joker was killed, he noticed a weight seemed to be lifted off of Jason’s shoulders. Sure, he made jokes about the clown burning in hell, but Bruce could see he was genuinely happy and was ready to move on form that horrible chapter in his life.

And now, all that trauma is about to be dug back up after four years.

“You have five fucking seconds to take another form before I beat the shit outta you,” Jason says in a tone that says he means business, his eyes flickering into that shade of Lazarus green.

“How about this form,” the shapeshifter says in Joker’s voice before changing into John Grayson, making Dick tense up. “Or this form?” John Grayson then shifts into Janet Drake, making Tim tense up.

“Alright, you made your point,” Barbara shouts. “Just turn back into Y/N.”

And with that, the shapeshifter takes your form again.

“Who are you,” Bruce growls, pissed that his sons have had their trauma jabbed at. “We know you’re not Y/N, but you know him and us.”

You may call us the Megamycete.”

“Megamycete,” Tim asks. “So, you’re not human?”

“No, we are a super colony of mold given sentience via a Lazarus Pit.”

“Of course a fucking pit’s involved,” Jason mutters.

“What’s your tie to Y/N,” Dick interjects.

“Y/N is our host. Before, we were confined to a cavern beneath this city, but when we joined with him, we were freed from our prison.”

“So, you’re using him.”

The Megamycete glares at Bruce for his accusation.

“No, he and us operate on mutual trust and respect. Y/N is a respectable young man.” A smirk appears on “your” face. “A trait he clearly did not inherent from you.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Even though this thing is probably the reason why you feel so much hate towards them, it still pains him to know this is his reality.

“Were you responsible for the Joker’s death,” Steph chimes in. “We found weird strains of mold in his remains and you’re a walking, talking pile of mold.”

“While we are not directly responsible for the Joker’s death, we do not deny we were involved. That night, Y/N took us out to Amusement Mile to celebrate when we learned the Joker was sighted in an arcade. Upon seeing the many deaths left in his wake, our host took matters into his own hands and eliminated the biggest threat this city had ever seen.” It gives Bruce a wide smirk. “In a single night, our host did more to help Gotham than you and your brood have done in years.”

Knowing you were responsible for killing Joker didn’t sit well with him. Sure, he’d accepted that Joker’s games were only going to end with one or both of them being dead a long time ago, but knowing that you, his son, had killed him…

“What about Harley,” Dick asks, breaking Bruce out of his thoughts. “He killed her too?”

“She forced his hand. He had no choice.”

“What do you mean he had no choice,” Dick shouts. “Did you force him?”

“Do not be stupid,” it says, glaring at his first son. “Our host was in complete control of his actions that night. We no more control his actions than you. The woman was a lost cause, without Joker to keep her in line, she would have punished all of Gotham as retribution for the loss of her love. Also, she would have informed you of him, causing you to devote all your resources to finding him. In order to both save Gotham from her wrath and himself from your scrutiny, Harley had to die.”

No, this thing has to be lying. There’s no way you, one of his sons, could ever rationalize killing someone. It had to have forced you to kill them. It had to…

“How did you even find Y/N,” Damian interjects.

Upon being asked that question, it smiles. And not a normal smile, but a smile that says it knows something they don’t know and something tells Bruce he’s not going to like it.

“He was thrown into our cavern after being left for dead.”

Bruce hears the words, but they just don’t process.

You were… left for dead? When? How?

“It was four years ago, while the butler was on his vacation. That day, his boss was forced to retire due to Gotham’s high crime, so he was forced to find another bus stop within Crime Alley as he had no other way of returning here, where he was unfortunately captured by three thugs and takes to a cabin in the nearby forest. They intended to ransome him off for a high price due to his school uniform.”

You were held hostage? Why didn’t you call for them? For him?

He knows you have no reason to think he’d help you with homework, but surely you’d call him if you were ever—

Just then, memories from that time frame kick in.

Random…

Phone call…

Oh… Oh no…

“Since the butler was out of the country, he actually reached out and gave the thugs the phone number for this manor.”

He so desperately wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“You said all your children were with you and you all laughed and mocked the leader of the thugs.”

He sees all his children tense up at the realization and Alfred looks at him to see if it was true. Based on the butler’s look of shock and disbelief, he knows it’s the truth.

“The one time he reaches out to you for help, you laugh and mock. He needed you and you failed him in the worst way possible.”

He remembers that night. He thought it was so stupid that someone would think he wouldn’t know when one of his kids were missing. He said all his children were with him and meant it.

God, he really is the worst, isn’t he?

“After that phone call, the leader took all his frustrations out on our host, beating him until he could cry out for mercy no longer before shooting him in the head.”

He wants to cry when the image of you being beat up enters his head, and based on the way he flinches, so does Jason, who looks like he wants to cry.

Alfred looks like he’s ready to go nuclear and Bruce doesn’t blame him. Hearing all this years later and he had no idea what happened just proves he was never worthy of being your father.

“He was on the brink of death and had he not accepted our offer to become our host, he would be dead and the world would have been deprived of a brilliant mind.”

The thought of you dying brings a brunch of thoughts to the surface.

How long would it had taken him to notice you were missing?

How would he reacted upon learning you were dead?

Chances are your body would’ve never been found and all there would be to remember you by would be a tombstone with your name in the Wayne Cemetery. Hell, you’ve made it clear you want nothing to do with the Wayne name, so you probably would’ve never agreed to be buried with the rest of the Waynes.

“Our joining restored him to full health and gave him access to many powers, including our records.”

“Records,” Tim asks, clearly interested in this.

“We have existed for four-hundred years, our roots expanding towards every corner of this city. As our roots touched those buried beneath the ground, not only have we watched the goings-on of Gotham, but we absorbed the memories, knowledge, and structure of the deceased. As horrible as the city is, it has attracted many brilliant minds, like artists, scientists, engineers, and many more. He has access to the knowledge of these people, making him one of the smartest humans alive.” It chuckles. “In fact, many of your employees are in our records and he used this knowledge to get revenge on you, selling the secrets of your company to Lex Luthor for a tidy sum.”

You were the one who did that? He’s been racking his brain and reviewing network logs to find any sort of security breach and it was you using the remains of his dead employees.

“Alright, so that solves a lot of mysteries,” Dick interjects. “But that still leaves one: why are you here?”

“We have been by our host’s since that fateful night, peering through his memories and seeing the world through his eyes. Ever since he was forced to move to Gotham, none of you ever made him feel welcome here. For years, he wanted nothing more than to return to his rightful home, where he knew nothing but love. Now, after four years since his departure from this wretched manor, you appear, one after another, trying to bring him back to a place he despises more than anywhere else. We wish to know why.”

“He’s my son,” Bruce answers, not liking what this thing has to say.

“He’s family,” Dick adds. “Of course we’d want him back.”

“But none of you have ever made him feel that way. And if you are honest with yourselves, you never saw him as one of your own. You only want him because you feel guilty about how you treated him, and that guilt is making you believe you are owed a second chance. And you seek to obtain that second chance, no matter how much harm it does to him.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re taking about,” Jason exclaims, clearly getting more and more pissed. “Yeah, we fucked up! But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a part of this fucked up family!”

“He was never a part of this family. We know for a fact that he wishes he could take out the Wayne DNA and return it.”

“That’s because you’re manipulating him,” Damian interjects. “Nothing will change the fact that he’s my blood brother.”

“It is funny you say that when the last interaction you had with him was a fight.” It lifts hits arm and manifests a gold pen in its hand. “Do you remember this? This is the pen you tried to steal from him and then threw out into the rain when he gave you a much deserved slap upside your head. Do you know the significance of this item to our host?”

Bruce gets the feeling that he’s not going to like why that pen is so important to you and based off Alfred’s expression, that feeling gets even worse.

“This pen once belonged to his mother, made by her father when she set out to become an author. When she was taken from him, this pen was the only thing he had to remember her by. And you, the arrogant beast that you are, felt you had the right to take this, his most treasured possession, from him.” It turns its gaze from Damian to the rest of them. “And the rest of you supported this irreverent mongrel and condemned our host without listening to him before passing judgment.”

It seems like a day can’t go by that Bruce feels like the scum of the earth; ever since he learned of how he neglected you for years and forgot you even existed, his sense of worth has taken hit after hit. He was thinking about that argument you had with Damian and how furious he was when you refused to obey him not too long ago, thinking how stupid it was for you to cause so much trouble over a simple pen. Now to find out that “simple pen” was the only thing you had to remember your mother by…

It just never ends, does it?

He could spend the rest of his life atoning for everything he’s ever done to you, spend his last dollar to make your wildest dreams come true and he’d never come close to earning your forgiveness.

He knows he’s not the best father for his children, but he was never worthy of being your father and he’s certainly not that now.

“Y/N,” he whispers, knowing this isn’t you, but it has your face, your vice, and your memories, so it’s the next best thing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He knows tears are falling from his eyes, surprising both Alfred and his children. He doesn’t want them to see him like this, but he can’t help it; the last few days have been one emotional turmoil after another and he’s reached his limits.

He failed his baby in every way possible.

“Now you understand,” it responds as it walks closer to him. “You fulfilled your purpose, Mr. Wayne. You brought Y/N into this world and had him brought to Gotham, where he was delivered into our custody. Now please, do not worry for him, we assure you we will provide him with true happiness. Go on, all you have to do is stay in Gotham and out of our host’s business.”

“Father,” Damian exclaims. “You can’t possibly be considering this!”

“Bruce,” Dick adds. “You aren’t going to actually do it, right?”

“Don’t fuck this up, Bruce,” Jason adds.

“We can’t just give up on him,” Tim adds.

“Yeah, he’s your son,” Barbara adds.

“He’s our brother,” Steph adds.

‘Family doesn’t give up on one another,’ Cass signs.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred warns, clearly not pleased at the thought of giving up on you.

He should, though. He knows that he’ll never be worthy of calling himself your father and you’ve made it clear you hate him and your siblings in every sense of the word. You wanted to go back to your childhood home in Goodsprings, a place that made you feel loved, something his home never made you feel. And the last four years were good to you based off your appearance and success. Plus, you had the Megamycete, that apparently has been more of a family to you than them.

If he was a good person, he’d put your needs and wants ahead of yours and agree to leave you alone and tell his children to do the same. Repeatedly harassing you would only make you hate them more and widen the gap between you and them. You don’t need them and clearly learned how to live without them. Over the past few days, he’s gathered every piece of information about you he can find and from what he sees, you love it in Goodsprings and fully intend on living in the house you and your mother lived.

But he’s not a good person, not by a long shot.

The night his parents were gunned down like animals in that disgusting alley, his sadness had turned into a bright inferno of rage; he wanted to inflict on every criminal that he met every ounce of his never ending vengeance and make them so afraid of him that they refuse to step outside whatever hole they call home, so that no one ever has to lose a child, a parent, a friend, or a loved one to some scumbag with a gun. That was his reason for donning the cowl.

After his parents were taken from him, he made it his mission to never lose anything of his ever again and two things that he holds dear more than anything in this world are Gotham and his family. And as long as he’s breathing, he’ll hold onto those two things until the bitter end.

Is it possible that in his mission to protect his city from Arkham’s inmates have made him forget the little details? Of course, Gotham needs Bruce Wayne as much as it needs Batman.

Is it possible that his need to hold onto his children with an iron grip has made him lose them on multiple occasions? Absolutely, he’s constantly remembering that his children are their own people and that even though they may leave him, they’ll always come home.

And that’s what his situation is with you. He knows he fucked up with you and he can never undo the damage he’s done to you, it doesn’t change the fact that you are his blood, his son, his firstborn.

You belonged to him the moment you were born and there’s nothing that can change that. He wishes he could go back in time and accept the gift of your affection that his past self spurred, but he can’t (his time as a Justice League member has taught him that going back in time is more trouble than it’s worth) and his only option is to move forward and make you see that the only place in this world for you is with him and your siblings here in Gotham, a city that has and always will belong to the Waynes.

And right now, this Megamycete is an obstacle standing in his way of completing his family. And if there’s one thing Bruce is very good at over the years, it’s overcoming obstacles.

“No.”

“Pardon,” it says, confusion etched onto its face.

“No,” he says loudly, making it clear he has no intention on letting you go. “Y/N is my son and their brother. He belongs here, with me and his family, not in some backwater town with some sentient mushroom. We’ll find a way to bring him back here and separate the two of you. And when we do, he’ll have all the time in the world to realize this is where he needs to be. Once he realizes that, all of Gotham will celebrate his return.”

He looks around and sees not only does his family seem happy with that statement, but they think the same as him.

The Megamycete looks at him, silent, seemingly shocked at his statement.

Then, it begins to laugh. First, just soft chuckles, then a laugh so loud, it echoes off the walls of the cave.

“Our host was right, you have clearly lost what sanity you had left. You reject him for years and now that you realize your folly, you seek to make amends? Please, spare us your delusions. This has nothing to do with our host and everything to do with your guilt. The moment you feel absolved, you will return to the status quo and forget he exists.” It motions to his children. “You have plenty of children here to drown in your need for forgiveness, surely you can make do with one of them.”

Then, it leans closer towards him, a smug look adorning its face.

“Also, Y/N belongs to us. He has the moment he fell into our cavern and will continue to until the end of time. Attempt to take him from us and you will suffer the same fate as those three thugs who left him for dead.”

It’s then another mystery gets solved: the slaughter at My Alibi. The three men in the back of the dining room who looked like they had gone through a meat grinder. That was your doing and they had been the ones to kidnap you and leave you for dead.

While he never advocates for killing people, he’s more than happy to make an exception for them. If they tried to kill you, they deserved to be slaughtered.

He only wishes they were still alive so he could pay them a visit before being turned over to Red Hood.

“We’ve fought plenty of Metas in the past. Do you really think you’ll be any different?”

“We have the knowledge and wisdom of countless people over the course of four-hundred years, all of them at the disposal of our host. You still think of him as that timid little thing from all those years ago, but he has become so much more since our joining. You believe yourselves superior than the rest of the general population, but you will find our host far surpasses you in every respect. He also possesses one thing your past adversaries never will.”

“And what’s that?”

“Unbridled hatred towards you.”

He wants to laugh at that. This thing must not have watched too carefully if it thinks people like Joker, Penguin, Poison Ivy, and so many in Arkham don’t hate his guts. He’s spent years being cursed at by all of Gotham’s rogues and beating all of the Riddler’s countless murder attempts to know Batman is at the top of many people’s Most Hated lists.

“If you don’t think half of Arkham doesn’t have dart boards with our pictures on them, you’re not as smart as you think you are,” Steph mocks.

“We do not doubt the genuine animosity the inmates hold towards you, but they are too far gone to imagine a life without any of you; you have foiled many of their crimes so many times, it has become one of the few constants in their lives. Every time they are put back in Arkham, they devote their time to coming up with their next attempt to best you until it is the only thing they care about. If any one of them were to ever defeat you, they would eventually realize how empty their lives are without you and their victory would soon sour.

“Joker would be a perfect example of this as he was as obsessed with you as you were of him.”

As much as he hates to admit it, the talking pile of mold is right. The clown made it clear that as much as he hated Batman, he was just as obsessed with him, going as far as to go after any criminal that took up too much of his time, Harley included in that.

And Bruce was just as obsessed with Joker, coming up with countless contingencies to counter any plot his sick and twisted mind could come up with, as well as devising security protocols and measures for Arkham to keep him contained and treatment plans to find a way possible bring his sanity back (assuming he had any to begin with).

“But our host is not like them. He has longed for a life free of you lot and now that he has that, he has no intention of surrendering it. Attempt to force him to return to this wretched manor and he will be more than happy to bring his fantasies of killing you a reality.”

He knows you hate them, but hearing that you hate them enough to fantasize about killing them cuts him deep.

“Please, I tried to kill Tim and Bruce back when I returned to Gotham,” Jason mocks, but Bruce can see Jason’s obviously concerned about hearing you thinking about killing them. “And Damian took a few tries at Tim. Everyone in this fucked up family’s got anger issues, it’s nothing weird.”

“You are kidding yourself if you believe you and that monster can a hold a candle to his fury. Your so-called anger is nothing more than a candle compared to the inferno that is his rage. You will feel the full might of his righteous fury, which will swallow you whole and leave nothing behind. And when you all are dead, you will be denied entry into our records.”

“So you don’t plan to absorb us,” Dick asks.

“Our host is the one who made that decision. To be added to our records is to be a part of us, and to be a part of us is to be a part of our host. He refuses to have you in his life in any way.” A small smile etches across its face. “We agree with his way of thinking. When you are gone, there will be nothing left and the world will forget any of you ever existed. And that is when our host’s revenge will finally be complete.”

It takes everything Bruce has to not flinch.

With this… thing inside you, what are you capable of? Would you really attack them with intent to kill? Would you really murder your own family?

“Make all the threats you want, creature,” Damian boldly states. “Nothing will stop us from bringing Y/N home.”

“Then this concludes our meeting, we suppose. We had hoped that we could convince you the best thing for you and our host would be to leave him alone and let the past rest, but we see now you all are too deep into your delusions to see reason. We look forward to seeing our host tear you apart, bit by bit.”

In the blink of an eye, the Megamycete turns bone white and crumbles like chalk, scattering all over the floor, leaving them all to stare at the remains in silence.

“So,” Alfred says, breaking the silence. “Was anyone ever going to tell me about a call regarding a random?”

The tension becomes so think, Bruce thinks he’ll start to choke on it. He racks his brain to come up with any answer, but doesn’t find any. At lease not one that won’t make Alfred pissed.

Clearly his children came to the same conclusion, because they remained silent as well, looking away or at the floor when he met their gaze.

“I have to say out of all the disgraceful things all of you have done throughout the years, this definitely takes the cake. I know Master Y/N wasn’t a priority for any of you, but I never would’ve dreamed you would allow him to be put in danger like being held hostage by common thugs.” Every word he says is dripping in venom. “I am absolutely disgusted with all of you.”

The words cut him deep and he deserves it. It was thanks to his incompetence that led to you being kidnapped, beaten to a pulp, shot in the head, and tossed into a cavern like trash and left for dead in a place no one would ever find you.

There’s nothing he can do that will ever make up for all that he’s done to you. He can apologize until he loses his voice permanently, spend all his money to buy you apology gifts, and subject himself to whipping by your hand until he’s lost every bit of his skin and he’d never scratch the surface of everything he’s done to you.

You came to him, a scared little child who just lost his mother and was forced to move to a massive city to live with a man he’s never met and all you wanted was for him to tell you that he loved you and that everything was going to be alright, but no, he was too caught up in his work as Batman instead of finding a healthy way of dealing with losing Jason.

But that’s not all he did, was it?

As much as he wants to, he can’t deny that he replaced you with Tim after the boy lost his parents. He suffered the same loss as you, but he gave Tim the help he needed while denying it to you. But that’s his fault, not Tim’s. His inadequacies are his alone to deal with, not any of his children’s (a lesson he keeps forgetting).

And he did the same thing several more times, bringing in more children and giving them all the love and affection you were denied as a child. He can’t help but wonder what went through your mind as you saw him spending time with them, both in groups and individually. And when you watched them hanging out in the dining room when they came home from patrol, enjoying themselves and each other while you were left alone in some room barely the size of a closet.

God, how many times did you wonder when you’d be asked to join before giving up?

When exactly did you give up on them?

And of course, he can’t forget about how he handled you and Damian meeting, another sign he was never fit to be a father. He knew Damian’s LoA upbringing left him unable to interact with others the proper way, but he still allowed him to see you (because he never considered your safety a priority) and allowed the boy to draw a sword on you, give you a scar on your face, and make several threats on you and insult your mother.

And what did he do after that?

Did he do the responsible thing by taking away the sword, scold the boy for his unacceptable behavior, and make it clear you were his brother and that he’s not allowed to hurt you?

No, of course not.

He did nothing but carry Damian off while allowing him to shout even more threats and insults, thinking nothing about the harm you just experienced and thinking Damian would just outgrow of his behavior on his own.

If he had to guess, it was probably that day you realized you didn’t matter to him and that Damian was the only one he considered a biological son.

Y/N, his baby boy.

He’s so sorry.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Bruce finally says, making his family turn their eyes to him. “We still need to bring Y/N home. Meeting this Megamycete just makes it more important we get him back to the manor.”

“And if Master Y/N fights you? Based off what you were able to gather from both crime scenes, this Megamycete appears to make him a formidable opponent.”

“We can find a way to neutralize it,” Tim chimes in, motioning to the crumbled remains. “I’ll analyze the remains to find a weakness.”

“And if that’s not enough, it said it has roots all over Gotham,” Barbara adds. “I can use the Clocktower to locate the closest sample.”

“Say you manage to subdue Master Y/N and rid him of the Megamycete. What then?”

“Then we make it clear he’s a part of our family now. And we’ll keep telling him that until he believes it. And when he does, we’ll give him the love we should have given him.”

Alfred looks at him before glancing at his children, all of them nodding in agreement.

“I shall hold all of you to that promise. We have a second chance to right our wrongs. I highly doubt we’ll be given another. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

And with that, the butler turns on his heel and promptly makes his way out of the cave, clearly still furious at them.

“Alright, everyone,” he says, getting their attention. “We have work to do. Barbara, get to the Clocktower and start searching for the Megamycete’s roots. Tim, start analyzing the remains and see what you can find. And be ready to receive new samples. The rest of you, be ready to go out and retrieve the roots.”

They nod and set out to work, leaving him with his thoughts.

Fuck, after hearing all that, his mother probably sees him as a failure now. He had so many opportunities to make this right, but he being the complete and total fuck up that he is, missed them, leaving you all alone to fall into the hands of low-life thugs and a sentient mushroom.

He balls his fists so tight so tight he draws blood, but not caring at the pain or the drops of crimson falling onto the cave floor.

All he had to do was be there for you, love you, tell you he’d always be there for you, but he couldn’t do that. When he first learned of you, he was shocked to hear that he had actually been stupid enough to not take precautions to prevent getting a woman pregnant and actually thought you were an inconvenience, blaming you for something that wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t asked to be born, you didn’t ask to lose your mother in such a tragic way, and you sure as hell didn’t ask to be given to a man who had no right to be called a father.

He—

No, this line of thinking isn’t doing him any favors.

He takes a deep breath and releases it, throwing all his thoughts and emotions into a dark corner of his mind and locking them behind a massive door (like he always does instead of dealing with them in a healthy way). He’s done the same thing to so many other thoughts and feelings, what’s the harm in doing it now?

What he needs to do now is find a way to deal with a Megamycete and figuring out a method of getting close to you to administer it so they can bring you back home. While that’s already an uphill battle, the true war will be convincing you that they’ve changed and that you need to come back to the manor and live with them.

You’re his son and the brother to his children. And as much as you want to deny it, you have Wayne blood coursing through your veins, tying you to him and Gotham. You belong here, by his side.

And when this is over, he’ll throw the largest gala Gotham’s ever seen to show his love for you.

He’ll do whatever it takes if it means having you back home so h and your siblings can bathe you in their love and affection.

Even if it means taking away your powers and dragging you back here.

Like he said, he’s not a good person.

Tag List: @space1crow @lunaluz432 @type-ink @bat1212 @eyeless-kun @deathbynarcisstick @minkyungseokie @orbitingtraveler @1s3v3n1 @nosyrobin @roseytheteacup @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @bellethesleepypotato @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @exactlynumberonekryptonite @paolexsstuff @fantasyhopperhea @c0l1fl0r @ellaprime7 @starryperson @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @ratchetprime211 @greatwhisperspaper @tatsuri-zomushiki @bunbunbread @starsdotalk @luna57765 @solelifauna @jsprien213 @diejager @lizz-lrm @v0idl1nq @chericia

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raindrop-stimmies · 4 months ago

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Trader (dredge) stimboard!

⚓️⚜️⚓️

⚜️⏰⚜️

⚓️⚜️⚓️

#dredge trader #calligraphy stim #coin stim #ring stim #smoking stim #dredge #dredge game #gold stim

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rahuratna · 2 months ago

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Synopsis: You come into some unexpected gold, and decide to treat your companions to a shopping spree. When it comes to this merry band of travelers, however, nothing ever goes smoothly ...

[Astarion x Tav/Reader]

Genres: Romance, humour, fluff, angst.

Warnings: Dirty jokes, Lae'zel's hatred of cardigans.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist: @roguishcat @obsessedwhyyes @fantasyheroine

(If anyone else would like to be added to my BG3 taglist, please drop me a message or let me know in the comments!)

"Listen, all of you. I've got the perfect thing planned."

Watching their expressions with the air of a circus conjurer, you drew a small leather bag from your jerkin. As you shook it, the contents emitted the pleasant chime and clink of something valuable.

Wyll grinned, one finger tapping his chin.

"If I'm not mistaken, you got lucky with a hunter's stash."

Eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to the sounds from within the bag, Astarion nodded sharply.

"You're not mistaken at all Wyll. My darling has found ... let me see ... two diamonds, one jacinth shard, unpolished ... and a tourmaline ring."

A profound silence reigned after this statement. You snorted in amusement and Gale raised an eyebrow.

"Well. A rogue always has his uses, it seems."

You gave Astarion a bow, which he returned, his wrist circling in a mocking flourish.

"Correct, Astarion. And, since I found this little treasure, I've decided what we're going to do with it."

Lae'zel folded her arms.

"One can never have enough weapons."

Karlach groaned.

"Oh, come off. We've done nothing but arm ourselves to the teeth since the beginning. Let's do something else!"

You nodded, a small smile curving your mouth.

"I'm actually with Karlach on this one. Listen, protecting ourselves is important, and an absolute necessity. But we've picked up some good gear on the way here and it's about time we looked after our morale too."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"All right, I hear you. What do you have in mind?"

You clapped your hands together and beamed around.

"Clothes shopping. I mean, look at us. Most of what we're wearing is holding on by a thread and prayer and we've never prioritized that on the road here. Plus, there're all the recent battles we've been through, both in the city and out of it. Let's get ourselves a few outfits. Have a bath in a proper tub. Have a nice meal. No harm in that, is there?"

You heard cheers and murmurs of assent all round and nodded in satisfaction. Only Lae'zel still seemed put out by the need for what she termed 'frivolous nonsense'. Wyll patted her shoulder placatingly.

"You'll see what we mean soon enough, Lae'zel. Just join us. You won't regret it. Think of it as ... learning yet another Faerûnian custom."

Once your party had reached the city, you decided to split into groups in order to peruse the variety of clothing stores and boutiques on offer. You set upon the Elfsong Tavern as the place to meet after your shopping had been completed.

Your group consisted of Astarion, Lae'zel and Gale, while Wyll set off in the opposite direction with Shadowheart and Karlach.

Astarion took it upon himself to guide you, considering his familiarity with the surrounds.

"Oh, there's much less variety than what's on offer in the Upper City, darling, but there are a few good spots that not many people know about. There are merchants that import fine fabrics, and not everyone is aware of this, but they also employ skilled tailors who will make you a custom fit on request."

Gale looked impressed.

"You certainly know a lot about this, Astarion."

His compliment was waved off airily.

"Of course. I do know a thing or two about fashion."

You examined Astarion carefully as he said the words. There was something more here, some bitter undercurrent to the way he spoke. You knew him well enough by now to recognise when he was hiding an emotion dredged up by unpleasant memories.

You decided not to question him on it immediately. There was a time and place for everything.

Lae'zel was still looking decidedly unenthusiastic. As you meandered through the streets, she clicked her tongue and suddenly entered a shop on the left.

You paused before shrugging and entering behind her. It was a clothing store after all, one of the kind that sold rougher cuts for hard travel and the road.

Wandering amongst the wares on display in wicker baskets, you recognised a lot of familiar items, the colours perfect for camouflage, the homespun fabrics, the sturdy boots. Astarion turned his nose up at the selection, but this didn't deter Lae'zel.

She walked through the store in a straight line, picking up a shirt, trousers, underwear and boots and returned to you, a satisfied expression on her face.

"See? Shopping doesn't have to be an affair for the day. I've already picked out what I need. Now you do the same and we can go and find something far more worthy to spend our money on."

You shot a pleading glance at Gale and Astarion, both of whom rose admirably to the occasion.

Astarion came forward slowly, eyeing the clothes in Lae'zel's hand with a critical eye.

"Hmm. Hmm. I suppose ... no. Not at all. Not really. How ... disappointing."

"What do you mean?" she snapped, "What's disappointing?"

He bit his lip, shaking his head.

"It's just ... during all of our travels together, I actually have come to admire the kind of warrior you are, Lae'zel. You're certainly the fiercest I've known, and that's saying something. So ... and it pains me to say this, but ... this choice just isn't ... you."

Gale nodded in agreement, raising one finger as he explained himself.

"To put it in plain terms, a powerful githyanki like yourself should be dressed in colours and fabrics that exude ... intimidation. Power. Flair. These ... dusty road clothes don't quite cut it."

You glanced over at Lae'zel whose brow was now furrowed deeply, considering the items she'd chosen. She set them down and folded her arms.

"And I suppose you lot know what would suit a warrior like me?"

In spite of her challenging tone, you let out a breath of relief. This was Lae'zel's manner of giving in, somewhat, her way of showing her trust in the knowledge and abilities of her companions.

Astarion perked up and grinned.

"Oh trust me on this, Lae'zel. By the end of today, you'll be looking truly fearsome."

"Then lead on."

Across town, Wyll was facing a few challenges of his own. Shadowheart turned out to be exceptionally picky about what she spent her money on, and the higher the quality, the more her judgment of all of its minute flaws came to the fore.

Karlach, on the other hand, was so easily distracted by things other than clothing that they'd had to stay her hand away from her purse on more than one occasion when she saw a trinket or gadget that caught her eye.

Mind racing, Wyll finally hit upon a solution to the issue at hand, deciding to visit a store he knew of that catered to both their needs.

There was a certain company he knew that stocked both exclusive items for theatre actors, jewellry, props and hand-carved items of all kinds. He led them to the front door of the establishment and shot the two ladies a smile.

"So, this is a place I've known about for a while. Came here with my father a few times when we had costume parties and he wanted me to wear something unique."

When they entered, Karlach looked around in delight.

"Oh, Wyll! This is perfect! Look at all of these hats and horn ornaments! I can't believe how hard it is to find anything horn-related in this place."

Shadowheart, meanwhile, had hurried over to a selection of dark plum, cobalt and emerald-dyed dresses, eyeing them with ill-concealed longing. Wyll raised an eyebrow.

All Shadowheart's clothing choices thus far had been singularly streamlined and fitted to her form for ease in battle. He hadn't put her down for someone who preferred frills and flounces.

Clearing his throat, he approached and gestured to the dresses.

"Care to try them on? I'll ask the proprietor to - "

She backed off, hands raised almost defensively.

"Oh, no, not at all. I was just ... looking."

Wyll pulled one of the dresses, a deep violet silk, from the rack and held it up against her.

"Well now. That colour looks simply splendid on you, Shadowheart. We can't have you leaving here without trying it out."

Karlach bounded over, a red leather pointed hat sitting perfectly over her horns.

"Oooh, smashing! You've got to take that!"

Shadowheart's mouth opened and closed a few times as she uttered some faint protests, but was soon convinced to choose some dresses and make her way to the changing screens.

Wyll gestured to Karlach's outfit.

"And what'll it be for you, milady?"

She giggled and cleared her throat, adopting a coquettish pose.

"Well, aren't you a right charmer? What do you recommend for my strapping frame, good saer?"

Wyll held up his hands excitedly.

"So, when I was young, there was this stage actor, Lady Zenith, who took the city by storm. She played a pirate queen and I saw some of her appearances. Just fantastic. A lot of costume stores still sell clothes inspired by some of her looks, and I'm sure this place does too. I think they'll suit you perfectly."

Karlach's eyes were now gleaming in anticipation.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Show me the goods, man!"

This time, you'd taken Astarion's reccomendation into account and followed him to a different store, closer to the Upper City, that specialised in outfits for adventurers and mercenaries who were looking to make an impression at events and parties.

Lae'zel now seemed far more invested, and you also grew excited as you saw the array of clothing that shouted of wealth earned the rough and violent way.

Embroidered jerkins, leather braces and belts, embossed hats and smart trousers adorned the shelves, along with dress swords and scabbards, ruffled blouses, trimmed boots and fur cloaks.

You tugged Lae'zel through the store, and you could practically see the appeal of this activity open up in golden avenues before her eyes as you held up dashing outfits in blood red, dark green and black against her.

You handed her a few items to try on before finding a jewel-toned blouse, comfortable padded trousers and boots for yourself. Finally detaching yourself from the siren's call of colours and fabrics, you noticed that Gale was no longer in the store.

"Where'd he go?"

Astarion gestured vaguely somewhere in the region of the shop across the street.

"Said he saw something he liked over there."

Crimson eyes were flicking perceptively over your clothing choices. Hesitantly, you held them up for his inspection.

"Do they look nice?"

"They look wonderful, darling. Hold on."

He reached over your shoulder, thoroughly distracting you with the way his breath fanned across your collarbones and plucked something from a shelf above your head. He held it against the blouse you had chosen and you spied a delicate broach in gold filigree, a starling with a garnet eye.

"Oh, that's beautiful!" you breathed.

You made to take it from him, but he flipped the piece quickly out of your reach.

"No, sweetheart. This is my gift to you. I've been ... saving up a little too."

Something about those words tightened your throat, the bruised sweetness of a summer fruit, painful as it was poignant.

When you'd first met him, it had been obvious that Astarion had very little to his name. His clothes, in spite of their former grandeur, had been darned and repaired many times over, their gold threadwork faded. His belongings were all mismatched remnants of a time of wealth.

He had scrounged every ounce of gold he'd found in the field, and in battle, hoarding it with almost obsessive desire, the kind that comes from knowing the state of being truly destitute.

And to think that this same man was now offering up his gold to buy you something as frivolous as a piece of jewelry. You knew better than to turn him down. You'd wear his gift, and treasure it well.

You couldn't help notice, however, that Astarion had not picked out any outfits for himself.

"Arent you going to get anything?"

His gaze slid away from yours, traveling around the store as he spoke.

"Oh, I'm holding out for now. I want to find something I really like before committing. You know how it is."

Expression growing hard, you tugged at his sleeve, gaining his attention.

"Listen here, handsome. I didn't get my hands on those diamonds to dress you up in drow armour all over again."

His eyes widened slightly at your tone, fangs sliding into view as he smiled.

"Oh my. Are you annoyed with me, dearest?"

"No, but I will be if you don't pick something. And I don't care if you find something better elsewhere. I'll buy that for you too. And I'll buy anything else that takes your fancy."

"Gods below, it's so enticing when you shower me with adoration like this - "

"Astarion."

He uttered a small laugh, a genuine sound that caused an alarming flutter of uncontrollable tenderness in your chest.

"Well, if you insist. But you've got to help me pick them out. I can't see my own reflection after all."

You cocked your head.

"Is that why you didn't want to choose anything?"

He traced a finger over the laquered wood of the shelving before answering.

"Not quite. You see, when we served under Cazador, he made us dress according to ... his specifications. We could wear nice things, but they were all chosen by him. Owned by him. We had to return them immediately after use. It's ... not easy for me to accept such gifts."

"Oh ... I didn't realise. I'm - "

"Don't apologise."

His tone was sharp, only softened by the warmth of his glance.

"I know you. I know why you're gifting me things. It's the same way I gift you this broach. We do it ... as equals. Partners. Lovers. Nothing more, or less. We do it because we want to."

Wordlessly, you took his hand, bringing his fingers to your lips and holding them there. Astarion tugged your hand towards him, placing a soft reciprocal kiss on your own knuckles.

"Now, are you going to help me choose or not?"

He released you and sauntered away, shooting you his trademark smirk over one shoulder.

"And don't even think about sneaking a look behind the screens while I get changed."

"Wouldn't dream of it. And you're going to lace yourself into those fancy shirts, I suppose?"

"Never fear, darling. I'll be crying out for you just the way you like."

"Shadowheart? Are you all right in there?"

"What? Oh, I'm ... fine."

Karlach and Wyll exchanged glances. Adjusting the red leather hat over her horns (which she seemed rather loathe to part with) Karlach cleared her throat.

"Come on. We want to see you in the dress."

"It's all right. I've tried them all on. I think I ... "

"Shadowheart, I hate to insist, but we really want to see you in those dresses. We can't leave here with nothing."

Wyll's polite, but firm tone seemed to do the trick. The screen parted slightly before Shadowheart took a large stride out, almost tripping over her skirts.

She looked like a goddess descended from a more radiant plane than earth, that was for sure. The gown she wore composed a supple bodice, flowing skirts, fan-like sleeves and a brocade collar, turquoise shot through with pale green embroidery.

Karlach gasped and clapped, while Wyll spread his hands effusively.

"Stunning!"

"Oh hells! Why on earth were you hiding back there?"

Shadowheart's posture had been so stiff, it looked like she was practicing military drills, but under their positive response, she relaxed somewhat.

"Um. To tell you the truth ... I've always ... been partial to gowns like these, but I think ... I'd been told that they didn't belong on me. On someone like me, I think."

Wyll disappeared briefly behind the screens and re-emerged with the other gowns in hand.

"Well, I think these are well spotted. They'll all look marvelous."

Shadowheart eyed him skeptically.

"That's all well and good, but what about you, Wyll? I haven't seen you try anything on yourself."

Karlach nodded eagerly.

"Oh, go on. You're a fancy man, I reckon. Could do with some ruffles and tight pants."

Wyll snorted.

"I think you've got me mistaken for Astarion."

"Your arse is better."

"Karlach ... never let him hear you say that. And I mean never."

"Lae'zel, I never expected you to be so insightful regarding colour combinations."

"I'm good at most things. This should come as no surprise."

Astarion snapped his fingers.

"Ah, there she is. The Lae'zel we know and love."

Tucking away your own wrapped purchases into your rucksack, you frowned as you glanced out the door.

"We need to find Gale. Where on earth has he wandered off to?"

You followed Lae'zel and Astarion out into the street, examining the shopfronts for any sign of the stray wizard. A little further down the street, Lae'zel stopped so abruptly that you walked nose-first into the hilt of her sword.

"Ouch! What are you - "

"Be silent," she hissed.

Instantly, you were on the alert, hand snaking toward your weapon.

"What is it? Vlaakith's troops?"

"No. Worse."

Astarion drifted closer to your side, eyes scanning the street like a bird of prey.

"Don't keep us in suspense."

"It's Gale. Wearing some kind of ... monstrosity."

Hissing out a sharp breath, you shot her a glare.

"Why on earth would you make me panic like - "

"Shut up and look. It's ... truly horrifying."

Astarion had apparently forgotten his nerves in a second and gleefully sprang up on a low wall behind Lae'zel to get a better look across the crowded street, almost hanging piggyback off her.

"What is it? What could our dearest Gale be up to? Could it be - "

Gale chose that moment to exit the shop he had made his purchase at, a singularly self-satisfied expression on his face. As for what he was wearing ...

You hurriedly schooled your face into warm surprise when he saw you and waved, approaching eagerly.

"Oh, you'll never guess what I found. This used to be all the rage at Waterdeep when I was a lad, especially amongst the scholars."

Astarion deflated, arms draping limply across Lae'zel's shoulders.

"Gods below, don't get my hopes up like that. I thought he was cross-dressing for a minute."

It was a testament to how transfixed the githyanki was by Gale's outfit that she didn't attempt to dislodge Astarion from his perch.

"Gale. What is ... that you have on?"

The item in question resembled a robe, one much shorter that ended just below the waist. It was made from some kind of fluffy material, the colours pleasant enough, but strange to look at. Buttons came all the way up the front and it was clearly made for cooler weather.

Gale gestured to the garment proudly.

"Oh, this is a cardigan. Never see one before, I take it?"

"It's horrid," she blurted out, ignoring the way your eyes bulged and the fact that Astarion had now clapped a hand over his mouth.

Gale, fortunately, had developed something of a thick skin where Lae'zel was concerned. He waved her disgusted look away.

"Oh, come on. Give it a chance. If a whole city once thought it looked good then - "

"That city deserves to be razed to the ground."

He grimaced and turned to you.

"And your verdict?"

You shook your head hurriedly.

"Oh, I don't share her opinion. It looks comfortable and simple. Perfect for a ... wizard."

Astarion cleared his throat and you groaned internally.

"Oh, absolutely, darling. I just ... hope he never wore that around Mystra, because quite frankly, that would explain so much - "

Whirling on your heel you made a cutting motion with your hand. He was presenting an unusually united front with Lae'zel in their hatred of the cardigan.

"What is wrong with you both? He looks ... normal."

Gale sighed and folded his arms. He was getting that stubborn look on his face, the one that probably made the Weave quiver and entertain thoughts along the line of "Here we go again."

"Well, my apologies for offending your senses, but I will be wearing this every day from now on, considering how cold the weather's getting."

Lae'zel grunted as if struck with an arrow.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would."

"I'll destroy it."

"You could try."

Raising your hands, you stepped between them.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you lot. Gale, you're perfectly entitled to wear whatever you want - "

"I would certainly think so!"

"And Lae'zel, whatever your reservations, let's try to be civil, yes?"

She folded her arms and looked to be deeply in thought for a minute. Head snapping up, she approached Gale who regarded her warily.

"Wizard. I can't change your mind regarding this ... regrettable choice, but would you humour me on one thing?"

"And what's that?"

"Undo the buttons. It looks ... odd. Like a human in a sausage casing."

"She's right, Gale," chimed in Astarion, "The Weave works so much better when you show it some chest hair."

Gale raised an eyebrow.

"Probably why it never works for you then."

"Ooh, I love it when you get nasty."

The Elfsong Tavern was packed to the brim, the heat of many bodies, the sweet thrum of a lyre and the chatter of a myriad voices spilling into the dark streets. Your party had trekked their way upstairs to the refuge of your private quarters, leaving the door open in a mild concession to socialising.

The occasional patron would sway up the stairs and drink a toast to your good company.

To round off a day well-spent on treating yourselves, you'd ordered up some of the taverns finest ales, wines and dishes, laid out on a long table in the central area. Your companions took some time to bathe and dress themselves in their new finery before meandering over to the small feast.

Wyll looked sleek and elegant in a mahogany and gold coat, dark trousers and embroidered shoes. He lounged on the sofa beside Gale, who stubbornly persisted on donning his cardigan over a comfortable pair of woollen pants.

Studiously avoiding Gale, Lae'zel stood at the head of the table, a roast leg of lamb in one hand, her resplendent green doublet slashed through with blood red, providing an intimidating, if reassuring familiarity.

Karlach was currently downstairs, ordering more drinks from the bar, so you made your way over to Shadowheart and Astarion who were standing together by the hearth. You caught the tail end of their conversation.

"Purple looks a bit ripe on you, darling. Sort of like a plum that's been left in the dark for too long."

"Hmm. I suppose you think that white looks dashing on you. All it does it highlight your pallor."

"I am a vampire. I have to cultivate a certain otherworldly appeal. You on the other hand ... were you going for pauper princess banished from the kingdom?"

"More like assassin princess. A romantic image, you know? I have to wonder at those red highlights on your coat, though. What was the intention there? That you'd dribbled your dinner all over yourself?"

Attempting to hide the way your mouth twitched, you gestured to their clothes.

"I think you both look lovely."

"Oh, my sweet, how kind of you to say that about Shadowheart."

"Indeed. Astarion seems to think he has monopoly over good looks. It's nice to hear him corrected on that front."

Even as she spoke, she reached across and impatiently brushed away a thread from his coat.

"Gods, that was irritating. Now that's better."

Astarion regarded her sourly before clicking his tongue.

"Hold on. Your eyeliner is slightly smudged."

You took a sip of your wine, grinning to yourself as he fussed a little, correcting the stray mark beside her eye.

"There." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Can't quite compete with me, but I suppose pale hair does look good on you."

"Likewise," she sniffed, before shooting you a smile and wandering off to find Karlach.

You finally let out the small laugh you'd been holding prisoner.

"Good to see you two getting along."

He huffed and made a show of adjusting his cuffs.

"I don't know what you're talking about, my sweet. What's that, in your goblet? A quality vintage, I hope?"

You allowed him to pilfer it out of your hand, eyes traveling across to where Lae'zel had now joined Wyll and Gale, stiffly complimenting them on their clothes.

"I think we needed this. A chance to unwind a little. Spoil ourselves."

Astarion drifted closer, fingers grazing the broach you now wore at your collar in place of honour.

"Indeed. You always seem to know ... exactly what we require. Even when we don't know it ourselves."

You turned and met his gaze, noting how the lightness of his tone betrayed the depth of feeling that was reflected there, just beneath the surface.

Regarding him with a tender smile, you extended a hand as the bard downstairs struck up a merry tune.

"Shall we dance?"

He sank into a gallant bow, fangs glinting in the dim light, and took up your offer, arm curling intimately around your waist as he pulled you close.

"Let's show them how it's done."

As you swept across the floor, swaying and dipping with Astarion's light guidance, you saw Wyll leap up and clap his hands, immediately inviting Lae'zel to dance with him.

She scowled and folded her arms, but Gale was always one step ahead.

"Oh, go on, Lae'zel. Weren't you the one who told us you could do just about anything?"

He stood and approached her.

"Of course, you could always dance with me instead. Get a firsthand feel of how soft and fleecy this cardigan is - "

She took a step back, an impressive feat on Gale's part.

"Fine! I'll partake of a ... turn with Wyll. Just this once."

Your dance was brought to an abrupt end when Karlach set the drinks down at the table with a resounding thump and cackled gleefully, wrapping her arms around you, hoisting until you and Astarion were both airborne on either side of her.

"Oh, you two precious things! Thanks for the treat, soldier. Just look at my hat!"

Astarion eyed the red leather dubiously.

"Looks like something right out of a sex dungeon."

"Even better!"

Breathless with laughter as Karlach whirled you around, singing loudly, you tipped the brim of her hat down and placed a kiss on Astarion's cheek, watching the softness build in his eyes, the burnished beauty of the firelight on his gleaming hair.

Seeing them all like this, these companions who'd wormed their way into your heart faster than any mindflayer tadpole, was well worth the battles that had brought you to this point.

You'd see this through, banishing the shadows from their lives one by one until light and merriment pervaded every living moment together.

And damn it all if you didn't look fabulous doing so.

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serpent-benediction · 11 months ago

Text

[TW: SAGAU Imposter stuff, death, some detailed descriptions of wounds and stuff. Don’t expect anything amazing].

Some would call this development a cliché of sorts, wrapped in the illusion of perfection. You knew better than to allow yourself respite in the face of trickery.

———————————————————

Chains and ropes entangled and dug into your limbs, keeping you stationary under the gaze of thousands of people. A majority of them were unknowns - real somehow, but never essential to your eyes. Blanks with no sense of self before you got here.

Other than the ‘NPC’s’ ; numerous vision holders from across the continents were here to witness this display.

The more prominent members of the Knights of Favonius were present, alongside the Adepti watching from the sidelines. Itto’s Gang were barely spotted from your position,

Roaring cheers echoed from every side, like waves crashing against a sea. Drowning. Even like this, you couldn’t gather the will to make out words as your body was dragged down dirt and concrete, scraping skin against the ground. The pain was numb, though perhaps that could be attributed to the amount of drugs they put into you — or the blood you’ve lost on the way here.

An abrupt stop forces your head upwards to finally observe where they’re taking you - and the sight is not pretty. A statue of gold wearing your face stretches into the sky ; a teasing reminder that this world was made for you.

Venti and Zhongli stayed within the confines of the crowd, keeping their identities hidden whilst the puppet Ei stood ahead, her signature blade at the ready. . . That costed a pretty penny out of your pocket.

“Do you have any words you’d like to say in your final moments, Imposter? Perhaps our Lord will take mercy upon you.” The nobody that was dragging you eventually speaks up. A Millelith member - Yan-something.

Venom seeped throughout every word spoken, only being comparable to the poison-tipped arrows that nearly nicked your skin on numerous occasions. If you were younger, more naive, you’d answer with pleas for your life - begging for forgiveness or some half-assed mercy.

The current you knew why this was happening. It was like a bad joke, akin to all those ‘self-aware’ stories you had the ‘pleasure’ of reading all those years ago.

Years in this hellhole. The memories of your first day here were engrained in your mind and the reason you survived this long. Suspicion was your ally in the first weeks, allowing your continued survival up until now.

Until you got sloppy. Careless. Attached.

An attempt at gaining a friend unfettered by deceit. A slow and gradual process at first, but the results were expected. Betrayal in the middle of the night, after months of back and forth, between moments of care and affection - only to have it ripped away. Perhaps you should have stayed in Snezhnaya. At least the Fatui were direct in what they were doing, and Childe was a good friend before. . . all of this.

You held valid, human emotions, but they treated you like an animal. Your rights were stripped in an instant, and you were forced into a cage - trapped amongst the worst dredges of society for what seemed like an eternity. Food was scarce, water even more, and the punishments. . .

Even if you survived, the scars would never fade. Flesh torn asunder with blades and scalpels, subjected to inhumane torture as they froze, electrocuted and burnt skin away ; red blood adorning the walls in a sickening mockery of your false form. The healing afterwards was just a formality, just so you wouldn’t die in their ‘humble care’.

You held the same face as their beloved idol, the being of all their affections and worship, yet they couldn’t handle the fact that your blood wasn’t a precious golden. Truly ridiculous to have the next best thing, but treat it like a third-rate gift, no?

“You and your… God, can go fuck themselves.” Vulgarity came easily, and sarcasm came next. You had no love for these… false people. They weren’t real. This was all a mere dream, or perhaps a coma, or maybe even the dying remnants of your brain already coming to an end.

Pain enveloped your face in an instant ; blood immediately trickling from the newfound wound. It wasn’t a crushed nose this time around, but it still fucking hurt.

“Don’t ever disrespect The Creator!”

How ridiculous. Aren’t you supposed to be ‘God’ here? Where’s Nahida? Where’s Xiao? Where’s the plot point in where you’re safe and sound with unbearable, psychological trauma?

Where’s your savior?

Was. . . was this really it? Years of your life wasted, struggling to survive in this backwater hellhole? You forced yourself to change just to fit in with the rest of these… people. You didn’t have a vision or some godly set of skills honed by A Player — you were normal.

What a damn joke.

— More of your crimson blood splattered against the ground as you were forced before the Shogun ; her outside face neutral, though you could sense that she was seething on the inside. A useless puppet through and through.

“For your transgressions against The Creator for daring to masquerade as them, I hereby sentence you to death.” — She didn’t even offer you a moment to say a final word. Tsk. Worthless bastard.

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THE IMPOSTER!” The chants roared louder and louder.

. . . But, you weren’t going to grant them the satisfaction of begging. You were scared, deathly so, but maybe release wouldn’t be that bad. . .

“When I get down to the abyss, hell, or whatever it’s called. . . I’ll make sure I give Makoto my thanks for being such a shitty sister.”

A singular movement, and everything shifted.

The sensation of having your head severed from your body ended quickly ; the disconnection of your brain from your spine bringing your story to a close. In the last, fickle moments before inevitability kicked in - only then did you notice the anger and sadness on Ei’s face.

It was. . . beautiful to see her cry.

. . . Perhaps they’d wonder why you died with a smile on your face. Perhaps they’d discover you were their God after your demise, grieving over your body with the fervor that only a cult could do.

Or maybe you were never special. A nobody like the NPC’s who happily spat and kicked you when you were down, insulting you with no end in sight.

Was this real—

——————————

You’re awoken to another cold breeze ; akin to the first time you’ve had the displeasure of arising here.

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #genshin impact cult au #genshin sagau #sagau cult au #sagau impostor au #imposter sagau #AmateurLudwigWriting

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Obedience Training.

Pairing: Yandere!Illumi x Reader (HxH).

Commissioned by the very lovely @h2o2-and-baking-soda.

Word Count: 1.6k.

TW: Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment, Physical/Psychological Abuse, Pet Play, Dehumanization, and Controlling Behavior.

The ring was beyond repair.

It was the ugly kind of damage, too – the gold chipped and dented, some parts entirely flattened while others had scratched and tarnished to the point of virtual unrecognizability. The jewel itself (a diamond the color of the sky just before sunrise and the size of the nail on your pointer finger) had been pried out of its casing and polished with the blunt side of the hammer you’d pilfered from collection of one of the more forgetful servants. Any fragments that might’ve been worth salvaging were then washed down the sink of your en suite, and the near-microscopic remnants glistened against the table’s dark mahogany – twinkling whenever they caught the ample sunlight.

It'd been his mother’s ring; albeit, one of countless. Breaking it in such an obviously deliberate way had been a stupid thing to do, and a part of you must’ve known that while you were doing it. A part of you must’ve basked in the idiotic rage of it all, must’ve been dying to see what Illumi would be like when he couldn’t hide behind those big, blank eyes and that unreadable expression. As hazy as it seemed, you could remember being excited to see how Illumi would react, what he thought he could do to you that he hadn’t already put you through.

Now, though, standing next to him as he evaluated the damage, watching as those dark, glossy eyes skirted from the splintered wood to the decimated ring to the sparkling residue…

You weren’t excited, anymore.

Several seconds passed in silent paralysis. Images of braided rope and rusted chains and broken legs flashed through your subconscious, but he managed to draw you out of your spiraling thoughts with a low hum, a startling click of his tongue. Finally, he turned toward you and raised a hand, and you braced yourself for the feeling his fist around your neck, two fingers piercing the fragile bone of your skull, his pointed nails clawing out your eyes and leaving you to ble—

His palm came to rest on top of your head, petting over your hair gently. “Sweetheart,” he muttered with a tone as warm and as affectionate as a corpse in a snowstorm. “Would you come with me?��

You opened your mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. You nodded, the gesture stilted and jerky, and Illumi offered an approving smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, letting his hand fall to your wrist. He pressed a lingering kiss into the top of your head before tugging you gently towards the door.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you through the halls of his mansion. Usually, you could count on running into one of the sociopaths that made up his family or a member of their bloodthirsty staff whenever you left your room, but today, his sprawling home seemed to be vacant, lifeless, as empty as the killers who dwelled inside of it. Steadily, you moved downward, the marble walls turning to rough stone, the filtered sunlight soon traded out for the artificial glow of dim gas lamps. He didn’t drag his feet or try to prolong your walk to the gallows, but he didn’t rush, either, didn’t seem to be in any rush to carry out your inevitably punishment. Eventually, he came to a stop in front of a simple wooden door – unremarkable in every aspect save for the deep well of dread it managed to dredge up inside of you.

With little ceremony, the door was pushed open and you were ushered inside of ahead of him. Your attention quickly fell onto the object most immediately in front of you: a dog crate.

It was almost shockingly mundane; not overly massive, but big enough for a large pitbull or golden retriever, the bars thin but close together and the bottom cushioned by a small bed with pink and white paw prints splattered across it. A handful of miscellaneous items had been laid on top of it. Your attention caught on the collar, first, the cutesy type with a bell and fake (or, knowing Illumi, very real) gemstones studded into the leather and a matching leash, and then headband with what couldn’t be—

Illumi moved past you, approaching the crate and taking up the undeniably, indisputably dog-eared headband. He turned it over in his hands once, then twice, before speaking. “Strip.”

It sounded like gibberish; partially muffled by the static buzzing over your conscious mind and made even more difficult to process by your own unwillingness to do so. “What?”

“Strip,” he repeated. “Or I’ll break every bone in your right hand.”

It was the specificity of the threat (paired with the implication that your left wouldn’t be long to follow) that had your shaking hands reaching for the hem of your shirt and hauling it over your head. You looked towards him for approval after every shed article, but he only seemed to notice your obedience at all when you stood bare and vulnerable in front of him, completely unprotected from both his prying gaze and the chill of the damp dungeon air. You started to move towards him, but he stopped you with a quick shake of his head, a new softness to his expression. “Kneel.”

With a shallow breath, you complied, lowering yourself onto your knees. Now, now, he took his time, his terrible eyes raking over your trembling form as he came to stand in front of you. The collar was fastened around your neck deftly, the leash allowed to hang loose and pool in your lap. He was more careful with the headband – meticulously lining it up with your ears, your face before sliding it into place with a satisfied hum. In a very distant, very muted way, you found that you were surprised less that your hitman-turned-kidnapper would have a pet play lair hidden away in some dark corner of his basement, and more that the aforementioned kidnapper would use that pet play lair to dress you up as a dog, rather than a cat. Illumi was as cat-like as a man could be – silent and skulking, prone to digging his claws into what he loved most – but the more you thought about it, the more sense it made. Cats were smart and sly and perfectly capable of surviving on their own, whereas dogs were stupid and clumsy and almost painfully reliant on their owners. People get cats because they want something that can choose to love them back. People get dogs because they want something that doesn’t have another choice.

“I--Illumi,” you managed, his name still awkward and bitter on your tongue. “I… I’m really sorry, and I’ve learned my lesson, and—”

One second, you were staring at his feet, and the next, your head was snapped to the side, a searing pain stitched deeply into your cheek. His open palm slipped downward, cupping your chin and tilting your head back, forcing you to face him properly. “Good pets don’t talk.” His tone was shockingly sweet, coercive, as if he was trying to explain something very simple to a very stupid child. “Good pets only follow commands. Can you do that for me, puppy?”

Tears were starting to gather in the corners of your eyes, a tight knot lodging itself at the base of your throat, but you did your best to keep both at bay. You started to nod, then thought better of it, straightening your back and squaring your shoulders, trying to communicate the only thing you could seem to think – please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me – without giving him a reason to land another blow. In the end, he rewarded you with the ghost of a smile, his free hand held in front of your mouth. “Good puppy. Now lick.”

You hesitated, but the steady ache pounding in your cheek was enough to make you swallow your pride. Your tongue darted out from between trembling lips, and with no small amount of trepidation, you lapped over the back of his closed fist. He let you begin to pull away before moving – before forcing two fingers into your open mouth and pressing the pads of his digits into the back of your throat. You gagged, your body instinctually recoiling, but he didn’t relent, his thumb digging into your jaw as he held you in place. Your hands shot to his thighs, the tears you’d forced back resurfacing and flooding down your cheeks, but he didn’t budge, didn’t pull away until you were gasping and breathless and utterly humiliated. Finally, he drew back, wiping his spit-soaked digits on your shoulder as his eyes moved from your open mouth to your hands, still balled around the fabric of his pants. “I have something upstairs for those,” he said, voice dripping with all the warmth and affection he usually denied you. “I’ll forgive you this time, puppy, but good pets shouldn’t be able to grab.”

He reached down, taking you by the leash. You were too detached to resist as he half-led, half-dragged you towards the crate. This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking your head, from stammering out little ‘no, no, no’s as his fist curled around your collar and forced you past the metal gate and into the confined space, suddenly so much smaller than it’d seemed from the outside. You had just enough time to scramble for the door before Illumi slammed it shut, letting the clasp fall into place and leaving you withering inside the makeshift cage. You couldn’t stop yourself – hands curling around the bars as you looked toward him with your most pleading expression, but Illumi only shook his head. “You don’t have to sulk. Maybe, with some time, we’ll be able to move your bed somewhere warmer.”

He paused, his grin widening into the first real smile you’d ever earned from him.

“After you’ve proved you can be a good dog, of course.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter imagines #hunter x hunter x reader #yandere hxh #hxh x reader #hxh imagines #yandere illumi zoldyck #illumi x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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sorceresssundries · 3 months ago

Text

Flesh and Bone

Pairing - Emmrich x Fem Rook

AO3 link

Warnings - smut, talk of death, oral sex, vaginal sex, erm, sexy bone talk?

Words - 2.6k

A/N - I wanted to explore what physical intimacy and a sexual relationship could possibly look like between Bone Daddy Emmrich and Rook. Have I convinced myself to let Emmrich become a Lich because of this? possibly.

Comments and reblogs as always are much appreciated. If sex with a skeleton has made you as unhinged as it has made me, please let me know so I know I'm not out here all alone. Skele-fuckers unite.

“I’m surprised this is still here.”

You sit on the bed and skim your fingers over sheets of finest nevarran silk. A deep red that shimmers in the veilfire light. It looks like spilled liquid. Like you are sitting in a pool of blood.

You thought the lighthouse would have taken Emmrich’s secret room away. That it would have pulled it back into the fade by whatever flicker of etheric consciousness granted it in the first place. Surely a bedroom was no longer required for the being who would never rest again.

“It knows you are still in need of sleep, darling.” his familiar voice hums “And it knows I am still in desperate need of you.”

His voice is still his. Mostly. Words spoken just as lovingly, but though they had echoed across from another room. You long to be in the same room.

A tear slips free, darkening the silk beneath it.

You have made love countless times in this bed. You suppose you will never do so again.

How would it work? Emmrich had been a partner who luxuriated in the sensual, and you had delighted in each of his mortal intimacies. His slow unravel by your hands, mouth, words, cunt - all of you. Every part given, fully, for every part of him. The laxity of his muscles, the slick of his sweat, the sounds he made—so animal and desperate they could have been dredged up from a time when words had not yet been assigned meaning.

You had touched him everywhere, every way. Around him. Against him. Inside him. Until his human heart pumped blood hard and fast around his body from exertion and undeniable want. Jaw slack, eyes lidded, hair mussed. Soaked and shaking. Yours. You had found the softest, hardest, most hidden recesses that only you were allowed to uncover and uncovered them. Explored and then worshipped them with all the devotion of a doomed sinner granted absolution.

What would that even look like now?

With no nerve endings to spark, how could you ignite him? Even if not for sexual gratification, but purely for devotion and acceptance, how would you show it?

You could wrap your hands around his gold-plated ribs, stroking the arch of each one and reach inside his thoracic cage to where his heart once beat, and press your hand flat against his spine. The scaffolding that had many times bent over and beneath you now fully exposed.

What would he taste like if you kissed him? His flesh had been hot musk and salt, but surely his bones would be cool. You imagine pressing the flat of your tongue to his clavicle, his patella, running it down each and every vertebrae.

There would be no tongue to meet yours, no scalp for your fingers to scrape. No half-hard cock to coax into fullness, to take into the warmth of your wanting mouth until it was rock-hard and aching.

But could you slot yourself between his hips? Feel the curve of his pelvic girdle supporting you? Could you grind against his coccyx, seeking friction? Could you take his phalanges and guide them into the soft, wet heat of your body?

Would he feel it?

No skin, no nerves, no raging synapses. But perhaps, somewhere deeper—in his marrow, where he is still soft - would he feel something?

Would you?

“You have questions,” He says, reaching out with a hand wrapped in linen. The gold that still adorns it is somehow a comfort. He seems to hesitate, unsure, and abandons his instinctive reach and settles for distance. There feels like so much distance.

You finally look up, to the sockets where hazel eyes had been replaced with pitches of veilfire.

“Can you see me?” you ask.

“More clearly than ever, my love”

You feel small in your lack of understanding, in your need for answers you may not be prepared for.

You lift your hands to push the pads of your fingers against the exposed bone of his once-handsome face. To hold his skull in your palms.

“Can you feel me?”

“More deeply than you could possibly imagine.”

“But not the same as before?”

“No, not the same as before.”

Your hands drop and he kneels before you—the eternal lich-lord of the grand necropolis, brought to his knees by his mortal lover.

“Could you explain?” you ask. “Could you show me?”

You need to know. Need to be sure that, even though the desires of his flesh were obliterated along with his poor, cherished body, his soul still burns for you. That he loves you. That his love is even a sliver of what you feel for him.

His hand lifts to cup your face, the cold press of metal cold against your flushed skin.

“I can show you, darling. For a short time, at least. No mortal can stand it for long, even one as indomitable as you.” You hear the warmth in his words, and you nod.

The green fire in his skull shifts—gold, silver, blinding white. Every colour. No colour. Shades and tones streaking with luminescence that have no name, known only to stars and gods.

The room disappears, reduced to a pinpoint, and you to a dust mote within it. The air you gasp for is ancient, and has been breathed by countless lives across countless worlds. Stars blaze, and the world spins ever onward.

“Focus on me, love. Deep, slow,” he says, echoing words he once spoke. Weeks ago? Years? Seconds? Words he has said, will say, is saying.

Ripples become waves, dust becomes desert.

In Arlathan, the trees sing. In the Necropolis, the grieving howl. The Veil creaks, and the Fade whispers. Countless mortals are born, die, laugh, and weep—

“Too much,” you say, voice trembling. “It’s too much.”

“Here.” He places his other hand on your cheek. “Look at me.”

You do, and it is him. Neither undead nor alive. Neither mortal nor other. Simply him. Emmrich.

The colour of summer changing into autumn. The first crackle of a much-needed fire. Tea leaves steeping. A song, half-remembered, slipping back into memory. Fingers brushing along the spines of books. Gold. Curiosity. Warmth. Joy.

The Fade swirls around him, patterns shifting like dust caught in sunlight.

He laughs—a soft sound, and it is here, in this room, with you. You breathe it in, let it settle within you, until it is no longer just his laughter but yours as well.

And you feel what he feels: joy. Joy that he is here and so are you. That you love him, and he delights in it. That he loves you, eternally.

Other feelings ripple through you: curiosity, patience, calm, apprehension, relief. Fear—not of his death, but purely of yours. And something else, a feeling with no name.

The moment just after sleep but before waking.

And—

Oh.

Desire. Still there, waiting. Changed, but present. Brand new and ancient all at once.

“I didn’t think you could still feel... that you would...” you say

“Of course I do, dearest. Of course.”

“Me too,” you admit, your cheeks warming, a blush spreading as though you’re uncoiling some hidden truth. You feel inexperienced—like a virgin, your palms and tongue aching but uncertain of how to use them, every inch of you yearning and unsure.

The desire - his desire, yours, both - blooms at your confession, pulling at your chest like a string of heat tethering you to him. It doesn’t just simmer within you; it coils around you, around him, entwining you.

And you understand—it’s obvious. Your pleasure is his pleasure. He can feel it. Taste it. Indulge in it.

His hand trails down from your shoulder, brushing along your arm with such featherlight grace that it makes you gasp.

“Would you like me to stop?” he asks softly. “We do not have to—”

“Keep going, please,” you breathe, almost desperate.

His hands settle at your waist, as he eases you down onto the silken sheets. His legs nudge yours apart, and he kneels above you, towering and tender.

“How could you ever doubt me, my darling?” he murmurs, voice low, steady, and unwavering. “That I would no longer love you? No longer want you? The stars themselves could burn to cinders and fall from the sky before I am ever done desiring you.”

There is a crackle, a spark. The room is alive with static.

“Do you think I need to be built of flesh and blood to grant you absolute pleasure?”

From his hands gripping your waist comes a sensation unlike anything you’ve known. A vibration with no movement. A hum with no sound. Pulses of magic and heat throb beneath your skin and behind your eyes, winding through you like molten threads of ecstasy.

Your back arches, your toes curl, and your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“Do you think I need a tongue?”

And then it fills you—a memory so vivid it bursts across your senses. You taste it, smell it, live it again. His desk beneath you, your legs spread wide, his face buried between your thighs. His hands grip you, fingers biting into your skin to keep you still as you tremble, his moans vibrating through you as he drinks in your pleasure. You are shaking, undone by the force of your orgasm, even as his arousal presses against the confines of his trousers, desperate to be buried inside you, to—

The same pulse he felt then thunders through you now, the magic igniting your nerve endings and burning you alive with sensation. The lich-lord hums above you, satisfied, as you writhe beneath him.

“My darling,” he says, his voice molten with indulgence, “I can unravel you with naught but words and salacious intent…”

Another wave crashes over you, another memory. The Cobbled Swan, the din of the pub swirling around you in a haze. You’re in a shadowed corner, barely listening to the sultry croon of the singer. Emmrich’s lips brush your ear as his hand works its way under your skirts, his fingers stroking the slick heat between your thighs.

His whispers are wicked, hedonistic. Somehow eloquent and obscene in equal measure. His words pour into you, their meaning rippling through your body. He’s telling you to stay quiet, to keep still, and the tension coils tighter as you try, your breaths shallow and ragged. You can feel his fingers moving, the heat of his mouth, the intimacy of his whispers.

Now, in this moment, his voice fills the room as if it’s being said anew, a loop of memory and magic merging. You come apart beneath him, your body and mind unable to tell the difference between the past and this overwhelming present.

“There is ecstasy to be found beyond the confines of mortal flesh - whatever pleasure exists, whatever fulfillment, I shall pull from the world of the living and the fade and anything that exists beyond and in-between. It shall be yours, as I am.”

A final memory... no, more than that. A hope, a dream, a pinnacle. You are in the bed you lay upon now, with Emmrich above you as he is in this moment. His skin is warm against yours, his thumb stroking your cheek, his lips brushing against yours, parting only to let your tongues meet in a rhythm as familiar as breathing.

He moves inside you, slow and deliberate. Between heated kisses, he pulls back to stare into your eyes. His gaze is a mixture of unending love and fierce desire, as if he is seeing every part of you - body, soul, thoughts - all at once.

A strand of his hair has come loose, falling against his brow, and you reach up to brush it away. Your touch lingers, your fingertips tracing his face. His breath hitches, and yours follows suit.

There is a build within him, a cord tightening, coiling, that matches your own. You can’t tell which is yours and which is his; it is all the same now. His pleasure courses through you, your pulse racing in tandem with his.

Then and now. Past and present. Man and Lich.

There is no separation, no boundary. Just the two of you, suspended in a moment that stretches to eternity.

Stars burst behind your eyes as the threads pull impossibly tight, and then everything shatters into golden light. Wave after wave crashes through you, a tide that refuses to retreat, frothing and roiling within and around you. It is exquisite. It is unbearable.

“Too much,” you gasp, the words tearing from your throat, raw and desperate.

Immediately, his hands leave you, the connection severed with a suddenness that leaves you aching. The tidal wave recedes, and the world rushes back into place. You are on the silken sheets once more, in the confines of his bedroom. Mortal. Spent.

The vibrant, pulsing energy of a moment ago is gone, leaving the air still and heavy, yet your body hums with its lingering echoes. It all feels grey now in comparison to the brilliance you’d just glimpsed. The technicolor vastness he now inhabits is out of reach once more.

“Are you alright, darling?”

You nod, swallowing against the rush of sensations that still ebb and flow inside you. Words elude you for the moment, but he doesn’t press. He waits, ever-patient, until you prop yourself up against the pillows, and only then does he move to join you. The weight of him laying beside you is a comfort.

“I wanted you to feel it,” he murmurs, warm and intimate “Even briefly. To know how deeply I burn for you, even now.”

The soft glow of veilfire reflects in the curve of his skull, casting an otherworldly light on the contours of his form. You want to curl up against him, the way you used to, but are unsure how. His body is devoid of the pliant comfort you once took for granted.

Instead, you settle for his hand resting upon your stomach, his thumb moving in gentle, slow circles against your skin. You close your eyes for a moment, focusing on that simple motion, letting it calm the ache in your chest. The yearning for what once was softens, replaced by a quiet appreciation for what remains.

You place your hand over his, lacing your fingers, marveling at how perfectly they still fit together. Nothing else matters. There is only him and you, and the flame that burns eternal.

“Could we…” Your voice is tentative, “Could we do that again sometime?”

The sound of his laughter fills the room, rich and familiar. The laughter of the man you knew - and still know. The way he has always laughed for you, unguarded.

“Of course we can,” he says, the corners of his voice soft with a smile you feel even if you can’t see.

You push yourself up, pressing a kiss where his teeth gleam in place of lips. He makes a sound like a sigh, a tender exhalation that warms you as you lay back down, shifting onto your side to face him. He mirrors you, his empty gaze impossibly full of affection.

“I have more questions for.. ” A yawn steals the rest of your words away.

“I know, but sleep now,” he murmurs. His hand brushes lightly against your cheek. “We shall talk more in the morning. We have many mornings in which to talk, I promise.”

You lay there, sleep tugging your thoughts into fragments, a haze of gratitude and happiness settling over you. He is still yours, and you are still his. Yet, as your eyes grow heavy, one more memory surfaces: how nice it used to be to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the rhythmic cadence of his breath carrying you both toward the promise of tomorrow.

#emmrich volkarin #lich emmrich #emmlich #emmrook #emmrich fanfic #emmrich nsft #emmrich dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #BONE DADDY

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