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turkeyinnovember · 9 months ago

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Author’s Notes:

takes place a couple weeks after Den became chaos god, as of now, this is part two of a three part trilogy. uh I may have written pt 2 before I wrote pt 1, and link to ao3 is at the bottom

for the sake of information: chilly, raptor god, can transform into reptilian animals but majorly raptor; den, chaos god, “tattooed” with a rotated-90-degrees yin yang symbol on her back, the two dots are where she can sprout tentacles made of chaos matter. she also grew a lot of eyes that aren’t visible when closed, teeth are sharpened, nails sharpened, etc.; christian is a lava hybrid, bezearts idea, I added the horns and tails onto their concept but a silly quirk is that ash fall from him and his hair has drifts of smoke; Ivan is an alien extended from Kristine’s episode abt aliens, uh he’s weak as fuck is what ive realized while writing this

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Den slumped in her corner of the couch with eyes seemingly landing on the TV. Though, it was a gaze without any actual kind of focus or attention. She fidgeted with her hands in some irritated sort of fashion.

Her vision was tinted with red and blurrier than the oldest cameras, as they have been ever since the tournament, her godhood. But, recently they’ve started to pulse black from time to time, usually accompanied by headaches and… the souls. They’d ask her to do things. To break, to lash out, to murder, even. And they are so good at appealing to her desires. They are so convincing.

“Den?”

It sounded like Ivan, but she couldn’t be sure. There was a barrier, a ringing in her ear that prevented her from focusing on anything other than the hundreds of souls muttering in her head. She glanced up, barely making any attempts to distinguish the blurry figure in her vision.

“Go find someone else, Ivan.” She turned back towards the TV with a small sigh. She had a rough idea of what he wanted — throw out the trash, or return the knife she stole, or maybe something about the rent. None of which she cared to do anything about now, or ever. She opened a minor eye under her left eye — one of the many she grew after the souls were absorbed — although using these minor eyes would only intensify her headaches, some of them had clearer visions than her human eyes.

Surely there were others who could help with whatever Ivan needed, Den figured. On the other couch piled Chilly and Christian, one hugged a bag of chips to her chest and the other with Shadypaws in his lap. The woman’s blatant ignorance of the other when he reached for the chips, even tilting the bag towards him, was her wordlessly given permission.

Den smiled at that. There were things said and done during their adventures that would leave her in heavy doubts of their relationship. She would be convinced the others would have her back before something changes that and she couldn’t even trust them enough to willingly entail what weapons she carried with her.

“…my god Den, it’s your turnnn,” Den couldn’t tell if he was being annoying on purpose by dragging his vowels out. She swore, if he keeps bothering her-

“You can’t keep making me-“

“Shut up, Ivan!” Den practically growled at him. She could tell he was a little surprised by the strange, animalistic noise bubbling in her throat. A neat little trick that came with her transformation. She was almost amused. She ran her tongue over the points of her new teeth, pressing down a little to remind herself of their sharpness. She didn’t know if she missed her old, human teeth, but she did know that she’d have to make a change in her dental plans soon.

“Okayy!” He took half a step up with his hands up, rolling his eyes. Though, with pitch black eyes like his, it was hard to tell anything, “You just like, always force me to…”

He’s being loud, they said. Den snickered. As if she couldn’t tell? He’s so annoying. Someone needs to shut him up. You should make him shut up. They are right about that, she cocked her head slightly, watching the figure of Ivan. He’s still rambling. The souls are right most of the time. He needs to shut up. He needs to shut up. You should hit him. Hit him. Stab him. Kill him. You should kill him. You should kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Den frowned. She rarely tries to reason with the souls, but sometimes they get out of hand. ‘What the fuck?’ She asks them, ‘That’s absurd-’

“...and I just feel like- Den? Are you even listening?” Ivan frowned. He leaned forward and snapped in front of her focus-less eyes, “Hey!”

He’s still talking. She could almost hear them laugh.

“SHUT UP!” Sometimes, her body move faster than her brain can keep up. She found her left hand gripping Ivan’s collar tight with the tip of her nails turning into claws, narrowly avoiding digging into his skin in her lack of precision. Just make him shut up. Stop him from talking. Shut him up. Shut him up. Shut him up. Den didn’t notice the two getting up from the couch, turning to the commotion, or Shadypaws’ ears flattening out at her in fear. At that moment, her thoughts and the souls’ overlapped.

Kill him.

For better or worse, she always kept a knife by her side. Though clearly, it’s for the worse as of current. The amount of commands screamed out by the souls at an instant grew to an all time peak as the distance between her and her goal closed in, reaching a density and volume that it all started to sound like plain static to her. She had completely lost the vision in her normal eyes and a minor eye had opened almost instinctively, providing her with a strangely clear and refreshingly untinted vision.

Her golden irises reminded Ivan of the stab wound on his leg that hadn't gotten time to heal fully yet. He could still feel the compression of the bandage he wrapped this morning.

It was hard to recall when exactly Den’s tradition of stabbing him started. He’d forgotten why he’s still hung around this woman, but he certainly regrets it now. He could sense something that was different today.

In his panicked terror, his hands become discolored and smooth, transforming back into his alien limbs as he pulled desperately to break from Den’s grip on his collar. Unfortunately, despite his alien identity, he had nothing to combat the strength of a god like Den. He rarely ever tried to fight human Den and relied only on verbal protests. Though, something told the past that this time was different from before. Different from the other times she stabbed him. This time felt, and is so much more dangerous, more lethal. He would die right here if he can’t get the fuck out right now.

The wound on his leg ached more now, foretelling his downfall. What was his mistake? Hanging around these bunch of people, maybe.

Fuck.

He screamed as a piercing pain shot through his body from his chest.

He wanted to cry. For an alien, why did his body structure have to be so similar to a human’s? Out of all the places it could grow, why was his heart the same place as humans’? For that matter, why was he so weak? The woman who raised him told him stories of aliens that were strong and powerful. Capable of saving themselves from the newly inherited chaos god, perhaps.

All the hopes she had for him.

Others were screaming too. One of the two was familiarly shrill and unbearingly sharp. Accompanied with that was a calming cold that grew at the source of his devastation. Calming, and even… nulling the pain.

He looked down and found ice spreading out from inside his chest, locking the knife within the ice, holding the knife a few layers of flesh away from piercing his heart. He could feel it, if it’s one perk that came with being an alien.

Although Chilly was capable of forming ice out of nothing — it was typical of gods to create matter from none — some of it had been made out of his blood, perhaps out of her haste. He dragged his mouth out, as if to laugh. Saved by Chilly Panda, the same woman he nearly killed during highschool, then at the cabin, and a third time at the Raptor Park.

Her right, still-human hand was stretched in front of her as she ran, twisting and manipulating the ice to prick Den’s hand, forcing her to release the knife. Christian ran by her, racing even faster than the raptor god to attack Den from her back, pulling her a good few steps away from Ivan by grips on an arm and a shoulder.

“Yo!” He hissed, swinging his left arm over, letting his forearm hit the side of her neck as he reached over for a rear naked choke, forcing Den to turn away from Ivan, “Chill the fuck out!”

However, nothing stirred her as she looked back with three minor eyes open now, still staring at him as she simply arched back to the side and swung her free arm at Christian, trying to land a claw on him.

Realizing her intent, Christian immediately released all grip on her, curled a leg up, and kicked her to the floor just in time to avoid getting pierced by the shadowy tentacles that shot out from her back. “The fuck,” He whispered, panting slightly as he retracted.

Without missing a beat, Chilly encased the chaos god in ice within the second she took to regain her footing, taking care to leave an amount of space for her to lash and wear herself out. With it being her natural element, Chilly’s ice was yet too strong for Den, a new god, to break with ease.

For a moment, there was a thought like “Oh gods, what did I just do?” that occurred, but it was too quickly drowned out by everything else. Nor could she bring herself to face the fact that she failed to keep sane again. Den was getting worried. Regardless of what she considered Ivan, a friend or less, if she ends up being the one that kills him, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she’d feel. Or even, by that point, would she have lost her own soul by then? Would she fully resort to serving mindlessly to souls of bitching morons who had died thousands years ago?

The intense fear she experienced the second she regained her mind kept her attacking at the ice. She scraped into it either claws and her tentacles trying to dig through the ice. Maybe if she did lose it, she wouldn’t have to face the consequences of her actions. How could she? Murdering was one thing and murdering a friend… was a whole other. She struck at the ice cage with everything she had until her movements physically slowed with exhaust. Her body wavered in the air for a moment before she let herself collaps to the floor.

She lay idle for a moment. What was she to do? There was no way she’d just let herself lose her mind to these fucking imbeciles living in her mind, but what is there that she can do? What was she supposed to do to get rid of them? She could give so many things to return to the time where it was just her in her head.

“Gods…” Den curled up, her tentacles wrapping her into a cocoon. The noises she makes are almost intelligible, a blend of sobbing laughter. Chilly glanced at her from where she stood, and for a moment Den thought she saw sympathy in her eyes. Like she understood her problem. She wove her cocoon tighter at the thought.

Chilly grimaced and let her ice disintegrate away. They had moved Ivan to the restroom as soon as Den was contained. She had been listening to the doctor’s instructions on what ice to remove from his chest. He had concluded that the damage was only punctured flesh and a notched rib. The ice, he said, had helped the wound, and said it was all fine and he’d handle the rest.

Speaking of which.

Nothing was fine, for the record.

Nothing has been fine since Raptor Park. Since she was thrown into the raptor enclosure by them, losing an arm and nearly dying. Since Christian literally died in that volcano eruption, randomly showing back up at their door with relapsed memories, varying second, to third degree burns, a set of demon-like features and nearly burning down the apartment with the embers that drift off from his skin.

And then with Den absorbing the previous god of chaos.

Ever since Chilly awakened godhood, vague cosmic knowledge bubbles at the back of her head. Though, they were things she could barely grasp, let alone making any sense of it. For some reason, as her third eye opened subconsciously, she had a hunch that she would be able to understand what Den’s going though. She looked at Christian.

He seems to sense it. He seems to sense everything, actually. He met her gaze, and when Chilly stayed silent, he simply motioned at Den and pointed at his neck. Chilly nodded.

Christian then turned. His tail glided softly through the air and swung behind him as he made his way back towards the couch. He picked up the TV remote and began rewinding the movie. Chilly rested her eyes on the flakes of ash gathered at where he last stood, and wiped them off with her socks before she walked to join Den on the floor. She got down and curled up next to her, shifting parts of her body from human to raptor to lay comfortably, and rested her eyes.

If she really did understand Den’s problem, or rather, she thought, it was more like an issue with all gods her type, then they would really need Dr. Ake’s help.

#Iris Japonica #my one shot collection #I got the idea for pt 1 a couple days ago #a random prompt a friend gave turned into pt 2 #and as I wrote pt 2 I got the idea for pt 3 #recreyo #frugal aesthetic #chilly panda #cypherden #chaos god #raptor god #lava hybrid christian #alien ivan #the prompt was “den killing ivan” btw

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arzen9 · 1 month ago

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There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

Having defeated Cazador, Lamby and Astarion have a conversation back at the Elfsong.

Rating: M

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Tags: Trauma, Vampire Spawn Astarion, Vampire Ascendant Astarion, Canon Compliant, Nightmares, Spoilers, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Other Additional Tags to be Added

One Shot, 2.1k words

“That was unexpected, I think,” Shadowheart says. Lamby shoots her a look, but she doesn’t take the hint. “I didn’t think anyone, even you, could have talked him down from sacrificing those souls.”

“Give Fangs some credit,” Karlach chimes in, and Lamby is grateful for it. “I think he wouldn’t have done it, even alone.” She puffs up her chest proudly. Shadowheart purses her lips together in a straight line.

“Where is he, by the way?”

“Upstairs.”

While Lamby, Karlach, and Shadowheart sit at a table downstairs in the Elfsong, chosen for them by Lakrissa, Astarion is upstairs. He had made his way over shortly after they returned from the Szarr Palace and told Lamby he wanted to take a bath. She had buckets of hot water sent to the shared room and gave him space. Time.

Frankly, she didn’t know how to comfort him right now. She wanted to be next to him, but would he want that? Lamby trusted that he would tell her if he wanted her close, but then again, would he be able to considering everything that went down earlier that day?

“You’re brooding,” Shadowheart observes and takes a sip from her pint, a few sizes too big for her delicate hands. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“She’s right,” Karlach says and licks along her upper lip to remove the foamy mustache her drink gave her. “It’s normal that you’re worried about him, but wouldn’t he tell us if he needed something?”

“I can’t be so sure,” Lamby mumbles to herself. Wyll and Lae’zel slowly make their way over to their table, looking a bit worse for wear. Everybody is tired. It is evident in the way they carry themselves, the clouding in their eyes.

But all Lamby can think about is how Astarion is feeling. Does he regret not going through with the ritual to ascend? Contrary to what Karlach said, would he have done it if he was left alone to his devices? Is it her fault that he will eventually have to return to the shadows, a vampire spawn till the end of time?

She needs to stop. This isn’t about her. If anything, she feels proud of Astarion. Faced with the worst fragments of his past, surrounded by all that he wanted nothing but to run away from, he stood in that horrible place filled with the smell of blood and the promise of deliciously corrupted power and chose a different path. Thinking about it makes Lamby’s heart swell with admiration for him. He has endured unimaginable horrors and yet never lost himself in the process. How can one not be fascinated by that?

She thinks back to the night in the Shadow-Cursed Lands she spent tied up, doing her absolute best to go against her urges that yearned to tear each perfect sliver of Astarion to pieces. How gently he looked after her. How he called her cute when she was slick with sweat, reduced to a growling, salivating creature. She knew she loved him then— when Sceleritas told her what would happen that night, she knew. She was in love with Astarion.

That much has not changed. Lamby doubts it ever will.

Wyll takes a deep breath as he sits down. “We did a good thing today.”

Lae’zel nods. “Astarion is free from the shackles of his master at last. Should he not be here to celebrate?”

Lamby looks at her hands facing the ceiling on her lap. She can feel the gaze of her companions on her scalp. What can she tell them?

“Maybe later,” she finally says. “Right now, he needs some rest, I’d wager.”

A lean tiefling with magenta hair tied in a sleek ponytail approaches their table and leans toward Lamby.

“He’s asking for you,” she whispers.

Lamby looks at her, surprised. He must have told someone through the dumbwaiter. “Thanks, Lakrissa.”

She gets up to her feet so fast that the table shakes, and she puts her hand on it in an attempt to stop the shaking. She offers a shy smile to the group and turns to make her way upstairs, her steps quick and deliberate.

She would have gone upstairs to check on him regardless, because unfortunately she is impatient, worried, and stubborn. But he called for her, and she is glad.

Lamby stands before the door to their shared quarters and straightens her back. Astarion should see her strong. She has no qualms about being vulnerable with him, but right now, she needs to be strong. For him.

She knocks before opening the door slightly. “Astarion?”

He doesn’t respond to her, but Lamby can see his back. He’s standing in front of the table beside their bed (their bed, Lamby flutters). He’s holding something, but she can’t see it.

She walks over to him slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal. He wouldn’t like it, if he knew. He doesn’t like it when she treats him as if he’s made of glass. But she means well. Hells, she means well.

“Lakrissa said you called for me.”

He doesn’t turn to face her, but Lamby sees the coil in his shoulders relax slightly. He lets go of a breath he doesn’t need to be holding.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything downstairs,” he says, and there is no hostility in his voice. No trace of teasing.

“Of course not,” Lamby says. “We wanted to give you time.”

“I have nothing but time, it seems.” He finally turns to face Lamby, and now she can see that he has been holding his shirt all this time, the ties on the front undone. His hands are shaking.

“Can I help you with that?” She knows it’s easier if she asks.

He nods and pulls the shirt over his head. Lamby walks over to him, closer, so that she can tie it for him. They look at each other for a moment. His beautiful eyes meet hers, those red orbs that never seem to lose their shine. She catches a whiff of his signature scent— rosemary, bergamot, and brandy. It makes her smile. It’s him, no matter what.

Lamby starts with the ties of his shirt, and she is sure Astarion can hear the thump of her heart. It tends to do that, whenever she is close to him. Doesn’t have anything to do with physical attraction or desire, nor her dark urges yearning for his crimson on her skin. It’s that warmth in her chest, the worry, the fear, the happiness. The hope.

While she’s busy with the ties, he gently places his chin on the top of her head. The gesture surprises Lamby for a moment, but she pushes forward.

He knows she wants to ask him how he is. He also knows that she’s only holding back because she knows him. Better than anyone, perhaps. She knows not to ask, because even he doesn’t know how to answer that question right now.

“All that I lost today. All that I gained,” he says into her hair. “It’s all too much.”

She finishes up with the ties. “For what it’s worth, Astarion, everyone is proud of you.”

He lifts his head to look at her. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Are you proud of me?”

“What matters to me is that you’re happy with the decision you made.” She holds her ground. If nothing else, Lamby wants him to feel confident in his choice. Back at the ritual, when their tadpoles connected, all she saw was his infatuation with the idea of power, the ability to protect himself, and her. She wants him to know that he doesn’t need anything but to be Astarion.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he says with a subtle scoff. He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at Lamby. “How… How are you?”

She keeps standing right where she was. “I’m not entirely sure.” It is an honest answer. “Worried about you, for one thing.”

“That much is obvious from your face, darling.”

“It never was my strong suit to hide my emotions.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, it wasn’t.”

With a sigh, he plops down on the bed, legs still dangling off the side. Lamby looks around the room, unsure if she should leave him alone.

“Can you come lay with me for a while?”

Only then does Lamby realize she’s still wearing her armor, still covered in blood and dirt from their fight with Cazador.

They can always request clean linens, though.

She removes the outer layer of her armor and leaves it on the floor before lying down next to Astarion. She rests her head on her right arm to look at him, and he turns with his whole body to match her gaze. He looks ethereal like this, hair still damp, the sun shining through his silver curls let in by the window right behind.

“Would you have let me go through with the ritual? If I had insisted, in the end.”

It’s not an easy question. “It wasn’t my choice to make,” she says. “In the end.”

“The others think you talked me down, don’t they?”

Lamby averts her gaze for a moment to look up at the ceiling. “Shadowheart certainly does.”

“Maybe she’s right,” he mirrors her, joining her in gazing up at the ceiling. “You remind me that I have a soul.”

“You do have a soul,” she assures. “A beautiful one.”

“I’ll take your word for it, little lamb.”

“I believe that you made the right decision, Astarion,” she says, looking back at him. “You chose the more difficult path, yes, but so what? Once the brain is dealt with, we can look for a way for you to walk in the sun again. Magic is a dime a dozen. There must be a way.”

“We?”

Lamby searches his handsome, tired face. He genuinely looks surprised.

“You know what I want.”

“A life in the shadows,” he says. “For me?”

“Do you remember what I told you, after we got rid of that orthon?”

He does but lets her continue anyway.

“I can spend eternity just sitting with you. Nothing else needed.”

“Spoken like a true lovesick fool,” he tries to conceal his smile.

“You know what I am,” she says, and he considers what she might mean. Bhaalspawn? Fearless leader? Ridiculous do-gooder? Ferocious fighter with the heart of a kitten just fed?

No. Something else. She reaches out to him, slowly. Asking, assessing. He appreciates and hates it at the same time. She shouldn’t need to ask for permission. But all that he has been through in the past two centuries, it’s… It doesn’t just go away, now that Cazador’s dead. But she’s right. Astarion can be better than him.

“Little lamb,” he says and meets her touch halfway, tangling his fingers with hers.

“No,” she smiles. “Take another guess?”

He brings her hand up to his lips, smiles between them. She’s wearing the ring they found by the House of Healing still, just like he’s still wearing his. “Mine,” he whispers.

“Yes, “she says. “Yours.”

“I guess it’s not a bad bargain,” he jokes, and she swats at his arm with her free hand. They giggle together.

And they both know— they will be okay.

Astarion can hear how her heart beats. A steady rhythm, a pattern exclusively formed for him. Her smell, lactonic and innocent under the dried blood of his tormentor. She is consistent in her contrasts. Bhaal’s own flesh and blood that promises to do good, with a touch so gentle you’d never expect the same hand to deliver a killing blow. Her curious whimsy when she finds something small and shiny. The divine reverence she kisses him with. The sharpness of her words, the sweetness of her blood.

She has given everything to him. Shared. A partner— an equal.

He will do anything to not lose that.

“Maybe we should join our friends for a bit,” Astarion says, his lips still pressed against her slender fingers. “Won’t do to deprive them of our presence too long, don’t you think?”

“Are you sure?” Lamby asks, voice laced with concern.

“I’ve wallowed enough to last me a lifetime. Besides, a little wine for both of us might be a good idea.”

She smiles at him, and there it goes again— that warm, gripping feeling that makes him feel alive. He is starting to understand what it might be.

“Oh,” he starts as they get up. “There’s something I want to show you tonight, if that’s alright. It’s not far.”

Lamby nods. She would follow him anywhere, and he knows it.

He must tell her. The feelings that he never thought he could feel. That radiant warmth of hope. Rebirth.

He would follow her anywhere, and she needs to know it.

#my tav #durge #bg3 #astarion #art #astarion x tav #astarion x durge #durgstarion #my writing #fanfic #my fic #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #my durge #vaeri (lamby)#one shot collection #one shot

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