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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 2 months

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Greensleeves Chapter Eight: The Lost Art Of Keeping A Secret

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: N/A Wordcount: 4.1k

As the party find a routine, things seem to settle down. Then Xaph learns what killed that boar. And what's bothering Gale. She shares her own burdens.

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Gale and Xaph don’t get their quiet moment, not for over a week. Their night watch schedules don’t line up, and the House of Hope has provided them with enough food for over a tenday so there’s no need to forage. No one protests when Gale cements himself as camp cook, and he listens attentively when Xaph talks to him about mushrooms, when Wyll shows him how to decoratively cut fruit as though for presentation. Even Lae’zel starts to wean off her gith rations. The party figures out their hierarchy. Xaph has slipped into a leadership role. She manages to keep them on task and she knows how to navigate the land. She’s smart, and she has good instincts, and it’s working so far. Wyll is invaluable, a seasoned adventurer who does an excellent job of keeping tempers below boiling point. More than once he has to separate Lae’zel and Shadowheart like spitting cats, and that’s where Astarion comes in. He and Shadowheart bitch to one another in Elvish and they’re as secretive about their personal lives as ever but it gives them an outlet and no one can begrudge them that. Xaph takes Lae’zel to a dead tree and lets her take out her feelings on it. Joins her, sometimes. The rift between races is eased, if not yet quite erased, and the party at large begins to find their rhythm. The nightwatch rota is set and solid. The only true rule is not to schedule Lae’zel and Shadowheart together, not until they burn through the fighting frictions between them in daylight hours. Everyone has learned how to erect and collapse their own tents, though it still takes Astarion a while, and that rest time is precious and shouldn’t be wasted. Time spent around the campfire feels precious too. It’s around their food they begin to understand each other and build trust.

One night, Xaph is restless. She’s caught in limbo,not quite awake and not quite asleep. The worm is exploring her brain and she just can’t get comfortable. Eventually, she wedges an arm under her head so her horns don’t dig into the ground and closes her eyes against the stars, determined that the worm is not going to take another night of sleep from her. In the end, this struggle might be a good thing. She’s only just barely asleep when she senses it. A presence. Not far away, either. Close. An animal, perhaps, tempted by the smell of food. A light-footed goblin scout. A vampire, she remembers the exsanguinated boar. When her eyes open, she’s still not sure what she’s looking at. Astarion. Pale as the moon against the night sky. His red eyes look down into her green ones, both sets equally surprised. Fangs an inch away from her throat.

“Shit.” He knows that she knows, but Xaph acts before he does. She moves instinctively, bringing a leg up to hook it over his hip and rolling until she has him pinned and her arm is braced against his collarbone. When he lifts his hands her tail snaps forward and smacks his wrist and he obediently holds his hands above his own head. He knows she’s stronger than him. “If you wanted to be on top, darling, you only had to ask,” the words are familiar, every jab he ever has is said as though he and his combatant are between sheets, but the tone is a little off, “Listen, it’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re a vampire.” Xaph says plainly.

“Alright, so maybe it’s a little bit what it looks like.” Astarion admits. Is he…pleading? Desperation does not suit him. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Xaph eases her weight off him, and again his eyes widen in surprise as he scrambles into a seated position.

“Talk.” Does she trust him? Yes, yes, she thinks she does. He’s scared, and he’s still close enough that she can grab and overpower him.

“I just needed…well, blood.”

“That was your kill, wasn’t it? That boar.” She does trust him. Trusts him to have her back in a fight, and that’s what she needs.

“I’m not some monster. I feed on animals. Boar, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get.”

“It’s not enough, is it?” Xaph asks, “You couldn’t even hide that boar.”

“The pig was fucking heavy!” Astarion cries, taking offence and throwing his hands out, but he sighs. “You’re right. I’m too slow right now. Too weak. If I had just a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.” Yes, he’s pleading. She doesn’t know how to feel about it. A strange sensation charges through Xaph’s veins. He’s opening his mind to her, like Lae’zel had. He’s opening up. She was starting to think he couldn’t do that. He’s letting her in. She accepts, but tentatively. Letting him lock her out at any moment, but he doesn’t. Their worms connect with only minimal squirming. The memories are full of cracks and they shake. Scared. She’s seeing through his eyes again and none of the faces are clear, but there are dark eyes at the centre of all of them. Commanding. And he’s compelled. He can’t resist. But he doesn’t get to choose what he eats.

“That’s who you were talking about. The one who liked to play with people. Your master.” Xaph says, hushed. His ears relax, the very tips drooping. She didn’t know elf ears could move like that. Never paid enough attention to them, she supposes.

“Yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he hesitates here, as though he’s not fully comfortable with his next words, “But I do trust you. And you can trust me.” Xaph watches him. She keeps her hands on her knees, palms up and open.

“I do,” she tells him, and she knows she does, “I believe you.”

“Thank you.” It’s the most genuine gratitude she’s ever heard from him. “Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste. I swear.” It makes sense. To feed from her, asleep and unknowing or awake and willing, would expend far less energy than chasing something and having to hold it down until it stops moving. He’s hungry. He’s in pain. He’s in need.

“Alright.” Xaph says eventually, and he’s surprised all over again. He’d expected her to shove a stick through his ribs, slice him open with his own dagger. The surprise pinches Xaph’s stomach. How long has it been since he was trusted? “But not a drop more than you need. I rather like life, whatever of it I’ve got left.”

“Really?” There, for just a moment, his confidence falters. The smooth veneer that covers his words shows a single hairline crack. “Of course,” he recovers quickly, “Not one drop more.”

“What do I do?” Xaph asks. Astarion gestures towards the bedroll,

“As you were. More comfortable, you see.”

She obliges. She has the upper hand should things go south. She lies on her back, as she had been, arm wedged under her head. Astarion hovers above her, going back to his own pose. He’s high on his knees, and each hand presses into the ground by her shoulders. She has the upper hand she has to remind herself. She’s not used to feeling like prey. The fangs are like shards of ice in her neck. Cold isn’t a familiar experience. Tiefling blood runs hellfire hot. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s not pleasant either. Numb pressure on her neck, and a draining sensation. She can feel her pulse in the roof of her mouth, and then it starts to recede. To fade. Lightheadedness punches in. She punches him, pushing her fists into his shoulders until he detaches himself from her neck. He’s out of breath, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Xaph’s blood. She can’t say she’s ever experienced this before. Her hand goes to her throat and finds twin puncture wounds, just like that boar. Her hand comes away coated red.

“Amazing,” that single word carries more weight than every syrupy pick-up-line he’s tried combined, “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…happy.”

“I should hope so,” the night air is freezing against the bite marks, “I’m glad I could help.”

“Raphael was right about one thing. Your heart does bleed something awful. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I look forward to seeing you fight. Maybe you’ll win our next duel.” Xaph says, and it’s refreshing to hear him laugh. She wonders if her blood will bring colour to his cheeks.

“If you’ll excuse me. You’re invigorating, but I need something more filling,” Astarion says this somewhat dismissively, but he doesn’t turn away from her until she nods and settles back on her bedroll. Maybe now she’ll sleep. She sits up again to retrieve the blanket that had been tossed to the side when she’d launched herself at Astarion, and she sees that he hasn’t fully left yet. His back is to her, but his head is turned to the side so she can see his lips moving when he says,

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

***

Gale doesn’t sleep any more than Xaph does, pain chewing at his ribs and the muscles of his chest. Eventually, he rolls over and tugs the flap of his tent open to let the sunrise in. He can’t bring himself to move any further, not yet, so he lies on his stomach and lets the sun warm him up. Watches the rays of light dapple through the leaves on the trees. Xaph is already awake. She’s tied a burlap sack that must be full of rags and leather scraps to a branch, and is practicing with her bow. She’s still working on getting her arm in, and she can be found practicing most early mornings. Her stance is impeccable. She’s barefoot, as she tends to be in camp, her trousers slung low on her hips. She isn’t wearing a shirt, just her smallclothes. Red fabric that covers her chest and little else. Gale can see every muscle in her back moving, tensing, releasing. She’s strong. Could she lift him, if she wanted? The pink light of dawn is tinting her skin lilac. The skin of her back, her arms, is fascinating. There are raised lines, small spots. Freckles everywhere. Everywhere? No. Don’t. He has to move. He can’t lie here and watch her and let his mind wander. He manages to pull himself up into a seated position without making too much noise, though several muscles he’d forgotten about clench in complaint.

Astarion enters the picture, the frame made by the blue fabric of the tent. His skin shines in the sun. His shirt is unlaced, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He must say something, because Xaph turns her head to look at him as she lets her last arrow fly. Astarion gestures, and she raises her bow again though she frowns at him. She pulls her bow to full draw and he slides his hands over her shoulders as though to adjust her position. Down her arms, along every bump and ridge. Gale doesn’t know what to make of it, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the interaction and he fumbles for his clothes blindly. Xaph turns, shaking Astarion’s hands off her, and relaxes her own arms. She shows him how her fingers are positioned on the string of her bow, and Gale can’t quite tell but he thinks he sees her fingers flutter as they change position over and over again. Her gaze is fixed on her fingers. Astarion is watching her face. She smiles. She never shows her teeth, they’ve noticed. Astarion’s head tilts to the side. Then he puts his arms on her shoulders again. He pushes, turning her. Turning her to face Gale’s tent. Red eyes have found him. He’s been caught. At least he’s found a shirt to pull on before he’s dragged out of his tent.

“Don’t skulk, wizard.” Astarion calls. Xaph hisses something at him about not waking the others, hitting his shoulder, but he just smiles back at her. Down at her, he’s taller if you don’t count the horns. She elbows him and Astarion stumbles dramatically, hands clutched to his stomach as though she’s stabbed him. They talk a bit more, and Gale thinks he hears think about it, Astarion, as he ducks out of his tent. He’s managed to wrap his shirt around himself and tie it, but he’s struggling with the ties at his wrists and he doesn’t want to conjure a mage hand just for it to flicker in and out of the air. That would be one too many embarrassing missteps. First getting stuck in a rock, then freezing in combat, and then to fail at a simple cantrip? No, better to leave the ties trailing. When he reaches Xaph her back is turned to him as she pulls her arrows from her makeshift target. She leaves both her quiver and her bow against the tree. Navy, three or four shades darker than the rest of her skin, stripes her stomach. Previous battles scar the skin of her limbs. There’s a mark on her neck, but he can’t quite make out what it is. A small pile of fabric by the tree turns out to be a robe that falls past her knees. Deep green and patterned with yellowing ginkgo leaves. The ranger allows herself some luxuries then.

“Shall we walk?” she asks, extending an arm to the woods. The sleeve of the robe is a handwidth wider than it needs to be and as she moves various sections of her abdomen are shadowed and highlighted. “Astarion can handle the watch until someone else wakes up.”

Xaph meanders away from camp, careful not to be walking with Gale rather than ahead of him. Something about this feels soft and timeless. The party don’t spend the majority of their time in simple clothes, and when they make camp it’s Xaph and Lae’zel who have the least qualms about shedding layers. Not Gale. He sits by the fire and tells stories and lulls the camp to sleep, but always wrapped up in purple robes. She didn’t know the shirt under his robe was the kind he has to fold about himself and tie at the sides. It ends halfway to his knees, not yet tucked into his trousers. The neck is a wide v, a shape she knows, but there’s a mark in the skin she hadn’t noticed before. Part of a circle, wispy. A tattoo. The wizard can be surprising when he wants to be. The silver in his hair is turned gold by the dawn, and the brown of his eyes reveal hidden depths in the light. He could weave enchantments with a squint of his eyes alone, she thinks.

The bank of the Chionthar is only fifteen minutes away. Trees rustle above their heads and the river rushes beneath their feet. Xaph settles cross-legged on the bank and lets her tail dip into the water just to feel it. Successfully tempted, she reaches out and lets her fingers slip under the surface. The water of the Chionthar is clear here, though she stirs up some mud with her fingers. Gale finds a low, nearby rock and sits. In silence. He watches as she devotes herself to feeling. The end of her sleeve is falling into the water but she doesn’t care. Her hair is loose and falling over her shoulder. Sunlight, pale yellow, dances on the river. Ripples where she makes contact. Sets her hair alight. A stranger could mistake her for a naiad if they stumbled upon her like this.

“It’s a wonderful morning.” Xaph whispers, her words a lily pad alighting on the river.

“A picture.” Gale agrees. Neither of them voice the next part of the sentiment. How many more mornings will they see? This morning, this sight. Immortalised in their minds for fear it might be their last. In another life they might be seeing it memorised in paint. Rather, Gale would see it in paint. Xaph may have seen the real thing. Felt the cold water against warm skin. Breathed the fresh air, nearby moss. She shuffles to face him, wiping her hand dry on her trousers before she presents it to him.

“Here. Let me tie those.” She offers. He leans forward after a moment’s hesitation, letting Xaph takes his hands into her lap. She smells of ginger. Their hands have touched often enough that the contrast of colour is no longer off-putting, but Xaph doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how soft the skin of Gale’s palm is. She’s all too aware of her claws, as though she’s liable to tear him open. As though he’s made of silk. But he trusts her. He said so. She finds one set of ties and brings them high above his wrist. “You wax poetic about my virtues, Mr of Waterdeep, as though you have none of your own.”

“I can’t imagine what-”

“Shush.” She tells him, pushing a thumb into his pulse. She doesn’t expect him to listen, but he does. When she pushes, his fingers curl in on themselves. His veins are almost purple in his wrist.

“You’re a good man. You helped me without even knowing me. You calm Lae’zel and you take Shadowheart’s jabs,” when she looks up from her fingers it is directly into his eyes and they’re like pots of honey as light shines on him, “We trust one another, but we haven’t been entirely honest with each other, have we? And we are not in a situation that is conducive to keeping secrets. You intend on being honest with me, so I will be honest with you.” She leaves Gale’s wrist, now wrapped in the cuff of his sleeve, and moves onto the other one. Once she starts to work on that knot she looks up at him again. She’s offering him a trade, and he’s going to take it. He’s going to take it, but it still takes him a beat to get the words out.

“You see, I have this…condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly,” Xaph’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t interrupt, “The specifics are rather personal, but suffice it to say that it is a malady I have learned to live with - though not without some effort.”

“Does it hurt?” she asks then. The back of his hand is flush to one of her palms, and the fingers of her other hand have stilled and curled around his wrist. The combination of contact and words soothes, if only superficially.

“Yes. Yes, it does. But one must take these things one step at a time. What it comes down to is this,” here he goes, all or nothing. Well. Not quite all. Not yet. “Every so often I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside.”

“Raw magic? Why?”

“I can say no more on the matter. Not now, anyway. Just trust me when I say it’s all of vital importance. It’s been days since I last consumed an artefact. Since before we were abducted. By that I mean it is imperative that I find and consume the Weave at the earliest possible juncture, and I need your help to do so.”

“Where do we find these artefacts?” Xaph asks. We, that’s a positive. She finishes the knot at his cuff and settles her hands in her lap.

“As luck would have it, Faerun is full of them. Though I do feel obliged to point out that items of power tend to be in hands of power. There will be danger involved. Or great cost.”

“That sounds about on track with our lives at the moment,” Xaph admits when it’s clear that he’s done, “It sounds draining. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard of. Mind, I’m not primarily a spellcaster,” she pauses, then shifts so her palms are open to his again, “You ask me for help. I offer my hands.” Gale thanks her in as few words as he can manage, which is still a good dozen more than most people would use, and Xaph prepares to uphold her end of the bargain.

“I told you I’d had brushes with the infernal before. I’ve met Raphael more than once. He did offer me a deal, like I said, but that was only a year ago. Ten years ago I was messing around somewhere I shouldn’t have been, and Mephistopheles noticed. My family’s from his line, you see. He thought I’d found something - to this day I don’t know what - and he handed me over to his son to get the information out of me. Raphael had his fun with me but he knew I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I convinced him that I would be more useful to him alive than to his father dead.”

“You signed a deal.” Gale realises aloud. She’d told Wyll she hadn’t.

“Not in the traditional sense. It wasn’t a contract for my soul, no devil could convince me to part with that. It was a contract for work. Twenty years commission. I owe him one job a year, no questions asked. In exchange, my family and I are sheltered from Mephistopheles.” She ends her story there, staring at her tail in the river.

“Like you told Lae’zel. Your people aren’t compliant. You’re survivors. And you survived.” Gale lets his hand find Xaph’s. His fingers circle her thumb, not wanting to cross any sort of boundary he’s unaware of, but her fingers curl around his hand and squeeze. “You outmanouevered an archdevil and talked a cambion’s price down from your soul. Frankly, Xaph, I’m impressed.” A smile flickers. Her skin is warm and textured and he lets his hand sit in hers until she pulls away and starts to fiddle with a ring on her pinkie finger. It’s a plain thing, that ring, a copper band that only holds a single stone. An opal, he suspects, from the ever-shifting colours of it. He’s never seen her without it, but now she takes it off. Slowly easing it over the knuckle, leaving a strip of skin that is a slightly paler blue than the rest of her, hidden from the sun. She holds it out to him without a word. He takes it, though he’s a little confused as to why he’s being asked to examine it. Was it a gift from Raphael? Could he even use that word for such a thing? He knows the answer the moment he touches it. This ring is stuffed full of magic. It sits in his palm and he passes his other hand over it. The ring levitates, then drops.

“This is a ring of sending,” sending stones. Rare, powerful magic. Smiths in the Sembia region used to set them in gold necklaces. No mention of Sembia comes without mention of Netheril. “Where did you get this? If you don’t mind my asking.” Pain makes his manners something of an afterthought, but Xaph doesn’t begrudge him an answer,

“My mother made it,” she’s rubbing the join between her finger and her palm, “She made two pairs. One for me, and one for Quahala,” her sister, the one that lives in Waterdeep, “So that no matter what plane we were on, we would never be lost to her. Spell went a bit wonky a couple years ago and she couldn’t fix it. Only works when it wants now, but it does still hold magic.” She had been heard crying and cursing a few nights ago by Wyll and Shadowheart. Was this the reason? Had she been wrestling with the ring, trying to reach her family?

“I know it does,” Gale closes his hand around the ring, just for a moment, to strengthen his resolve. Then, “This is a precious thing to you. I can’t accept it.” When he goes to give her the ring back, she pushes his hand away.

“Take it.”

“Xaph-”

“Gale. It doesn’t work, and it can help you. Take it.” She insists. Compassion. Sympathy. She can’t bring herself to smile. It feels like she’s giving him her whole finger, ring still on. He tries to say her name again, but the soft sound of it is drowned out by a yell in the distance.

“A vampire?”

“Oh shit.” Xaph stands and brushes her trousers off.

“I’m sorry, did Lae’zel just say-”

“She did. Well. Uh. We all have our secrets. Astarion’s is that he’s a vampire, and it seems he’s decided to tell the whole camp without me,” her words are rushed and panicked now, and their sanctuary is broken, “Excuse me, I need to make sure they don’t kill him.” Xaph races away without another word. Her robe billows out behind her as she rockets back to camp. Gale is left sitting on the rock, her ring burning through his palm.

#rae's writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 #bg3 oc #rae's ocs #xaph [tav]#wyll ravengard #shadowheart #lae'zel #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #astarion #astarion ancunin #raphael #bg3 raphael #greensleeves

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glitchingicarus · 1 year

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The stage is set, the curtain rises, and the show beings.

Sorry for the long wait, life happens so much. But I’m back and chipping away at this!

As always, y’alls comments, reblogs, likes, and kudos have been such an encouragement and joy to me, and I hope y’all enjoy this chapter!

#The Magnus Archives #tma fic #Jonathan Sims #Gerard Keay #Gerry Keay #Martin Blackwood #jongerrymartin #magnuspod #tma #Jon Sims #Loaded like Dice when your Luck has Run Out (tma fic)#also if you like it pls give a reblog so others can find it too? thks!#fan fic #Rae's writing

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writing-desk-rae · 1 year

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Sneak peaks for my fic Flight Path, Burning In

#rae's writing #sneak peek

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perfectquote · 25 days

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Never be afraid to fall apart because it is an opportunity to rebuild yourself the way you wish you had been all along.

Rae Smith

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thoughtkick · 27 days

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Never be afraid to fall apart because it is an opportunity to rebuild yourself the way you wish you had been all along.

Rae Smith

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lyr-caelum · 1 month

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Quick late night sketch 🪱🌑 (wip)

Thank you so much @rollercoasterwords for the beautiful writing ♥️

(There will be more)

#wfrau #thank you rae for letting me use ur writing as inspiration #hope you like this stick figures

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thru-the-grapevine · 3 months

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Lady in Red

Pairing: Woozi x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff, smut

Warnings: negative self-talk, petnames (mostly "princess" lol), fingering, unprotected sex; please note reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina

A/N: this is purely self-serving I was having a DAY

It’s finally Friday, you continued to chant in your head. Microsoft Outlook swam in your vision as you did your best to respond to all the emails sent last minute by people who make twice as much as you do. Yet another email full of typos demanding something of you thirty minutes before you clock out. Absolutely not.

Setting your Teams status to “Busy,” you opted to twirl around in your office chair instead. Much more entertaining than answering bossy emails. Would it bite you in the ass on Monday? Sure. Did you care? Not right now.

Sighing deeply, you peered at your reflection in the mirror across the hall. Your hair was a mess, sticking up in random directions as you hadn’t had the energy to style it this morning. Working from home had some advantages, but the way you neglected to care for your appearance was not one of them.

Feeling a little gross suddenly, you picked at a cat hair stuck to your sweatpants. When was the last time you wore something that made you feel pretty? Sure, there was nothing wrong with the hoodie and sweatpants you normally opted for. They kept you warm and cozy as you slaved away to capitalism.

But every once in a while you missed dressing up. You missed styling your hair, adding little sparkly accessories to it just because. You missed wearing clothes that didn’t make you feel like a lazy slob.

With a sigh, you glanced back at the computer screen as another email came in.

“What’s the sigh for, love?” a familiar voice brought a small smile to your face.

Jihoon stood in the doorway, dressed in a simple pair of sweats and a t-shirt that you knew he chose for the way it hugged his torso, showing off all the hard work he’d put in at the gym lately.

“Nothing really,” you sighed, not wanting to bother him. He’d been holed up in his studio a lot lately, working tirelessly on Seventeen’s next album. To see him home so early was a rare treat, you didn’t want to ruin it.

Jihoon raised an eyebrow at you, clearly unconvinced. He began walking across the room towards you, and suddenly you became hyper-aware of your appearance once again. Anxiously, you began picking more cat hair off your sweatpants, refusing to look Jihoon in the eye. How could you when he looked like a god and you felt like a pig who’d just rolled in mud?

Jihoon hummed thoughtfully when he reached you. He put his hand under your chin, lifting your head gently to look him in the eye. Ever-observant, you could tell he knew what was wrong. Shame washed over you, but Jihoon just smiled gently. “Sign out of work,” he stated.

“Now? But it’s not my time yet,” you argued, worried that you’d be caught.

“Don’t care. They can let you go a little early on a Friday. I want you all to myself tonight,” he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You melted into his touch, already nodding and moving to shut down your work computer. They wouldn’t miss you. Probably.

“Good girl,” Jihoon cooed, still messing with your hair. “Now, I want you to go pamper yourself. Take a long bath, use the nice soap and one of those fancy bath bombs I got you for Christmas. Doll yourself up. I know you’ve been missing it. I want to see my little princess feeling as beautiful as she looks.”

At the nickname, you felt a rush of heat to your cheeks and your stomach. Blinking nervously, you looked up at him. “But what should I wear?”

He answered almost instantly. “That red dress I bought you. I’ve been wanting to see you in it for a while now.”

Your eyes widened. The dress in question was one Jihoon had bought you a few months ago after seeing it at a fashion show he attended. He refused to tell you the price, insisting that no price was too steep for his princess. But still, you were terrified to wear the thing. What if you tripped and the hem tore? What if you spilled something on the front and it stained? No, it was better off safe and sound in the back of your closet.

“But-” you tried to say.

Jihoon frowned. “Are you trying to argue with me?”

You gulped. “No, sir.”

“Good. Now go. I’ll order our favorite for dinner,” he said, bending down to give your cheek a gentle kiss.

“We’re not going out?” you asked, bewildered. Why did he want you to wear the dress then?

Jihoon smiled and shook his head, his long, dark hair flopping almost cutely as he did so. “I told you; I want you to myself tonight.”

And with that he ushered you into the bathroom, even helping you pick out a bath bomb. Then he shut the door behind him and left you to decide how best to pamper yourself. At first you just stood there, unsure of what to do. How do you even pamper yourself? When was the last time you had a self-care day?

Slowly, your brain kicked into gear. You turned the faucets on to nice and hot. When the tub was filled, you plopped the bath bomb in and spent a couple minutes watching the colors spread. Jihoon made sure all of the bath bombs he got you were purple - your favorite color. This one was a deep plum and smelled floral. It was lovely.

You stripped out of your clothes, grabbed your shaving kit, and eased yourself down into the hot water. This time your sigh was one of relief as the heat eased your stiff muscles. You hadn’t realized how tense you were.

You let yourself soak for a while, just vegetating and allowing yourself to empty your thoughts. You should’ve brought a book and a glass of wine with you. Oh well, next time. And you made the promise to yourself that there will definitely be a next time.

Eventually, you felt the water begin to grow lukewarm and you decided to shave your legs and bathe. It felt like you were washing away the stress of the week. Every mistake you made and every scolding you got from higher-ups just fading into the background.

After you were clean and your hair was washed, you wrapped yourself in the fluffiest towel you owned and made the (chilly) trek to your bedroom. There you stared, still clad in only towel, at the beautiful red dress you laid out on your bed. It truly was gorgeous. The deep red, Jihoon’s favorite color, was complimented by silver embellishments. The swirly designs graced the flowy skirt, and the sleeves also flowed gracefully.

Taking a deep breath, you eased yourself carefully into the dress, pleased to find it fit perfectly. Of course Jihoon had it tailored to you. He knew every inch of your body by heart.

Deciding that if you’re going to wear this dress, you might as well go all out. You pulled out your slightly dusty makeup bag and pulled out your favorite eyeshadow palette along with the rest of your makeup. You took your time dolling your face up, feeling the icky feeling from earlier fading from your mind.

Finally satisfied with your look, you floofed you hair to give it some volume, allowing the curls to do their thing as they air dried. Lastly you picked out some jewelry, also gifted to you by Jihoon, and slipped on a pair of sparkly silver heels.

Nervously you peeked out of your bedroom. Then you ambled down the hall to the living room where Jihoon was waiting, the TV playing some variety show quietly in the background as he scrolled on his phone.

Hearing the click clack of your heels, he looked up and you swear you watched his pupils dilate.

“Holy shit,” he said, standing up. He’d changed too, now sporting a black button down with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black slacks. “That dress is fucking perfect on you, princess,” he all but growled. He took your hand and gave you a twirl, admiring the way your cheeks flushed with his compliment.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, shy. “It’s really a beautiful dress. I don’t think I could ever make it up to you for giving it to me.”

“Don’t give me that,” he said, gently flicking your forehead. “It’s more than enough reward to just see you in this, my gorgeous girl.”

Your brain was swirling with the compliments. Jihoon wasn’t often outspoken about how much he adored you, opting usually for acts of service and gifts and small gestures to make sure you felt loved. But sometimes, when you were feeling down, he allowed his walls to come down and finally tell you what he always felt.

The two of you ate dinner, just some simple takeout from your favorite Korean restaurant nearby, and chatted. You were very careful not to spill any sauce on your dress.

After dinner, Jihoon cleaned up the table, refusing to allow you to lift a finger. “Princesses don’t clean,” he chastised.

You grumbled, “Princes don’t either…”

Jihoon laughed at your obstinance and couldn’t help planting another kiss on your cheek. “Cute.”

After he cleaned up, Jihoon began fiddling with his phone and some speakers he’d bought. You watched him in confusion until a waltz came on. Jihoon walked over to you, bowed, and held out his hand.

You shyly took it and allowed him to pull you up, wrapping an arm around your waist. Then, as if he’d practiced the waltz for years, he began to teach you the steps.

The two of you danced slowly around the living room, careful to not bump into the table. Slowly you grew more confident in your dancing and allowed yourself to relax into the steps. Jihoon smiled at you and pulled you a bit closer. Your chest bumped against his, and you could’ve sworn you heard a sharp intake of breath from him.

Before you could ask what’s wrong, Jihoon captured your lips in a heated kiss, not once breaking step. When you broke apart, you stared up at him, lips parted in surprise. Jihoon felt a tightening in his pants at the innocent look on your face. “As much as I love seeing you in this dress, I can’t fucking wait to take it off you,” he said.

Your eyes widened, heat rushing to your core. Jihoon pulled you closer, allowing you to feel the growing tent in his pants. But still, the song wasn’t done, so he continued to twirl you around. You were growing impatient and tried nipping at his bottom lip to let him know.

“Uh uh,” he said, “patience little princess. The song will be over soon. For now, let me get one last look at you in the dress I picked out for you.”

And with a twirl, Jihoon’s eyes raked up and down your body, taking note of the way the bodice of the dress hugged your breasts. He loved the way the dress poofed out, teasing him by hiding your legs from him.

When the song ended, it was like something snapped inside him. Jihoon pushed you backwards until you landed with a soft “oof” on the couch. He grabbed your wrists and held them above your head with one hand, the other hand holding the side of your face as he kissed you passionately. His knee found your clothed core, hiking up your skirts that fell around your thighs.

“So fucking pretty for me,” he whispered in your ear. “Getting all dolled up just for me to ruin you. But you like that, don’t you little girl? You like it when your prince corrupts you.”

Flushing, you nodded, unable to deny him. You did love dressing up for him. You did love when he absolutely ruined you. You loved every bit about him, the way he kissed you, the way he comforted you when you were upset, the way he quietly but firmly took care of you just as much as you cared for him.

Jihoon’s hand trailed its way from your face to your neck to your chest. His lips followed suit and you gasped when he bit down on the top of your breast, tongue gently soothing the skin immediately after.

He dropped your hands to start fumbling with the buttons in the back of your dress, hands slipping a little in his eagerness. He huffed. “This is taking too long.” Then he shocked you by ripping the back of the dress open. You felt several buttons pop off and yelped.

“Jihoon!”

“I’ll have it fixed later, now come here,” he responded before latching onto your breast.

You yelped again, which turned into a breathy moan as he ran his tongue over your nipple. His other hand made its way down to your thigh to squeeze it.

Jihoon’s focus shifted to your thighs and he knelt down to pepper kisses all up your thigh, leaving a hickey or two as well. You wiggled as his lithe fingers found your clothed core.

“Mmm, my princess is so wet for me already,” he hummed. He bunched the dress’s skirts up higher, then took his time pulling the matching red panties down.

Jihoon licked his lips at the sight of your soaking wet core, his dick straining painfully in his pants. You whimpered and reached out for him. Tilting his head, he stood up and leaned in close to you.

Happily, you pulled him close and began undoing the buttons on his shirt. You felt yourself grow wetter at the feeling of his hard muscles beneath your hands. Jihoon watched your face as you concentrated on not fumbling on the buttons. Your breasts spilled out of the torn dress, and your thighs were practically begging him to come kiss them again. Your hair was already disheveled, and he found you the most beautiful person in the world.

Finally, his shirt was off and flung to the floor. Greedily, you pulled him in for more kisses, and Jihoon was happy to oblige. While you were distracted, his hand made its way under your skirts. You let out a gasp as he inserted a finger and began pumping, his thumb circling your clit.

Jihoon swallowed your breathy gasps greedily, hitting your g-spot expertly with every thrust of his finger. You whimpered when he inserted a second finger, and Jihoon groaned at the way your pussy practically swallowed his fingers.

“You’re so tight, pretty girl,” he groaned, yet despite his words he inserted a third finger, making you cry out.

His pumping didn’t slow down, even as your gasps grew higher in pitch. You could feel the coil in your stomach tightening already, the stress from the week having left you wound up.

Between Jihoon’s fingers and his thumb circling your clit, it wasn’t long before you were crying out his name in pleasure, your thighs trembling as you rode out your high.

Jihoon waited until you were back down to earth before removing his fingers and licking your release off them. You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as you tried to catch your breath.

Jihoon began unbuttoning his pants, pulling them and his boxers down in one go. His dick sprang free, red and dripping with precum. You groaned, mouth watering, but Jihoon pushed you back on the couch.

“Not tonight, princess. Tonight I spoil you, just as you deserve,” he cooed.

You blinked up at him, pouting. “But-”

He put a finger to your lips, shushing you. “Don’t argue, little girl. Don’t worry, I’m being greedy too. I can’t wait to fuck you until you’re screaming my name.”

At the dirty talk, you closed your mouth, no longer even remotely tempted to argue with him.

“Good girl,” Jihoon said before entering you with a groan.

You moaned helplessly at the way he filled you up. He waited a moment before his patience ran out, and he began to move.

Jihoon fucked you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. Maybe you were in his mind, you could never know. But the way he buried himself in you and the way he moaned your name gave you little doubt of his affection. He knew your body better than you did, hitting that spot that made you see stars every single time.

“Jihoon- ah! I’m- I’m gonna-” you tried to speak but the pleasure was overtaking you. Your mind just chanted his name over and over, and all you saw was his body over yours, his cock entering you with every thrust.

“Cum for me, princess. Let me hear your pretty moans,” Jihoon said, increasing his speed as he felt himself racing towards his finish.

You came hard, throwing your head back in a silent scream as your entire body trembled in Jihoon’s grasp. Feeling your cunt convulse around him, Jihoon’s pace grew erratic until he too came with a loud moan, spilling into you. He buried his face into the crook of your neck as he came down from his own high.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Jihoon moved off of you, pulling out of you. He watched as his cum leaked out of you. Frowning, he pushed it back into you, making sure not a single drop was wasted.

You flushed at the feeling, so full and satisfied. You gave Jihoon a dopey smile that he happily returned. “Always so good for me, pretty girl,” he crooned. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

He scooped you up, your dress still halfway on your body, and carried you to the bathroom. He took the dress the rest of the way off you and turned on the faucets of the tub again, wetting a washcloth to clean you.

“Next time, I’m buying you a purple dress.”

#woozi #woozi x reader #jihoon x reader #svt woozi #woozi fanfic #woozi smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #rae writes #admin rae

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quotefeeling · 7 days

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Stop thinking that other people are going to come and save you. You gotta save yourself.

Rae Earl

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eclipsedbody · 3 months

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"fallible faith//mystery and mirrors" — one poem centered on kristen applebees and one poem centered on cassandra

the twitter version of this and some extra writing that i couldn't fit on kristen's poem

#fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #dimension 20 #fhjy #d20 #character study #kind of #poetry #rae's writing #kristen applebees #cassandra

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 2 months

Text

Greensleeves Chapter Seven: The Horror And The Wild

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Warnings: Brief description of dead animal at the very end Wordcount: 4.1k

The party adjust to their newest member and set out on their journey to the goblin camp. They're interrupted by an old business partner of Xaph's

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Gale and Xaph return to their companions without further discussion. He shares what they have learnt from the goblin prisoner, about this Absolute. A god none of them have heard of. Xaph peers at the map and plots possible routes with Wyll and Shadowheart. Two black circles are on the parchment now: the goblin camp, and where Zorru had encountered the githyanki. One is much further west than the other. The goblin camp must be their priority. The githyanki can wait a few days. The tieflings can’t.

“Your kind prove compliant, Xaph. A useful trait.” Lae’zel tells Xaph as the group collect themselves and begin to move. The tone of her voice almost makes it sound like she’s trying to compliment rather than insult.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” Shadowheart butts in, “You ought to reconsider keeping her around, before she causes real trouble.”

“Let’s not start a fight,” Wyll reasons, “Not here.” He’s right. She shouldn’t start a fight within the group, not after accepting Lae’zel and bickering with Shadowheart. Besides, to bring violence inside the grove would certainly have them tossed out by the druids, and they might take that as an opportunity to evict the refugees too.

“We’re not compliant. We’re survivors. These people are running for their lives.” Xaph informs Lae’zell, refusing to break her stride and let the githyanki goad her into an argument. That’s far too easily done with Shadowheart already.

“Cockroaches are survivors. Yet I do not congratulate them.” Lae’zel points out. Xaph’s tail twitches, but she still doesn’t stop. Astarion and Gale note the movement, and the latter mumbles,

“Steady. Remember she’s acting out of fear, like the rest of us.” He’s right too. She can’t pick a fight with every being they come across who has something against tieflings, but it’s always somehow worse being the butt of the joke in front of a group of people who aren’t.

“The teeth-ling was clear. If there are githyanki west of here, that must be our objective. Purification cannot wait.”

“We are tieflings. With an f.”

“I am unfamiliar with the - well, I shall not say culture. Custom, perhaps.” Lae’zel says, eyes rolling behind Xaph’s back. The tail twitches again, more violently this time, but Xaph’s jaw is set.

“Nor am I familiar with yours.” Is all she says.

It is decided through vote that Xaph is least likely to get them lost. As a ranger, she has a better grip on maps and traversing rough ground than the elf who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in a century and the self-proclaimed wizard of Waterdeep, and Shadowheart and Lae’zel both carry the prickly presence of lone wolves who are distinctly uncomfortable in a pack. Wyll is well-suited to keeping everyone on task, which Xaph thinks will work well to curb her habit of going off the beaten trail in pursuit of interesting tracks. When Shadowheart points out the impracticality of her armour for hiking, Lae’zel makes that noise between her teeth again, tchk. In loose formation, Wyll puts himself between the cleric and the githyanki. A fight between them seems inevitable, but hopefully the Blade of Frontiers can keep it verbal for the time being. It scratches a pleasant itch in Xaph’s brain, that from above they must look like an arrow. She, Astarion and Gale form the triangle of the point and Lae’zel, Wyll and Shadowheart the shaft.

She revels in being outside again. The sun is warm, but pleasantly so, and the wind moves enough to keep cool air circulating around them and prevent overexertion. The air carries only the occasional waft from the nautiloid, and is otherwise deliciously clear. No longer drowning in the stink of burning flesh, blood, and acrid smoke, she can dissect every delicate note of the grasses around her and the flowers they hold. When they pause so Wyll can shake a stone out of his boot, Xaph takes the opportunity to retie her hair so it’s all gathered up and she can feel the breeze on the back of her neck. Even the unevenness of the ground beneath her feet is a delight. It’s been a while since she’s travelled with others, and it takes her a while to correct her speed so Gale doesn’t lag behind, so Lae’zel doesn’t snap about them going too slow, so Wyll stops fretting about them burning through energy. Eventually, they settle into a rhythm and keep to it until the sun reaches its peak and several members of the party start flagging. Even those used to roughing it are struggling, weakened by the tadpole. They should endeavour to sweat no more than necessary to retain fluids.

Now several miles away from the grove, they’ve reached a bridge. Deciding to make a brief stop before crossing it, they find a good clump of trees that cast enough of a shadow to hold them all. Xaph slides down the trunk of a tree, lets her head fall back onto the bark, and reaches out blindly for her bow to unstring it and give it a break. Food, provided by Okta, is doled out and eaten in near silence. Lae’zel stays standing. Pacing, actually, questioning if there’s any real need to stop. No one answers her, too tired. Once they’ve eaten, Wyll and Shadowheart split from the group to investigate voices they can hear not far away. Gale tells the remainder of the group his Yawning Portal story with suitable dramatics, and Xaph resists the urge to correct his grip when he mimes holding a crossbow. Lae’zel shows no such restraint, but to look at Gale her words are no more than irritating flies, and his blasé attitude makes Astarion chuckle. It’s a neat little pocket where, for a moment, Xaph thinks this group might work. At least for the next few days. As long as none of them turns. Or dies. Or kills another member of the party. Alright, it’s a little complicated.

Wyll and Shadowheart bring disturbing news back to the shelter of the trees. A man has died nearby, leaving his siblings under the impression that the Wyll and Shadowheart were True Souls, beings chosen by this new god the Absolute as vessels of her word. Their brother had died after foolishly following an owlbear mother back to her nest, and after convincing the siblings not to avenge him they had run off into the woods. A tadpole had squeezed out of the dead man’s eye not long after. With more than mild concern at the third mention of this new god now coupled with a mind flayer worm, they end their break early and continue to move.

Their redoubled efforts do not last long. They don’t even get to cross the bridge. Halfway across, Xaph skids to a stop as bright red and gold sparks swirl in a vortex in front of her. She groans audibly as the sparks convalesce into the form of a man. He looks human, even if his skin carries a reddish undertone. Middle-aged. Not particularly remarkable.

“Don’t.” Xaph warns at the sound of multiple weapons being readied. She herself hikes her bow up her shoulder and waits.

“Xa-pha-ni-a,” he stretches each syllable far longer than necessary, until they’re transparent, “Well met, muzz.” Xaph’s companions have heard her use this word on the tiefling children when she wants their attention, when she demands their respect. He knows her name, this swirl of sparks that stinks of sulphur. Astarion can taste cherries in the air, unable to overwhelm the smell of the hells. Shadowheart can feel her hair prickling at the back of her neck at the untoward curl of his lip. Gale can judge the track of his eyes from Xaph’s boots to her hair before he appraises her friends. Wyll and Lae’zel know devils when they see them. Xaph closes her eyes as she breathes in through her nose and opens them as she heaves a world-weary sigh,

“Raphael,” worse, she knows him, this must-be-infernal, and she does not show him the respect he has ordered, “What. The everloving fuck are you doing here?”

“Mind your manners, little mephit. Speaking of, what manner of place is this that I find you in? The path to redemption?” his voice rumbles ever so slightly deeper than it should, “Or the road to damnation?” he leans forwards, into Xaph, and she leans back to maintain distance, “Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning. What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?” there’s whispering behind Xaph but she doesn’t listen closely enough to make out what her companions are saying. Raphael always did like delivering his riddles in song form, “The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then,” he drags a hand through the air, “Down came the claws, and that, love, was that. They know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they?”

Lots of lullabies and faiytales come from the Cormyr area. Wine, too. He’s been listening. Watching. The air around Xaph and Raphael shifts as something red-hot teases the bones of her spine. Gale shuffles his feet, uneasy at the mention of Cormyr, under the same suspicions as Xaph. This devil had heard their late-night conversation. Her tears.

“What’s brought you down here with all us worms, Raphael? Hardly your scene.”

“Quite right,” his eyes rove over the party again, “Too many pests, and decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.” Raphael offers Xaph his hand and, to Wyll’s dismay, she takes it. The entire group is engulfed in the same red-gold sparks that had brought the devil to them, sparks that turn to flames that flare white without burning and are snuffed out in an instant.

***

They are no longer on the bridge. They stand in a grand dining room. Dining room, because there’s a behemoth of a table in the centre, round and positively overflowing with food. Every good cooking smell in the world comes from this table. There are huge roaring fireplaces, huge black statues, huge everything. They are ants here.

“You’ve redecorated,” Xaph notes. “New portrait,” she flicks a hand towards a towering painting that hangs on the wall above the fireplace behind where Raphael now stands. Ten-foot tall canvas, easily, the frame itself adding another two feet around the perimeter. Xaph turns her back on the devil while her companions are still trying to process what had happened. It’s an illusion, Gale can tell that much, but such a strong one of the like he hasn’t seen in…well, in a while. Wyll’s eye darts nervously along the walls, looking desperately for the windows, for assurance they aren’t actually in the hells. “Liked the old one better.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as an aside to the devil. The devil. A devil is talking to them. A devil knows the tiefling. Maybe she isn’t as soft as Shadowheart had thought.

“The House of Hope,” the showmanship is for the benefit of the party rather than Xaph, who is nonchalant, surveying the table, “Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed. Lavishly,” He chews on that word for longer than necessary, making it more than it is, “Go on. Partake. Enjoy your supper.” Xaph picks up a loaf of bread. Tears it in half. Squeezes the halves into dough balls in her hands. Holds them up to her nose. Licks them. Listens to them. She tosses another loaf of bread at Astarion and he catches it without a second thought. His eyes are everywhere, there’s just so much to take in, but he has enough wherewithal to catch it.

“The food’s safe. Take what you can carry,” her words are light, but when she looks at her companions her eyes are dark and deadly serious. Her voice pushes into their skulls, Trust me. Please. Let me handle this. Astarion and Lae’zel begin to fill their packs as advised. Gale’s eyes are stuck on Xaph. He hadn’t considered that she too might have her own secrets. Wyll fidgets, entirely unable to stay still. His eye keeps going to the door, but it snaps back to Raphael as flames roar around him. A devil indeed. It’s confirmed, made official. He is showing them his true form. His skin fully red, his bone structure sharpened. Winged. Horned. A genuine product of the Hells, and one with power too.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” Raphael asks the room at large.

“A devil you do.” Xaph replies.

“You’re stepping on my lines, love.”

“Maybe you need a new script.” Wyll is in utter shock. As are several other members of the party. Xaph is treating this fiend as though he’s just another human, another elf, another githyanki even. Her surety worries Gale, but it fascinates Shadowheart. “What do you want?”

“Some respect would be a suitable start. On your knees, mephit. I am not known for my patience.”

“Or for your sta-” This, apparently, is too far. Stale air rushes over the party as Raphael’s wings open. He almost seems to grow taller. It’s not clear if Xaph kneels of her own volition or if she’s forced. The stillness of her tail indicates the latter. An apology flies from her lips, then, “Don’t hurt them. Your business is with me.” Her voice has taken on a strained tone. Pained.

“That heart of yours bleeds as much as ever, then. No matter. You won’t have use of it for much longer.”

“I’ve been lower than this. Why now?” A dozen questions burn in the minds of her companions but not one of them dares to move. The extra height Raphael had gained recedes, and he steps forward so as to more effectively look down on the tiefling. Her hands are behind her back, as though bound.

“Don’t play hard to get, not when you’re in so deep over your tadpoled head. One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all,” the devil snaps his fingers and a flame leaps up between them, “like that.”

“He spits lies. The only way to cleanse-” Wyll clamps a hand over Lae’zel’s mouth before she gets them all wiped off the mortal plane. She bites him, but doesn’t say anything else once he lets her go.

“And you know I’ll never agree to your terms.” She sounds as though she’s running out of breath.

“Oh, never say never, love. But very well,” with a wave of his hand, Xaph is released. The ranger falls onto her hands, whipped out from behind her back to break her fall, and she coughs like a cat trying to bring up a hairball, “Try to cure yourselves. Shop around. Beg, borrow, steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair, that is when you’ll come knocking on my door.” He laughs, and they can feel it rumble in the floor beneath their feet.

“I’ll rip out your tongue first.” Xaph tells him, still out of breath.

“Ah, yes. The tongue. Yet another piece of pleasurable anatomy you’ll soon have to do without. All those pretty little symptoms - sundering skin, dissolving guts - they haven’t started to manifest yet, have they? You’re a paragon of luck, muzz. But luck always runs out eventually. I’ll be there when it does.”

With a thud that rattles their knees, the party are thrown back to earth. They’re standing in the same fashion they had been in the House of Hope, still arranged around a table that isn’t there anymore. Xaph is on the ground, crumpled, still trying to clear her throat. Wyll reaches her first, on his knees in front of her and lifting her head to see her eyes.

“What in all the hells was that?” Shadowheart’s next, and her voice is sharp and accusatory, but she deliberately stands so that she’s not in the way of the light Wyll needs to look Xaph over.

“Raphael,” Xaph’s words rasp, but she sounds less congested, “Mephistopheles’ heir and a fustilarian shitfire,” the words she shouts into the dirt path devolve into Infernal.

“More importantly, darling, how in the hells do you know him?” Astarion asks, though he keeps his distance. He and Lae’zel, packs bulging with food that has proven not to be illusory, stay a few feet away from the rest of the party as Shadowheart takes Xaph’s pack and Wyll and Gale slot their shoulders under her arms to get her to her feet.

“You don’t have a deal with him, do you?” Wyll asks. The group begins to move across the bridge they’d almost forgotten was there, all of them wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Raphael as possible.

“No, gods, no,” Xaph assures him, having to stop to cough again and her face pinches in a wince, “He came to me about ten years ago, when I was as close to starving as I ever will be. He preys on the hopeless, offers them a way out in exchange for their soul. Gets quite offended if you refuse.” That can’t be it, Gale thinks, the story’s too short, but she doesn’t say anything more.

“You shouldn’t have provoked him.”

“It’s the quickest way to get him out of your hair,” Xaph tells him, “If you’re a mark, that is. Looks like I’m still a prospective client.”

“Just when I think I’ve got a grasp on our dilemma, a bloody devil turns up.” Shadowheart exclaims, throwing her hands in the air.

“Cambion.” Wyll and Xaph correct her together.

“He claims he can help. How true can that be?” Shadowheart asks, addressing Xaph specifically.

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“He flaunts his paltry wings as if he wants to impress us,” Lae’zel sneers, “You saw the red dragons slaying his infernal kin above Hell’s fires, did you not?” These questions are for the group at large, though they turn out to be rhetorical, “Next to a dragon, a devil’s a gnat. When I am kith’rak, I will take my Queen Vlaakith his head as a trophy.”

“Kith’rak?” Gale repeats, his pronunciation very close to Lae’zel’s.

“Githyanki knights. The riders that chased the nautiloid. They are the commissars and enforcers of my Queen Vlaakith’s will.”

“Forget the kith’rak,” Astarion cuts in, his pronunciation not as clear as Gale’s, “There’s a devil after us. Cambion!” he corrects himself before Xaph and Wyll can, “This just gets better and better. Shop around he said. He seems sure we won’t find anything.”

“That’s his angle, to grind hope down to bone meal.” Xaph tells him.

“Maybe, but all that take your time, I’ll wait nonsense. He’s playing with us. He reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone that liked to play with people. Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”

“We’re not his playthings, Astarion,” Wyll says, “We won’t be.”

“Besides, he can’t have a cure. Only the zaith’isk can remove the tadpole.” Lae’zel reminds them. She and Astarion descend into debate. Xaph turns her head to look at Gale, who’s hardly said anything. This close to him, still propped up by him and Wyll, she can see spidery lines of black that crawl out from the neck of his robes up to his eye. Curious.

“Rather flattering, to be invited to dine with a devil.” He says quietly when he sees Xaph is waiting for him to speak.

“For you, maybe. He’s got no patience for me anymore.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. He knows how far he can push.” She doesn’t want to go into it, how hands of hot air had pushed her to the floor and held her wrists, her tail. How motes of fire had burned beneath her skin. She’ll be left with the feeling of bugs creeping over her body for hours, until Raphael forgets or lets her go. Shadowheart presses a cooling, healing hand between her shoulder blades and she regains some strength in her legs, “But for the rest of you? That was roses and champagne.”

“He wants something from us. Badly…” Gale gets lost in his own thoughts and Xaph has to laugh at him.

“He wants our souls, Gale.” Wyll says.

“Let me play advocatus diaboli,” he borrows Wyll’s own phrase from the day before, “If there’s one quality all the denizens of the hells share, it’s ambition. A quality they share with many humans, come to think of it. He wants Xaph’s soul, yes, but why drag the rest of us tiddlers in with the catch of the day? Fact one,” he starts to count with the fingers of his free hand, “There’s something very strange and very powerful about our tadpoles. Fact two, a cambion offers to take it away. The infernal aren’t known to aid mortals out of simple kindness,” Wyll hums in agreement, encouraging Gale, “Whatever Raphael wants, we must be the key to getting it. Along with our tadpoles…”

***

They know they’re making proper progress when Shadowheart recognises a specific tree. A short detour brings them back to the place where she, Astarion, Gale and Xaph had made camp that first night. There’s a good few hours of light left, but Xaph is still wincing at odd intervals and they’re still weak from their time aboard the nautiloid, so Lae’zel’s protests are largely ignored when they decide to camp here again. Gale manages to talk her down, reminding her that no warrior can be at their best without rest, and that seems to calm her somewhat. The party, though larger than before, is as subdued as they had been that first night. The combination of hard travel and Raphael has tired them. Xaph fillets fish Lae’zel and Shadowheart had engaged in competition to spear from the nearby stream, and Gale peels potatoes Okta had given them. A look passes between the ranger and the wizard and they know they will not be able to have their discussion tonight. They have more than enough food to use foraging as an excuse between the tiefling’s donations and Raphael’s buffet. Astarion had suggested that the devil’s food might be poisoned, but Xaph had quickly quelled these concerns by shoving handfuls of the stuff in her mouth.

“Xaph?” Wyll’s voice rings out between the rocks. He’d gone exploring, and has apparently found something of interest. Xaph cleans the smell of fish off her hands and moves towards the sound of his voice, tailed by Astarion.

Wyll has found a boar. Full grown, stone dead. Xaph squats and runs a hand over the bristles of its stomach.

“The pig’s dead, my friends. Staring at it won’t bring it back.” Astarion tells them.

“I can’t figure out how it died,” Wyll says, ignoring Astarion and crouching beside Xaph, “He’s fairly young. Strong.”

“Must be five or six years old,” Xaph slides a hand under one of its front legs, “Not warm, but he’s still a little stiff. Can’t have been killed more than a day or so ago.”

“Can you eat it? Because otherwise, I don’t understand what the problem is.” Astarion says flippantly. Xaph reaches for the boar’s snout to see the length of its tusks, and that’s when she notices the puncture wounds. Small holes punched into the beast’s neck, less than a finger’s length apart. It’s the only wound on the boar’s body, as far as she can see. She twists to Astarion and holds out a hand,

“Knife?” he obliges, passing her a dagger, but he does ask,

“Shouldn’t you lug it back to camp before you start hacking away?”

“I want to see something.” Xaph tells him. She sets the point of the dagger in one of the puncture wounds and cuts.

“And? Is it dead enough for you?”

“It’s been completely drained of blood.” Xaph states, and this effectively shuts Astarion up. Wyll probes the incision Xaph has made, investigating further. He looks at her, the question in his eye forming on his lips in a whisper,

“A vampire?” he asks. Xaph nods. “So close to where you’d slept? Are we safe here?”

“We’ll be fine with the night watch, but we should keep a specific eye out.”

“So you can kill it, I suppose.” Astarion muses. Xaph stands and turns to him, and he recognises the look in her eye. Determined.

“No.”

“No?”

“They must be starving, to drain a boar of this size and still not be strong enough to dispose of it,” she glances at Wyll to confirm he feels the same and finds no resistance from him, so she locks eyes with Astarion again. His red eyes glow in the night, as her green ones do. They’re beginning to take on that nocturnal sheen as the sun sets. He’s watching her. Waiting. “And hunger makes beasts of us all.”

#rae's writing #greensleeves #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #rae's ocs #xaph [tav]#lae'zel #wyll ravengard #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #shadowheart #astarion #raphael #bg3 raphael

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perfectfeelings · 8 months

Quote

Never be afraid to fall apart because it is an opportunity to rebuild yourself the way you wish you had been all along.

Rae Smith

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writing-desk-rae · 1 year

Text

Don't Get Me Started!

We are all made of Dreams Part 1

Posted on AO3

Hob get tricked into ranting about Shakespeare by his student. This would be fine, if His Stranger wasn't standing at the door.

Fandom: Sandman

Pairing: pre-Hob/Dream

Laughter came from the back of the class, rousing Hob from his marking. It was the last lesson before Easter break, and after a quick multiple choice test that was mostly for show, Hob had let his small A Level chemistry class entertain themselves for the rest of the hour. Hob smiled bemused, as the small group of, usually, quiet and well behaved students laughed themselves sick, talking over each other with glee. Unable to resist good cheer, he made his way over with a smile, which his student returned. He was well liked, as well liked as any teacher could be he supposed.

“Well now I have to know,” he smirked at them, causing more sniggering, “common, share with the class.”

“Oh it just some stupid game Allen read about online,” Emma replied, “it’s called Don’t Get Me Started, I’m not very good, but Allen’s putting on a show.”

“Want to join us Teach,” Allen, quiet but secretly trouble, was not hiding his shit eating grin.

Oh well, I never could resist a challenge.

“Very well, how do we play?”

Other student moved in closer, ever eager for good humour.

“we give you a topic, and you have to rant about it for as long as possible. We’ll time you, but cut off is 10 minutes.”

“Hit me.”

Hob had just enough time to recognise the flash of danger in the mirth filled eyes of his favourite student, and then-

“William Shakespeare.”

Hob froze. Oh shit. “This is a trap!” His student started to laugh, “ok who sold me out?”

“Three…two…one” fuck it “go!”

And he went.

On and on, all restraint out the wind, ranting about that good for nothing William Shakespeare what gripped and groaned about the hard work needed to be successful and even wished to make a deal with the devil for better writing abilities, and how everyone was so focused on Shakespeare the person, if we must discuss him can’t if just be about his work and, not like it was that good anyway, pretentious overbearing codswollop, and more than-

“Time!”

The class was howling as Hob panted trying to regain is breath and self control. He shook his head, and joined in the laughter, trying and failing to find out how his student knew to ask him that.

“Why Hob,” Hob spun on the spot towards the open door, where The Stranger stood with Mrs Collins from the office? “I had no idea you felt so strongly on this matter.” The smile of his face was blatant to anyone, practically the equivalent of howling laughter.

Hob stood, shocked to silence, and frozen in place, while his student stared at the stranger in his classroom.

“Hello Dream, how are you? How have you been keeping? I’m very well thank you old friend, thank you for asking,” and since when was the stranger sarcastic?

“No!” Hob cried out, and instantly flushed with embarrassment, shocked eyes of his student now on him. “It’s just…” 30 years late, then 2 visits in a month, what the hell. And how come he never got a name, not once in 600 years, but suddenly everyone and their aunt knows to call him Dream?

“what are you doing I’m my classroom?”

Dream raised an imperious eyebrow, “I’ll leave, shall I?”

“Oh Mr Gadling, your nice young friend here said he was in town for a surprise visit but had lost his phone! No way to contact you. He was just going to leave a message but I told him that it was the last day of term so he wouldn’t be interrupting anything, and he said he’d never seen you teach or where you worked so I thought-“

“Thank you, Mrs Collins, that was very kind.” Hob could feel the flush coming up the back of his neck.

“I’ll leave you boys to it then. It was lovely to meet you Morpheus,” and what the fuck, “do keep our Mr Gadling out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” it was almost a laugh in Morpheus’ voice as Mrs Collins swanned back out to the room, leaving chaos, as always, in her wake.

“That woman is a hurricane,” Allen said, with a great deal of respect, which is the only reason the Hob didn’t scold him.

“Forgive me,” Emma leaned over the desk behind her now facing The Stran-Morpheus, “Morpheus, as in the god of sleep and dreams?”

“Hence my friends call me Dream.” Hob caught The Strangers, Dreams, eyes. It was a promise, an invitation, an apology. Hob smiled, just a little.

“We’ll you succeeded on the surprise Dream,” Hob couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So did you, I had no idea that you disliked the works of Shakespeare so much.” Dream, and god was that weird and brilliant and earth shattering, tilted his head to one side, reminiscent of a curious cat, “tell me this isn’t about Dear Will.”

“Dear Will,” Hob couldn’t stop the instant sneering, practically spitting the name from his mouth.

Dreams eyes narrowed, then widened with realisation, and then the widest smile Hob had ever seen on his friends face spread from cheek to cheek showing far too much teeth. This was a dangerous smile as much as his eyes were playful and full of mirth. Like a cat playing with a mouse.

“Oh, it is.” Dream prowled, oh god he’s never moved like that before, closer to Hob, who moved back a step on instinct alone.

“What could possibly cause such poison against all the works of Shakespeare?”

Smug bastard.

“Ok there’s a story here, please share it!” Oh, thanks Alice.

“No.”

“Many years ago-“

“Dream!”

Laughter from the students, no loyalty there.

“Many years ago, during a pre-arranged night out with my dear friend here, I abandoned him to seek the company of a young amateur writer by the name of Will, after I heard him reciting one of Shakespeare sonnets from memory.” Ok that was a fairly well edited version of events.

Hob couldn’t help muttering under his breath about ‘Dear Will’ and Shakespeare and all writers in general, knowing he was giving too much away, and strode over to his desk, shoving his marking into his case. Dream could obviously smell the blood in the water.

“He was rather handsome.”

“Was he,” Hob snapped, snapping the case shut rather firmly, “I didn’t notice.

“Sung so beautifully from sweet lips.”

Hob grit his teeth.

“Talented tongue.”

Hob swung around to face Dream once more, seething.

Dream smirked, “for sonnets.”

His student were really laughter at him now, but at least they had the sense to keep in quiet.

“The way he trembled,” Dreams laughing eyes were the last straw. That's it one more word from him-

The look in Dreams eyes shifted, and Hob felt pinned in place, like a butterfly on a board.

“Tell me Hob Gadling,” Dreams smile softened into a true smile, one Hob knew so well, “why does my brief association with Will still bother you?”

Hob swallowed around the lump in his throat. You know why. You know, otherwise you wouldn’t have said all those things. You bastard.

The bell rang for the end of class, and end of day. Thank god.

“Right, all of you out! Have a good Easter, if you don’t want to come back to an exam you’ll tell no one about this.”

Awws and grumbling filled the room as the student flocked out, but a couple wished Hob a nice break, so he took that for a win.

“Walk me out.” It wasn’t a question.

Hob sighed, then followed Dream out the door, and the school, on to the sunny streets of London. “Shall we go to The New Inn?” We always meet at an inn, not my classroom oh my god what is happening?

“No. I must return to my work,” Dream watched Hob with his not-smile, “I look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps then you will answer my question.”

Hob swallowed again, “100 years?”

“No”

“Sooner?”

“Yes. And I shall give you answers as well, you have my word. But we’ll need more than a night.”

Hob couldn’t breath.

“I’ve got all this week free, no kids to teach. I’m staying above The New Inn, just, ugh, just come whenever.” Hob could feel the flush on the back of his neck return. Real smooth you smuck.

“Then I shall join you soon.” Dream stepped right into Hobs space, “until we next meet, Hob Gadling.” And with that whisper in his ear and the slight brush of lips over his cheek that may have just as easily been a brush of imagination, Dream was gone, as though he was never there at all.

His name is Dream. And he was flirting with me. That’s new.

Hob shook himself. Right, home. He set off.

And to the internet, he thought, time to look into this Morpheus god of dreams.

Thank you for reading! Comments feed me, so on and so forth

If this goes down well, I'll probably move the rest of my complete works over as well. If you can't wait that long, my AO3 is here.

#netflix sandman #sandman #the sandman #dream x hob #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #morpheus x hob #ao3 #my writing #rae's writing #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic

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