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When the air chilled more than could be explained by the setting sun, Wyll realised he made a mistake.
He drew his rapier, and made his way towards the exit of the graveyard as swiftly and calmly as he could.
Mizora had sent him on a mission to hunt down a demon pacted warlock. But as he passed through this town, the townsfolk’s eyes lit up with hope. There was a monster in their graveyard, they’d said. It had killed five already.
He couldn’t say no to them. Especially not after he learned of how they’d found ten year old Elana, ripped to shreds and spread in a ring around her family’s mausoleum tower.
He’d spent the day investigating and speaking to witnesses as much as he could.
It only attacked at night.
It only seemed to kill victims among the graves, but no one knew how the victims ended up in there.
The only survivor had driven it off with a clutched symbol of Kelemvor.
Wyll wished he’d thought the bring one with him. He gripped his rapier tighter.
A rime of frost formed under his feet. He ignored it.
And then then rime of frost wrapped around his calf.
He jerked his leg free. Stinging scratches opened under the leg of his trousers.
If you adventured long enough, you got a sixth sense for what you could take on. Whatever this was— this icy undead empowered by the night?— he could maybe take in the morning. He could not take it right right now.
Frost flowers and stalagmites of ice burst up all along the pathway to the graveyard gate.
He turned and sprinted to the nearest mausoleum tower.
In this town, the bodies of the deceases were laid along the roofs of the towers as a repayment to the carrion birds, before the bones were interred in crypts inside the towers. Each tower was carved with prayers to and bas-reliefs of Kelemvor and Jergal. It was his best hope for survival.
He ran up the stairs two at a time. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It knows where I am. It wants in. He was fresh prey. He kept running, counting the symbols of Kelemvor as he passed. Would five be enough to stop it?
He reached the top level, just below the roof, with his neck still prickling with pursuit. He needed to hide. If this could break onto hallowed ground, he was at least going to be hard to find.
A crypt lay open. Empty.
He clambered in and lay against the hard stone. He reached and pulled the lid over with fumbling fingers. He left a gap of an inch— enough for air, enough to stick his hand through and shove the lid off. (If the lid came completely over— he couldn’t be sure he could escape.)
His heart hammered, and his harsh breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the pitch black of the crypt. It was built for a slightly larger man than himself, but not by much. He could spread his legs shoulder width, leave room for his rapier in the gap between him arm and hip, but no more.
He’d have to wait here till morning. A little longer, most likely. Make sure the sun had definitely risen before he left.
He could do that. He was brave and heroic, and could wait anywhere, even in a crypt.
Through long years of practice and determination, he conquered his fear of the dark. Fear of the dark was really the fear of the unknown, and you had to either accept the unknown, or learn what it truly was, and neither could be achieved by losing your head.
But tight spaces? A lid of stone that could slip across and trap him here until he suffocated and died? Backed into a corner with something trying to kill him, and no way to run any further?
He rolled his shoulders, scraping them against the rough rock. He would handle this, because not handling it wasn’t an option. He forced his breath to slow, and listened out for the sound of the undead approaching.
A dim orange glow appeared above him, just bright enough to see the oil slick pop into existence and turn into something with limbs and a torso and wings.
“Mizora,” he hissed. “Now is not the time.”
Mizora settled above him, hands bracketing his shoulders and pressing him close, legs and hips forcing his own open and spread as far as they could go. He could see her arched eyebrow and the gold of the jewelery along her horns in the faint glow of her eyes. “I am assuming this is part of your plan, and not you being spectacularly bad at prioritisation.” She ran her booted foot along his calf, making the scratches sting anew. “Or worse, you being insubordinate.”
He could recognise those boots by feel alone, and that realisation made him feel absurd. Leather, made from a hide he had decided not to question, with gold filigree capped toes in the same style as the rest of her jewellery, and a loop of soul coins around the ankle. In his defense they were… eye-catching, when he could see them. And the sensation of them digging into his leg was fairly distinctive, too. “I am a day away from the demon ally’s last known location, and I would have to sleep tonight anyway. I am not putting anything off.”
She dug her boot harder into his calf, like a hammer forcing it against the anvil of the crypt. “Mmm, you’re definitely not doing that. And I thought you knew better than to lie me, pet.”
Wyll bit his lip to stop a pained sound from escaping. If that creature heard them… He spoke as quietly as he could. “I’m not—“
She cut him off by pulling him up by the invisible leash she kept around his throat. “Don’t think I’m a fool. It’s a shame that you’ve decided to test the boundaries like this.”
He barely avoided knocking his head against hers. They were pressed as tight as possible and he had to breathe in sync with her. With the way her wings arched against the stone lid, there wasn’t enough room for them to both inhale at once. He could breathe enough, but as soon as he noticed, that restriction made him feel dizzy.
“I was considering counting this punishment enough if you came clean straight away. But seeing as you’re being stubborn—“
He could just barely see her face, but he could recognise that expression even in the pitch black. He knew what punishments she thought were effective.
Maybe she chose them for prurient reasons. Maybe she just enjoyed watching him squirm.
Maybe— and this was the most horrible option— she really did know that it worked. Because it did. Afterwards, he always felt like a whipped dog shivering at a heel, that knew exactly what would happen if he pulled.
“Can it wait?” he whispered.
She arched an eyebrow, and switched which heel she ground into which leg. “What, like your quarry?”
Wyll could feel the bruises from the hard leather and metal blooming under his skin. “There’s— something dangerous here.” He regretted not knowing what it was exactly. Maybe his reasoning would be more convincing if he knew it’s name. “Wait till the morning. I’ll accept double the punishment,” he said, groping for an excuse she would take.
“What, exactly, do you think a ‘double punishment’ would even be? I don’t recall them being scored in your contract.” She pet him on the cheek with false affection, and smiled down at him. “Burnt hand teaches best. Quick burnt hand teaches quicker. You’ll just have to be quiet.”
“If I die, I won’t be able to kill your target—“ he said desperately.
“If you die, you’ll be helpful to me in Avernus. I do not really mind, so it’s your decision, really.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. It would be easier, if knowing he couldn’t escape made him accept it. If it didn’t make him feel like something chained and struggling, and forced into stillness by sheer force of will.
This was going to happen, and it was going to happen ever since he made his pact four years ago, and that should make it easier to bear.
She pulled down his trousers to his knees, and summoned something. It pressed up against his arsehole.
He had to suppress a hysterical laugh when he recognised it by feel alone as well. Large, made of smooth stone, except for the bit of gold filigree at the base that brushed his thigh.
Not her meanest. Not her nicest, either.
It would be easier if he relaxed. But that was difficult when you knew any sound could get you killed, when you could barely breathe around the cambion pressed against you. She filled the whole crypt, her breasts pressed up against his chest and her necklace resting cool and metallic against this collar bone, thighs in between his and forcing them against the stone, and her arms around him and pressing his forearms into his ribs.
She touched him everywhere, except his cock.
She did have at least a little mercy, he thought.
And then she was inside him as well, forceful and inevitable and that stone pressing in him the same way he way he pressed against the crypt. She was hot against him, a hellish heat, and her tool as cold as Stygia inside him. She kissed his cheek, and his nose tickled from the sulfur on her breath.
As soon as she was all the way in him, she pulled all the way out, with a sensation that made him feel hollowed out like a squash having it’s seeds removed. She kept up that pace: brutal, inevitable, forcing her way as far in and out as she could on each thrust.
He bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying desperately to keep silent. His hands fought to grip anything that wasn’t Mizora— it would be worse if he hurt her, even on accident, but there wasn’t anything else to hold.
This punishment was always as awful as he remembered. There was something about someone being inside you, inside somewhere that was for waste, and making you hurt like this— it always made him feel small and weak and somehow disgusting for it. He could never fully turn it into words. It was something too of the flesh to try and use reason and language for.
Hot tears burst at the corner of his eyes. He tipped his head back, even as her thrusts made him hit the back of it against the stone floor, so his snot dripped away and wouldn’t make him snort loudly.
He forced himself to focus on the stone, on the way she was jostled him back and forth and back forth, her horn digging into his brow—
—anything except the pleasure pooling in his belly. That was the worst part.
“I’m not sure the punishment is working. It looks like my puppy is enjoying it,” she whispered.
His cock bounced against his stomach as she thrust into him.
Maybe she had accidentally trained him to like this. Maybe his body was stupid and noticed the beautiful woman with her breasts against him and her thighs touching his own, context be damned. Maybe it was all just a physical reaction to what she was doing, like there was some pleasure that could sing out over the pain. He didn’t know which was true. He hated all of them. “You can do something else. If you think it’s not working, you can do anything else.” His voice was thick with tears.
She held a finger to his mouth. “Shhh, shhh. I pick your punishment. It’s in your pact. Whining about it won’t help.”
He wanted to say I’m not whining but there was no way to say that without, actually, sounding like he was whining and weak and trying to wriggle out of the consequences of his actions. He hated this. He hated that she knew him so well that she could make him hurt and weak and burning up with disgust towards himself.
She rolled her hips on each thrust now, dragging the out stroke for even longer. “Maybe this is why you’ve been pushing boundaries. You’ve been so good, but it has been nearly a season since we had our annual pact renewal. Maybe you’ve gotten needy.”
He tried to focus on literally anything but the pleasure unspooling in him, but it didn’t work. Even the pain, by some weird alchemy, fed into it.
“Maybe you just really wanted to be fucked. Oh, I’m sorry ‘made love’ to. Hmm, and seeing how much more wriggly you are now, maybe you like the thrill of danger. Next year’s renewal, we can do it in Avernus, how about that? That has some much more fun dangers.”
“No, no, no—“ he whisper-chanted, to her plan, to what she said about him, to the pain, to the orgasm building inside of him. He should have shut up. She knew that once he started talking like this, he was putty in her hands, but his voice box was not under his control anymore. It belonged to some desperate, squirming thing.
“Aww, you think you can be pitiable to get out of punishment, pet?”
Orgasm punched through him, and he bit his lip bloody keeping back a cry. It felt good, technically. It also felt like someone had grabbed his heart, and it had crumpled like half burned paper.
Mizora smiled down at him. “Or did you just want to try and convince me you didn't actually enjoy it? Really, Wyll, you're such a bad liar, and it is an awful habit of yours. I just tried to show to you the consequences of it, if you weren’t so distracted.”
There was no correct response to that. He stayed limp.
She thrust twice more, before pulling 0ut.
He felt remoulded to her stone cock, like he’d never go back to how he was. He would heal, he knew that, but in the moment, it did not feel like it was even possible.
She patted his cheek. “Now, are you going to behave?”
“Yes, Mizora,” he said flatly.
She returned to Avernus, taking the light with her.
Wyll stayed there, pants around his knees and staring up into the pitch black, with the sounds of the mausoleum tower settling for the night around him.