#act III .˚ your hands are wet with the blood of an empire

[sanguinir]

. . . in game, we see that Cazador has blackmail on people in the city (use speak with the dead on someone in the dining room/party area and he says he’s a high ranking person at the counting house and that Cazador was asking about clients — who owns what, who has debts, etc). Ascended Astarion would conceivably come into possession of the Szarr palace, the palace in the hills, and Cazador’s vaults in the counting house through forged documents (he’s a former magistrate, he knows the damn system).

Ipso facto — Ascended Astarion is a very, very wealthy man and has a minimum of two centuries worth of dirt on the upper crust of society because you know Cazador kept detailed diaries during his time as vampire lord of Baldur’s Gate. Somewhere in those dungeons underneath the Szarr palace, there is just a library’s worth of diaries with the locations of every skeleton and the details of every scandal. Astarion would be … essentially a suped up Enver Gortash, minus the cult of Bane.

Which is a whole nother story, because Ascended Astarion would be Bane’s wet dream, if not for Astarion’s canonical disdain for gods and heroes.

[trashmouth-richie]

vitiosus + deliciosus [vicious + delicious🥀] || pt 2 of dulcis ut rosa

emperor geta x reader || things progress for geta + his little gnat || 4k

18+ smut, oral: female receiving, choking, slapping, biting, spanking

pt 1: dulcis ut rosa m🥀 || pt 1 ½: dulex🥀

pt iii frangere me 🥀 || 🥀 pt iv: as caelum vel infernum, tecum sum

You didn’t know what was to come of you after tonight’s rendezvous in Geta’s chambers. You could hardly sleep, your body sore in places you didn’t think were possible, but not in a discomforting way.

The pain was more of an ache, a pulsating want for the time spent in his bed. You daydreamed of his strong hands pressing bruises into your hips, of his mouth hot and wet all over your skin, the bitter tang of your own blood on his lips as he licked the bites better. 

Geta was a force to be reckoned with. Dominating both outside and inside of his chambers. All of Rome feared him. A flutter filled your stomach at the mere thought of those dark eyes seamlessly devouring you when you worked up enough courage to look into them. No, you wouldn’t sleep at all tonight. 

—

Caracalla carried on the next day pretending the previous night hadn’t happened. As if his miniscule brain shut out what he had done, carrying on with the daily run of nonsense. He smiled like a gleeful infant who had just discovered his toes at the first meal of the day. Gnawing on ripened fruit and leftover pork, he looked like a wild animal. 

As if he had vanished with the night, Geta was nowhere to be seen. 

During prandium, you asked a woman from your village as casually as you could manage if she had seen the missing Emperor. 

Prisca turned up her nose at your question, questioning why you so desperately needed to know. Replying with a tone that matched her own, you very carefully articulated how Caracalla had asked you to find out. Ending the conversation with a clipped lip, reminding Prisca of your status to the Emperors, and hers with the lowest of soldiers ones missing limbs and their gift of sight. 

Geta didn’t show for any of the day's events, giving Caracalla a taste of running the empire solo, a smear of greed on his protruding crooked nose. You were the only one to notice his absence and if the entire palace didn’t seem to take note, you’d act the same. Deciding to leave it alone, remembering the virtue in patience, you’d wait until tonight to catch his eyes in yours once again. 

The sun seemed to taunt you all day with its beautiful rays, staying longer than it had the day before, never quite ready to go to sleep. The shimmering heat laughing at your dismay as you waited for the moon's powdery face to finally clock in for her shift. 

You could hardly stand being in Caracalla’s arms as he held you close to him, his breath stinking of an ungodly amount of wine, making you promise that you would never leave Palatine Hill. Pleading that you’d stay with him forever until his dying day. Agreeing like a dutiful servant, you hoped and prayed that that day would come sooner than later. 

—

Geta couldn’t pull himself out of bed the next day. Palace servants came and went, offering to move the drapes, karting in mountainous plates of food, but he had refused everything. Only barking orders to bring as much wine as they could carry. 

Drowning himself in rivers of wine, he couldn’t remember a single time since infancy that he felt completely worthless. He was an Emperor for fucks sake. Others may succumb to feelings but not him, never him. 

Maidens fell at his feet, begging for his attention. He called the shots, fucked them stupid then tossed them away like scraps. Not once had he let any of them get to a place inside of himself he couldn’t pinpoint. 

He couldn’t get away from you. Your scent surrounded him, the jasmine perfume of your hair lingered on his sheets. A subtle hint of sugary sweet honey was still on his skin. He hated himself. 

Loathed the love sick pup he had become in the twilight hours as he gazed at the ceiling, still tasting your core on his lips, his rings sticky and coated with it. Unwilling to remove them in fear that the tiny bit that belonged to you, created by him, would wipe away. 

His hair was still askew in the same fashion you had rung it around your fingers. Cock hard again remembering the way your body felt in his hands, how that sweet little cunt gripped him tighter than anyone before. 

The sheets blushed a crimson that neither of you had noticed that broke from your body. He smirked at the thought of his brother unable to make an untouched woman bleed. Clearly he was less than endowed, his size comparable to that of a dangling beetle.

Geta laid in the stains from the two of you, a complete and utter mess of a man unable to forget the sweet little gnat. No longer buzzing in his ear, but pulling at his mind, suffocating every other thought. The gnat wormed her way down into the cavity of his chest, laying against the pinky ventricles cozying up to the dying organ, coaxing it back to life. 

“Cupid’s fool,” he spoke aloud then, as if he confirmed it to nobody but himself, “body and soul.” A small smirk on his lips as his feet swung from his bed heading to the bathing room to wash himself before the moon peaked in the onyx painted sky, and he met you in that corner corridor. 

—

You traced the stones down the hall as you walked until the pads of your finger went numb. After not seeing or hearing from Geta all day, you questioned your sanity as you approached your typical spot as you always did night after night for months. Would he even show?

Caracalla was exceptionally gleeful this evening, an odd thing considering most of the time he cried like an infant throwing tantrums like a toddler. 

Your heart raced at the possibility of seeing Geta. You’d never taken into account how handsome he was, and now without seeing him for a full day, you found yourself almost missing catching glimpses of him. 

He had two looks that he offered to everyone else. Either sheer and utter boredom, fiddling with his rings in a lazy fashion— or his eyes narrowed into slits, nostrils flared and a twitch kissing the corner of his eyelid, that permanent scowl rising on his top lip. 

When he entered a room, he demanded attention in just his body language, shoulders square and broad, chin held high and his jaw tight. Generals rose for him, servants leapt out of the way to avoid him until needed. He was a brute of the highest power.

But in the months of meeting him in the darkness, you had gotten to know how Geta operated. What made him tick, the fatigue wearing on his face after stressful days. The crease between his brows when you told him of Caracalla’s movements—studying, brooding. 

It gave you a sense of power knowing that you were seeked out by him. Even if only for information and a wet mouth, you could feel it emanating from him to you when he came. It started roughly. But lately it was almost as if it could be intimate at times. And you weren’t sure what that meant. Either way— with Geta, you knew you were safe. 

Darkness enveloped you on your blind approach to the infamous corridor. For a second, you thought possibly you were lost, somehow turned around until you heard a throat clear, and the handsome Emperor appeared before you, having been blocking the open window from view. 

“Emperor, my apologies for keeping you waiting,” your lips fumbling as you bowed before him at the waist. 

A chuckle rumbled from Geta, “you aren’t late, I am simply early,” he said, scratching at his chin, “I’ve been roaming around since the light left.” 

“Oh?” 

He simply nodded then, twirling a ruby ring around his finger, “…I have received word that Caracalla is becoming more and more delusional. He has increased his staff, begging our mother to supply a general outside of his door while he sleeps— you’ve probably noticed Acacius following him, yes?” 

The ruggedly handsome salt and pepper haired soldier flanked the aforementioned Emperor all day, but you never gave it another thought— your mind busy on Geta’s whereabouts. 

“I haven’t trusted my brother since we were young boys using sticks as swords, and the older he gets the more his brain stays in our childhood.” He spoke softly then, “it is only a matter of time before your movements after leaving his chambers are tracked… and I can’t have that. This will be our last meeting.” 

You nearly shouted in his face, telling him that these nights were the only thing worth being stolen away from your village. Months you have done this and now it is gone because he was… worried? About Caracalla finding out?

Geta pushed off from the wall, standing with his usual confidence—his jaw tight, a strange look on his face. “What Caracalla does not know— is that Acacius has been loyal to me for years, and has been providing me with information about him for nearly as long.” 

Your eyebrows crease as you try to unravel the thread he’s woven, and a small smile ticks at the corner of his lips as realization spreads across your face. Mischievous Geta, always a step ahead. 

“Join me?” 

—

Geta was approached by Acacius when leaving his chambers this evening. 

“Emperor,” Acacius announced, bowing his head in honor, “I’m sorry to disturb you so late.” 

Geta pulled his chamber door shut waving his hand in dismissal, “nonsense General, whatever it is it must be important for you to seek me out, what is it?” 

“This is not easy for me to say.. I feel like a traitor to you. to these walls—”

“Out with it,” Geta pressed, irritated.

“It’s Emperor Caracalla… your excellency, I have been summoned to be posted outside his quarters and provide security for him during the daylight hours.”

Geta rubbed at his chin, a twitch in his eye, “I know you’re not one to joke on a serious matter Acacius, however this seems quite juvenile, even for my brother.” 

“I assure you, he has been increasingly suspicious over the last few months, ever since that travel wagon arrived with the Virgines from Valleventus.” 

Acacius gave Geta a knowing look, one to convey that he knew what happened in these walls at night once Caracalla’s whore left his chambers. 

Geta smiled then, unable to hide it, his face relaxing as he clapped the General on the shoulder, “you are a great confidant, Acacius— I will take this into great consideration.” 

—

The two of you strolled the corridors in silence, his knuckles grazing yours, your heart pumping wildly in your chest. You were certain that if the two of you were caught you’d be killed on sight, tossed in a deep grave without a second thought. But with Geta… you couldn’t find yourself to care about any of that. Did he?

You knew you were walking a thin line, and it got thinner the more time you spent with him. But if he was willing to walk it as well, you’d risk it… same as he was 

After a few minutes, you broke the silence, “may I…ask you something?” 

Geta tilted his head towards you, “yes.” 

All day he had been gone, and your curiosity finally got the better of you. “Where were you?”

He smirks and your insides melt, “were you looking for me, little dulex?” 

You turn away from his gaze, fumbling with a loose thread on your tolsa, “n-no. Caracalla had asked me.” 

A laugh bubbles from his chest, “I am not fond of being lied to, try again.” 

Sweat drips from your hairline, “He���well, he inquired about it...” 

“Ah, so you were only wondering about my whereabouts when Caracalla finally noticed I was missing?” 

“Yes.” 

He stopped before a large set of doors and pushed them open revealing a large room, suffocated by darkness. You felt him leave your side to cross the room, and suddenly it illuminated by a candle he had lit. Gently tipping the flame into a massive candelabra, each wick of the candle igniting like a little orb, throwing shadows across the room. 

It was one of the many rooms you’d never seen before.  

A single staircase wove upwards with great iron detailing to a room above, a desk as large as a wagon was centered in the room, pictures of faces you didn’t recognize flanked the walls, the floors were spread of  mosaic tiles: shaped and colored to resemble a salmon colored sunset. An open area let in a small breeze that trickled out into a luscious garden where a fountain could be heard bubbling, brought in by the wind. Luxurious armchairs were tucked into corners. 

This room shared the same color of draperies as a room you’ve only been to once before. The dark hues set a mood that belonged to one singular man. This was a private area that even the highest generals weren’t even allowed in. Geta’s study. 

He came back towards you, grasping your wrist, his thumb pressing into your beating pulse, his eyes lit like a roaring fire, “last chance, to be honest, were you the one looking for me?” 

Hesitating with your breath caught in your throat, you peered into Geta’s seemingly soulless eyes, whispering, “yes,” as a heat rose on your cheeks. 

A smirk pulls on his lip, and a dimple you’ve never seen appears, “oh, my puella dulcis,” he purred, shaking his head, those dark eyes hungry as he looked you up and down, “you’re in trouble.”

He pulled you to him, his large hands on your waist leading you further into the room as he walked backwards. “Do you know the pure agony you’ve put me through?” 

“Me?” 

Geta nods, pushing the straps of your tolsa away from your shoulders, admiring the marks he had left on your skin. 

“Yes. You.” he says, rubbing the column of your throat with his thumb. “It is nefarious the hold you have over me. I’ve never felt anything like it. Death would be easier on me. A sword between my ribs to puncture my lungs, the festering boils from a plague, an arrow through my eye— anything and everything would be better than what you do to me.” 

His hand clasps tight around your neck, the gasp you let out trapped in your throat. 

“So, what am I to do with you? What am I to do with someone who keeps causing me this much trouble? Who risks herself being caught by seeking me out? Who is, dare I say, worried about my well-being?”

He slides his hand up and down the length of your neck, his other stroking your cheek resting his thumb on the crease of your lips. 

“I punish my soldiers for much less, and as any great warrior, I shall be fair by keeping all of my subjects to the highest of standards, you unfortunately, are not exempt.”

One minute you’re standing in front of him the next you’re being yanked by your wrist as he stomps towards one of the large chaise lounges, he sits abruptly and pulls you into his lap. He’s hard, the feel of his erection making you whine pathetically. 

He holds you by your hips and twists you around, until your face is level with the ground, your ass resting over his knees. 

The sound of unbinding thread pops in your ears as Geta rips your tolsa away from you, leaving you bare, your ass on display like a holiday feast. 

“I’ve never gazed upon an ass as round and fat as yours, and believe me when I say this my puella dulcis, I will thoroughly enjoy watching it burn in scarlet as it bounces beneath my hand.” 

You don’t have a second to comprehend his words before a large ringed hand is slapped hard across your backside, causing you to shriek in surprise and pain. 

“Fuck,” Geta spit, “we’ve barely just begun, you should be pissing with glee that I don’t keep my horse whip in my study.” Two more licks rip out and you moan. 

He laughs wickedly, his sultry voice shushing you as he rubs his hand over the globe of your ass. “Enjoying this are you? I’ve heard stories from soldiers and even my own father about the whores during their time, how they begged, fucking pleaded to be hit on the ass by a man.” 

Geta slaps his hand down hard more and more until you’d lost count. That same scorching feeling in your lower belly and the wetness between your legs just like last night came back, and you moaned. 

Humming between your lips, you relished in the ache in your back as you tried to hold yourself up. Trying to wiggle forward so maybe his hand would slip and miss your ass but touch down where you needed him most. 

But you didn’t need to ask, Geta laughed through his nose before slipping his thumb through your wet cunt, groaning at the heat of your arousal on his fingers again. 

“What a tight fucking cunt you have,” he grunted before rubbing your clit, “ filtjy girl—looks like those legends were true, weren’t they?” 

“Please,” you begged, trying to swallow his fingers with your dripping pussy. 

Your small pleads tore through him, his cock answering with a twitch as it leaked. He brought you up your throat, holding you in place and moving your hips along the stiff ridge of his length. 

Geta sunk his teeth into your bare shoulder as you moaned, “can you feel what you do to me?” he whispered, “the torture you put me through, the hours I spend like this with nothing but you trapped in my head. It’s murderous.” 

Purring his name he groans, licking sweat from your neck. “I haven’t had a single hour since the first night we met without having this happening without needing to release myself. Do you think I can be a leader to my people with such indecency? As if I’m a young boy discovering his own body and the feel of his hand again. You’re a snake, filled with poisonous venom to come here and kill me.” 

He rips your clothes completely off, wiggling his middle finger against your clit, praising the gods at the angel like whine that whispers from your lips. 

“… and like the gnat, the snake has bit me, feasting upon my flesh, constantly hungry. But it is I who is left hungry by your tormenting ways,” he whispers in your ear, licking the shell of it, “and right now, I’m starving.” 

Geta hoists you up in his arms, kissing your neck and squeezing your skin wherever he can reach as he walks to the enormous desk full of scrolls. With one mighty hand holding you, he swipes the desk clean, tossing everything that was once organized onto the floor. 

He lays you down on the wooden top, your bare back riddling with goosebumps from the cool hard surface. Looking up at him this was the first you’ve seen his face since first entering his study. 

His eyes were black, wide and wild, the candle light throwing shadows onto his face making him look monstrous. Like a creature straight from the dark world, one from a story told to children at night to scare them enough to not leave their beds. 

Anyone else would run at the sight of such a man. Scream and claw their way from him, but not you. You simply opened your knees wider, showing the dripping wetness to him, what he did to you. 

Geta simply watched. Watched and breathed heavily like a predator before leaping to attack his prey. He stared as you sucked a finger into your mouth, he almost flatlined as you brought that spit soaked finger down the length of your body, your nipples pebbling. 

He swore he met death when you slipped that glorious finger into your cunt, and gently pumped it in and out. 

“This,” you murmured weakly, unable to contain your moans, “is what you do to me.” 

He groaned, practically drooling at you laid out before him. You tipped your head back as a small gasp rippled through you. Lifting your shoulders from the desk you looked him in the eyes, “I guess we are both demented, enjoying the torture from eachother.” 

“I didn’t want to admit it,” Geta blurted, his dark eyes piercing the night, scaring away the shadows. “All day I wrestled with it, how you could make me quiver like a lovesick boy. I turned away meals, laying in the darkness, surrounded by your bewitching scent.” 

 “If you’re so hungry,” you whisper seductively, opening your legs wider, your arousal shining in the candlelight as you remove your fingers from inside of yourself, “then by all means, eat.” 

Geta didn’t wait another second before pulling you forward by the crook of knees, your welted red ass skirting across the desk. You giggled as he feverishly lowered himself and held your thighs wide, “keep these open for me.” 

His tongue was like an eel. 

Geta flicked his tongue at a dangerous pace against your clit, groaning into your sex as you whined his name again and again. His licked and sucked your cunt as ravenous as a truly starved man, his moans vibrating your walls, sending your nerve endings into a liquid fired frenzy. 

You’d never experienced anyone’s tongue between your legs, but this was better than anything you’d ever imagined, nothing compared to the way your body electrified beneath his hands, his mouth. 

Geta’s nose rubbed against your clit as he lapped up your arousal. The burn in your belly seared and unraveled as you screamed out his name, your body rigid and then uncoiling as your muscles spasmed and quaked. 

Your hands wrapped in a death grip in his hair, holding him tight to your pussy as you came, Geta encouraging you through the pleasure. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, admiring the way you leaked and dripped on his desk, “taste so fucking good, this cunt belongs to me,” he breathed. 

It was lust and vicious desire emanating from him as he spoke. and you melted at the desperate way you craved him. Grabbing him by the nape of his neck you pressed your lips to his, tasting your arousal on his tongue, you felt drunk 

He hauled your weak body up in his arms, murmuring something about wobbly legs. Geta kissed your forehead as he climbed the spiral steps that lead straight into his chambers. His bed was made, but the smell of sex was still lingering from the night before. 

Geta laid you down on his massive bed, careful of the marks on your backside from his hand. You watched as he undressed, his arms showing protruding veins like a river in the fallen snow. A deep scar you didn’t recognize before on his torso, identical to the one on his neck. His eyes seemed to look softer, a deep honey simmering, catching the light. 

When he spoke it wasn’t with malice it was with truth, “you are mine. Understand? Not Caracalla’s, not anyone else’s, I will slaughter any man who challenges that.”

Your heart races as you stare at him, rising to your knees in front of him, “promise?” 

“Meus amor,” Geta speaks, holding your chin with his finger, “that is my veritas, I give you my word.” 

You stroked his hair as you pulled him down to the bed on top of you. Pressing his curls back into an unruly position, you admire the handsome Emperor. Your Emperor. 

Pressing your lips to his, you pull him deeper, swirling your tongue with his in a frenzied tango. His hips respond to your open legs and his cock slides in with ease, fitting like a sword in a sheath. 

“You are a wicked one, my dulcis.” Geta pants in your ear as his hips pick up a butchering rhythm. Your combined breathing is ragged, choked and gasping. 

Biting his ear he hisses, but you lick it better, the same as he did to you last night, only a drop of his blood on your tongue as you whisper, “then we are one in the same, destinatum ease, destined to be.” 

With that he flips you both over, guiding your hips up and down, forward and back as helps you ride his cock. When you both cum it’s loud, skin slapping skin, your arousal pooling around his cock, his fucked deep inside of you. 

Laying in the sweaty, sin stained sheets, you twirl a finger in Geta’s hair, his head laying on your bare chest between your tits, his hand holding your ribs. “Tomorrow I will have the servants change the sheets while I bathe you in my private pool.” 

“Is my Geta turning sweet?” you tease, “what will Rome think?”

Turning his head those ravenous eyes were painted in the midnight onyx that they usually were, returning with mischief laced in the irises, a devilish smirk on his lips. 

He moved like a serpent, biting your right nipple between his teeth and tugging, causing you to squeal in a pleasured pain that is snuffed out by his large hand around your throat. 

“Do not be fooled pretty girl,” the villainous flames flickered again in his eyes, a feral twitch on his lips that made you wet between your legs, “malevolence coats my veins thicker than blood.”

—

latin translation:

vitiosus + deliciosus — vicious + delicious

prandium— lunch

puella dulcis— sweet girl

meus amor— my love

veritas— truth

destinatum ease— destined to be

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[amarasantas]

*  𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐏.

whatever.

[sanktnikolais]

I Can Barely Say

A/N: I am an absolute trash of these two. A quick piece (jk it took me several hours to write this) about our Blood Shrike and her second-in-command. Here’s some Helvitas content that no one wants from me.

Summary: The three times Helene almost told those three words to Harper, and the one time she finally did.

Words: 3025

AO3

I.

It is just after their last stand in Delphinium—the city is still in chaos, with people rushing around to look for the wounded and trying to get them to the still standing manors of the Gens that are converted to infirmaries. 

           Helene tears through the crowd, ignoring the pain and tiredness seeping through her bones and rushing to the place she was forced to leave hours ago to go and face the Commandant. Even though the woman is now long gone, her presence could still be felt with the destruction caused to the city, something people won’t easily forget. The emperor and Livia are safe. The Empire would recover. Laia of Serra has brought back the balance. 

           All still seem surreal to Helene, but there is still something she must make sure of.

          Please be all right.

          Helene winds up to the familiar curve of the street to the gate, where Avitas and their remaining men tried to hold off the last defense of the inner city. But as she arrives at the scene, it becomes too disheartening that she has to slow to a stop. Bodies are splayed everywhere. The stench of blood and smoke hang heavily in the air, and death seems to have surrounded the streets.

          By the looks of the defense, the frontline has suffered a tragic loss and has been completely overrun. A few Black Guards, with the help of other citizens, are hauling the bodies of the dead in rows by the side. The soldiers that survived look battered and weary. 

          Harper is not one of them.

          Helene casts her eyes around, refusing to believe that he’s not there. He can’t be gone. He can’t be.

          “Shrike!”

          That voice. She whirls around to the direction of it, and sees Harper limping towards her with a look of obvious relief etched on his face. Everything fades away around her and focuses on the man coming to her.

          He stops a feet away, his hands twitching at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He settles on a hand on her arm instead and looks at her with worried crease on his eyebrows. 

          Helene’s first thought is to reprimand him of the worry he has because he is the one that needs to be worried about. Blood runs down from his temple to his chin, his armor long gone from his body and multiple cuts have rained down on his undershirt. 

          But the thought is forgotten when she looks back at his green eyes that are shining and warm and open. Alive. He’s alive. The mere thought of it makes her eyes burn. She cannot move.

          “You’re all right,” Avitas breathes, one of those rare smiles curling his lips. Then he blinks repeatedly, like he remembers something important, and straightens. “Only thirty men have survived the defense. Dex and Faris were among them. We were vastly outnumbered and would have all died if it weren’t for—”

          Helene cuts him off and pulls him into a tight hug, a sound that resembles a sob coming out from her as she does, and she holds on to him like he would disappear if she let go.

          Harper’s arms come around her a moment later, warm and welcoming. “I’m fine,” he murmurs against her hair and pulls away, just enough to look into her eyes. He stays silent as he reaches up a hand to her cheek, his eyes saying all the things he wants to say aloud. It doesn’t even need a genius to figure it out.

          She should say it back, but she still finds the words stuck in the back of her throat. 

          A shout of aid echoes through the street, and the two of them pull away quickly, already bolting to the direction of the voice.

          Perhaps some other time, then.

 II.

It is at least five months later when Helene is plagued by a nightmare. 

          The memory plays back in her mind clearly—the time when Marcus had sent five hundred men to the Umbral Pass to deal as much damage to the Karkauns as their small force could before they march to Antium. 

           She can still hear the shouts of despair the rear guards make as they are overwhelmed by another large force by the east, and she is reminded of the time when Baristus had stayed back and sacrificed himself in the path to hold the Karkauns off.

           But in this nightmare, instead of Baristus, it is Harper that shouts at them.

           “We’ll hold them off.” Harper’s green eyes are wild, which Helene has never seen them in such a way, as he pushes them towards the boat. “Go, Shrike. Warn the city. Warn the Emperor. Tell them there’s another—”

           Dex wrenches Helene away from Avitas and shoves her down the path. But as she looks back to her shoulder, she sees a Tundaran taking Harper down, never to get up again.

           Her lips part to shout his name—

 A sharp gasp tears from her throat as she bolts up from her bunk and looks around, eyes wet with tears. She is able to make sense of her surroundings and remember that she is back in her room in Antium, the night after they have taken it back just the morning before. 

          For a long while, nothing but her ragged breaths echo in her room, and then she is throwing the covers off her body and going out of her room.

          Her feet seem to have their own destination and soon Helene finds herself opening the door to Harper’s room. 

          Avitas bolts up from his own bed, hands already reaching for his scims, and stops when their eyes meet. “Shrike?” he says hesitantly, his voice breathless from sleep. “What’s wrong?”

          Helene releases a breath she didn’t realize she is holding since the moment she left her room. “You ought to learn to lock your door,” she says tersely, far from the things she has in mind. He’s okay. It was just a nightmare. He’s okay.

          But she remembers that this is Harper; nothing goes unnoticed by him when it comes to her. She becomes aware of her state of dress. 

          “Helene,” he tries again and stands, stepping towards her but still keeping a good distance. Then he adds gently, “What is it?”

          When he says her name—her heart’s name—like that, she just becomes undone, reminding her of the time she sang his song, as he was dying on the boat, and she learns about how he feels for her, and of the time she realized hers for him. So she closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.

          He’s alive, she reminds herself, and she feels his arms around her immediately. It takes another few moments before Harper leads them back to his bunk, laying her down gently with him.

          “Do you want to talk about it?” Avitas’ voice is soft, like a lullaby, and his hands are rubbing gentle circles on her shoulder.

          “A nightmare.” Helene tries not to remember every detail of it. But every time she closes her eyes, she sees Harper’s body on the ground and she cannot do anything about it. Her hands fist on his shirt. “In the Umbral Pass. You died and I didn’t even tell you—” She ends up choking on her words.

          His arms tighten around her, his lips ghosting over her temple before he presses a lingering kiss on her skin. “I’m still here,” he murmurs. Then he adds, “We’re still here.”

          Helene only clutches at him and says nothing more. She is thankful for the silence that comes after, with her own strength coming back to her as the two of them are in each other’s arms, and she remembers the fact that he is right. They are still here. And they would both see the day when there is no more hatred among the people they have fought alongside with.

          The nightmare does not return again that night, and for the longest time, Helene sleeps peacefully.

 III.

The third time is quite unpleasant; in the heat of an argument. It is several weeks after Avitas had held her that night in his room, and they have been closer between that time and now. 

           Maybe it is the main reason when something wrong comes up with the Karkauns demanding for the appearance of either the Blood Shrike or someone else of high ranks that Helene immediately squashes Harper’s suggestion to go himself.

           They thought that the tension between the Martials and the Karkauns had died down, but now it looks like it still stands.

           “For all we know this could be a trap to lure you in, Blood Shrike,” Avitas says, voice echoing loudly in the war room. Even Dex and Faris look in agreement with him, though they do not voice their opinions. They seem to be more interested in their argument. “I will go with a runner, just in case it goes wrong. Give me a week to settle it.”

           Helene turns to him sharply. He cannot be serious in going alone near enemy territory. “This is exactly what they want. Why else would they ask someone of high rank to settle a deal with them? They could have asked for someone else from their own to come to us if they really want to talk.” She pauses. “They have caused too much to us to be the one to give demands of their own terms.”

           “That is exactly why I will be the one to go. They will recognize me as your second. For sure they will consider me to settle terms with.”

          She doesn’t want to consider it, and she remembers a time from long ago. She musters all the coldness she has learned when she trained to be a mask. “What happened to ‘don’t act the part your enemy has written for you’?”

          A shadow crosses his face, and Helene knows he remembers his own line. “It will be more in their favor if you will be the one to go. We cannot have it.” He levels her glare with his own. “It wouldn’t be much of a loss if something bad happens to me in the meeting.”

          He might as well have driven a blade in her chest. She finds her voice rising. “Do you really think that low of yourself? You think it wouldn’t be a loss if you actually die there?”

          “Why are you against this? Do you not trust me to be able to handle it?”

          “Do not insult me, Captain Harper.”

          “Then why?”

          “It’s because I—” She stops herself before she can say it. They cannot afford this between them. Not right now that they might have another problem in their hands. She is reminded of why she distanced herself to him the night they had arrived at Delphinium after Antium’s fall, the night she realized she wanted him, but duty always comes first. She cannot let her personal feelings or distractions get in the way.

          Duty unto death.

          Helene recovers and straightens her back, ignoring the bewildered expression of both Dex and Faris, and Harper’s impassive face. But his eyes say otherwise.

          “Very well, Captain Harper. You will go,” she says, mustering all the authority she has in her tone. “I want all details of what will transpire in your meeting when you return.” You will come back. I will not lose you. She hopes he understands the underlying meaning to her order. 

          Harper gives her a sharp salute before he turns and goes out of the war room.

 He comes back after nine days, a little late from the time he had told them, and gives her the full report of the meeting with the Karkauns. They do not talk about her outburst in the war room in the later days.

           That is because deep down, they already know what she had meant.

and I.

          It just comes unexpectedly one night, almost two years after the end of the war, when Helene learns that Harper has returned from Blackcliff. 

          He was requested to oversee the batch of new soldiers to be trained, the only difference now is that not only Martials can be the only ones to have training, but anyone who wants to train, and the old, brutal ways are no longer applied, but still arduous enough to produce fit-for-duty soldiers.

          Helene has retreated from her duties for the night and she finds herself heading to his room, all the while hoping he still hasn’t retired for the night.

          Harper is indeed awake by the time she opens the door to his room—and it is unlocked yet again, she realizes—and he is standing by his desk, looking through the paperwork that has piled up. He looks up with a startled expression when she enters.

          “Blood Shrike,” he says, and salutes.

          Helene is about to tell him about formalities when they are already off duty, but forgets about it when she notices something on his head. She frowns. “Is that. . . a flower crown?”

          He quickly snaps a hand up to his head like he isn’t aware of wearing it, but smiles a moment later. He doesn’t take it off. “Ah, yes. His Majesty gave it to me in the gardens earlier when I arrived,” he says. “Too pretty not to be worn.” 

          She gives a surprised laugh and she tries to imagine how it looked when her nephew decided to put a flower crown on her second’s head. She finds herself smiling despite herself with the imagery. “You mean you went around the palace wearing it?”

          Avitas shrugs. “Why not? I was off duty for the rest of the day, anyway.” His eyes light up. “You should have seen Dex when he got one as well.” 

          “I admire your bravery, Captain Harper.”

          “You doubt me too much, Blood Shrike.” Then he chuckles softly, a rare sound he does but Helene always likes to hear, and settles down the papers back to his desk. “How’s your week?”

          She doesn’t know when they started asking each other of their week instead of information from the spies they have sent around. Or when they started opening up to each other instead of keeping a distance between them. Or when she started realizing the things that are already obvious in front of her.

          So she tells him about hers, asks about his after, and they settle on a comfortable conversation that had already been familiar to them, but haven’t pondered it out loud. 

          She does not know how much time they spent talking about their day or week, and later Helene finds herself loss for words as she stares into his green eyes, the ones that bare his soul and the goodness he never acknowledges he has, the ones that hold a fire and determination that always keep her marching and alive, and the ones that see her as both Helene and the Blood Shrike and yet never change the way he looks at her.

          It comes to her thoughts on how he easily earned his way to her heart in the past years, with his loyalty and calmness and bravery and everything that made him Harper although they started in rough terms, and now she thinks of all the times he lent her his strength when her own cannot keep her up and realizes that they have kept each other marching through the war.

          The obviousness of all of it crashes at her like a tidal wave and she finds herself huffing in disbelief when she realizes how dense she is of how much she feels for this man. 

          Avitas furrows his eyebrows. “Was my question funny or—”

          “I love you.” It is out of her mouth even before she can think of it, and she smiles on how it felt to finally be able to say it aloud. She feels tears prick at her eyes and she huffs a laugh. It never occurred to her how easy it could have been to say it. She had been hiding behind the walls around her for so long. 

          “I love you,” she says again, and Avitas is as still as a statue. “I’m not saying this under the pretense of anything. I’m saying this because I mean it and it is what you deserve to hear—”

          He reaches her in two quick strides and closes the distance between their faces, his mouth crashing on hers in a passionate kiss that feels like coming home.

          Helene responds in kind, one hand in his hair and the other fisted on his shirt. This is unlike any of the ones they had before—they were short and chaste and felt rushed, and the one they had after the fall of Antium was out of desperation and want. 

          This is the one that is long overdue, the one to finally let out all the pent up feelings they have kept at bay for so long because of duty. 

          She kisses him harder, letting her feelings flow through the kiss, the love that she once thought as a distraction intensifying with the feel of his hands on her waist. Because in the end, it is love that kept her going as well. The love for her people. For her sister. For her nephew. For the Empire. 

          Helene has just been looking at it in a different way.

          Avitas pulls away later and rests his forehead against hers. His breath ghosts against her lips as he breathes, “I know. I’ve known for quite a while now. But finally hearing it from you is different.” He chuckles softly. “You sure do know how to make a captain wait, Shrike.” 

          “It was worth it anyway.” She laughs back, and the tears fall from her eyes. But she knows that it is not out of pain this time.

          Harper presses a lingering to her forehead, then says, “I love you too.” 

          And at that moment, Helene knows, she would never get tired of hearing it again.

             She is finally home.

[xhapjeongkrp-blog]

( We thought we were running away from the grown-ups, and now we are the grown-ups. )

Name: Ahn Seohee Age: 25 Occupation: Choreographer

Content Warning: Hebephilia 

ACT I.

SCENERY: Architecture like silver spider webs on a wet may morning, dew-threads in the early sunlight. Belle Epoque Paris in spring.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ YOUNG GIRL IN ALL WHITE ENTERS, STAGE RIGHT. SPOTLIGHT FOLLOWS. ALL IS DARK.  ]

NARRATOR: She’s the first one in her family that feels this way, but that doesn’t mean much of anything, because every dominant gene and hereditary talent that has ever been passed down like a postcard with a pre-written address has begun with one single anomaly of a child. So they call her Miraculous, christen her Aberration. Maybe in a few generations she would have been named Legacy.

If you feel you are missing out on something already, that’s alright. Stories don’t always begin at the beginning, and you’ll come to see here that the start of a tale doesn’t matter all that much. But if you are really lost, pause, pull out your phone from your pocket and lean down to shine its light on the crumpled playbill shoved under your thigh. We are starting when things are important, but here are the details: there are years before this, and they are nice. Mother is nice, father is nice. Girl-child discovers she is borne to dance. They share a house and a home and a life. They don’t have a set in this act because we couldn’t find a way to make the backdrops interesting enough. Anyway, we move on.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ GIRL MOVES INTO FIRST POSITION ]

NARRATOR: They don’t like her, they worship her, and there’s a difference. They’d love her if she gave them a chance, but she doesn’t have enough agility in her neck to spin her gaze and stretch her lips when she walks down the hall: so she faces forward, spine held rigid, lovely and immovable. She frightens them, that moon-black hair and skin, the cat eyes. She’s beautiful to the point of fearful, and every single one of them clip their nails short so they don’t start digging out their heart with their bare hands to give to her in sacrifice. Only sometimes is she cruel, but mostly they think she’s a self-chosen heir that never bothers to acknowledge her kingdom; choosing singularity over their crowded, hot breaths. They are only half right. Her choice is isolation because it suits her, because she cannot stand them. She chooses withdrawal because she knows this way, no one can get close enough to readjust her crown.

ACT II.

SCENERY: Brick and gilt buildings crumpled at the waist, holding their knees for support. Bombed-out streets. Chunks of bronze-gold beheaded on the ground. London in the terror of the second great War.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ PARTNER ENTERS; MAN IN PRIME, MAN IN BEAST. THEY TOUCH. STAGE ALIGHTS ]

NARRATOR: There is no kind way to say this. This is a war story, and you should put your hands over the ears of your heart so as not to feel the oncoming shrapnel  it too deeply.

He calls her his muse and makes her his nymphet. In truth the words that follow after his don’t matter much, because it’s the possessive that means everything. He turns her into that white deer in the King’s forest, Noli Me Tangere around her slim, sylph neck, and he wears the crown of Caesar. It’s obsessive-compulsive, what unfurls between them like a sticky black rose. The choreographer and the dancer, Humbert and Dolores H.

(Don’t call the girl fucking Lolita. That’s not her name).

He is twenty-nine. Count it: one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourten fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine

STAGE DIRECTION: [ THEY DANCE. ]

NARRATOR: She is fourteen. Speak it aloud: one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen

Did you lose track? The math is: Too much. Not enough. Goddamn criminal.

These are the years they spend together, turning her from a prodigy to legend: one two three four five six seven eight nine ten.

She thinks it’s love, while he makes a feast of her body that lasts a decade. Just one decade, and she is the thing of myths, meteoric: the statuesque girl in the unstained tutu, bundling white flowers in her hand and bowing as they cheer her name.

The most beautiful music-box in all of Korea, and all the pretty porcelain figures twirl on command.

ACT III.

SCENERY: Giant peonies, houses made of rose petals. A bird of paradise with a mouth and a white rabbit made tye-dye with spilled wine. Alice in Wonderland on a bad trip.

NARRATOR: Like many things in this story, what happens next is a red herring. Be careful, I’ve warned you. Watch carefully, but don’t look too close.

She falls.

It’s the kind of Icarus-drop that means her wings burn out, that she won’t fly again until the wax of her ankle bone is repaired by clever hands. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes dedication.

She gives it all, packages these virtues inside herself like a present without wrapping, and she comes back.

And he - He, the one who shared her rise and matched it with his own ascent - rips her feathers from her back, one by one. She says I’m ready, he says You’re over.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ MAN EXITS. GIRL BEGINS TO TURN ]

The physicians take her side, man her spine, but doctors do no good in the face of artists - those who know how to redistribute pain throughout the body cannot imagine the cruel ways of crushing a psyche. He tears her name off the white sheets hung on the door and replaces it with the fresh ink of another for all to see. She wears her pain like madness and burns them both up in the center of the room, a bonfire for everyone watching. He turns the whole world inferno by putting his arm around the girl with the New Name and not enough talent to ever match hers.

It is enough.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ GIRL SPINS FASTER, FASTER, FASTER. ]

NARRATOR: Those in the music box watch in shameful silence as they watch her leave, unblinking because they are watching her name scrubbed off the annals of history. Their protests don’t go unheard because no one says a word. She was the queen of the stage, but he’s the tyrant of the empire now, and following a would’ve-been monarch into exile has never earned anything but beheading.

The glittering streets erupt in chaos when she arrives, careless people with reckless devotions welcoming her into the world. They love her in Seoul, want her in Gangnam, those flagrant, rich adults with half a mind and double a wallet: they see her empty time for the first time in twenty-four years, and they want to fill it.

And she tries to care about them. She tries their parties and their drugs and their lives, and no matter how it all slips onto her like platinum rings on slim fingers, she hates it all. Everything that is not art is foul.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ GIRL JUMPS ACROSS STAGE. GRAND JETE. ]

NARRATOR: Red wine and little scarlet dolls. She doesn’t eat, can’t sleep. They whisper about her - the girl that was and the possession ruining her body now - and she hears it every moment her ears are open. There’s a madness inside her and it’s building, growing, a dark garden growing up through her lungs and strangling her breath.

So she leaves, half-way and not quite, like Orpheus descending but forgetting to remember not to look back, to some place younger and with less taste for her blood.

She dresses her body in black every morning to mourn her own death.

STAGE DIRECTION: [ EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR. ]

[sanguinir]

𝙶𝙾𝙳𝚂,   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙷𝙴   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵-𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴𝙳   𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙾𝙴𝚂.   Narcissists,   all   of   them      —      chasing   boosts   to   their   egos   for   good   deeds,   looking   for   opportunities   to   make   themselves   look   better   than   everyone   else,   all   while   ignoring   their   own   shortcomings.   He   remembered   with   the   Duke’s   son   had   been   intent   on   killing   Karlach   at   the   whispered   word   of   Mizora,   a   well-trained   and   well-heeled   attack   dog   with   only   fanciful   notions   of   his   own   self-importance   and   daddy   issues   rattling   around   in   his   skull.  

Wyll   had   only   spent   several   years   under   the   thumb   of   a   mercurial   mistress,   whereas   Astarion   had   spent   centuries   under   a   master   who   singularly   enjoyed   his   screams.   He’d   never   had   to   have   worried   about   his   safety,   his   survival,   how   to   get   away   from   the   hurt,   how   to   retreat   into   the   depths   of   one’s   mind   when   the   horrors   were   just   too   mych.   The   warlock   had   never   had   to   learn   to   recognize   he   way   a   master’s   footsteps   sounded   to   determine   the   mood   for   the   night,   had   never   been   skinned   slowly   over   the   course   of   a   week   [   𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵   𝗯𝘆   𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴   𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵   ]   misbehavior,   had   never   had   to  barter away mind, body, and soul to stay alive.

Astarion   loathed   Wyll   Ravengard   and   his   pompous   father.   Everything   was   black   and   white,   until   it   came   to   their   own   hypocrisy.   Then   they   demanded   grace   and   understand   and   to   the   hells   with   everyone   else.  

❝      And   all   but   ignoring   the   duties   to   your   city   and   house?   I   am   shocked,   truly   shocked   that   you   would   ignore   the   city   that   birthed   you   in   its   time   of   need.      ❞      The   fanged   smile   that   pulled   on   his   face   was   that   of   a   large   cat,   amused   by   the   squeaking   and   squirming   of   the   cornered   mouse   before   him.   Is   he   supposed   to   be   impressed   by   a   paltry   ten   years   in   one   of   the   hells?   The   vampire   craved   one   of   those   gods-damned   tadpoles,   for   the   briefest   of   moments,   to   show   him   what   it   was   to   live   in   and   experience   a   hell   as   one   of   the   tormented.   Maybe   then   he   could   have   a   shred   of   empathy   for   something   that   didn’t   fit   into   his   world   view.      ❝      It   is   a   shame   about   your   father,   I’ve   sent   my   personal   healers   to   consult   with   his   about   his   illness.   And   upstart?   My   dear,   darling   Wyll,   I   could   buy   your   family   and   your   family’s   holdings   ten   times   over.   The   city   has   benefited   immensely   from   my   generosity.   If   you   have   actually   had   a   conversation   with   your   father,   I   am   sure   he   told   you   much   the   same.      ❞

His   smile   pulls   wider,   leaning   forward   in   his   chair,   the   very   picture   of   an   amused   nobleman   enraptured   in   his   conversation   to   the   outside   world.   But   Wyll   could   see   that   the   warmth   of   his   broad   and   genial   looking   smile   never   made   it   to   the   scarlet   of   his   eyes,   that   though   they   were   at   a   rather   well   to-do   gathering,   Astarion   was   still   the   most   dangerous   being   in   the   room.   Was   he   supposed   to   be   ashamed   of   all   those   vampires?   Was   he   supposed   to   do   the   honorable   thing   and   release   all   those   starved   husks   to   be   cut   down   by   heroes   like   him,   so   that   their   legacies   could   be   padded   at   the   cost   of   countless   mortal   lives?   No,   Astarion   did   what   was   best   himself,   which   so   happened   to   be   what   was   best   for   the   denizens   of   the   Sword   Coast.   ❝      Would   you   like   to   visit?   I   think   you’ll   be   quite   impressed   by   the   changes   after   some   criminal   burned   the   palace   to   the   ground.      ❞

Wyll bites back the growl from the back of his throat—I know. I was there. I saw their flesh pound and beat like the skin or war drums—and bodies pop like blood balloons. Horrific. There were children. There were children, freshly turned—and perhaps, perhaps Astarion couldn’t have saved them, maybe they truly were monsters just as he was—but the Gurr offered him a chance to redeem himself, and he didn’t take it. He didn’t even have the courtesy to care about seven thousand and six dead for his power. How flippant his gaze, the way he barely thinks of Wyll as he looks him up and down, the way he has apparently not thought of him at all—and in truth, Wyll has tried to forget Astarion, in so much that he had hoped the bastard had merely crawled under a rock and died of shame. And yet. They were friends. Or allies. Or… something. They, at the very least, had fought side by side. That meant something to Wyll. And it can’t, anymore.

“Not the Sword Coast.” He really hasn’t thought of Wyll at all. Not once. Galavanting around in Wyll’s home, Wyll’s town, cozying up to nobles and merchants Wyll knew by name…. Wyll imagines, at least, if the monster didn’t just try to eat them, swallow them whole like a snake.

“Avernus. I’ve been in Avernus. For ten years.” And he certainly looks the part. Even in his white suit and matching eyepatch—the scars and burns look handsome, dark and jagged licks and kisses on his warm brown skin. He’s aged, and there’s new texture, sharpness to him, an intensity in his eye of experience—or perhaps that’s just because he wishes he could kill Astarion here where he stands like so many devils before him. (Rip out his fangs and bead them to a necklace like so many other trophies nestled in his home, his comandeered war machine.) His hair is longer now, locs all the way down past his shoulders, his back is straighter, his nails have sharpened into proper devil’s claws, he’s a pirate pierced with silver in every place the nobles can see covered up in his starchy finery like a rented costume, stiff and soft in all the wrong places—and pierced even more in places they can’t see, that are only for the eyes of those bathed in Hellfires.

“With Karlach. You remember her? She sends her love.” A blatant lie, his voice is stiff and even-tempered, but he can’t avoid the gruff weight of its hilt. She had hoped Astarion was dead, too, Wyll imagines. Instead of…. this.

“My Father called for me after ten years,” Wyll repeats, almost a sneer. “Because he’s ill.” You should know that. Do you care about anyone besides yourself? Shouldn’t you know the state of the Grand Duke for your schemes? Or is even the most powerful human in Baldur’s Gate beneath you? “His allies want my assistance. I imagine enterprising upstarts like yourself in the last ten years of rebuilding, have made it hard to make any changes in Baldur’s Gate for the better.”

“Though I’m sure you’ve certainly tried to make some changes here to better suit yourself. Ten years is a long time. Are you still living in Cazador’s charming mansion in the Lower City? Have you cleaned up the dungeons? I hate to think you wasted all that blood.” I hope you licked the waste off your brothers and sisters and victims off the ground like the animal you are. It’s more than you deserve. I hope the rats come back for vengeance—and then come back for seconds.

[sanguinir]

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁𝚂  𝚆𝙰𝚂  𝙰  𝙼𝚄𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈  𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙸𝙰𝙻  𝙰𝙶𝚁𝙴𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃:  The  little  Bhaalspawn  gets  fresh  meat  to  try  and  win  her  daddy's  love  and  his  potential  problems  either  disappeared  altogether  or  were  splattered  across  multiple  walls  in  one  fell  swoop.  It  would  be  the  most  perfect  solution,  all  neat  and  tidy  with  a  little  bow,  if  not  for  the  fact  that  Astarion  found  the  little  halfbreed  to  be  terribly  irritating  these  days.  Maybe  once,  before  his  Ascension,  he  had  found  her  𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔   charming  and  even  endearing  —  someone  else  who  couldn't  quite  blend  in,  couldn't  quite  conceal  the  monstrous  under  their  skin.

But  now?  He  was  an  apex  predator  that  resented  the  competition,  regardless  of  how  𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 said  competition  may  be.

@faebhaal  asked:  forgive  me,  i  don't  believe  i  ever  thanked  you  for  helping  me  with  this.

A  broad,  fanged  smile  pulled  his  pale  mouth  wide  at  Ithaca's  words,  even  as  it  did  nothing  to  warm  the  vampire's  faintly  glowing  claret  eyes.  Cutting  words  balanced  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  kept  at  bay  by  being  so  close  to  the  entrance  to  the  underground  temple.  Astarion's  nose  twitched  as  he  could  swear  he  caught  the  scent  of  the  former  chosen's  blood  on  the  air  through  the  rich  perfume  of  fear,  blood,  and  decay  — sweet  memories  of  another  life.

❝  Delivering  to  you  a  family  of  blue  blood  miscreants?  Oh  darling,  you're  practically  doing  me  a  𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓.  ❞  The  charm  of  a  practiced  courtier  is  thick  and  purred  with  every  word.  Ithaca  didn't  need  to  know  he  had  already  thought  of  how  she  could  meet  her  untimely  end  a  dozen  different  ways  since  the  pink  tiefling  came  into  his  line  of  vision.  ❝  I'm  seriously  considering  throwing  you  a  little  dinner  party  as  a  thank  you  right  now.  ❞

[sanguinir]

@limpfisted asked: who died and made you king? still accepting

❝      𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴   𝙰   𝙻𝙾𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴,   𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈.      ❞   The   casually   cruel   smile   is   momentarily   concealed   by   a   healthy   sip   of   blood   wine,   crimson   stained   teeth   peeking   through   pale   lips   at   his   one-time   traveling   companion.   The   years   since   the   defeat   of   the   absolute   had   been   incredibly   kind   to   the   former   vampire   spawn,   his   power   and   influence   spreading   farther   and   faster   than   either   Cazador   or   Gortash   could   have   dreamed   of.   Now   Ascendent,   Astarion   was   just   as   likely   to   be   seen   in   shady   backrooms   of   Lower   City   taverns   brokering   illicit   deals   as   he   was   here,   at   balls   attended   by   Baldur’s   Gate’s   high   society   and   crafting   political   policy.  

Turning   with   a   cocked   head,   calculating   carmine   eyes   traced   Wyll’s   form   with   little   regard   for   subtlety.   The   elf   had   had   little   use   for   𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒆𝒔   since   he   had   been   turned,   even   if   he   had   been   dragged   kicking   and   screaming   into   being   hero   adjacent   because   of   Tav,   and   he   had   less   use   for   them   now.   Morals   were   such   pesky   things,   anyway,   always   getting   in   the   way   of   the   things   one   wants.  

❝      Surely   running   around   the   wilds   of   the   Sword   Coast   have   not   addled   your   brains   that   much,   Wyll.   You   were   there   to   watch   me   kill   a   fair   few   of   them.   But   back   to   the   point      —      lots   of   things   have   changed   in   Baldur’s   Gate.   Has   your   father   not   been   keeping   you   up   to   date   on   the   politics   in   the   city?   Shame,   that.      ❞

[sanguinir]

@fatewoven & Gortash asked : "you know i could have helped with that" empathetic starters - no longer accepting

𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁   ��𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙴𝚁𝚄𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼   𝙷𝙸𝙼   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙳   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙷𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻,   gasping   for   air   that   his   lungs   didn’t   need   and   bloody   tears   threatening   to   spill.   There   was   no   mirth   to   be   heard,   no   joy   warming   the   sharp,   immortal   lines   of   the   pale   elf’s   face.  

Astarion   had   to   be   exceptionally   clever   to   have   been   appointed   a   magistrate   in   his   thirties      —      clever   with   words,   clever   with   contracts,   clever   with   people.   Cazador   had   not   always   given   the   most   thorough   of   instructions   on   the   little   hunts   he   sent   his   spawn   on   and   the   former   magistrate   had   exploited   the   loopholes   ruthlessly,   hunting   for   a   way   to   sever   his   master’s   control   over   him   for   at   least   one   hundred   fifty   years   with   no   success.   At   least,   until   the   tadpole   had   set   him   on   the   path   to   Ascension.  

The   prospect   of   this   ambitious   and   manipulative,   yet   otherwise   unremarkable,   human   man   could   save   him   was   beyond   moronic.   Enver   Gortash   was   a   great   many   things,   but   a   philanthropist   and   humanitarian?   A   person   who   did   things   out   of   the   goodness   of   his   heart?   A   person   who   would   expend   his   resources   for   a   spawn   who   had   nothing   to   offer   outside   of   paltry   gossip   of   the   goings   on   in   his   master’s   house?  

No,   this   was   the   platitudes   of   a   political   animal   sorting   out   whether   or   not   it   was   still   the   top   of   the   food   chain   or   if   it   had   finally   been   reduced   to   prey.   Astarion   didn’t   need   to   blink   the   scarlet   film   of   his   tears   from   his   eyes   to   see   what   was   happening.   Gortash,   perhaps   feeling   off-balance   for   once,   possibly   even   feeling   the   tiniest   bit   of   fear   in   the   face   of   a   recently   evolved   apex   predator.   Jockeying   for   favor   like   he   was   still   a   neophyte   to   the   political   landscape��  of   Baldur’s   Gate   and   not   the   man   that   had   manipulated   his   meteoric   rise   from   the   gutter   to   the   annals   of   power.  

❝      If   I   didn’t   know   better,   I   would   think   you’re   auditioning   to   be   my   court   jester,   Gortash.   I   do   think   you’d   look   rather   charming   with   those   shoes   with   the   stupid   bells   at   the   toes   to   match   the   garish   outfit   .   .   .   Perhaps   I   should   order   some   delivered   so   you   can   dance   for   me,   as   an   apology   for   that   poor   attempt   at   empathy.      ❞      Leaning   in   with   burning   scarlet   eyes   and   fanged   mouth   pulled   into   feral   mimicry   of   a   smile,   the   ascended   vampire   issued   his   threat.   ❝      You   survived   playing   games   with   me   then,   but   you   𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍   𝒏𝒐𝒕   survive   those   same   games   now.   Have   I   made   myself   clear?      ❞

[sanguinir]

tag drop 2 / xxx