rubistella

[rubistella]

"ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴇʟꜱᴇ, ᴀ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ ᴅᴏɢ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏʟᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴛʀᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ — ᴀꜱ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ!"

carrd. / c. /21+ please read the guidelines before interacting.

[rubistella]

@relentlessgrief 🖤

truly no ships ever hit harder than i’m supposed to be afraid of you and maybe i am a little bit,  but i’m also intrigued by you with the you should be afraid of me but i also don’t want you to be and idk why

[rubistella]

“Once. Though that was a long time ago.” Half-forgotten in his whirlpool of broken memories and eternal suffering, a sigh slipped free. “Pretty thing, honestly. But rather like yourself, she was kept as a pet. Our masters were such connoisseurs of carnal delights, you see…” That’s when his head tilted at an angle, and the vampire became more viper than mice all of a sudden. All sharp fangs and sharper bites. “Tell me, is it always like this? I mean, is your kind simply better suited to being pets than partners? Because bowing your head to this sort of arrangement?” The vampire’s whites flashed, mirthless, mocking. “...means its own kind of submission, my dear.”

Now, sit on it and let it fester.

Astarion knew what it was to be underestimated. As a spawn who’s spent far too long under someone’s heel, smiling too prettily for anyone to suspect the knives he kept concealed, the vampire somehow managed to wear the facade like it was second skin. Yet, soon… very, very soon, the weight of his shame was bound to shift, scales tilting toward the inevitable. Cazador’s reckoning, the cold, calculated artistry of justice.

For now, he tried to tame the urge to snarl. Let Haarlep prattle on, a creature so used to indulgence he mistook himself for something untouchable.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong… I do so adore your kind.” Astarion leaned in, voice low, indulgent. “I mean, it’s nothing but intriguing how a creature could turn a holy sanctum of chastity into a delightful cesspool of sin, isn’t it? It’s just that…” Trailing off, Astarion hummed. Pleasure felt so untethered these days—like each time his back hit the mattress, Astarion’s head would suddenly be plunged underwater. Numbed to sentiment… to the sameness of fucking and leaving. There was, however, a stray thought that gnawed at his mind.

Was there any difference at all between making love or simply fucking?

“No matter.” A flick of his wrist, dismissing the thought as easily as one might dust off a sleeve. “Let’s just say I’ve had my fill of the Hells—pain and pleasure alike. I think I’d rather sample something… heavenly, for a change. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And if that all goes terribly wrong, well,” a dry, brittle laugh, more show than necessity, “I suppose I could always fall back on the comforts of damnation, hm?”

Astarion’s smile then grew. Twice wicked, ten times more cunning.

“Now you’re asking the real question… If you must know, while you revel in your so-called freedom among the masses,” Pulling out of his pocket a doubloon, Astarion let it roll around his knuckles before it altogether vanished, “I’ll be helping myself to a spot of five-fingered discount indulgence, of course. Any more questions?”

As if anyone should have expected anything less from the rogue.

Haarlep's little purr may have shifted into that of a displeased growl, the ember of his eyes shifting to a bright blue momentarily. Much like Raphael, the incubus did not take kindly to insults against their performance. And everything Haarlep was revolved around taming others, revolved around manipulating them, mastering them, twisting them so that they would lay beneath him and give him their soul, heart, or perhaps both.

But unlike Raphael, Haarlep's rage was extremely short lived as well, and the hint of blue disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, a chuckle at the fiend's lips rather than a scowl.

"You've slept with many incubus then?" he questioned. He did wonder, curiously, though he had his doubts. If the vampire had been with an incubus, or a succubus, he likely would have gained something from them, or died... and he couldn't see Astarion overpowering one of his kind on his own. Cazador, perhaps? With a bunch of his little minions at his beck and call, but not Astarion. Anything he did was at the call of his master.

Bedding others, mortals, perhaps even other vampires? But nothing like Haarlep.

"I think not. If you had, you would not speak of us with such disdain." Haarlep frowned playfully. "Once you have tasted the Hells, my dear, it is difficult to feel pleasure of such extremities ever again. Why would you go crawling back to that hideous thing you called master?"

His tail stopped moving when Astarion made his offer. An outing? Well now... that certainly was tempting, wasn't it? Haarlep rarely got to leave the confines of the boudoir, and the thought of being able to stretch his wings (figuratively speaking) and indulge upon mortals was one that an incubus could not deny.

Falling onto the flats of his feet, he cocked a hip and placed a hand to it. "And what a cheeky little vampire you are, Astarion." He rewarded the creature with his name, of course, just another form of manipulation. Like feeding a dog a treat when it obeyed orders.

"But what is it that you want in return? I am no fool. You manipulate Raphael into believing you need a guide, and what do you get out of this, hmm? The fruits of the Material Plane? Another neck to suckle? Or are you that desperate to see my natural form?"

[rubistella]

So, the creature upstairs was a she, huh?

Wait a second...

The creature upstairs was a fucking she.

And now Cazador, the insufferable bastard, would be hellbent on dragging him up there to sate his curiosity. Likely just another way to make a spectacle of him. Another torment night… Astarion was curious—he could admit that much. But if he were ever to indulge in a spot of snooping, it would have to have been his choice, on his terms. And preferably, he’d do it when the room was empty. When there wasn’t some feral creature lurking inside, waiting to tear into him. Or worse.

Someone behind him to shut the door when escaping was in order.

“I… I think I’ll pass.” The spawn withdrew a step, barely registering the way he flinched with the movement.

Crimsons stole a gander toward the door behind him as though it had become the attic door, and for the second he turned his back, something would come barreling out, teeth-first.

Only that it wasn’t.

But that didn’t stop his spine from stiffening like it was.

“Why... do you keep a rogue spawn around either way?” Astarion hesitated. “Aren’t we of better use to you, oh I don’t know, sane?”

Cazador’s lips curled into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, crimson eyes glittering like shards of broken glass beneath half-lowered lids. He took the goblet, fingers brushing deliberately over Astarion’s own, touch lingering as though marking territory.

“You always did have a keen ear for suffering, didn’t you, pet?”He took a slow sip, savoring the sweetness of human blood as it coated his tongue. He made a pleased sound, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the pale hunger etched into Astarion’s face—relishing how deeply his favored spawn ached for the taste he would forever be denied. “It’s one of your most charming qualities.”

A laugh rolled from his throat. “But perhaps you are correct. Hunger can drive even the most obedient of creatures to rebellion. Yet” he paused, crimson eyes sharpening, smile thinning into a blade-like line of barely-contained anger “you know better than most what becomes of defiant pets. One might think you’d tire of testing me.”

He leaned in slowly, intimately close. 

“Shall I introduce you to her, then? Let you witness firsthand the price of defiance?Perhaps it would serve as a useful reminder of your place.”

It would be amusing if she decided to gouge out your pretty eyes.

[rubistella]

I think I'm falling for you😳

get up

[rubistella]

late munday 🥺 i'll work on a proper finisher the next time!

[rubistella]

pspspspspsps @therealricksanchezpleasestandup psssspsspspspsps

Thirsty Astarion 🩸

[rubistella]

Something pre-Unmortricken, representing the “weight” of Prime in C-137’s existence.

[rubistella]

@fiendishfinesse || continued

“Me?” Astarion laughed—rich, full, just this side of unhinged. “Oh, darling, what ever gave you the impression I feel anything for you at all?”

Perched on the windowsill, the ruby-encrusted dagger was tossed into the air, caught midfall by the handle. Again and again. A quiet rhythm, something to busy his hands with, to make the space between words stretch just a little thinner. A show of dexterity, precision, because even silence could be a performance.

Everything Astarion did these days felt like one.

“For all you know, I simply enjoy basking in the attention of the most powerful man in this house.” The blade turned once more, a flick of the wrist, a glint of steel catching firelight. His smile was sharp, a little too pleased with itself. “Isn’t that the likelier truth? But I could always say that I love you... I'm very good at it.” At lying.

Or what Astarion thought to be a lie.

[rubistella]

“Isn’t that the plan?”

Astarion took Haarlep’s hand, pressing it to the hollow of his chest where there was nothing—no pulse, no proof of life. The absence of all that which brought one closer to the living left nothing to betray him or his sentiment. No flush, no quickened beat either. Vampires were perfect that way. If there was any tell on how the spawn felt, it was only ever what he allowed—or what sometimes would slip through the facade. The right expression for the right moment, curated and composed. Painted on like stage makeup, refined through a thousand performances, audience feedback measured in gasps and widened eyes.

It was trial and error until deception became an art form.

And Astarion was its artist.

“Well, adding to your little repertoire of forbidden knowledge,” Astarion threaded their fingers together, watching Haarlep’s claws catch the low light, “it’s part of mine and Raphael’s agreement to rob the bastard blind and keep the spoils for myself. The specifics? That’s a work in progress. But your darling master has assured me he’ll be my guiding hand when we’re finally standing over the helpless bastard.”

Slowly, Astarion guided the incubus toward the water with measured, backward steps. The pitter patter of his footwork was quickly swallowed by those healing waters. Warmth lapped at his ankles, crept up his calves as he sank deeper into the spring, and he turned. Only to steal a gander back over his shoulder at his companion. At this… creature he would often come to in his boredom.

“The tadpole is a temporary ordeal, my dear.” A quiet sigh, as if the thought left him jaded. Exhausted even. “It’s only a matter of time before Cazador pulls a few strings and reels me back in. We must finish this before I’m rid of the worm.” A pause, a shift in grip, like he could make the words stick better that way. “Then, I’ll do my little stint of service for your master. And once that’s over—” A smile kissed his lips, slow and sweet, like a lover’s first. And so oddly genuine at that for an elf of many faces. “I’ll finally be free.”

It must have pained the vampire, to know that he was beneath yet another. Not physically speaking (although that could be arranged), but once more, Astarion was reminded of his place beneath someone else's foot. Cazador used him, took him and played with him out of nothing but his sheer sadism. Astarion was not rewarded for his obedience, only tortured more and humiliated. What was the point, really? Then again, as a spawn, he hadn't had much choice. His master controlled him, like a puppet pulling strings.

Their situations, while they could have been similar in some, were entirely different in others. Where Cazador would humiliate his spawn and press him under his metaphorical boot (and perhaps even his not-so-metaphorical), Raphael would at least indulge his pet, would beg for his pleasure and his pain, until he shoved it away once more, under lock and key. The devil was far less secretive than he thought, though, and much an act.

Haarlep still had his own mind, his own self control, or at least as much as any fiend of the Nine Hells did.

Haarlep admired Cazador, actually. The way he was dominant all throughout his tortures. An incubus could certainly enjoy that, too, and why wouldn't an incubus be thinking about all of those wonderful tortures? Was he supposed to feel sorry for Astarion? That would have made any devil or fiend laugh. Any true fiend did not care unless it had something to do with themselves.

A soft chuckle that sounded like music drifted from his lips. "It must make you envious," he smiled, it gentle at his lips, lowering his chin once more. The creature could smell him, no doubt, anyone could within the boudoir, but a vampire's senses were far more keen, more like his own.

Reaching down to Astarion, his hands were surprisingly gentle, slow, as they reached out, and cupped the man's cheeks. Only instinct, knowing what Haarlep was, would make Astarion pull back, but the touch itself was of the sweetest kind, like a long lost lover embracing for their first reunion.

"But that special tadpole in your head has given you back your life, my sweet. It breaks you from your master, severing the ties. You are no longer his puppet on strings, and yet you fall into the claws of a devil?"

Haarlep's head tilted, eyes blinking, the blacks of them shimmering against the gold. Claws trailed down Astarion's chest, eyes moving to his lips, to where those fangs hid.

"You poor... poor dear," he crooned. "Temping, it must be, yes? To take Cazador's place within his ritual? Oh, to have all the control and power." A mischievous look crossed the incubus' face. "You should claim it as your own. To become your own master. Or have you become so accustomed to your pain that you would rather be a devil's pet?"

Haarlep's tail swayed excitedly. "I, for one, would not mind."

[rubistella]

It had been a long, joyless slog through the filth beneath Baldur’s Gate, wading through sludge and stink, each step heavy with failure. It was the kind of search that left nothing but sore feet, empty hands, and the dull weight of inevitability curling in their gut. Truth be told, Astarion had no particular fondness for children. A missing brat, unknown to him, was no different from any other nameless tragedy in a city built on disaster. This was Jaheira’s mission, and since she had, against all odds, become his mission, Astarion followed. Not as a Harper—gods, no… never that—but as someone whose only vows were the ones he might one day swear to her, should she ask.

Astarion doubted she would. The old woman didn’t strike him as the type to fantasise about rings or ceremonies. And yet, he thought about it. Sometimes.

By the time they reached the old tavern, something wasn’t quite right about it. The Blushing Mermaid burned gold against the night, a beacon where there should have been shadow. He knew this place, had watched it rot and linger, but now it shimmered… Thrived. The air quivered with a strange, almost magical pleasantness to it, tinged with the faint phosphorescence of fey magic—distant lightning bugs in a swamp that had no business existing here, the neon ghost of something ancient. Mystical even. Inside, it was loud, wrong. Too many faces turned the wrong way. Too many smiles stretching too thin. The inn was… crowded? More than it was ever known to become. That put a frown on Astarion’s face.

The Blushing Mermaid had never been this popular a dive.

They pressed the barman for answers, pried at him and his son, peeling away layers of fear and obligation until someone caved in. And in return, Astarion was granted a drink—a fair exchange. There was a bit of a peckishness starting to tie his stomach in knots after all that searching. Or maybe it was the magic in the air. Either way, all that tromping about made him hungry, and there was nothing quite like the zesty tang of fresh, young blood, spilling in his mouth and gliding hot down his throat that wouldn’t fix things.

Not yet, though. He had the boy in his hold, fingers curled at his collar, half-hoping the father’s resolve would crumble too late.

It didn’t.

“Gods damn it.” Astarion sighed, releasing the child with a theatrical eye roll as he wheeled around toward the basement. And then, a prickle at the nape of his neck called his attention to the bar—they were being watched.

Pulling Jaheira close, Astarion kept his voice low. “Wait—”

But it was already too late.

The workers shed their masks like snakeskin, glamour sloughing away to reveal squat, blood-drenched little nightmares—redcaps, all teeth and hunger.

Shit.

Astarion moved first. He melted into the shadows, drawing an arrow from his quiver, nocking it with practiced grace. One shot, clean through a redcap’s skull, and the arrow ricocheted, biting deep into the flesh of several creatures that quivered and collapsed on their knees as the toxin spread through their system. Not dead, no… Fuckers were asleep. Drow poison. One by one, the others dropped, toppling like marionettes with severed strings.

The ones out of reach snarled, drawing their bloodied weapons and tossing furniture as they ambled near.

“Jaheira, behind you!” Astarion called from his perch on the rafters—however he’d turned up there.

O Caso da Megera Verde

(Caçando a Ethel no Ato III com @rubistella )

Nove anos de idade.

A frase martelava em seu crânio, cada sílaba um golpe de marreta. Nove anos. A última criança desaparecida tinha a idade exata de Fig. A mesma risada estridente ao correr pela rua, os mesmos joelhos ralados de quem escalava árvores como um esquilo, os mesmos olhos cheios de perguntas que nunca cessavam. Nove anos. A idade em que Rion costumava fugir de casa, só para assustá-la. A idade em que Rion, hoje uma tempestade de coragem, ainda dormia com um ursinho de pelúcia. Jaheira cerrou os punhos até as unhas cavarem sulcos em suas palmas, como se a dor física pudesse apagar a imagem que a assombrava: Não é a Fig, não é a Fig, não é a Fig, não é— mas poderia ter sido.

Felizmente não era ela. Graças aos deuses acima e abaixo. Infelizmente era outra. E essa contradição a dilacerava por dentro, como se suas entranhas fossem feitas de espinhos.

As pistas eram fiapos de névoa. Perguntas a moradores assustados, rastros que se perdiam na lama, suspeitos que sumiam como sombras ao meio-dia. Astarion, ao seu lado, observava tudo com a frieza de quem já viu o pior da existência.

Jaheira queria odiar a frieza de Astarion, aquela impassibilidade de estátua de mármore, tão imune ao desespero humano quanto um abutre à morte. Mas não podia. Não quando seu pragmatismo afiado era tão semelhante ao dela. De fato, ele agia agora como ela vinha agindo por décadas: metódico como um médico cortando a carne podre para salvar o corpo, mesmo que o paciente gritasse — um pragmatismo preciso, impiedoso, necessário.

Exceto quando se tratava de crianças.

Ali, sua lâmina emperrava. Ali, a Harpista implacável transformava-se em algo mais frágil, mais humano. Uma fraqueza, ela pensava, os dentes cerrados enquanto observava Astarion examinar os rastros sangrentos com a eficiência de um carniceiro. Jaheira havia passado por mais de um século de guerras, de traições, de enterrar amigos sob árvores chorosas, e ainda assim…

Horas viraram dias, uma corrida insana contra as areias de uma ampulheta que não paravam de escorrer. Até que a investigação a levou até a Sereia Corada.

O barista era um desgraçado teimoso. Jaheira já tinha tentado a abordagem gentil, já tinha feito as perguntas do jeito certo, mas o homem se recusava a colaborar. "Não é problema meu," ele disse, ríspido, quando ela mencionou a criança desaparecida. "Não me interessa."

Ah, era assim?

Pois bem.

No outro dia, ela voltaria. E não voltaria sozinha.

O cheiro de cerveja azeda e madeira encerada invadiu suas narinas assim que entrou. Jaheira fingiu interesse no cardápio riscado na parede, mas seus olhos seguiam o filho do dono do bar — magricela, ombros estreitos carregando bandejas maiores que seu antebraço — enquanto ele circulava entre as mesas. Treze anos. A idade em que os filhos dela começavam a carregar espadas de verdade.

Ela sabia tudo: o nome do menino (Loris), a rotina (tutoria pela manhã, treino de arquearia duas vezes por decênio, ajudar o pai no bar até a meia-noite). Os Harpistas a haviam informado de tudo — horários, hábitos, sorrisos roubados à filha do cliente que deixava moedas extras.

Assim que a viu, o barista franziu o cenho.

— Eu já falei que não quero gente da sua laia no meu-

Ela não o deixou terminar. Sem perder tempo, Jaheira agarrou o garoto que varria o chão, puxando-o para perto e encostando uma lâmina afiada em seu pescoço.

A lâmina tremia — pela criança, por ela. O garoto cheirava a sabão barato e medo, seus dedos agarrando-se à manga de Jaheira como um filhote à mãe. Não olhe para ele, ordenou a si mesma. Não pense nos seus filhos.

O dono do bar arregalou os olhos por um instante, mas logo soltou um riso seco, um som seco como osso quebrando.

— HÁ! Eu te conheço, Harpista. Você não tem coragem de machucar um fedelho.

Havia uma sombra de incerteza na voz dele, mas ele se mantinha firme.

Jaheira sorriu. Um sorriso que não chegava aos olhos, enquanto o peso do menino em seus braços a fazia querer vomitar. Treze anos. Desviou o olhar por um instante para encarar Astarion.

— Esse é o problema de ser famosa, sabe? Todo mundo já conhece seu modus operandi. — Ela virou de volta para o barista, sua lâmina ainda pressionada contra a pele do garoto. — E você tem razão. Eu nunca faria isso.

Uma pausa calculada. O silêncio engrossou, cortado apenas pela respiração ofegante do garoto.

— Por isso eu trouxe alguém que faria.

Antes que o homem pudesse reagir, Jaheira empurrou bruscamente o garoto na direção de Astarion. O garoto gritou — um som agudo, aterrorizado — e Jaheira sentiu cada nota como uma facada.

— Você… — O riso do homem morreu na garganta. — Você tá blefando.

O rosto do homem empalideceu, o suor escorrendo pela têmpora. Jaheira avançou, plantando as mãos no balcão encerado, o rosto a centímetros do dele.

— É melhor você falar. — A palavra saiu entre os dentes. — Ou eu juro por Silvanus que seu filho vai ser a primeira coisa que ele devora… e você, a segunda.

O homem engasgou, os olhos vidrados no filho, que agora chorava em silêncio, as pernas trêmulas como um boneco quebrado.

— No porão! — O bartender gritou, mãos tremendo enquanto deslizava uma chave de ferro pelo balcão. — Ela me pagou pra usar o porão, eu— eu não sabia que era uma megera, eu juro—

— Mas quando descobriu, ficou bem quietinho.

— Eu tava com medo! Medo dela fazer alguma coisa com o meu filho, que nem você tá fazendo agora!

As palavras do dono do bar cortaram Jaheira mais fundo do que qualquer lâmina jamais poderia. O peito apertou, os punhos cerraram. Uma megera. Um monstro. Era isso que ele via nela. Era a isso que ela tinha se rebaixado.

E o pior? Ele não estava errado.

O silêncio pesou, sufocante. Mas Jaheira não discutiu. Não se defendeu. Apenas se virou, o rosto fechado, e marchou escada abaixo, rumo ao porão.

[rubistella]

“Because I’m not an idiot, Raphael.” There wasn’t a single hair on the vampire’s body to bristle, yet a shiver still crawled over him when that devilish hand carded through his curls. They’d have to tidy him up later after whatever crooked scheme Raphael was charting for tonight… no gift in this House of Hope was ever free of cost, even less so when you owed the devil his due. “Those lost souls, strewn across your halls and left to rot? It doesn’t take a genius to figure they ended up that way from nothing but pure disobedience.”

Astarion wasn’t free from his own flickers of rebel impulse. But at the very least, all those centuries under Cazador had taught him exactly where to draw the line. And while Raphael’s tolerance was a far cry from his old master’s, his brand of cruelty when meting out punishment could have been just as brutal. If not more.

“And because I want you to miss me, of course... When our contract’s up and I’m no longer just a pawn in your sick game, there’ll always be a corner in your wildest fantasies reserved for me, darling.”

In a deliberate, almost defiant gesture, Astarion trailed an index along the bridge of Raphael’s nose and over his lips.

“Just when you think you’ve finally gotten rid of me, I’ll be back—strolling through your mind, just shy of your reach… close enough to tempt, never enough to touch. Isn’t that delightful?”

A breath of laughter escaped him, more exhale than sound, as the vampire seized him—not with the frantic desperation of prey, but with something far more enthralling. Ownership. Astarion could pretend all he liked that it was defiance, but Raphael knew better. He always knew better.

The kiss, stolen yet earned, was neither battle nor surrender but something in between. Raphael let himself indulge in it, savoring the cold press of Astarion’s lips against his own, the raw insistence laced with an unspoken promise—I will be more than a plaything. More than a pawn in your hands.

And then came the confession. How sweet.

Raphael’s eyes hooded as their foreheads pressed together. His fingers, sharp-taloned yet oddly gentle, traced the vampire’s jawline, memorizing the shape of something he had already claimed long before Astarion even realized it.

“Care, is it?” Raphael repeated, testing its weight on his tongue. Did he? Care? What an absurd notion for a devil. His smirk , however, did not fade, but there was something more behind it now—an amusement not entirely cruel, a curiosity not entirely predatory. “And tell me, my dear… would it make you feel better if I denied it?”

His hand slid to the nape of Astarion’s neck, fingers threading into smooth hair. “If I told you that you were simply another pretty prize in my collection?” A pause, a breath. “Wouldn’t that be easier for you, I wonder?”

But Raphael did not answer his own question. He wanted Astarion to sit with the thought, to wonder, to agonize over it the way mortals agonized over the meanings hidden in his every promise.

Instead, he simply leaned in, ghosting his lips against the vampire’s in a whisper of a kiss.

“My lovely monster… If you despise being a pet so much, why do you still play so prettily in my palm?”

[rubistella]

posting smut before an actual ref-sheet and lore diving? fuck yeah!! >:D

(my ref-sheet on T-4013 is like halfway done but this takes forever and I'm tired, so there you go - good ol' old men yaoi :'))

[rubistella]

Rick’s hunched over a mess of circuitry, lost in whatever late-night bastardization of science he’s been cooking up these last few days when Astarion ghosts in like a spectre. No grand entrance, no flourish either—just the smooth inevitability of an unspoken decision. He moves like he owns the place, like he belongs anywhere he decides to be, and right now, that’s up on the counter beside the old man.

A hand, cool against Rick’s jaw, steals the old timer away from his work, away from whatever half-scorched idea he was drowning in. Astarion doesn’t ask. Just takes. Lips brushing up against the scientist’s, teasing into a kiss before he smiles the way he always does when the vampire’s up to some mischief.

“I could use a little company…” Astarion's whisper lands sweet, scattering against Rick’s lips. Should the scientist try to steal a kiss, Astarion would inch away just enough to avoid it, never enough for the old man to stop feeling the coolness of his breath against the little lines of his mouth.

That's the thing with the vampire. Rick didn't need much sleep. Neither did the vampire, who was an unmistakable creature of the night that lurked within the shadows.

At least, up until recently thanks to Rick's own modifications. Now the fucker was up at alllllllll random intervals of the day, whenever it suited him best, and was shamelessly meandering around wherever he could that wouldn't land him in trouble with the cops.

This man was a blessing just as much as he was a curse.

Right now, Rick Sanchez was inclined to think more curse, as he's pulled away from his work. Yet, the look of annoyance is restrained, withheld for the man who genuinely only wanted affection. Were it any other time when he wasn't balls deep in his experiments, he'd be more receptive.

As tempting as those lips are, the scientist avoids the call for sexual intimacy.

For now.

"Yeah? Company, huh? And would you STILL want some if you knew that one wrong move with this subatomic device would inverse our physical forms and the entirety of this planet?"

He doesn't let the undead get an answer in.

"Where's Summer? I need her help. Morty's got a stick up his ass since yesterday and isn't willing to help."

@rubistella

[rubistella]

Without any context, nor really any regard for the potential mindfuckery he was about to put the vampire through, the scientist approaches the elf.

And without asking permission, nor giving any prior context, he puts a D20 in the pale hands of the undead.

"Hey, so, y'know, not to get too meta here, but that's kinda my gig, so I'm gonna ask anyway--how do you feel about the fact that where you're from, the entirety of yours and everyone else's fate relies on rolling with that very type of dice that's in your hand?"

@therealricksanchezpleasestandup || unprompted - always accepting

“Is this some relic by any chance?” Spoken like a secret shared between twilight and the dawn. The die—no more than a mere D20—was pressed into his palm, its twenty facets catching the light in a delicate, almost transient way, reminiscent of diamonds, emeralds, and Astarion’s very own set of garnet eyes.

It wasn’t the aura of magic that drew him, but his misunderstanding of the situation woven into its very design. Even Rick’s familiar accoutrements—a worn labcoat and that glinting laser gun—had never promised more than ordinary to an elf's higher sensibilities. And yet...

A quiet pause ensued. Curious, ambitious crimsons drifted from the shimmering die to the careful lines of Rick’s hand, then to his own trembling fingers. There was a moment where hope and doubt commingled in the warmth of shared skin.

Hot on cold… Living and undeath.

“So you’re saying that if this little trinket shares a… penchant for higher numbers, I could easily tip the scales of destiny in my favour?” Astarion’s tone was half-doubt, half-mischief—a musing on probabilities and wild gambles. Leaning in, he caught Rick by the forearm. Their palms converged around the small token, the die’s cool surface a mystery waiting to be unravelled. Controlled. “Tell me, can we honestly change the course of my fate with this… thing?”

In that hush, the future felt both fragile and infinite, suspended on the apex of a single high roll.

[rubistella]

“And how is that so strange? Wanting to carve myself a space among your ranks.”

It wasn’t as though Astarion made secrets of his intent. This one in particular.

“Now, I’m not saying you’re benevolent…” And he wasn’t.

Raphael was entropy wearing a frock, a system built on fuck around and find out. Astarion had watched it play out before—the way the cambion handled disobedience, noncompliance, and the tiniest hint of resistance. They never really lasted long enough to tell their stories. Reduced to names in the backlog of some infernal ledger, their thoughts chewed to pulp by dread’s gradual decay. The kind that made you forget why you ever tried to fight in the first place.

If it came down to Raphael’s love or his wrath, Astarion would rather hedge his bets on love.

“...But you do play by a different set of rules than Cazador. And that’s saying something.” Conditioning—he knew it when he saw it. Raphael understood it, too. Knew how to calibrate pain against pleasure, reward against punishment, far better than his former master did.

“Say, why don’t you take me out on a mission? Just the two of us…” A casual offer, rehearsed, like a street vendor pushing bad merchandise. “We could meet a few contractors. You show me off a little, and I get to see your impressive,” Astarion dragged an index down from the tip of Raphael’s nose to the seam of his lips, purring, “amazing work firsthand… From the perspective of an observer as opposed to a contractor myself, of course.”

Something different.

Something that didn’t feel like muscle memory and a locked door for once.

Raphael watched him, that little menace of a vampire, settled so brazenly between his legs as if he belonged there, as if this desk was his throne to command. The sight was a delicious contradiction—his pretty pet draped in casual defiance over ledgers of power, over contracts that shaped the fates of mortals and devils alike. A battlefield, indeed. Yet here Astarion was, lounging like a king, lips curling in that smirk of his, always testing, always pushing.

A exhale left the cambion’s lips as he reclined further into his chair, watching the way Astarion’s pale fingers idly traced over his belongings. Curious little thing, thievery hands never idle.

“You speak of seduction as a means to an end, yet balk at the idea of wielding it when commanded. And here I thought you had come to appreciate the art of a well-played game...”

He let the silence settle, let Astarion stew in it just long enough before his fingers moved, tracing over the collar at his throat. A gentle touch, but unmistakable in its weight.

“Freedom is a peculiar thing, my sweet. Do you truly believe choice exists in any pure form? Even the freest souls dance to unseen strings. Is a choice truly free if it is still shaped by desire, by hunger, by need?"  That’s a devil’s game, after all—playing mortals into believing they had a choice, when in truth, they were mere puppets from the very beginning.

His hand drifted, brushing over Astarion’s jawline, teasing at his pulse point—where, if the vampire were anything more than this wretched, undead thing, he would still have a beating heart.

Raphael sighed, as if truly considering Astarion’s proposal, indulging him in this fantasy of agency. His hand left the vampire’s skin at last, retreating to pluck up the very contract Astarion had been toying with. The infernal seal of Mephistopheles glowed briefly as he held it between his fingers. Not for you to play with, pest. He doubted Astarion knew any Infernal, but the vampire’s eavesdropping on such a delicate correspondence with his father made something curl uneasily within him. Another Haarlep, it seems.

“I could send my charming little incubus to handle the undignified, sweaty work—though I must say, you wound me with such crude phrasing.” A smirk, feigning offense. “But they are... very bad at it. Hedonistic to the core. Once I let the beast free, they would do nothing but gorge themselves—devour souls, indulge their every whim, and squander the opportunity entirely.” Not to be trusted at all. Good only as a bed warmer. “And why would I send a mere proxy, when I have something so much more exquisite at my disposal?” Flattery.

He leaned in, silver tongue a smooth whisper against Astarion’s ear.

“You don’t crave choice, Astarion. You crave control. And therein lies the rub.”

The contract in his hand flickered, the infernal script shifting, reforming as he rolled it between his fingers. He let it drop unceremoniously onto the desk beside them.

“You wish to carve out a space for yourself. To dictate when and how you play. And yet, here you are, draped across my lap like a cat begging to be both indulged and tormented in equal measure.”

His golden eyes drank in Astarion’s expression, the flicker of something there. You were the one who wanted to ascend in your former master’s place, weren’t you? The abused becomes the abuser—a familiar, fun cycle.

[rubistella]

@sanguivorus || x

The mattress was too soft, too used, the kind of thing that held its weight in history in the worst way possible. Cazador’s fingers found his chin, cool and dry, grip like a vice meant to last. And Astarion let him have it. For a second. For the illusion of obedience. Then he pulled away from it, cautious not to make it look like a flinch.

There were things better left unsaid. Left to rot in the dark corners of this palace, in the damp wood, in the dust-heavy air that never really settled. But if Cazador wasn’t going to tell him—well, Astarion had never been good at leaving things alone, had he? And it wasn’t just a guess either. The sound, the raw, animalistic rattles, the scrape of a creature pacing, restless, it was all too familiar.

Relentless hunger sounded the same in every language.

“You’re keeping another spawn up there, aren’t you?” Astarion spoke with the ease of gossip, words flowed smoothly even when he didn’t mean for them to do so. Crimsons drew into slits. “I’d recognise a hungry snarl when I hear it.” The real question sat there, quiet, heavy. Why? What made this one worth locking away like this? What made them special enough to warrant their own little corner in the attic?

Peeling away, easy and unbothered, the pawn moved over to the bottle on the sideboard. Blood liquor. Poured slow and thick into a crystal chalice. Human. He wasn’t allowed a taste. Couldn’t help himself to one either, even if he wanted to. Cazador’s orders held, wrapped tight around his throat like a leash. Closing it to anything that wasn’t rat or pig’s blood.

But still, he could serve. He could press the goblet into his master’s waiting hand, let his fingers ghost over the rim, close enough to breathe it in, close enough to wonder. What would it taste like? Feel like? Would he recognize the way it settled on his tongue?

“It’s fine.” Spoken a little under his breath while he settled onto the mattress like it meant nothing, like it wasn’t a slow surrender to something he didn’t have words for just yet. The goblet warm against his palm, the window open to the sharp cold of the night. The moon watching. Silent things, never speaking, never interfering.

“Knowing you,” Astarion eased into it with the subtle tug of a slow, simpering smile, “Someone’s gone rogue up there, and you’re keeping them as such for sport.”

Silver tongued devil. Knowing exactly where to cut... How to twist the knife too.