softersinned - Tumblr blog

[softersinned]

❥         𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋'𝐒      𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆      𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄     𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓     𝐓𝐖𝐎     (    ₂₀₀₅     )     ﹔      please  do  not  add   to  the  post.  you  may  adjust  any  pronouns  as  needed.

❝  why  do  i  feel  like  this  is  not  going  to  work ?  ❞

❝  look  how  far  i  still  have  to  go.  ❞

❝  you  couldn’t  think  of  something  a  bit  more  useful ?  ❞

❝  my  talent  lies  in  casting  spells,  not  breaking  them.  ❞

❝  what  on  earth  is  wrong  with  you  two ?  ❞

❝  why  don’t  you  just  give  up ?  ❞

❝  pull  yourself  together.  isn’t  this  what  you’ve  been  waiting  for ?  ❞

❝  he  has  been  using  his  magic  for  entirely  selfish  reasons.  ❞

❝  that  boy  is  extremely  dangerous.  ❞

❝  but  then  she  fell  prey  to  a  demon  of  greed,  who  slowly  consumed  her  body  and  soul.  ❞

❝  he  may  be  selfish  and  cowardly,  and  sometimes  he’s  hard  to  understand,  but  his  intentions  are  good.  ❞

❝  now  i  understand.  you’re  in  love  with  them.  ❞

❝  i  want  his  heart,  his  heart  belongs  to  me.  ❞

❝  didn’t  i  teach  you  better ?  ❞

❝  i’m  not  trying  to  outwit  you.  ❞

❝  it’s  time  to  show  them  what  you  really  are.  ❞

❝  i’ll  distract  them.  ❞

❝  knowing  you’d  be  there  gave  me  the  courage  to  show  up.  ❞

❝  you  saved  me.  i  was  in  big  trouble  back  there.  ❞

❝  don’t  try  to  be  cute.  i’m  still  not  going  to  trust  you.  ❞

❝  oh,  this  is  bad.  you’ve  gone  too  far.  ❞

❝  are  you  in  pain ?  tell  me  what’s  happening.  ❞

❝  go  away.  ❞

❝  no,  i’m  not  going  away.  i’m  going  to  help  you  break  the  spell  that  you’re  under.  ❞

❝  but  you  don’t  understand       ❞

❝  you’re  too  late.  ❞

❝  you  should  know  that  by  now,  come  on.  ❞

❝  i’m  so  sorry,  but  that  would  be  confidential  information.  ❞

❝  what  possessed  you  to  let  them  in  my  house ?  ❞

❝  seems  everyone  in  this  family’s  got  problems.  ❞

❝  be  gentle  with  me,  please.  ❞

❝  it’s  a  present  for  you.  come  see.  ❞

❝  did  you  use  your  magic  to  make  this ?  ❞

❝  this  place  is  gorgeous !  it’s  like  a  dream.  ❞

❝  it  all  seems  so  familiar,  yet  i  know  i’ve  never  been  here  before.  ❞

❝  i  feel  so  at  home.  ❞

❝  come  with  me.  ❞

❝  you  were  alone ?  ❞

❝  what’s  the  matter ?  ❞

❝  it’s       you’re  scaring  me.  ❞

❝  i  have  this  weird  feeling  that  you’re  going  to  leave.  ❞

❝  tell  me  what’s  going  on.  please.  ❞

❝  i  don’t  care  if  you’re  a  monster.  ❞

❝  so,  you  are  going  away ?  ❞

❝  even  though  i’m  not  pretty…  ❞

❝  you’re  beautiful !  ❞

❝  you’ve  got  nothing  much  to  lose.  ❞

❝  what’s  happening ?  what  did  you  do ?  ❞

❝  uh-oh.  here  they  come.  ❞

❝  don’t  let  go !  ❞

❝  you’re  in  love.  don’t  deny  it.  ❞

❝  have  you  ever  been  in  love  before ?  ❞

❝  you  better  not  go  outside  tonight.  ❞

❝  i  searched  everywhere  for  you !  ❞

❝  everyone’s  saying  it’s  my  fault  that  you  left.  ❞

❝  do  you  want  to  leave  too ?  ❞

❝  i  love  you.  you  have  to  stay…  ❞

❝  we’re  a  family  now.  ❞

❝  only  idiots  believe  what  they  read  in  the  paper.  ❞

❝  do  you  have  to  keep  smoking  that ?  it  smells  terrible.  ❞

❝  i’m  sorry.  i  should’ve  gotten  here  sooner.  ❞

❝  you’re  alive !  oh,  thank  goodness.  ❞

❝  i  think  you  and  i  need  to  have  a  nice,  long  heart-to-heart  chat.  ❞

❝  how  unlike  you.  not  running  away  anymore.  ❞

❝  don’t  go  out  there.  it’s  too  dangerous !  ❞

❝  let’s  run !  don’t  fight  them.  ❞

❝  sorry.  i’ve  had  enough  of  running  away.  ❞

❝  and  now  i’ve  got  something  i  want  to  protect.  it’s  you.  ❞

❝  come  back !  ❞

❝  i  need  your  help.  ❞

❝  i  know  you  can  do  it.  ❞

❝  they  say  that  the  best  blaze  brightest  when  circumstances  are  at  their  worst.  ❞

❝  yeah,  but  no  one  really  believes  that.  ❞

❝  imagine  what  i  could’ve  done  with  your  eyes.  or  your  heart.  ❞

❝  my  heart’s  ruined !  ❞

❝  what  have  i  done…  ❞

❝  find  me  in  the  future !  ❞

❝  i  didn’t  mean  to  make  you  wait  this  long.  ❞

❝  you  really  want  it  that  badly ?  ❞

❝  thank  you,  you  have  a  big  heart.  ❞

❝  a  heart’s  a  heavy  burden.  ❞

❝  your  hair  looks  just  like  starlight.  ❞

❝  it  looks  like  your  true  love  is  in  love  with  someone  else.  ❞

❝  one  thing  that  you  can  always  count  on  is  that  hearts  change.  ❞

❝  i  love  it  when  you  talk  like  that.  ❞

❝  the  game  is  over.  ❞

❝  you  didn’t  have  to  come  back.  ❞

[softersinned]

i will make your life worse but the sex will be great

[softersinned]

She is fifteen years old and her lungs are burning. Her throat is burning. Her chest is burning. Her fingers claw at the hands that hold her down and she kicks at the water beneath her, trying to breach the surface, but he doesn't budge. And then the fear: like a cornered animal, she knows that she won't survive this, but she fights all the same. She claws. She tries to scream before she can stop herself, and the water goes deeper, deeper, and then as everything goes black she feels it: peace, purer than anything she's ever felt. Euphoria. Weightlessness. The water embraces her, and the world goes dark, and then—

Seventeen and the pain is incandescent, hot blood spilling over her grasping hands, down her chest. It's hot, hot, hot, and then it's red, red, red, and some piece of her thinks that she has to put it back, she has to put the blood back where it belongs, but the wound won't close and no matter how hard she tries she can't keep it closed. She can't keep her hands up, either. And she's cold, now, so cold, everywhere but where the blood is spilling. The color is fading from her vision, darkness closing in with growing speed as the warmth is leeched from her. She tries to scream, again, and again, she's silent, and there's no euphoria this time, only fear—

Thirty now. She bares her throat and she is wholly without fear. There is pain, profound and exquisite, and she goes cold, and then there is nothing but the certainty that to die in the arms of the one you love most is a gift she is grateful to know.

It is like a dream. (Is it a dream?) SHE is there and SHE stands before her. SHE is beautiful as ever, HER dark hair and HER skin the color of the twilight sky and HER eyes, black as night shining like oil beneath the mask, exactly as she always imagined. Does SHE grieve? Does SHE feel sorrow for the broken thing SHE once loved? Or is SHE angry at the abandonment, the betrayal?

She wants to scream at HER. Wants to grab HER by the shoulders and shake HER, wants to claw at HER robes. Wants to turn her back on HER. Black lips part but the sound is only there in her mind, echoing, cold, empty.

FOOLISH GIRL. WRETCHED GIRL. THERE IS NO RETURNING FROM THIS.

No, Stori wants to say, there is nothing to return to, you left me long before I could ever leave you.

HER jaw falls, mouth open far enough to swallow her whole as she kneels before HER despite her defiance, but it is silent, and it is hollow, and that is worse, somehow, than when SHE finally speaks.

I WILL NOT SAVE YOU NOW.

"I don't want to be saved," she answers simply, and she stands, and she turns, and this time, she does not look back.

It is the hunger that wakes her. A yawning pit inside her, the growing hollow so painful she nearly cries out. She cannot open her eyes for several long moments, and she cannot remember anything—who she was, what she was, why she feels so empty, why she feels so wrong—

She tries to say it. Astarion. She cannot remember why. Astarion. Her lips don't move, her throat is too dry, her tongue sits like stone in her mouth. She cannot lift her hands. Astarion. She wants to cry out like a child, but there is no sound to be made, no air in her lungs.

No air in her lungs? Her lips part and she takes in a quiet, shallow breath. One, and then another. It takes effort, more than it should; she knows that much. Why does it take effort? Did she have to think about it before? What before? Was there something else? Astarion. Astarion. Why does it hurt? Why is she so heavy? Another breath. She feels the blood as it begins to move through her body and it is agony, burning hot as it fills decaying veins, delicate and thin like a moth's wings. She feels as though the veins might burst. As though she will bleed out inside her own body.

Astarion. Another breath, this one deeper, longer. The blood flows faster, now, driven by the breath. The heat pushes through her to her extremities, but she's cold. So cold. Like she's lying in the snow. It is... pleasant, somehow. She is marble. She is art. Astarion. Her eyes flutter open and she sees only a blur of color she cannot yet identify, and then she sees the face, its lovely eyes fixed intently on hers, silver eyelashes casting long shadows over his cheekbones in the dim light of the dying fire. That mouth seems so familiar. Astarion. Has she kissed that mouth? Worshiped the shape of it, the curve of its lower lip? Her gaze falls lower, to the sharp angle of its jaw. The column of its neck. Gods, she wants to reach for it. Sink her teeth into its flesh. Drink it in. The hunger racks her like a sickness, and she lets out a quiet, wordless moan. Astarion. Is that her blood, dried and flaking on her skin? Staining the fabric on her skin? It feels wrong. Too much. Her hands move, but only barely. It hurts. It hurts. Oh, gods, it hurts—!

"Astarion." The face comes into focus now. Her voice is so small. She sees him and she swears there is nothing, in this or any world, more beautiful, more perfect. She says it again, each syllable rolling on her tongue, and her voice is too cracked, too hoarse, to do it justice. "Astarion." She needs something. The hunger is like hell, burning her, consuming her. She could look at him forever, she thinks. Count his eyelashes. Compose sonnets to the shape of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones. She wonders how he tastes. Her tongue catches on something and she realizes it's teeth—her teeth, sharp, vicious, slicing the flesh as easily as a knife. Vampire, she knows. SPAWN, says something smaller.

"Astarion." Stori. Her name is Stori. She wants to hear him say it. She feels something rising within her alongside the hunger, something deeper, something animal. Need. Devotion. Obsession. She wants to be devoured. She wants to be consumed. She wants to crawl inside of him so he can keep her warm and safe and held and his his his hishishishishis—

She sits up. Her head swims, pounds. Her hands, shaking, tear the fabric from her chest, her shoulders, the smell of her own spilled blood making her feel dizzy and starved. The thing she had worn is stained, as though it had rusted. How long did she sleep? How long did it take her to wake? She tears at it, distress rising in her chest until it's ripped away, and only when she's free of it does she lift her eyes to meet his. Naked as the day she was born, and some part of her knows that this, too, is a beginning. A new life. A new self. The sight of his clothes fills her with unease, and she's certain she'll find the sensation of it overwhelming, but she lurches forward to crawl towards him, to climb into his lap. She hates the feeling of anything between them but she forgets it at once when she's wound around him, as close to him as she can be, safer than she's ever been. She breathes him in, and it strikes her that she has not taken in a breath since she last thought of it. Seconds ago? Minutes? Hours?

The hunger is still present but it hurts less, now. One of her hands fists in the fabric of his shirt, the other in his hair, fingers tangled in his curls. She breathes him in. Once. Twice.

"Astarion," she murmurs, reverent as any prayer, and she sounds like herself.

When she whispers those words ( I trust you ) something deep, very, very deep, within him stirs, a faint echo of the man he once was. A part of him knows that she shouldn't trust him, that this Astarion has become something far darker, more selfish, more dangerous than the creature she first fell in love with. But that flicker of doubt is brief, fleeting, swallowed by the satisfaction that comes with seeing her surrender so completely, so willingly. Her trust, her love, they are entire, and they belong to him. He watches her with an intensity that borders on obsession, no it is obsession, unable to tear his gaze away from the way her hands trace his features, memorizing him with reverent care. The way her fingers brush his cheekbones, the curve of his lips——he can feel her desire, her need to remember him, to carry this moment into the new existence that awaits her.

❛ Your entire world is about to change, darling, ❜ he murmurs, his voice low, dripping with dark promise. His lips brush against her ear, soft, teasing, as his fingers begin to trace a slow, deliberate path down her form. ❛ You haven't known pleasure—true pleasure—until you've tasted fresh blood on your tongue. ❜ As he speaks, his hand slips beneath the silk of her robe, fingertips brushing her bare skin, trailing down, lower, and lower still. The feeling of her soft flesh beneath his hand is intoxicating, but it pales in comparison to what's about to come. ❛ This... ❜ he whispers against her skin, his breath warm against her neck, ❛...this is nothing compared to what awaits you. ❜ His fingers dance over her ribs, down to her waist, tracing her hips, the heat of her body radiating beneath his cool touch. ❛ Every nerve, every inch of your body will be alive in ways you can't even imagine. My touch will be... electrifying. ❜ His voice dips, sultry and filled with dark delight.

And then she says it. I love you. Over and over, and it unravels something inside him, something deep and powerful. Gods, she is beautiful. The way she speaks those words, the way she looks up at him with such complete devotion——it's enough to make him feel like more than a king, like a god. His smile softens, but only slightly, the darkness still lurking beneath the surface of his pleasure. ❛ And I love you, ❜ he replies, his voice velvet-smooth. ❛ I've loved everything you were, and I will love everything you become. You'll be magnificent. ❜

She lays down, obediently, perfectly, and Astarion's heart swells with a satisfaction so deep it feels almost primal. He watches her, lying there, trusting him so completely, giving herself over to him without hesitation. There's no fear, no doubt——only the quiet acceptance of a lamb at the altar, waiting for the slaughter. And gods, does that please him. He removes his jacket slowly, deliberately and sets it aside, then he climbs onto the bed, straddling her waist, looking down at her with a gaze that drips with hunger, with possession. He lowers himself over her, slowly, savoring the anticipation. ❛ I'm going to drain you, ❜ he whispers, his voice low and seductive, as his lips brush against her ear. ❛ Every last drop. And then, when you're teetering on the edge of death, I'll give you my blood. ❜ He kisses her lips, so softly. ❛ And when you wake... I'll be right here, waiting for you. I'll always be right here. ❜ The last few words leave his lips from deep within his throat, low, almost a growl.

He lowers his head to her throat, his breath warm against her skin as he inhales deeply, savoring the scent of her——her humanity, her warmth, the life that still pulses through her veins. His lips press softly against the delicate skin of her neck, just above her artery, and for a moment, he lingers there.

Then, without warning, he strikes. His fangs sink into her neck, sharp and quick, slipping into her flesh with practiced precision. The taste of her blood floods his mouth, rich and warm and perfect, and he groans, eyes fluttering closed as he drinks deeply. He drinks and drinks, savoring every last drop, feeling the life drain from her as her body goes limp beneath him. She is glorious. Even in this moment, at the brink of death, she is perfect. He drinks until there is nothing left, until her pulse is all but gone. And then, he bites into his own wrist, watching as his powerful blood wells up from the wound. He presses his wrist to her lips, letting his blood trickle into her mouth, down her throat, into her very being.

❛ It won't take long now, ❜ he murmurs, his voice low, as he watches her with intense curiosity, lying there on the bed, drenched in her own blood. ❛ You'll be exquisite, my love. Just you wait. ❜ He smiles, dark and satisfied, as he lies beside her, his hand resting on her cooling chest, waiting, watching. He feels like a god. And soon, she will rise——his perfect creation, his beloved, his forever.

He waits, and waits, his eyes never leaving her still form, anticipation curling in his chest like a fire. This is it. This is what he's wanted all along. Her. Forever. Him. Forever. They are gods now. He smiles, the satisfaction settling deep in his bones as he watches, waiting for the first signs of her return.

[softersinned]

The coffee is exactly as she likes it, the almost sickly sweetness cutting through the acidity beautifully. And the thought of food is a pleasant one, though truth be told, she can think of more satisfying meals to be had (no offense to Rainer's cooking, of course; it's simply that she's insatiable). "You spoil me." Half-accusatory, half-delighted. It's a lovely little moment, a slice of domesticity to which Astoria is wholly unaccustomed (and no offense to Rainer's girlfriend-ing, of course; it's simply that she's had a questionable childhood and adolescence and adulthood to boot).

She downs half the coffee as if to distract herself from it, palms stinging pleasantly at the heat of the mug, and then she sets it down on the bedside table and turns to face Rainer. Well, more accurately, she climbs Rainer, seated quite comfortably in her lap, legs wound around her waist, an arm hooked around her neck.

"Did you have something in mind to distract me?" Further proof of her calculations: on the nights she can convince Rainer to stay, she sleeps only in underwear that is very easy to (quite literally, should the mood strike) tear off, and one of a number of tee shirts shrunk in the wash, cotton threadbare and worn, which means that the only thing between them, really, is whatever Rainer decided to put on when she got up. Rainer's skin is cool under her touch, as it always is—Astoria keeps the house well air-conditioned—and the sensation of it is maddening. Like touching marble. She could stay here all day. She just might.

"Sketchy and concerning to whom?" Rainer asks her playfully, settling the heavily doctored mug of coffee carefully in Astoria's greedy hands. Her own hair is damp, freshly pulled into a braid-- she's clearly been up for a while, if she truly slept at all. She folds herself easily into the bed behind Astoria and curls around her, careful not to disturb the coffee, despite the fact that she's fully clothed, boots and all.

At least she's courteous enough to hang her feet off the edge of the bed, for whatever that's worth.

Her teeth stay firmly behind her closed lips, which press to the delicate skin of her neck and her shoulder in little light kisses. Cool fingers stroke down her bare flanks beneath the sheets. She murmurs, "I made breakfast, too. But it will keep if you're not hungry yet."

[softersinned]

hello my doves i finished origins & am playing awakening - which has allowed me to adapt my surana and this is VERY exciting. i'm gonna be playing and packing for a trip over the next few days but i will be back to write tomorrow!! i missed you all & this blog & this bitch for the few days i was gone !!

[softersinned]

JUST SUCCESSFULLY FOUGHT MY WAY OUT OF HOWES ESTATE AFTER FREEING ANORA AMA

[softersinned]

You needn't worry, my love. No cages. No chains. "I know," Stori says at once (loving, foolish). "I trust you."

And that's the root of the problem, isn't it? That trust, it is entire, it is consuming. He wraps his fingers around her neck and she presses forward against his palm, lips parting as she takes in a sharp breath, eyes widening with anticipation. He could destroy her and yet he holds her like a lover, and she is never unaware of all of the ways in which he could do her irreparable harm. He could rip her throat out. He could crush it under his fingers. She wouldn't stand much of a chance—couldn't speak a spell to free herself, and what good would a physical struggle be against him? But she never feels fear. Her pulse quickens beneath his touch with excitement rather than terror. He could kill her and yet he does not. He chooses restraint where his nature might suggest violence. For her. Only for her.

What more could she want? Were she once capable of moderation she is not now. Stori responds to the kiss with a desire that transcends even hunger to become a need. When he pulls back, she chases after him, half-desperate to be consumed. His command is a gentle one, and she smiles, near euphoric at the thought of it: to be claimed, to be commanded, to be guarded. No one will ever touch you again. No one but me. She has felt the unforgiving hand of brutality too often to pretend that the promise does not make her bones sing with need.

"A moment," she breathes, "just a moment." She traces his features, gentle, near reverent. "You will be my touchstone when I'm reborn—I want to be sure I remember this. I need to be sure I remember how I saw you when I was human." Some piece of it is sentiment, certainly, but there's something scientific to the desire. "I want to know exactly how I've changed. Exactly how you've changed me, so I can savor it." Her fingers ghost along the slope of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, his brow, his eyelashes, to the lovely curve of his mouth. The need grows within her until it is painful. Mine, she knows, but all the more intoxicating is the knowledge that she is his.

"I love you." And perhaps it is fitting—the man he was is gone, and she will no doubt change, too. Their past selves, dead and buried together. She does not ask if he will make her his equal, or if she will be his spawn; she does not care, so long as she is his. "There aren't words adequate to it. You're in me." In her marrow. In her blood. For a moment, she's nearly overcome; her throat aches, eyes shine. She is aware, now, of her damp hair, her simple robe, her bare feet, wonders if there should be more ceremony to it, decides she likes that there isn't. Only this, only them. Like some awful mockery of a marriage. She has never wanted anything more. "You are perfect. And I love you. I love you. I think those are good last words." She lets out a quiet little laugh. "I choose you, Astarion. I love you."

She does not ask the questions that she might ask someone lesser. Will you stay with me? She trusts him. Will you be here when I wake? She trusts him. Will I still be myself? She trusts him. (Wretched girl, says a voice in her head, her heart, so quiet she can pretend not to hear it, the voice of a patron who has long since turned Her gaze away. You know better. But no patron ever chose her the way Astarion chooses her now.)

Instead, she presses one final kiss to his lips, slow and lingering, before she climbs onto the bed as directed, and she looks to him, and she waits. (Sacrifice, meet knife.)

The room feels heavier with each breath she takes, each soft exhalation that brushes against his skin——so willing, so utterly his. Astarion watches her closely, the dark gleam in his eyes intensifying. Obsession. Yes, that's what this is. The way she looks at him——no hesitation, no doubt, no fear. It consumes him, threatens to swallow him whole. He's seen adoration before, tasted it on the lips of countless lovers over the centuries. But this... this is something far more intoxicating. She says his name like a prayer, and for the briefest moment, it shakes him. A flicker of doubt, a shadow of something softer buried deep within him. That perhaps, somewhere deep inside, he knows that she might ( should ) hesitate. Might wonder if this eternity he offers is a curse, not a blessing.

But the way she answers him—without a second thought, without an ounce of reluctance—banishes that flicker entirely. She is perfect, isn't she? She was always meant to be his. From the moment they first crossed paths, from that first taste of her blood, he knew it. And now, standing before him, offering herself so wholly, so completely, she proves it once again. A slow, satisfied smile curves his lips as he watches her, his gaze roving over her with open admiration. So eager. Her submission, her willingness, stirs something primal in him, something dark and possessive. His fingers trail down the line of her throat, lingering at the delicate pulse point beneath her skin, where her blood hums so invitingly, so temptingly close.

❛ My, my, ❜ he purrs, his voice a low, velvet murmur. ❛ Eager little thing, aren't you, darling? So ready to be mine. ❜ His fingers curl around her neck, not squeezing, just feeling the heat of her skin, the life that still thrums beneath her veins. For now. He leans in slowly, his lips ghosting over the soft curve of her throat, his breath warm against her skin as his tongue flicks out to taste her. A tease. He feels her pulse quicken beneath him, the warmth of her flesh so stark against his own cold touch, and he almost ( almost ) loses himself in the urge to sink his fangs in right then and there, to claim her, to make her his forever. But he holds back, savoring the moment. Drawing it out.

❛ Also, you needn't worry, my love, ❜ he whispers against her skin, his voice dark and intimate, as if sharing a secret only meant for her. ❛ I won't treat you as he did me. No cages. No chains. You'll be cherished. ❜ He presses his lips softly to the spot where he can feel her heartbeat the strongest, his tongue flicking out once more to trace the delicate line of her throat. ❛ You'll be well fed, well protected. No one will ever touch you again. Not one but me. ❜ His voice lowers, a possessive growl rumbling in his throat as his hand slides up to cup her face. ❛ You'll be mine. Utterly. Completely. ❜

He pulls back slightly, meeting her gaze with eyes that gleam with anticipation, with hunger. His smile widens, sharp and predatory, his fangs flashing in the low light. ❛ Why wait? Why waste another second when we could begin our eternity together... right now? ❜ Astarion leans in, his lips claiming hers in a deep, hungry kiss——possessive, demanding, as if staking his claim with each press of his mouth against hers. His fangs scrape lightly against her bottom lip, just enough to draw a thin line of blood, the taste of it sweet and familiar on his tongue. He groans softly into the kiss, savoring the metallic tang, and his grip tightens ever so slightly, pulling her closer, pressing his cold body against her warm, pliant one. When he finally pulls back, his gaze is molten with desire, with the dark promise of what's to come. He licks the remnants of her blood from his lips, his eyes never leaving hers, his hand still cupping her face as if anchoring her to him.

❛ Lie down on the bed, ❜ he commands softly, his voice laced with dark seduction. He gestures toward the bed, his fanged smile widening as he watches her, his mind already spinning with the thought of what's about to happen. His first spawn. And it’s the love of his long, damned life. What could be better than that? Well, besides all the power, of course.

[softersinned]

thinking today abt how deeply impressionable and easily led she is. she's a clever girl, she's an incredibly skilled manipulator, but she is so vulnerable to being manipulated herself. she is so afraid of being alone, so desperate for the approval of someone she views as an authority (childhood neglect & abandonment & abuse will do that to you!!) that she really will just mold her entire moral code to fit someone who's willing to commit to her long-term.

[softersinned]

She feels the weight of her mortality tonight, feels it in her bruised ribs and the sharp pain in her throat from coughing in all that ash. The rush of battle could only carry her so far, and it faded all too soon, even before she could take part in any celebration. A drink in and she'd excused herself with a rueful smile and an apology to sit in a hot bath until the ache had been bled from her muscles and the filth had been scrubbed free from her skin, her hair, under her fingernails. When he had followed she'd offered him a smile in greeting, pressed her lips to his knuckles when he'd come close enough for her to reach, utterly unconcerned with modesty or restraint.

And in truth, perhaps it should trouble her more, though Stori cannot imagine why: if Astarion had wanted to leave her, if he had grown tired of her mortal foibles and failures, he would have left by now. But they are bound to one another, too tightly intertwined to be separated by anything short of death, and she trusts him. Absolutely. Implicitly. And so she makes no effort to hide herself under his gaze. He knows her, inside and out, knows her better than anyone ever has, better than anyone ever could. Her hair is still damp now, her aching body wrapped in a robe of dark silk she'd bought from Figaro on a whim, a little celebration for after their victory, a spell against loss.

He has changed. She won't deny that. How could he not? After everything they've seen, everything they've endured, change is certain, and stasis is death. He is colder, now. Sharper. Darker. There is a cruelty in his eyes that she hadn't seen before. But he fears nothing, fears no one—

And perhaps it should trouble her, to hear him speak in this way, but any unease she might have felt dissolves away with each word he speaks. My pet, he says, and some piece of her knows that things between them have changed forever. That the Astarion she knew once is gone. And though she mourns him, even grief could not make her love the Astarion that stands before her any less. Stori raises her chin at his touch, meeting his eyes with open adoration, shivers at each word. A cold hand cups her cheek, and she turns towards it, presses a kiss to his palm.

It strikes her then that he still has some fear. One fear, at least. He fears rejection. Fears that the loss of the Astarion-that-was will wound her too badly to want the Astarion-that-is. He speaks of the Raven Queen's silence, her abandonment, and Stori knows that he speaks to the motherless child, who knew she was unwanted before she knew what it meant to want—he speaks to the girl, caught in the hell of adolescence, blood staining her teeth when she nearly bit through her lip to keep from crying out, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing her pain when her bones broke—he speaks to the woman, curled into herself in the bath, asking if it's better to be broken if it means she's not alone—he speaks to the devout, the daughter, begging for her patron's guiding hand, for her voice, for anything—

Does he speak to them to ensure that they guide her correctly? Stori nearly cuts him off, but she bites her tongue and waits. I haven't abandoned you. She shivers, aware of the cold, the damp of her hair, the bare skin beneath her robe. I never will. She knows. Gods, she knows. Knows it in her bones, as if it's been etched into her.

"Astarion." She says it like a prayer. She has no god, now; he has become the sun around which she orbits, the star to guide her home. Beloved, he says, and she hears it in each breath, each syllable: I choose you. I choose you now. I choose you tomorrow. I choose you always. She wants to tell him that he doesn't need to try so hard, that she is his, has been his, forever will be his.

Should she need time to think it over? Should she ask for a night? Her lips part.

"Yes." Why ask for more time when she knows the answer? When he speaks to the broken parts of her, and the whole of her answers in a joyful chorus? Yes, choose me. Yes, keep me. It comes from some part of her too deep, too vital, to have explored, a desire hidden in the viscera, the meat, the marrow. "Yes. Yes." Make me yours, she would say, but she is already his. She has been his from the start. She loves him so profoundly it is pain, a deep ache that spreads through her like a hunger. "I want you, always. I want to be yours."

As if by instinct, she falls at once into the role, submits herself wholly, completely. Her fingers curl around his wrists, lightly enough to be shaken off, certain that he won't. She aches. She starves. Unthinking, she tips her head to the side, as if to offer her throat—prey offering itself up, the lamb eager for the slaughter. She has never known with such certainty that she can trust another soul to claim, to possess her so. She does not close the distance between them to kiss him, waiting for him to lead, though the space between them feels like a wound, and her voice is hoarse, raw with wanting, when she speaks.

"When?"

closed starter | @softersinned

The faint murmur of the Elfsong Tavern dies away as the door shuts behind them, leaving only the crackling firelight to dance shadows along the stone walls. The revelry of Baldur’s Gate’s victory hums distantly below, muffled, unimportant. They may be celebrating survival, freedom——but his mind is far beyond the mundane concept of freedom. His thoughts coil and twist like the smoke from the hearth, dark, indulgent, and brimming with purpose. Astarion watches her, his eyes ( brighter now, like pools of liquid rubies ) rake over her with a hunger that has nothing to do with thirst. She is here, in this dim-lit room, exactly where he needs her, and yet not nearly close enough. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk, his fangs glinting ever so slightly as he crosses the small space between them with a predatory grace.

❛ I’ve been thinking, darling. ❜ His voice is silk, smooth and laced with a seduction that feels heavier, more dangerous than it used to. No longer the flirtatious charm of the rogue she met——now there’s an edge to it, sharper, more possessive. A man who knows the power he holds and savors it. He stops just inches from her, his breath unnervingly steady as his eyes devour every inch of her face, her form, the pulse he can still hear faintly beneath her skin. Still mortal. For now. ❛ Tonight, they sing songs of us, ❜ he murmurs, voice low, his eyes locking onto hers, drinking in the way the firelight dances in her gaze. ❛ Heroes, they call us. Saviors of Baldur’s Gate. ❜ His lips twitch as if the words themselves amuse him. ❛ But you and I both know that it’s not them who are important, is it? Not these pathetic, fleeting little lives. ❜ He steps closer, his fingers trailing the length of her arm, cool and deliberate. ❛ It’s us. You and me, my pet. ❜

His hand drifts up, fingers lightly brushing beneath her chin, tilting her head ever so slightly to meet his gaze fully, to ensure she can see the intent ( the darkness ) swirling within his eyes. ❛ I couldn’t have done this without you. You know that, don’t you? ❜ His voice drops, quieter now, more intimate. He circles her slowly, letting his presence linger close, like a shadow, like a predator stalking its prey. But there is no rush. No need for haste now. ❛ And look at me now. ❜ His voice is thick with a mixture of triumph and something deeper, darker. ❛ I’ve shattered the chains that bound me. I’ve taken everything from him——and more. I am... unstoppable. ❜ The word rolls off his tongue with the satisfaction of someone tasting the finest wine. He pauses behind her, leaning in, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a dark whisper. ❛ And it’s all thanks to you. ❜

There’s a softness, almost affection, in the way he says it. But the underlying truth is there: he owns her now. In his mind, it was always inevitable. And now, he wants to make it permanent. He steps back in front of her, eyes alight with a greedy, possessive gleam. He places a hand gently on her shoulder, fingers curling ever so slightly as if testing her, feeling the warmth of her flesh beneath his touch. ❛ You’ve given me so much, darling. And I’ve been thinking about how I might... repay you. ❜ His lips curl into a smile that is far too pleased, far too dark.

❛ Mortality... it’s such a fragile, fleeting thing, isn’t it? ❜ He lifts his other hand, cradling her face now, his thumb brushing her cheek in a gesture that might almost be tender——if not for the coldness behind his touch. ❛ And I’ve been watching you, my dear. How you cling to it, this life. How you struggle, even as everything you once believed in crumbles around you. The Raven Queen? Your faith? She’s abandoned you… when you needed her most." His gaze sharpens, fingers sliding down to trace the line of her neck, feeling the pulse beneath her skin. ❛ But I haven’t abandoned you. ❜ His voice drops to a near growl, dark and possessive, as his thumb rests against her throat, lingering just above where her pulse beats. ❛ I never will. ❜ He steps even closer now, his lips barely inches from hers, his breath cold against her skin.

❛ I want to offer you a gift, my love. ❜ His eyes are ablaze with a fierce, predatory intensity. ❛ A gift of immortality. Power. ❜ He leans in, his lips ghosting over the side of her neck, where he knows her blood flows, rich and tempting. ❛ I want to make you mine. Completely. Forever. ❜ His fangs graze lightly over her skin, a dangerous tease, a promise of what’s to come. ❛ I’ll turn you, darling. You’ll become my most cherished spawn, my consort, my companion for all eternity. ❜ He pulls back slowly, his eyes burning into hers. ❛ No more fear. No more pain. You will be free. Free to be by my side, where you belong. Where you’ve always belonged. ❜

His voice softens, the tone almost coaxing now, as if he’s speaking to something precious, something delicate. ❛ Think of it... The two of us, ruling this world together. I as the predator, and you... ❜ He leans in again, his lips brushing against hers for the barest second before pulling back, his voice a hushed, seductive whisper. ❛ My favorite. My beloved. ❜ Astarion straightens, his smile widening, the hunger in his eyes almost palpable. ❛ This is my gift to you, darling. Eternal life. ❜ He watches her with a twisted sense of anticipation, as though already picturing her reborn in his image, forever bound to him. ❛ All you have to do is say yes. ❜

[softersinned]

the shape of a girl, joan macleod

[softersinned]

every day this becomes more relevant to like. 99% of the dynamics i write here.

[softersinned]

Memory is a dangerous beast. It comes and goes as it wills, and she is left to suffer its whims. She remembers little of the night before except his face—he had leaned over her at one point, expression curious, or perhaps simply fearful, she can't quite recall. And for a beautiful moment she'd imagined she could speak, but when she tried to open her mouth, when she willed her vocal cords to do as she commanded, her own body disobeyed, and then everything dissolved into darkness.

It feels almost familiar: the recalled sensation of fear, of trying desperately to scream, begging her body to answer to her. There are moments she thinks she recalls some frayed strand of her past, raw and bloodied and hateful, and the open wound of possibility threatens to overwhelm her. "I don't remember being commanded by my maker," she says finally, voice low, fingers tightening around his, "but I think this is how it felt." She thinks she remembers pieces of him. A scent like smoke, like juniper. Standing over her, a hand on her shoulder. Kneel, girl. Head bowed, girl. You know better than to disobey. And the hand on her shoulder tightens and her body obeys while her mind rebels, and she hates him so fiercely she feels it burning in her chest. And then the memory fades as quickly as it appeared, fleeting and fragile and just uncanny enough that she cannot be sure it was real. "The moments when I was lucid, I mean—like I'm a prisoner in my own body, and my body isn't even mine."

What might happen, the next time she loses control like this? She thinks, with real fear, what could be done in these moments, should the cultists find her, realize that she can be aimed like a weapon. She knows, though, that so long as Astarion remains with her she is safe—and for a long, aching moment, she wonders if she's ever felt safe with someone before. It feels unfamiliar, and so she imagines that it must be a new sensation.

"But if I am not myself, if my body does not belong to me, there is no guardian for it I'd trust more than you."

When did she know she loved him? Even new memories are fractured, but she treasures the scraps of this one she can hold: the first night here, in these awful lands, cold and shaking and frightened beyond what she could have ever imagined. Does he even notice what he does? A touch to her hand here, when she felt dizzy and unstable. His fingers careful as they worked through a particularly difficult knot of curls at the back of her head. His hand gentle on her jaw as he painted her lips the deep red she favored, his lips quirked into a wry smile.

No. It was before then, she realizes. In the Underdark. In Grymforge. They took turns keeping watch. She slept fitfully, half afraid of the Urge's return, half miserable in the heat, until she dozed while sitting next to him in his tent, reading over his shoulder. When she woke hours later he was gone, keeping watch for his shift, positioned near enough his tent that any danger posed to her could not escape his notice. Had it been intentional? It hadn't mattered. That he had been able to make her feel so secure that she could sleep beside him even without sex to draw her in, that she was able to drift back to sleep watching his shoulders move from behind as he sat by the fire and cleaned his weapons, it fixed something, she thinks. Filed down the jagged, broken edges into something that could be touched without drawing blood.

Stori gives his hand a little tug. The others are sleeping as soundly as they can save for Minthara, awake by the campfire, eyes fixed resolutely in the other direction. Had she heard them? Had they disturbed her trance? Whatever she might know, she is remarkably, commendably determined not to interfere in their business. The cultists will be resuming their patrols soon enough, if the color of the sky is any indication, and she craves the sensation of flesh torn and blood, hot and thick, spilling past her teeth. She'll be polite, of course, let him feed first—if she was raised a brute, she has no memory of it, and so she'll let manners win the day on occasion—but the welts around her wrist from the chains, the ache in her shoulder that makes her wonder if it's broken, the pain in her ribs that definitely tells her that at least one is broken, they stubbornly refuse to heal.

She hasn't eaten since Araj. It's certainly time.

"Athkatla," she says suddenly, and she squeezes his fingers again. "When this is done, when we survive it all and we kill Cazador, I want to bring you to Athkatla. I've been reading the books we collect." Trying to trigger some memory, though nothing has come of it. "The books make it seem magnificent. We'll get a comfortable bed and trade in armor for silks and we'll lounge and we'll eat like kings. And when we're sick of indulging our every whim, we'll explore the rest of Amn. Unless you'd prefer to start somewhere else? Waterdeep, perhaps? I'm eager to meet Gale's cat."

(It's a favorite game of hers, imagining a future they can share. She never says if, only ever says when, conjures up indulgence after indulgence whenever she can.)

Astarion’s heart stirs as he watches Stori struggle to rise, her pain evident in every movement, every breath. The sight of her like this—so vulnerable, so real—stirs something deep within him, something that both thrills and terrifies him. The love he feels for her is a force of nature, something wild and uncontrollable, a current that pulls him toward her no matter the cost. He’s never felt this way before, not in all his centuries of existence. It’s exhilarating, but also terrifying, because Astarion knows all too well how love can be used, twisted, and broken. But not with her. Never with her.

When she says his name, torn from her lips like a lifeline, Astarion feels a sharp pang in his chest. He wants to banish every ounce of pain from her, to bear it all himself if he could, but all he can do is offer her his presence—his touch. As her trembling fingers trace the lines of his face, smoothing a curl back into place, Astarion leans into her hand, savoring the adoring touch of her skin against his. The intensity of her gaze, the relief and love that shine in her eyes, are enough to make him forget the horrors of the night before. It’s moments like these that remind him of why he stays, why he fights—for her, for this.

Her touch is a balm to his own lingering fears, and when she moves closer, winding her arms around him and nestling into the curve of his neck, Astarion welcomes the embrace with open arms. He wraps her in his hold, his fingers splaying across her back as if to shield her from the world, from the Urge that had nearly taken her from him. She’s close, and he drinks in the sensation of her, the scent of her, the simple fact of her being alive and with him. There’s a strange kind of peace in holding her like this, in knowing that despite everything, despite the darkness that claws at the edges of their existence, they are still here, together.

He feels her breath against his skin as she murmurs, the single word love sending a shiver through him. It’s such a small word, yet it carries the weight of everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve become to each other. Astarion’s lips curl into a smile, one that is both soft and laced with a hint of mischief as he tilts his head slightly to press a kiss to the top of her head. ❛ I suppose there are worse things to be addicted to, ❜ he replies, his voice light, though the emotion behind it is anything but. ❛ But if you insist on being hopelessly enamored, I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. ❜

When she pulls back, Astarion reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Her declaration of love sends another jolt through him, a warmth spreading through his cold chest that he hasn’t felt in centuries. ❛ Oh, my love, ❜ he says, his voice gentling, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, ❛ you have no idea how much I cherish every wretched piece of you. ❜

As she kisses his palm, a gesture so tender it nearly undoes him, Astarion closes his eyes for a brief moment, simply absorbing the sensation. The trust she shows him, the way she gives herself to him so completely, is something he once thought he could never have. Something he never thought he deserved. But here she is, and here he is, and perhaps that’s all that matters.

When she stands, pulling him with her, Astarion rises smoothly to his feet, his hand still clasped in hers. Her question hangs in the air between them, and for a moment, he considers brushing it off with a quip, something light to keep the darkness at bay. But the truth is, she deserves more than that. She deserves the truth.

He sighs softly, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek, his touch gentle, reassuring. ❛ It wasn’t pretty, darling. But we’ve been through worse, haven’t we? ❜ He smiles, though there’s a faint edge of sadness to it. ❛ I sat with you all night, listening to that dreadful little thing go on and on. Eventually it stopped speaking altogether and resorted to animalistic grunting and snarling, and by that point I was growing quite bored. It was rather poor company, all things considered, but I wasn’t about to let it win. Not then, not ever. ❜

Astarion tilts his head slightly, his smile turning more genuine. ❛ But you’re here now. You’re you, and that’s all that matters to me. The rest… well, it’s just another battle we’ve fought and won. ❜ He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks at her. ❛ As for why I stay… I suppose it’s because you’ve done the impossible, my love. You’ve made me care about someone more than myself. Terrifying, isn’t it? ❜

[softersinned]

Maybe we’ve both gone mad.

1899 | The Pyramid (1.06)

[softersinned]

sorry i tried to kill u can we still fuck

[softersinned]

am replying dragon age origins am thinking abt putting stori in the circle if the hero of ferelden doesn't protect her / if alistair doesn't become king

[softersinned]

I love soulmates but also this-

[softersinned]

Oh, he certainly is bold. Astoria isn't sure whether to be amused or offended by it; she makes a conscious decision for the former, eyebrows arching, lips quirking up into a smile. She meant it when she said that he has been a frequent topic of discussion. She has heard all about him: Lord Gortash, a man of many hungers and lusts and desires and an ever-present ambition, whose presence in the gilded halls of Baldur's Gate's most powerful suggests his presence in their beds as well. Divinity has given her little desire to pass judgment for such things, though it gives her some insight into the man before her.

"A plot." Her hand falls from his lips to rest against his chest, over his heart. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand is almost distracting. She presses her fingertips harder against his skin, nails digging in only enough to leave little crescent moons behind when she withdraws her touch. She could plunge her hand into his chest now. Past his sternum. Wrap her fingers around his heart, or his lung, and squeeze the life from him. Some part of her wants it, desperately.

Were she still the daughter of murder, and not his outcast spawn, she just might.

"I am afraid your Lord Tyrant is too commonly allied with my fool of a father for my comfort. If you were searching for Bhaalspawn, there are still a few of my siblings left alive, all of them more welcome in his sight." She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes him in, the scent of his skin, his clothing. "But you, Enver—you don't make mistakes, do you? You're too calculating for that. You've worked too hard to allow a foolish error to ruin everything. You're not looking for someone to represent my father and his interests. There's nothing left to rule when the world is stripped down to gore and ash, and you intend to rule."

She laughs, now, and she takes a step back from him, tilting her head curiously to one side as her hand falls. "Very well. I'll hear what you have to say." The son of cobblers does not claw his way free from the Hells just to hand over control of a city before he's even gotten it. "But first, I ask again: are you here on your own behalf, or on behalf of your lord?"

Every second he lingers here is a gambit, and she’s going to make sure he FEELS it.

She’s powerful. It was apparent during her sermon—from her command over language and movement, from the spell she cast on her audience—but it was softer. More approachable. With the departure of her flock, however, comes a breaking of the facade; she approaches him, and her touch is as sharp as the kiss of broken glass. Smooth and subtle—the deep cut that remains unnoticed until it’s too late. And it THRILLS him.

He might have been disappointed had she been too accommodating. To her parishioners, she played the part of the Madonna: her touch soft, her kiss nurturing. Now, the press of her thumb against his lips is like an act of war—how much can she play with him before she gets under his skin?

He gives her an easy smile, eyes glittering in the dim light. It’s going to take more than that.

“You misunderstand me, Lady. I’m sure you know as well as anyone—true subjugation is a delicate craft.” He watches her slow work at the altar, tracking the flood of gold as it dirties the bowl of water. He rubs his own fingers together idly, the claws of his gauntlet scraping across the pad of his calloused thumb. “There is a proper time and place for the fist. Knowing that marks the difference between a tyrant and a THUG.”

It’s a deliberate demonstration, he knows. She could have maintained the dress of the ceremony, speaking to him in the utmost formality. But to do so would have betrayed a desire to curate her presentation. By dressing down—removing her veil, washing away the paint that dims her luminance—she exhibits an artful sort of carelessness. The confidence of a woman who knows her power without the need for pageantry.

TRUE power—the likes of which Gortash can appreciate.

He doesn’t flinch as she draws close once more, her fingertips cool against stubbled skin. Only as she’s about to draw away does he move, jeweled gauntlet catching her wrist in a vise grip. He holds her in place only a moment—then presses a kiss to those shining fingertips. Dark eyes latch onto her, fixing her with an arresting gaze.

“Very well, I’ll be frank.” His voice drops, a gravelly rumble deep in his throat. “I’ve devised a PLOT. And I’m here to see if you’re right for the part.”