#ruby vermillion

[vegetableharvester]

About Oc, 2

"Sure, magic is fun and great, but has anyone consider the price of having one?"

Aisha Maximinius,

Ruby Vermillion,

Winter White,

---

Aisha: The... Weight of the World...

Ruby: It's just pain, everything was just pain...

Winter: Hello darkness, my old friend...

Yes, they're fine... But not really....

[ilikemicrowaves]

A big batch of skywing designs related to the Royal family, featuring Sky along with it.

From left to right, row to row. As I list them, I rambled about them and their designs and my choices. Feel free to give any comments on them!!

Scarlet

Boy, oh boy, do I love her, Scar shit my beloved. I wanted to make her purple because purple is often associated with the rich and royalty. Funfact! Back in ye olden days, purple was a very expensive and rare color to get with pretty much anything, so the rich and royals often wore it, giving it its regal representation in the present day. Also, I gave Scarlet's horns stripes because I was going for a jester vibe. Might seem odd, but she's such an intelligent villain, yet her rage, selfishness, and greed blinded her, in the end making her the fool.

Canyon

I really enjoyed reading Tailwind's writing about their egotistical brother. Canyon, to me, is a diva, and I'd love to talk more about him. Those glasses? Doesn't need them. He believes they're fashionable, along with his robes and cloths. The only thing I put into his design that has meaning is his mistletoe, since it represents love and romance, and Canyon is a slut like that /heavy j. He's a hopeless romantic to me and loves his big wife. Although it's implied he married Scarlet to just to brag about it, or that's atleats what I interpreted last I read it, I like to think he actually did love Scarlet and would surprise her with new prisoners for the champions to battle before Peril. It's a shame he died before Peril was born. Imagine the Peril having TWO manipulative and evil caretakers. Orange represents arrogance and impatience, so boom, orange Canyon. Also the the stereotypical Canyon is orange, so it fits in that way as well. Note that I just remembered hours after typing this. This is future felix here to say: I based Canyons design slightly off the canyon wren.

Tourmaline

TOURMALINE!!!! MY GIRL!!! MY BADDIE!! I love Tourmaline and her confidence so much. It shows how strong she was when she realized she was not the dragon who she'd been for 7 years because of an enchantment, as soon as she figured it out she came to terms and did not have an existential crisis, or atleats not around Peril. ( Or Tui didn't really think about how much that would fuck up a person lol ). Nothing in her design has symbolism that I purposefully put in. She's orange like her father and has curved horns like her mother. She also has Canyon's face shape with somewhat of Scarlets nose Bridge and nose. Scars from training combat.

Vermillion

omg this gay ass mother fucker. I fucking hate him /heavy j. Anyways, Vermillion is interesting to me, I guess. I haven't really looked deep into his character other than what's on the surface, a victim of being a child of Scarlet and under her rule. To me, he is very fashionable, including his gold band of amazonite. Not only does baby blue look good on him, but it symbolizes empowerment, which he has. And I ship Cherrylime ( Chameleon x Vermillionv) as well as Vermillion x Chameleon x Mastermind.

Ruby

Heh, get a load of this guy /ref. Anyways, for a hc, enchanted dragons' irises turn a certain color, skywings being pink, which is why Ruby and Pyrites eyes are pink. I gave her harlequin diamond patterns since they symbolize the gap between two metaphoric worlds and the forced silence by others. The first part is that she is two dragons in one and that she is quiet. Although she has the ability to speak up, the power hanging over her head like a guillotine stops her.

Cliff

he's literally just a guy. Though I did add one thing "evil" to him; I gave him Scarlet's eyes. Even though that horror is long gone, anytime Ruby looks her son in the eyes, Scarlet will be staring back at her. But in canon, I don't think she will ever see it that way unless Cliff's personality begins to develop in a negative way, then shed begin to worry and see the illusion resulting from her anxiety. I gave him bits of orange from the reccesive genes she carried from Canyon and from Cliff's father, who I hc to be orange. Also, to symbolize his optimism.

Peril

In the books, she's described as bronze, which i feel is such a loss when her book cover and gn design is a hot cheeto. ( No hate to her Canon design. It looks really cool imo, i just miss bronze Peril. ) The point of her being bronze was supposed to be the fact that she's so different from her tribe other than the obvious. Brown Peril ftw!! She does have stripes of reds, oranges, and greens on her legs and tail, but that's not visible in her headshot, unfortunately. Wanted to throw in Chameleon's genes in there for funzies. Ik in canon Soar is physically a completely different dragon with different genetic makeup, but I think it's more fun to do this, and it's not like I'm hurting anyone lol ( I say this because when I first posted my Peril design I got a on hate for "shitting one canon." Which like ???? Go touch grass instead of telling me I can't be creative. ) ( Here's my 1st post of my Peril design, and then my 2nd slightly tweaked one. )

Sky

I hate how the Fandom treats sky honestly. It's a shame they just dumb him down to "cinnamon roll baby." That's a full adult dragon. Stop acting like he's a child just because he grew up outside of Dragon culture and civilization. Made him pink n brown and gave him a little swirly scale on his cheekbone. Or well above his cheekbone, actually.

Pyrite

I put a bunch of details that yells, "Hey, this is secretly an icewing." Like her spikey scale patterns, antler like horns, and deep colored eyes. Enchanted icewings have red eyes, so I just made them a deep maroon Ish pink, thats why it's not a shade of pink like Ruby's. I have a post planned in my brain, not even in my drafts yet, so it might be a bit, but it's about Hailstorm n Pyrite's relationship and how I think Hailstorm would have handled himself afterwards.

And that's all for these guys!! There's a chance I'll draw other skywing characters or other characters that surround this bunch, like Hailstorm, Chameleon, Kestrel, Tailwind, and maybe how I imagine Cliff's father But thank you for reading if you read all of this! This took up a lot of time, but I enjoyed all of it :33

[mostly-magical-polls]

Best Magical Girl Squad - R1

[riddlerbrandautism]

Ruby "the instigator" stimboard

×/×/× ×/× ×/×/×

[rwac96]

Ask

Original Male Crossover Stud AU

While Noel usually is a sweet girl... is it true that there are times that she can be... let's say aggressive when it comes to Jaune? Like jealousy or during sex or something.

Noel: *angry* "I don't get aggressive! You better have proof for this accusation!"

Jaune: *wearing a turtleneck sweater* "Noel, sweetie, please calm down."

Ruby: "Why are ya wearing a turtleneck?"

Jaune: "It's cold."

Ruby: "It's warm!"

Jaune: *blushing* "It's not like I'm hiding hickeys--Ignore that part!!"

[thebloodmoon-chaos-house]

Amnesiac, the angriest scowl in their face: IF A SINGLE ONE OF YOU BITCHES SO MUCH AS LOOKS AT BLOODY HARVEST WITH THE SLIGHTEST OF CONTEMPT I WILL PERSONALLY DUMP A GALLON OF GLITTER DOWN YOUR THROAT UNDERSTOOD?!

Swap, Keeper, Glitch, Living, Overlords, Magic, and Fantasy, all huddled in the corner: yes sir

[sebring5]

IMG_0022 by Henry Via Flickr: Old world sparrow

[astralix]

Sailor Phoenix's Tags

Answers

〖answers〗☉☀ 『winged answers』

chat/dashboard commentary

〖chat〗☉☀ 『fiery commentary』

Ic replies

〖replies〗☉☀ 『sunlit trials』

Aesthetics

〖aesthetics〗☉☀ 『sunlit vistas』

Musings

〖musings〗☉☀ 『tearful musings』

Quizzes & questionnaires

〖quizzes〗☉☀ 『compassion results』

playlist/soundtrack

〖soundtrack〗☉☀ 『sunlit requiem』

Character tag

〖tenmei nakano〗☉☀ 『phoenix solar star ruby power make up』

journal/prose/story

〖story〗☉☀ 『writ with ashes』

Shipping headcanons

〖shipping〗☉☀ 『blushing vermillion』

Nsfw

〖nsfw〗☉☀ 『after sunset』

Headcanon

〖headcanon〗☉☀ 『crowned princess  sol』

Verse tags

Main verse

〖main verse〗☉☀ 『neo empress sol』

[sylusdarling]

I Do

Sylus x reader

✧ The day that he’s been waiting for has finally arrived

Content: Sylus x fem!reader, fluff, marriage, emotional sylus

A/N: Saw a post on twitter saying Sylus would be a misty eyed groom and I cried. So here we are. There will also be a part 2 with the honeymoon ofc! Also not proofread because I need to get ready for school !

The feeling in Sylus’ chest was unlike something he’s experienced before, it was indescribable.

Though his life has always been filled with chaos and riches, it felt bland whenever he would think back to the past before he met you. His world was unexpectedly dull before you had made an appearance. The dreary days bled into each other and the somber red of the N109 zone mocked him on the daily.

There was a gap in his life that only you could fill. Once you appeared it felt as if a brush with vibrant water colours has painted over his life. The days no longer bled into each other, instead he woke up every day with a purpose. To talk to you. The moon of the N109 zone became a saturated vermillion whenever you were around and he was able to find joy even the small things in life. He no longer cared about the material riches because to him, you were his proudest treasure.

Truly, he never thought a day like this would come. The powerful boss of Onychinus standing at an alter dressed in a white suit waiting for his beloved at the other end of the isle. At the end of the isle you stood in all of your glory. The way the white dress fabric was draped over your body made you look like the most beautiful greek sculpture that anyone could ever create.

The bouquet of roses that you held in your hands stood out against the backdrop of your white dress. You had stated how much you adored roses because they matched the ruby colour of his eyes. You were walking down the aisle with a part of him in your hands.

The organists fingers moved and the notes of ‘Here comes the bride’ began to fill the room. Step after step you approached your soon to be husband at the other side of the aisle way. He couldn’t stop starring, it was as if you were the only other person in the world at this very moment. The room full of people being completely drowned out by your shining beauty.

Sylus was not an emotional person by any means, many people believed he simply didn’t possess any emotions at all and sometimes he believed that was true. But that thought was put to an end the moment his eyes became misty as you approached him.

There you both stood across from eachother at the alter. Your smile was radiant as you stood across from him. He’s never seen something like it. If only he could capture this moment in his eyes forever.

The officiant began to speak as you both stood at the front hand in hand. The rings were presented to you both.

“Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife?” Asked the officiant.

“I do.” Responded Sylus.

“And do you take the man to be your wedded husband?”

“I do.” You stated with the most glorious smile on your face.

At the same time you both slipped the rings on each others fingers. Each ring consisted of half a red jewel. Together you both completed the jewel. You were both two half’s of a whole, two souls being bound togehter.

And finally, finally, the words were said.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Cupping your face, Sylus leaned in for the kiss. Your lips connected and it felt as if a new spark was being born. You both could feel each other smile into the kiss. It was passionate and full of love. Pure, undying love.

“It is with great honor and delight that I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Qin.”

Sylus never knew that he could feel happier than when you said yes to his proposal. But here he was now hand in hand with his wife. Mrs Qin.

Forever you were his and he was yours.

His wife. His beloved.

[delirious-donna]

“Some men are so clueless,” Sylus mused to himself, his ruby eyes fixed on his treasure, his world. 

What had started out as amusing was quickly morphing into something else, something edged with the potential for cruelty. 

Leaning casually against the bar, he waited for his order to be served. Sylus let his gaze wander once more over to the cozy little corner booth you were occupying and smirked at the man who was leaning down in an attempt to talk with you. 

His silver-white hair ruffled as his head canted to the side, wondering what lame pick-up line the unassuming and completely forgettable man was trying to ply you. 

Long, tapered fingers drummed against the smooth countertop, picking up pace as his agitation increased. You could more than handle yourself, of that he had no fear, but he wanted to return to his place by your side as hurriedly as possible. Call it protectiveness, possession, whatever… he had no qualms in being honest with how he felt because he knew you understood. 

Sylus watched your head shake firmly from side to side along with the obvious 'no' that formed and fell from your pretty parted lips. 

That's my girl, he enthused silently. 

The bartender returned with his drink order and a cheery smile. Smoothly, he handed over his black card and a generous tip. He was still half amused and half annoyed, but that didn’t mean he would be a dick about it to anyone other than the man who deserved his wrath. His subtle smile remained in place until he turned. 

That smile shattered as he was met with the scene of the interloper seated on the opposite side of your booth, the side that he had been occupying. Panic was written all over your face and if the guy didn’t realise that, he was a fucking idiot. Either that or he got off on scaring women, and that was even worse. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. 

You felt the weight of his stare before you could make him out in the light crowd, the crashing waves of an unfamiliar emotion licked at your skin and deeper into bones. It only deepened your frown. 

Your aggressive admirer seemed none the wiser to his impending demise, still trying to get you to admit that you weren't here with your boyfriend, it was just a line to keep the perverts away. 

Clearly, it wasn't working. 

He made you feel uncomfortable in the worst way, and although you might feel sorry for him when your boyfriend did appear, you were breathing a heavy sigh of relief when sparkling vermillion eyes met your own panic widened ones. 

"Here you go, princess," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach those hypnotic eyes, "who’s our new friend?" 

You watched as the man opposite shrank back at the imposing presence of Sylus. His stature, tall and broad, shadowed you both and you suddenly felt safe again. 

He slid in next to you, an arm curling around your waist to gently tug you into his side with all the possessive dominance he dared to display—yet. 

"No one. He was just leaving, weren't you?" 

Sylus tsked, sipping his whisky before resting his chin on his fist. He stared directly into the soul of the now ashen-faced man, who was clearly trying to stammer something out but failing miserably. 

"That's a shame. He'll miss the show," Sylus rasped. 

In one fell swoop, your powerful beau had lifted you from the plush leather seat and deposited you fully atop his lap. A large, warm hand slid up your soft stomach, between the valley of your breasts and curled gently around your throat, just… resting.  

Your back pressed tight against his chest, hips settling so your rear was directly over his crotch and his other arm wrapped around your waist once he was happy with your position. 

You had almost forgotten about the clueless man, too wrapped up in the feel of your man and how this possessive side of Sylus was turning you on more than you thought possible. That was until the sound of him half falling from his seat to sprint for the nearest exit caught your attention. 

"Mm, think you scared him, baby." 

An answering hum met your ears, warm breath fanning against your neck as hungry lips pressed kisses to your throbbing pulse, making your head roll back to grant him even more access. 

The subtle side-to-side movement over his zipper did not go unnoticed, and the faint mewl did not go unheard. 

"Drink up, kitten." 

~ 

"Sy—fuck—think I’m gonna… gonna pass out," you whimpered, white spots twinkling into your vision.  

Spread out like a feast fit for a king, the granite of the kitchen island was no longer cool given how hot your bare flesh was. Silver-white hair nestled between your parted thighs, one commanding hand pinning you open as the other continued its merciless ministrations on your sopping cunt. 

Magnetic garnet eyes assessed you through hooded lids, yet his mouth never broke the suction around your puffy, overstimulated clit. The bud throbbed between his lips and yet another gush tried to force his two fingers out of your clenching cunt, but he refused to relent or ease up. 

Sylus was a man on a mission and you were at his mercy until he considered to completed to his satisfaction. 

There was no way of knowing how many times he had made you cum since carrying you in here, having been unable to continue counting when the control of your body was willingly handed to the man worshipping you, but you were well past your limit.

Regardless, he showed no sign of slowing down. 

With a wet 'pop' he released your bud and lapped lazily at the nectar that coated your folds, your plush thighs and his fingers. 

"Just making sure you're still mine, sweetie.” 

an: another thought that popped into my head... can someone please come drag this man out of my brain?! He can't stay!! 😩

[vegetableharvester]

OCs Art.

[demilypyro]

Yeah they call me Demily. Demily Pyro. Demily Scarlet Pyro. The Streamin' Demon. The Red Menace. The Horned Hazard. The Cloven Completionist. The Crimson Criminal. The Kos Crusher. The Walking Walkthrough. The Ruby Rascal. The Prickly Princess. The Devil in the Details. The Infernal Infodumper. The Sonorous Smirker. The Vermillion Vampire. The

[rwac96]

Lets day jaune is Adrian's donor just so your jaunr otp can react to adrian crawling up to them and calling them "mama" or "dada"

Adrian: *crawling towards Noel* "Mama."

Noel: *raises her brows* "Gah!" *blushes* "N-No, sweetie! Your mommies went to the store."

Adrian: *looks up at Noel* "Mama." *wobbly stands up* "Ma!"

Noel: *picks up Adrian* "Oooh, you're so adorable!" *pulls him towards her, nuzzling him*

Adrian: *giggles* "Mama!"

Ruby: *watching from the couch* "Jaune, why is Adrian callin' Noel 'Mama'?"

Jaune: *blushes* "Uh, Saph and Terra needed a donor...and...well..."

Ruby: *wide-eyed, scoots away from Jaune* "Nope. Stop talkin'!"

[giuseppe-yuki]

gladiator

gladiator!ollie bearman x goddess of victory!reader

w.c.: 1.7k

warnings: slightly graphic descriptions of gore, angst

summary: yet another young gladiator prays to you in your temple

a/n: very unedited + there might be glaring historical inaccuracies :(

picture credits from pinterest :)

he’s young, not unlike all the ones before him. with tousled brown locks that ruffle as he darts along the marble floor, eyes that glow the colour of syrupy ambrosia in the dim flickering of the torches, and perfect muscled body, he reminds you of venus’ adonis in a way. your gleaming statue, wings outstretched, robes flowing, and holding your iconic laurel wreath, gazes upon him knowingly as he hesitantantly approaches your altar at the base of sculpture. your priests barely spare him a glance- they are too busy preparing a new sacrifice that lays neatly on your stone altar- a once-magnificent bull. its mouth is open in a silent scream and its eyes are glossy as the priests collect its crimson blood in a decorated jar and shave off selective portions of its raw flesh to burn as offerings. he watches as the head priest raises his glistening knife, sticky with blood, and brings it down into the bull’s rough hide with a rough thwack, and he thinks he is going to be sick.

still, he falls into a kneel in front of your statue, like a lowly subject in front of an emperor, and like the ones before him, prays for victory.

you sit near the emperor’s viewing box, in a seat only the highest generals could afford. your appearance flickers to those around you- sometimes appearing as a beautiful maiden or a wizened old man. the crowds don’t notice your wavering form, instead focusing all their attention to the sandy center of the amphitheater, where the boy cowers with a silver sword and flat-planed shield, awaiting his opponent. above you, the emperor lounges lazily on a plush couch and inhales grapes from the vine. when he gives a signal- a mere flick of his hand- the gates of the amphitheater rumble open to reveal a snorting bear, prompting the audience to roar in approval. it was obvious- they were here to see blood, and that was what the emperor would give them. 

within the first minutes, the beast had already batted away the boy’s flimsy shield and raked his sharp claws against the length of the boy’s leg. rivulets of red, like rubies against his pale skin, flow down from the wound, satiating a fraction of the crowd’s hunger. you can see how he grips his sword tight enough that his knuckles turn white and the fear in his eyes as he tries to limp away from the bear. you can also see the hesitance in his swings that open up deep cuts that flow vermillion along the animal’s hide like the wound on his leg. you help the best that you can. a miscalculated stumble of the bear, a slight push away from the path of the beast’s paw, a guide of the sword towards a critical artery. but, when he finally plunges his bloodied sword into the throat of the exhausted animal, like a knife through butter, it is all his doing. it reminds you of the first fight of another young champion of the past, sebastian, and the roar of the lion that he had fought with a spear. when the animal lies, dying, in its own pool of blood, does the boy finally collapse onto the sandy ground, exhausted in his own sense. before he passes out from blood loss, he raises his head, and it’s like he looks directly at you. 

you come to him in the form of a young medici, a bag of bandages, ointments, and herbs in one hand. ollie, is what he says his name is, and he gives you a small smile even as he lay pale and bleeding on the rough cot in the newly assigned private sleeping quarters for victors. he’s prettier up close, even when his brown eyes blink at you hazily and his cheeks are colorless from the lack of blood. 

he first opens his mouth to break the silence when you are spreading your magical nector salve on his wounds.

“i’m glad they sent someone as beautiful as you to come patch me up,” he says in a lilting tone, eyes trained on your profile.

you can easily strike him down like you always do with unwanted advances from mortals, but instead, you laugh, a twinkling sound that ollie swears is the prettiest thing he’s ever heard. 

“you flatter me,” you reply, a rare smile gracing your face.

although you are not aesculapius, the god of medicine, your hands make quick work in firmly wrapping the soft bandage expertly around the openings on his leg. after all, it would be pretty pathetic if a champion with the blessing of the goddess of victory herself didn’t last a full day after his win.

when you are done, you wave your hand subtly over the top of his wounds, willing the greater parts of his pain away. he visibly relaxes, like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. 

his eyes track you silently as you throw your materials back into your brown medici bag. it triggers the memory of a certain eerily quiet champion you had blessed before- kimi- whose bright blue eyes you can remember skittering across your figure when you had bandaged his wounds. 

when you are done packing up your bag, you tread lightly to the door. before you can pull it open, ollie calls out to you. 

“wait,” he says, voice pleading.

you hesitate, but turn back to him, your tunic swishing. 

ollie looks at you with wide eyes, as if he didn’t believe that he had spoken out loud. 

“can you- can you stay for a bit?” he asks apprehensively. 

there are a million things to tend to, like overseeing minor battles, ensuring triumph in campaigns, and granting the prayers of the mortals that knelt in your temples, but you can’t help but concede to his request. 

you neglect your duties for far too long in the damp room with ollie. it was laughable in a way, to see the great goddess of victory pliant under the wiles of a young mortal.

he talks about his parents, about his younger brother, and his little sister, and about how he dragged away one fateful evening from his family to become a gladiator, unlike the multitude of other bloodthirsty gladiators from rich families that wanted fame and fortune. but, when he comes to the topic of his actions in the arena, he suddenly goes still. 

“i didn’t want to kill it, you know,” he whispers quietly, as if he didn’t want to admit it. 

his bottom lip quivers, and it is now that you are reminded how young he really is. it is a reminder of another victor that you had championed, charles, and his unwillingness to kill, even as a successful gladiator. like charles, big fat tears slip from the corners of his eyes when he thinks back to the poor creature, most likely chained and beaten, being made a spectacle, and dying by the hands of another for entertainment. however, you knew they always toughened up after awhile- they always did. so, you brush a comforting hand through his curls, kiss him gently on the forehead, and it’s only when he falls into a deep sleep do you finally leave the room.

you see him again several days later, this time in the great roman amphitheater again. again, he stands with his flat-planed shield and silver sword in the dusty middle of the arena. a look of fierce intensity flashes across his helmeted features, unlike the last time he was in this position, making him look significantly more willing to slay whatever beast steps in his path. 

however, when the emperor waves his hands, commanding the gates to rumble open, and the crowd thunders in excitement, what steps out is a familiar man with thick black hair that seems to sway perfectly in the breeze, a hint of stubble, and pouty pink lips that you knew all too well. carlos, you remember his name was.  you remember too, the way he had knelt down in your temple all those years before like ollie had. he had made an offering of three silver coins- all that money he had- and begged for you to protect him in the arena. true to your word, you gave him your divine protection until he became the emperor’s champion gladiator, personally favored by the elite and the crowd. 

carlos makes the first move, taking advantage of ollie’s barely healed leg. his weapon of choice, an engraved dagger, hacks a deep line of red as it carves from the tip of ollie’s right shoulder to his hip. at the sight of the excess bright liquid cascading down the younger boy’s body, the crowd erupts in a frenzy. when ollie collapses, unmoving, on the ground, they seem to chant carlos’ name- our champion, our champion, they scream. it seems like ollie is just another easy opponent, another nobody that would ultimately make their way onto the carlos’ lengthy list of the vanquished. carlos turns away from ollie to face the crowd, a smile on his lips and arms open, embracing the crowd. he has not lost once for a year, so what makes it seem like he would lose now?

that’s what makes it all-too-surprising when ollie pushes himself up with god-given strength and hacks down on carlos’ neck as hard as he can, with his sword. it lands with a wet thwack the way the priest’s knife did in the bull back in your temple before.

when ollie is paraded through the town, a victor’s laurel wreath atop his pretty head, the crowds that once shouted carlos’ name now screams ollie’s, crowning him as victor. neverending bottles of wine, cornucopias overfilling with food, and precious jewelery are thrust into his arms from every direction. you know it feels good to be loved by the people. it’s a pity, because you know ultimately, your divine interventions would draw the attention of the three parcae who controlled peoples’ fate. the fate of a gladiator was to die; they always did. it was proven with all the past gladiators you championed-  the brave sebastian, quiet kimi, kind-hearted charles, and now, the resilient carlos. it was all a matter of time before they would take ollie. even worse, the crowd would probably move on just as quickly like they did with carlos. so, for now, you watch as he smiles his dimpled smile and let him bask in the glory of being victorious. 

[sebring5]

IMG_0014 by Henry Via Flickr: Vermillion flycatcher

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs Part 2

Summary: This is part two to Alleyway Affairs!

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 15k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

Six dead. There are six deaths in the past month.

The apples of your cheeks are a wash of watercolor white. The thin scrape of your knuckles hatched in red fissures, curled around the end of a blade. Your pupils narrow in a stencil of black, the shroud of shadows seducing you in, clawing at your bones, imploring you to see,

Compelling you to know.

Your mark is dragging her delicate fingers along the brick walls, legs tangling and feet scrambling over one another in a collage of reckless abandonment. Her name— oh, what does it matter her name? It was something akin to rubies or roses or relics of a time gone by.

She had made her way here to meet her lover. Thinking herself stood up, she became fretfully distraught and furthermore indisposed. Her mirage of expression was soaked in the revelry of liquor. The whiskey stench stuck to her clothes like sweat.

The sight is a slur of pathetic— in a way that makes your skin crawl, and your throat tighten closed. She is a mirror for all you have felt in the past month— and now, in a bout of poetic irony, you will put her out of her misery.

A misery you orchestrated. Yet— you have a choice—

You’re thrust from the shadows satiny palms and come upon her.

A whisking of wind whirls crumbled leaves from the sidewalk to the grey water of the gutter. Your knife, intent with precision, sinks into the carotid artery of her neck.

Her body jerks like a scurrying rat, lurching against the wall. The movement takes you by surprise, as you unsheathe the blade from her throat with a flick of your wrist.

You did not mean to meet her eyes.

Even though you wear a façade of a face, the spell of disguise lingering upon your features, it is as though she knows you. Mouth ajar, eyes brimming with tears. She doesn’t even scream. Instead, she does something far worse.

“D-aniela—”

Oh—

Oh.

You jolt back. She’s delirious. In a bleeding out, drunken stupor. She sees her lover in you.

You are struck ill. Her head lulls back on the brick, body cascading to the floor.

Her hand finds your ankle. She tenses her fingers around it, and gurgles out once more, “Don’t— leave me Da—.”

They never die in this manner. Normally it is quick, painless, quiet.  You crouch down in front of her. Your voice is but a whisper, barely audible over a howl of wind.

“Sleep, my love.”

The woman’s eyelids droop, her limbs pooling into the ground, ceasing their quaking. Her fingers on your ankle are like wilting flower stems, uncurling and falling away.

The sight is grim. The gash in her neck oozes in a thick river of vermillion, spreading into the fabric of her blouse like an ink drop in parchment. The dry pavement will surely be quenched soon. It is quiet once more yet, the vile inside you is a cacophony of violence. You want to scream, yank your hair and sob into yourself yet—

You don’t.

Your hand worms into the pouch tied to your waistband. Inside, you take out a sending stone. You hold it in your palm and speak using your mind.

Twilight, near the ocean, in alley two. Clean up, dispose. No witnesses.

A murmur in your mind, voice like bourbon, smooth and slow.

Sent to you, little Dove. Go fly away now.

You nose scrunches, the moniker enough to make bile bubble up your throat while you place the stone back in your pouch. The heel of your palm massages into your temple as you attempt to steady yourself. Your flesh is taunt and hot, breath coming out in puffs of condensation in the frigid night. Your vision is a greying haze. You feel it coming and you know you can’t let it overtake.

You had thought the panic would subside after the last mark. Seems your subconscious cannot contend with this way of life anymore.

It’ll have to.

A prick of perception trickles up your spine. Someone is watching.

Someone who isn’t involved.

In a flash, you swivel on your heel, blade in hand, cool steel to the stranger's throat as you crowd them into the opposing wall.

Your eyes widen.

This is no stranger.

Astarion, with his stark sharp gaze, with moonlight lilting in the mellow of his downward mouth, wafting in the waves of his white strands. He’s an orchid in bloom.

He swallows, adam’s apple bopping, causing the knife to nicked his pale flesh red.

“We have to stop meeting like this, my dear,” he says with a sly, lopsided smile, his left fang poking out past his lip.

You at once retract your blade, the cut on his neck a dribble of black blood. You sicken at the sight of it, for it is merely a sliver yet…you want to seal it closed, want it healed as impulsively as you caused it.

Your fingers of your left-hand clench. You step back from him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, gravely annoyed, trying to quell your rampant heartbeat, your quickened breath.

Astarion dazzles with pearly whites, a stretch of lips that mean to rile.

“That makes two of us, but alas… here we are,” he replies in jest, yet his tone shifts, as he tilts his head considering you.

You ignore him, as you look anywhere else but him or the gory reminder laying waste behind you. You recall the face you wear. The body you’ve borrowed from the spell.

“How did you know it was me?” you ask, deflecting. The panic should pass, but instead it amplifies. He may not care about the body behind you, but you care. Shame is swallowing you whole— that, and resentment. You don’t need him to see you even lower than he’s already seen you.

“Different face and body, but same voice. Not hard to track you down when you are within earshot of me,” he explains while cupping his pointy ear; intonation heightened as if the answer were so obvious he could not believe you needed to ask. His hand drops, as does his voice.

“Though I’d very much appreciate it if you would stop avoiding me at all costs.”

“And I’d appreciate you choosing someone else to stalk,” you taunt while rolling your eyes, sidestepping him, and pulling your hood over your head. Your oversized cloak envelops you.

“Someone will collect the body soon. Be on your way,” you grumble. Turning your back on him, you make your way to the balcony ladder. It’s a bit of a jump, yet you grip the bottom step, heaving your weight up and beginning to climb. Astarion whisper shouts after you, apparently irked.

“Don’t shoo me away like an alley cat.”

As you climb to the first balcony and take a moment to pause, you note Astarion heeding the chance to follow. He grips the ladder, then hand over hand climbs after you.

Goddamn it.

You crouch down, peering at him.

You mutter with a scowl, “Why? You going to scratch me?”

He reaches the top step, and you backpedal to allow him space. He leverages himself into a stand, hands on either guard rail at your sides. He leans into you with a leer. He murmurs, syrupy sweet, his gaze unwavering from yours.

“Would you rather I bite?”

Before you can reply, you hear a familiar signal. A set of keys jangle in the distance.

You spin on your heel, hastening up the next ladder, until you reach the third level balcony. From here, you scour the wall for ebbed out brick to place your hands and feet. It’s a thing of instinct now, how you path the way in your mind to the rooftop. You start to ascend, only to hear the soft pads of Astarion’s footfalls using your trail as a guide. He does not falter or stumble, grappling into the wall with expertise that makes you tsk.

When you reach the top, you lay flat on the slightly slanted tiles, and motion for him to lie beside you. Thankfully, he does, though much too close. His shoulder presses yours, the coolness of his touch emanating through the wool of your cloak. You resist the impulse to shiver.

You rifle through your pouch, then hand him an invisibility potion.

“Drink. Now,” you mumble.

His coos into the shell of your ear, “always dictating what I do.”

You snap your head at him and level him with a volatile glare. Footsteps from below peddle their way near the ally. Your palm clamps over his mouth.

Astarion pries your fingers from his lips, then drinks the potion quick, a small drip descending the cut of his jaw before the potion takes its effect. You wrench your gaze from him, plucking a spare invisibility potion from your pouch, and gulp it down.

You lie completely back and still. Astarion does the same. You listen as hooded figures below take the body accordingly; however, the inexorable pound of your pulse makes it hard to hear. Astarion tilts his head to the side, the fluff of his feather-like hair a tickle at the top of your head.

You’re just grateful he’s finally being quiet.

It doesn’t take long, yet it feels like an eternity when the faint sounds of the alley settle into silence, and the sins of tonight soon become the cinders of tomorrow.

You let out a sigh. You should head to your room at the inn, but you are overcome with exhaustion. Let alone the predicament of letting Astarion know where you’re currently residing.

You know he wants the wish scroll. Why else would he have been tracking you for the past month? For a Rouge, he was offensively conspicuous.

You cannot see him, but you hear him rising to sit up.

“How many does this make it, now?”

You consider ignoring him but know it would exacerbate the situation further. It’s easier to think in numbers rather than names anyway.

“Seven.”

He lets out an exhale. You think he may complain about the pace of progress. After all, he never understood the concept of planning. However, he doesn’t badger. He stays quiet for a short while.

“I want in,” he says quite simply.

Your eyes widen.

“What?” you reply, dumbfounded.

“I want a part of this… little contract endeavor. You’ve been doing it on my behalf, and I should be part of the process. It is only what makes sense, of course.”

Something inside you stirs. You fume, your nails delving into your palms. You squeeze down whilst biting your inner cheek. You refuse to turn your attention to the… empty space of him., instead locking your gaze onto the caliginous sky. The milky moon wades in clouds. No stars bejewel the fabric of night.

“What makes you think I’m still doing it for you?” you inquire. It is not a deterrent. It is something you have often considered, ever since that night he fed upon you. Emptied you of all you had in all the ways he knew how.

There is an ache blooming in your chest. It is so familiar now; you do not even know what it means to live without it.

A burn behind your eyelids forces you to shut them. Gods. It was easier when you were evading him.

“Are you not doing it for me anymore?”

The consternation cracking in his tone makes you open your eyes once more.

You wish you could see him. You wish you’d know if this was another ploy to trick you, to guilt you. If this was genuine.

You sigh, quiet. Your wrist that marks your blood oath marks your intent to gain his forgiveness, throbs.

Before you can reply, he speaks.

“I’ll help you. I can drain them, make it a..,” he pauses, searching for the words, “easier kill. We can work together, and this process will be over sooner. You can return to your life of heroism,” he rambles on, “you hardly have the stomach for this. I saw it on your face. The anguish. The remorse.”

You know what he’s doing. Yet. Was he wrong? You don’t have the stomach for it— at least not anymore, at least… you hope you don’t.

You lean up from the tiles. Your words wane with an impassive implication. “Drain them. Like you nearly did to me?”

“That was—” he sputters out, and you deepen your nails into your palms.

“The answer is no,” you assert.

To be around him is to be waist-deep in a ceaseless sea. You can’t afford to slip beneath the waters, let him fill your lungs, sink you far below. You’re already struggling to keep your head above the tide in this conversation—

“I need to drink,” he contends, another bout of suasion sure to pour over you, “you have victims. Unless you rather I resort to innocents, that is.”

“Some of them are innocent.”

“And I’m sure that is quite hard for you to admit,” he sardonically maintains.

“Astarion.”

“See! I know it bothers you, so I could alleviate the manner by—”

“Fine. You won’t stop until I agree, so fine. You can drink from them,” you pause, ruminating in a reply, and you know he is sure to be beaming with a sharp smile right now, “but you will have to prove your restraint in your tendency to pester me on every decision like before. If this is going to work, we need to be able to trust each other,” you confess.

It’s a thicket in your throat. How can this even work? Surely, perhaps, you won’t need trust. He’s only here to get something from you, and it’s more vital than that. He doesn’t care about you, anyways. He made sure to prove that didn’t he—

Astarion says your name. It’s not often he ever did.

You unclamp your nails from your palms. The divots broke the skin.

 You turn to him and see that the invisibility potion has run dry. Astarion is contemplating you, with a disheveled gaze and a slanted mouth.

He can see you now. Not the temporary face or body of a spell, as it has worn off, just as your invisibility spell has. No. He sees all of you.

You place your hands palm side down on your thighs.

A current passes through his countenance, a tidal wave of scrunched brow, tensed jaw, flared nostrils. The wrinkle of his brow deepens, and his hand rests to the side of his leg, near to your thigh. His fingers splay a bit, only to retract again.

His voice is quiet, thick with emotion.

“I… that night I…”

You swallow. There is a lilt of unease in his tone. You know it to be the same tone he takes when struggling to be candid. You turn to look out past the rooftops. You shake your head.

You can’t bear to know if he did or didn’t mean to do it. You provoked him into it— anyways. If it had happened, him drinking you dry, would it be anyone else’s fault but yours?

All of this is your fault.

You move your hands into the deep pockets of your cloak.

“It’s inconsequential,” you insist, voice a touch too tender to be taken as aloof. You continue, “If we do this together, you must listen to me. You must be careful and follow my lead.”

“I’m used to following your lead,” he says, not unkind.

You rise to a crouch.

“Then follow my lead right now,” you state with a feigned smile. Your gaze flickers to the edge of the roof, then back to him.

He gradually rises; brows furrowed together. Disapproval douses his speech.

“Tell me you aren’t considering what I think you’re considering.”

“If you really want to do this with me, you’ll have to get over your fear of heights.”

You inhale, prepping to run. There is a butterfly of exhilaration fluttering in your blood.

Before you can break into a sprint, he seizes your wrist.

“If you’re trying to be petty, then I prefer you polite.”  

You lean into his space, and his adam’s apple bobs.

“When have you ever preferred anyone to be polite?”

The corners of his lips perk up. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

You lean in, a chance away from grazing your lips with his. His eyes become hooded beneath his lashes.

You murmur.

“Don’t fall.”

He registers what you have said a moment too late, as his eyes abruptly open, and his tongue nearly commences an onslaught of complaints.

You ignore him, breaking into a run, leaping from the edge of the building, and swiftly landing onto the neighboring roof. The air whooshing through your clothes and your hair, evokes a euphoric sense of impunity. You don’t turn back to see if he follows.

A clumsy landing omits a loud curse.

“Gods above.”

He’s made the jump behind you. When you turn back to him, he’s on his knees, with a palm over his unbeating heart. You stifle a snort behind your hand.

“Oh yes, very funny. Laugh away.”

“I am not laughing,” you insist, despite the smile adorning your features. “Gain enough momentum and remember to bend your knees when you land, old man.”

“Old!” he gasps, utterly offended, and you do laugh this time, before gearing to sprint and leap once more to the next roof.

He says your name again, astounded.

This pattern of trial and error continues as you traverse from rooftop to rooftop, peaking behind your shoulder to make sure Astarion doesn’t indeed fall. Roof running was always your favorite part of your past life. But right now, it is … made a touch sweeter… knowing a grumbling Astarion is following you.

On the last leap before you can return to the sidewalks, you glance back a bit quicker than you had before, and you swear.

You might have even caught a smile on his face while he leapt.

A flicker of warmth burns within you.

Like a secret, you keep it for yourself, choosing to be polite, instead of teasing him for it as he lands near to you.

His grievances bellow out once more. You roll your eyes, take his hand, and guide him down a balcony.

The warmth is permeating to your fingertips. You hope he cannot tell.

☾☼

The sun slumbers, yet you hasten your step. Astarion quickens behind you.

The inn you have been residing in comes into view. You glance sideways at Astarion. His fingers rest over his lips, too preoccupied taking in the look of the place to notice you staring. His gaze swivels to you, and you glance away, feeling for the inner pocket of your cloak. There inside the lining you find a silver band. You slip it onto your ring finger with a stifled sigh.

The city lanterns sway with the wheeze of a cool breeze.

“Let me do the talking,” you state as you move up the entrance stairs. The door swivels open with a whine. If he means to protest, you pay him no mind. You step in. At the counter, a young human woman—Amelia was her name— regards you graciously.

“Welcome! It’s a bit late, but I can help you here—.”

“I need another room,” you interject, resting your arm on the counter, the silver ring adorning your finger glinting in the candlelight. Her eyes immediately dart to it.

She swallows in recognition.

You worry not about her seeing your real face. She’s seen you wear too many a face to state which one is truly yours.

“Oh… but you see…, we are fully booked.”

Great.

The last thing you need is to share a room with Astarion.

Your thoughts must have surfaced on your face. Amelia relents.

“But! You’re in a suite. There’s a partition I can put up for you to ensure your privacy, and to… to best accommodate your…” her attention shifts to behind you, and her porcelain grin cracks, “your…”

“Accomplice,” Astarion states in a deliciously devious declaration.

“Acquaintance,” you retort over him.

You could pity the awkward look on Amelia’s face. You try to lift her crestfallen expression.

“That would work.”

She beams at this and gives a polite bow. She flips over a handmade sign at the front desk that states “away” and nearly trips over herself heading up the stairs.

You can feel Astarion’s stare.

“You can ask when we’re in our room,” you warn.

“Leave it to you to keep me in suspense.”

He leans close to you, a susurration at your ear. “Seems we’ll be sharing a room. Though the divider doesn’t seem entirely necessary.”

You conceal a tremor.

Your eyes flick to him. He smiles wide, all white and toothy, enough to show his fangs. Your heart flutters in your chest, much to your disapproval.

“And wake up with you luring over me? I’d rather take the peace of mind.”

His smile dips into a pout.

“That was one time.”

“One too many.”

“I seem to recall a time you very much enjoyed it.”

You flush.

“I enjoy you watching your tongue, let alone your fangs,” you counter, yet the damage is already done. He’s noticed the color in your cheeks, and now he’s simpering.

As you are about to deny the shade of cerise adorning your features, Amelia’s descending steps cease any response. With a reciprocal look, you and Astarion follow her to your room.

☾☼

As soon as the door closes behind you, Astarion is devouring the details of your luxurious abode. With its lavish velvet upholstery décor, and the balcony lattice windows peeking from behind puddled drapes, it is no doubt that crime pays. He sets forth scrutinizing your trinkets, jewelry, and closet with all the decorum of a cat swiping books from a shelf. The king-sized feather mattress, with its copious blankets, means to summon you, yet across from it, the fireplace awaits being awoken. Dividing the room is the promised partition. Its intricate wood carven spirals and swirls almost make up for the fact that it barely takes up a quarter length of the room.

So much for privacy.

You internally sigh. You will need to change locations eventually, so maybe one night won’t kill you.

You cross the room and within a few moments the enkindled fireplace crackles with a yawn. The flames are vivacious, and you steep in their heat. Your fingers move to undo the knot of your thick ponytail.

You hear a bottle uncorked. You glance over your shoulder; fingers caught in tangles.

Astarion has found the treasure trove of wine bottles in the cabinet above your desk. Tilting it to you in a wordless offering, you shrug. He sloshes the liquid before unceremoniously taking a gulp, his face scrunching as he groans with a trite repugnance.

“Gods, it’s foul.”

He then plops down upon the bed, languishing on top of it with the bottle in hand. You undo the button of your cloak, letting it tumble from your shoulders and into your arms. You fold it neatly, placing it in your armoire. Tension travels up your neck, and you absentmindedly rub at the ache while taking a seat on a lounge chair opposite the balcony window.

“So…”

He sways the bottle, all cavalier.

“How’d a guild ring manage its way on your finger?”

He tilts his head, then the bottle, as if signaling you. You know his ploy, yet you take the wine. You swallow down a dry, bitter, red.

“Circumstances.”

“That’s a touch vague, darling.”

“The details would bore you.”

“Then bore me to your hearts content. Gods know I’ll need something to mull over while immured in this room all the ‘morrow,” Astarion insists, glimpsing between the curtains to find the sliver of a sallow moon, hung low in the trench of night.

“How much do you know about blood oaths?” you say, while swirling the wine in the bottle.

“I’ve heard rumors here and there. Cazador’s cronies made hints at it, but the process was much too precarious for him to take part.”

“Being a vampire, I’m sure anything blood related would be,” you jest, before taking another chug, chasing an indifference that only comes from inebriation. Astarion sits up and meets your eyes.

“Tell me,” he says, “from what I know, you slice open your palm, do a handshake with some uppity, make a little promise and then you’re bound to keep it?”

“Along those lines, yes.”

“What happens if it’s broken?”

Your fingers clench over the bottle, and your eyes dash away from him. You set the wine down on the floor beside you and focus intently on unlacing your boots. You swallow down your hesitation.

“I don’t break promises.”

He looks to you unconvinced.

You know what he’s thinking. The promise he thought you made about his ascension.

“I don’t break oaths. I wouldn’t be here if I’d broken one,” you amend and take off your boots with a sigh of relief.

“Hmm…” Astarion hums listlessly, “so certain death if you fail…” he ascertains.

“It’s not like the Guildhall,” you offer as explanation, “we aren’t widely known to the Lower City. It’s an Upper City operation, and things are a bit more dire.”

“Another blood cult?” he proposes, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed and resting his chin on his knuckle.

“Less religious. More political.”

“And our young friend Wyll doesn’t know?”

“No one knows unless they are in it. Or… in what was Cazador’s case, potential affiliates.”

He gets up. Paces the room. You drink until the wine is gone. That purring haze of intoxication is settling in. He stops before you, hand on his hip. The crease in his brow, the crinkle in his nose, and the tautness in his tone make you sink deeper into the lounge chair.

“And not once, during our treacherous escapade against the mind flayer invasion and potential end of the world scenario, did you mention this to me.”

You answer a touch sheepish.

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“No, that doesn’t make me—” he rattles on, before suddenly pausing. He raises a brow, frown deepening.

“Not even Gale?”

Your brows furrow, and you smile aghast. You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear and shake your head.

“Why in the world would I have told Gale?”

He dismisses the response with a wave of his hand and a sulk.

“Just a thought.”

Astarion with arms crossed leans on the bedframe. The weariness of your bones and light buzz swim inside your chest. A brief quiet sets in.

He barks out a laugh, then contemplates you.

“So, all the things I told you...about my assorted past, and yet… I really don’t know much about you,” he suggests, half humorous, half miserable. His shift in tone is a riptide.

“You do know me,” you refute, stern and swift.

In all the ways that mattered.

To remember was to ache.

You used to fear he could feel all you kept from him in every touch. The callous rough of time. It was tar, stamped on scars made over and over, hidden beneath your clothes. The white knuckling of your beating heart. The room you never left, even after all the molding months, the unyielding years. It stays. You had thought before that it was enough for him to know the good. The worthy. The clean.

But to confess it all felt futile after that night in the alley, when you limped into bed, when you did not recover for a week. Truthfully, you haven’t fully recovered since.

How could you let him see any more of you? Yes. You had betrayed his trust. Yet, he had broken your heart...  

 Feeling yourself overflow, about to pour out, your head drops. You hold it in your hands, reminiscences pitting themselves into you like prickles of thorns in palms.

“Who I was before wasn’t worth knowing,” you confess.

 “Dabbling in a little upper city crime is hardly the most shameful act—” he mocks and then stops short at your appearance. It is distraught. Distant. He knows he’s pushed too far, yet he itches to persist, to rouse the quiet parts of you.

“You’re right,” you say sweeping the bottle from the floor, and standing up.

Approaching him, you meet his eyes, then hand him back the bottle.

“It’s not.”

He doesn’t quarrel.

 You proceed to the curtains, drawing them completely closed. Mutely you gather blankets from the armoire and toss them out on the lounge chair. It’s not ideal, yet you had already decided from the moment you entered the room that Astarion would have the bed. In the armoire, you collect a change of clothes. It is a simple white linen chemise. However, you pause before going behind the partition.

For some reason, getting undressed like this— even behind a divider wall, feels risqué. You wonder if it is merely the liquor that implores you to ask.

“Do you mind if I…” you trail off, and his wayward attention snaps back to you.

He quips with a sneer, holding the empty bottle in his hand, “Don’t be so modest. It’s not as though I haven’t seen everything before.”

You raise a brow, bristling.

“Fine,” you bite back. Choosing not to stand behind the partition, you begin to undo the latch of your waist belt pouch. You drag it off and set it in the armoire, the fuzz of your senses riddling you with the need for retaliation.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

 After a second of delay, you start plucking at the laces of your under-bust corset.

He sets the bottle at his feet and combs a hand through his locks. His voice carries a lilt of strained triviality, and discreet curiosity.

“Who’s our next mark?”

Before you respond, you loosen the knot at the back of your corset with a few tugs, the laces unraveling. His stare unfurls a fever in your blood.

“Cedric Lao. I’ve been tracking him for a few weeks, though I have a feeling his movement doesn’t match his polished routine,” you reply, while unhooking each clasp, one by one, at the front of your corset. You notice his chest rise and fall, as if lulled under the same impulse.

You slide the corset over your stomach and hips, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud. Grasping the bottom of your blouse, you tug it over your head in one fluid swipe to reveal your brassier. You inhale. Your fingers wedge into the waistband of your pants, and you pause.

Like a tempo dripping in indigo, the rhythm of your heartbeat builds. You glance at him. His hand splayed over his plush lips, holding his chin, as he surveys you with low lidded eyes and heavy lashes.

“Dabbling in debauchery then,” he suggests, subdued, yet attempting in vain at appearing aloof.

The syllables are molasses stuck to your teeth. You swallow, then speak.

“It’s more like backroom betting...” you say while pushing at your waistband, slow, sliding it over your hips, “I’ve pinned down a potential location, but the time frame is uncertain.”

The blaze of the fireplace encompasses the room in swells of enticing fervor. His gaze dips and follows your fingers as you glide your waistband further down the expanse of your thighs.

“I plan to go tomorrow evening to comb for clues at his home,” you finish concurrently as the firewood splinters, cracks, and pops. Your pants pool at your ankles.

 Astarion bites the tip of his index finger, traversing every single inch of your exposed skin. You wonder when it was the last time he fed. He is watching you as though he craves to devour you all over again.

You pluck your left bra strap and slink it down the slope of your shoulder. You do the same with the other side.

He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

“A bit of breaking and entering, then?” he queries.

The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, all coy and mischievous.

“Will you be interested in coming?” you ask, then undo the back of your brassier. Before it can fall off, you press it to your breasts, choosing then to sidestep behind the partition. Out of his line of sight you hold your brassier in one hand for his view, then let it plummet to the ground.

“Hmmm…” he hums, and when you discard your panties in the same manner, he nearly chokes. An amused grin finds its way onto his rapt countenance.

He manages an answer with some effort.

“Of course, darling.”

When you step out from behind the partition, you’re adorned in only your chemise. You pick up your clothing articles, putting them away. You are a tad indolent in putting out the candles in the room, eyeing him with each blow. After, you sit on your lounge chair, chin resting on your knees and arms hugging your legs. The fireplace coats the room in a cadence of yellows and shadows swimming over your form. You tilt your head at him.

“Do you think you can really handle it?” you state with a feigned concern, “We won’t want to get caught.”

He huffs out a short laugh, and then gives you a feline smile, all fangs, and pearly teeth.

“We won’t be.”

☾☼

The sinking sun slips its fleeting fingers over serpentine streets. You wade in its waning glow, nimble body fluttering from one rooftop to the next. Before you reach the inn, you settle into a familiar space atop slanted tiles, overlooking the vast blanket of city. The coast of serene salt and collapsing waves whoosh at a far away distance, sparkling in ribbons of sanguine pink and tangerine. Remnants of the recent past speckle your mind in color, and with it comes an ache that mourns the mornings.

You used to hold him most nights.

With your arms wrapped snugly around his chest, your cheek pressed to the raised skin of his scar on his back, your body melded to his.

He had confessed, quiet, sincere.

“I prefer this way, you know,” he murmured, “I can feel your heartbeat against me. It feels as if it is both yours and mine.”

You had placed gentle kisses over the coarse ridges and bends of his scar, once, then twice, then over and over, until he shuttered, until he trembled with the awe of your affection.

Your pulse was a garden of flowers in bloom.

“It is both yours and mine,” you whispered.

The memory tangles with the reality of now.

If he only knew what you were willing to do, and what you had already done, to see him bask in daylight once more.

But would it be enough?

 Would he at least forgive you before he left again?

You drag a palm down your face, then rub your wrist, scanning west of the sea. Far off, copious somber clouds are billowing toward the city.

Eight. This will soon be your eighth kill.

Gods.

Even if he forgives you, will you ever be able to forgive yourself?

☾☼

A whimpering wind weakens your grip on the balcony’s limestone ledge. The impending storm sure to overtake the whole of the city, wails out in aguish. The rain has not come yet, but it will. You heave yourself over, and glance downward at Astarion. Wordlessly, you reach for his hand. He grips your forearm as you leverage him up with a silent wheeze. Sneaking over to the ornate windows, you peak in.

Inside is a sanctum shrouded in the darkness of unuse. Even if the servants are home, they were not permitted in these private quarters.

Your eyes flick to him, and he understands. His hand slides across the small of your back as he passes you. You suppress a shiver as he makes swift work of the lock.

You creep inside with Astarion following close behind. You both survey the sanctum, only to find obscene opulence. On the left are floor to ceiling oak bookshelves brimming with collections of novels and ornaments. On the right, framed oil paintings of the master of the house cover the wall. There are two doors, one perhaps leading to the hallway, and the other you aren’t too sure. In the center of the room is a desk smothered in parchments, feathered pens, a wax seal, and a lone candle stick. A velvet chair sits behind it.

The home is reticent. You light the candle, and it awakens saturations of maroons and gold leaf detail in the furniture.

 “A manor in the upper city, and yet we camped out in the dirt for weeks. I don’t think I can forgive you,” Astarion states in a hushed tone, taking interest in the engravings of the wood shelves, tracing his nimble fingers over the ebb and flow of design.

A hint of playfulness creeps into your whisper, “It’s not as if I could house everyone here, you know.”

“You could have housed me, at the very least.”

“Mmm. A missed opportunity, then,” you say while inspecting the documents atop the desk. You make sure to memorize the order or things before touching them, so that you may put it back accordingly, however, there is nothing of note.

“If I knew we could have been living in the lap of luxury, I would have insisted upon trespassing much sooner,” he responds back.

You try the drawers and find that one of them will not budge. There is a keyhole.

A distant creak stills your hand. Your eyes dart to Astarion opening one of the doors to reveal a closet of long tunics and cloaks. He skims over the silk, admiring the embroidery and embellishments of exquisite stones, lace, and gold trim.

He holds up a sleeve to his arm and glances at you.

“You once spoke of my beauty like poetry. Does this make me seem more enchanting?”  

“Astarion…” you warn, but he tsks.

“No. You’re right.”  

He pulls out one of the cloaks with a flourish and holds it to himself. “This one is more befitting of me. Brings out the crimson of my eyes.”

“It’s a bit gaudy. So yes, quite suitable for you,” you tease, skating your fingers along the underside of the desk. He scoffs in reply, turning his back on you to rifle through the clothes once more.

Your finger bumps into the unmistakable edge of a key. You extract it, and with a pleased smile, unlock the drawer. Inside are open letters sent by the initials TC. You rake over the parchment and find it. A location and a time.

20, Mirtul at the Blushing Mermaid. Midnight.

Shit.

That’s tonight.

Before you close the drawer, an unsent letter catches your eye. The handwriting is different, and ends with the initials CL.

Yes, we can still meet at Sharess’ Caress at the end of Mirtul. Though Theo, perhaps you should be less conspicuous about your frequent visitations---

Your stomach drops at the brothel’s mention.

Theo.

Theo Cordelian, your subsequent mark.

 But you know more than just his name.

Dammit.

You had hoped--

The muffled tap of footsteps echo from outside the room, coming up the stairway. Your eyes widen and meet Astarion’s. Mutely, you place the letters back inside the drawer, lock it, and then put the key beneath the desk once more. Right as you hastily blow out the candle, Astarion yanks at your arm, tucking you into the closet with him and shutting the door with a soft thud.

You find yourself wedged to the wall, Astarion flush to your body. His warm breath gusts over the slope of your neck. You try to be silent as footfalls stop before the sanctum, and the familiar click of a key unlocks the door.

Fuck.

You listen to the movement outside the closet and the stranger steps inside. They light a candle and hum to themselves a whimsical tune.

The flick of book pages turning, one by one, sets a pace for your pulse.

You try to move ever so slight to peer through the crack of the doorway, yet Astarion’s hands clamp down on your hips, hindering your movement with a shaky exhale. You can feel every part of him pressed into you, his lips a feather’s length from brushing over your throat, his chest to your back, his lower half…

Fuck.

You close your eyes tightly, biting your lip.

You can feel all of him like this.

Your breath hitches, your heartbeat an accelerating thump, thump, thump, in your ears. The darkness of your surroundings makes the sensations all the more insurmountable, and impossible to ignore. You attempt to shift, only a susurrus away, yet his lips skim your skin, and the swell of his crotch bumps against your backside.

“Ah,” a barely audible noise leaves your mouth, and immediately Astarion’s hand clasps over your lips.

The flick of pages pauses, if only for a moment, and then continues.

Whoever this person is, they have no intention of leaving any time soon.

Astarion’s fingers clench and unclench over your hip.

You hear him swallow.

Then, his lips are at your throat once more. You flush, color flooding your cheeks, as you know he can feel the pounding of your pulse, the inaudible whimper against his palm. An amalgamation of desire and trepidation stipples up your spine. A salacious shame burns between your thighs, and though you try to alleviate the heat by rubbing them together, it is simply not enough…  

It feels as though an eternity has passed, when a rumbling of thunder tumbles through the room, followed by a sudden shaa of rain pelting the windows.

Astarion nudges into you again, and there you feel it— the undeniable arousal straining against his trousers, the full weight and thick shape of him pressed firmly to you. His uneven breath fans out over your neck once more, and he curses into your skin, the sound a tremulous hum.

“…Shit.”

Yet he does not move, his left hand still clamped down on your hip. His labored breath shares with you secrets you keep yourself, and so, despite yourself, you rest your palm over his knuckles and give it a reassuring squeeze.

Astarion needs not to ask.

He knows.

He rocks against you, his mouth flat to your throat, molding his silent moans to the silk of your skin. Patters of rain dampen the sounds of your shared sin, crackles of thunder rippling through the room. Astarion’s hand finds its way into the front of your pants, wedging beneath your waistband and slipping into your panties, melding his fingers over the curls of your mound. His middle finger dips between your folds, the slick of your cunt causing him to shudder. It shamelessly drips down his fingers.

He rubs torturously slow circles over your clit, then slides the pad of his ring finger along the seam of your sex. His tongue glides over your pulse, lips sucking wisteria blossoms into your flesh, his palm over your mouth concealing your mews and sighs. You feel the sharp tips of his fangs, the mouthing of your name as he sinks his finger into you. He pumps it into you with an agonizingly succulent rhythm of in, out, in, out…

Gods.

You know you should stop… yet it is akin to a monsoon, the sleek stark strike of lightening in your core, the roaring thunder that reverberates in your bones, the scent of petrichor and the taste of fresh rain--

Astarion stills his fingers.

You inhale, quivering all over. You realize the light of the candle has been put out.

The stranger starts to move about the room.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Footsteps halt near the front of the closet.

Neither of you breathe.

Yet, the person stalks off toward the other door, opening it and closing it with a thud. The click of the lock punctuates the air. You listen as they retreat down the stairs.

 The only sounds left are those of the rain and your heart.

We can… go.

You mean to say it aloud, but no such utterance leaves you. Astarion’s lips hover over your ear.

 “I’m thirsty,” he states in a rasp wrought with hunger, “will you let me taste you?”

You freeze.

He cannot mean…

There is no way he would try to…

Yet as the thoughts swarm your mind, Astarion opens the closet door and steps out in front of you. A flash of lightening floods the dark room, and it is then that you realize the true meaning behind is words.

His scarlet irises are thin ringlets encircling the vast bloom of his pupils. His lips are pedals slightly plush and swollen. There are no inklings of humor or mischief upon his countenance.

Your mind goes blank.

You watch as he kneels before you.

Thunder booms in the distance.

It’s not enough to nod.

You have to say it aloud.

“Yes,” you accede, and then his eager hands are at your hips, sliding down your pants and your panties in one swipe. He drags them to your ankles, yanking them over one of your boots. He cannot bear to waste time doing the same for the other leg, so instead he grasps your legs and spreads your thighs. His lips pepper open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh as your hand finds leverage in the coils of his white curls. He drags the pad of his tongue up until his mouth is snuggly placed over your sex.

He is languid.

His tongue swirls over your clit and your arousal leaks down the cut of his jaw. You feel him groan deep in his throat, the vibrations drenching you in molten pleasure. You whine, teeth secured onto your knuckle, your other hand caught in his locks, urging and pleading him closer, nearer, and oh--

He sinks his tongue into the velvet of your sex, plunges it in and out, in and out, like a tide meeting the shore, relentless, endless— and you weep with the overwhelming sensation, as it is too fucking good, and almost too fucking much---

He hums your name like a prayer, his fingers taking the place of his tongue, his tongue finding its way to your clit again.

You know it is coming, can feel the hot haze of fizzles scattering under your skin, speckling your eyes in starry heavens. You glimpse downward at him just as a strike of lightning illuminates the room.

There, you find his eyes are already on you.

Watching. Wanting. Devouring.

And yet, for some foolish, impulsive reason, you want to tell him that you love him.

It is then that your orgasm ripples through you, dazzling, made of both light and sound. He clasps your thighs and doesn’t stop lapping at your cunt until your knees buckle, until you fear you might collapse from the raptures of your high.

When it is over, he wipes his hand over his wet mouth and chin, only to clean his fingers with his tongue.

You rest your weight on one arm, flushing behind your palm.

Fuck.

As he stands you fumble with pulling up your panties and pants, your eyes anywhere but his, but then you see the tension of his trousers, and gods.

You want to make him feel good too.

So bad.

He must read your mind. His hand touches yours.

“We don’t want to be caught,” he reminds you in a tone attempting mischief yet spoken with a lilt of bewilderment, as if he cannot believe what occurred between you either. He swallows.

“And we have Cedric Lao to kill,” he continues, his timbre a touch more composed.

“Yes,” you numbly respond, chest heaving, heart syncopating in your chest, “I know where he’ll be, and when.”

 “Then let us be off,” he says, then takes your hand in his, and leads you to where you first entered.

Gods.

The eighth mark tonight.

Nine more after.

Yet you can only wonder if you will be the one surviving this.

☾☼