#unprompted || passing clouds

[call-me-maggie13]

Beatrice doubts she’s ever been so nervous. Her head is spinning and she fidgets with the bundle in her hands, brown paper crinkling as she tugs softly on the tiny yellow bow wrapped around it.

She hesitates on the front step, considers tossing the bouquet into the bin closest to her and running the opposite direction. This is possibly the worst decision of her entire life. Completely unprompted. She should’ve consulted Shannon.

"Oh." Ava pauses in the doorway, one foot on the stone steps mere inches away from Beatrice. "Were you…"

Beatrice feels her face burn when Ava’s eyes settle on the red tulips in her arms. Eleven red and a single yellow tulip.

Red tulips. A declaration of love.

"Mama, move it!" Diana pushes through Ava’s legs, stumbling into the daylight like a newborn deer, squinting against the sun until her eyes adjust and she recognizes Beatrice, grinning and leaping into her. "Papa!"

Beatrice can’t look away from Ava, she’s analyzing every micro expression that passes over her face. Ava knows what it means. Perhaps Valentine’s Day isn’t the time for this. Beatrice should’ve waited.

"Papa!" Diana yanks on Beatrice’s coattail, pointing to the brown paper bundle in her arms. "What’s it?"

Beatrice forces herself to thaw, heart pounding against her ribs as she swallows it from the back of her throat.

"It’s a gift. For you and… and your mama." Finally, Ava lifts her eyes, cheeks pink and lips parted. Beatrice fumbles over the flowers, trying to find the yellow tulip to tug free for Diana. But she doesn’t look away from Ava.

Beatrice had really hoped to catch them while Diana was still napping so she would have time to process before attending to the little girl. In fact, she probably had arrived while Diana was napping but she’d spent so long doubting herself that Diana had awoken.

Diana takes her flower from Beatrice, inspects it quietly before extending it for Ava to admire.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to declare her love for Ava in the snowy, winter air. She hadn’t meant for it to be a grand gesture. It was meant for Ava alone. For her and Ava.

She’d had a speech prepared for Ava’s tiny entryway, her stained linoleum tiles, her crayon colored walls.

I’m yours. She had wanted to say. For as long as you’ll have me.

Beatrice offers the remaining bouquet to Ava, extending them for Ava to either accept or deny. Waiting for Ava to either accept her or turn her away.

The next second moves impossibly slow. Ava steps toward the tulips, hand reaching to brush their petals before moving away. Beatrice’s heart falls, sinking deep into her stomach. Ava has been considering the best way to reject her. Beatrice has read too deep into their interactions. She’s misinterpreted and ruined everything and -

Oh.

Ava’s lips are soft and warm against hers, tender and tentative. Beatrice’s mind has barely processed what was happening before Ava is pulling away, apologies clouding the minuscule space between them until Beatrice surges forward and they crash together again.

They haven’t kissed since they returned from Christmas. Beatrice isn’t certain why, not a single moment has passed that she hasn’t thought about kissing Ava. The thought had overtaken her, pulsed deep in her veins until she’d had to pull away, little by little, creating a chasm between them. A chasm flowing with anxiety and worry.

She’s not certain what she’d ever fret over before because this might the only thing Beatrice had ever been certain of in her life.

They’re only pulled apart by a high whine from Diana, a cry of boredom and annoyance. Even then, they linger in each other, noses brushing and breath mixing.

Beatrice still hasn’t found the words she’d rehearsed previously, only four she hadn’t considered tumble past her lips into the shared air betwixt them.

"Will you be mine?" The uncertainty lingers only a moment before Ava pulls away to giggle, nodding rapidly and blushing deeply. She flings her arms around Beatrice’s neck and buries her nose there, effectively knocking the flowers from Beatrice’s hand. Beatrice doesn’t much mind.

"I thought I already was."

Find more here!

[literary-motif]

Time Stands Still

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

Warnings: insomnia, talk of guns

Isaac suffers from insomnia.

Your heartfelt chuckle sounded through the bedroom unprompted, the vibrations of your chest reverberating against Isaac’s side. “I just remembered what I dreamed about last night,” you said, smiling to yourself. 

Isaac hummed, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling your unmistakable scent. The comfort you gave him made his heart ache, and he could no longer imagine lying in this bed, living in this house without you by his side. “Oh?” he answered in a breath, curious to hear about your dream.

“Well, I was lying in bed with you, but it was somehow made of clouds,” you answered, tilting your head to look up at him and shooting him a beaming smile, “and we were floating over the city until we somehow reached England. Then we got dinner at the Rizz and took a walk in St. James Park. You fell asleep on my chest on the way back to the States while I looked at the stars.” 

The description of your dream made Isaac smile, but it was accompanied by the hollow feeling that much time would pass until he would be comfortable enough to take you out, let alone to London. Too much could happen. Too many people — enemies he’d made — could rip you away from him in an instant, and he knew he would not survive losing you.

“It’s silly, I know,” you said, nuzzling your face into his neck and peppering kisses along his jaw in the way you knew made him melt. “What did you dream about?” you asked absentmindedly, ready to have Isaac tell you about something absurd, like making a three-course meal out of pickles and uncooked pasta. 

He sighed, unraveling under your lips and allowing himself to relax into your touch. “I don’t remember,” he said honestly, noting your grunt of disapproval. “It’s better that way,” he added under his breath, something about the softness of the moment unwrapping the many layers of secrecy he kept around himself at all times. He had told you he trusted you countless times, but he was still working on showing it to you. 

Isaac’s admission made your ears perk up, halting you mid-kiss for a moment. Patiently, you waited for him to continue.

Taking a deep breath, Isaac fought the instinct to draw up his walls again and tense. He trusted you, he did, but being vulnerable was still a novelty to him and no matter how much he wanted to lay his should bare before you, he could was still not entirely comfortable doing so.

“When I do sleep, my dreams are always nightmares. I don’t remember any other,” he admitted softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he felt you raise your head, undoubtedly looking at him with a compassionate expression, “I’ve grown used to them, so don't start worrying.”

“Look at me,” you whispered, and his eyes flickered down to meet yours. “I’m sorry,” you said, caressing his cheek tenderly and leaning up to place a kiss against his lips. You wanted to comfort him, but were not sure how to go about it as he looked back at you with slight amusement in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he murmured, running his fingers through your hair and scratching slightly against your scalp, knowing how much you liked it. “They don't bother me.” You relaxed against him, sinking deeper into his chest as his gentle touch chased away all the tension in your body.

“This feels nice,” you mumbled, shifting the covers around you to make sure they were wrapped around Isaac as well before closing your eyes, surrendering to the increasing pull of sleep. You were exhausted. The work as a private investigator, while thrilling, was also draining and extremely stressful.

On the edge of sleep, you heard Isaac’s soft voice, whispering into the secure darkness of your shared bedroom, “Now I have you to chase away my nightmares. Good night, I love you.” The brush of his lips on your forehead was the last thing you felt before drifting off to sleep, leaving Isaac behind in the realm of waking.

He couldn’t sleep. Of course he couldn't.

There was never a specific reason for it, he just couldn’t, and it was extremely aggravating to have Asirel take a single glance at the dark shadows beneath his eyes and ‘tsk’ him, commanding him to take better care of himself or else. As if he wasn’t trying to. 

As if he hadn’t tried everything already and then some to fight off whatever spell of wakefulness was put on him as the world around him slept. It wasn’t fair, but he had resigned himself to his fate long ago after one too many times of trying whispered remedies and magic cures that were supposed to work without fail, trust me.

They never did, and he was tired of searching for them, instead keeping his tired eyes open, staring into the darkness surrounding him until the first rays of the golden morning sun illuminated the bedroom, his thoughts going haywire through the silent night. 

After lying in bed for one, two hours, he used to get up and just return to his study to work through the dull paperwork he had put off during the day with the quiet hope that it would bore him enough to fall asleep at his desk late at night. He never managed to fall asleep, but at least he got some work done.

That had become impossible to do since you began sharing his bed, using him as a pillow to keep your own nightmares at bay. You had told him that his presence made you feel safe, that the sound of his heartbeat calmed you down, and that the feeling of his arms around you had a fuzzy feeling settling in your chest, making you feel warm. He did not dare to shift away, nor loosen his secure embrace around you. 

No, you were much too precious for him to let go of.

It did not help that in the dead of night, every strange noise sounded more threatening to his sleep-deprived brain than it would have been during the day. Everything felt like a threat, an imminent attack. Isaac perked up at every little noise come three o’clock in the morning, too tired to keep up the reasoning that his house was safe. He had bulletproof glass, for god’s sake. 

That did not convince him though, and he spent every moment listening, waiting for the tell-tale sound of someone picking the high-security lock or smashing the windows that would halt a bullet in its path, breaking into his home. What would he do?

How fast could the intruders ascend the stairs? How much time would he have to reach for the gun in his bedside drawer? What if he didn’t notice? What if they were just too quiet for him to realize what was going on, understanding only dawning when they swung open the bedroom door? How much time would it take for him to push you away from the path of a flying bullet? He would fail. 

The thought made him shiver, arms tightening around you. Isaac inhaled deeply, counting the seconds before exhaling, hoping that you could not feel his heart hammering almost painfully against his ribcage. Slowly, adamant not to wake you, he reached toward the bedside table, needing to check the security cameras. 

He would spend hours staring at the screen, needing to be certain that there was nobody there, needing to make sure that you were safe with him.

In the morning, you awoke to Isaac’s arms still wrapped around you, the display showing the security cameras resting in his limp hand. You could not help but sigh, placing it back on the bedside table and intertwining your fingers with his instead. 

Not daring to get up, lest you should wake him from the sleep he so rarely got, you settled on gazing at his expression. Isaac’s brows were furrowed, evidence of the nightmare plaguing him, and you traced a feather-light touch across his brow to smooth out his frown. 

Seeing the shadows on his face made your heart ache, wishing he could catch at least a few hours of precious, restful sleep. You shifted slowly, placing a soft kiss under his tired eyes. "I wish I truly could chase away your nightmares," you whispered.

[weekend-whip]

Under what circumstances/what characters would this happen with (I’m a sucker for this thing)

In her youth, Nya's only ever felt comfortable falling asleep in the presence of her brother, especially when huddled under a blanket beside their workshop's hearth. But over time her body grows a tendency to fall weary while studying with Zane, sharing headphones with Cole, stealing a mid-class nap with Antonia, or in the throes of the past, when she and Olivia would spend school afternoons upon the rooftop where the clouds aimlessly drifted by just as their conversations did. Yet she needs no excuse to rest her head upon Jay's shoulder as he works himself into the night, knowing he'll carry her to bed, should he not fall asleep first.

Kai would never be so foolish as to let down his guard so vulnerably—he can't afford to—so it scares him at first when he jolts up from being against Cole as the Bounty lazily sails across the provinces, when he finds himself in Zane's lap as the Nindroid tends to a wound otherwise gone unnoticed, when Jay's got a supportive arm around him as he drags Kai's battle-weary body to safety. It takes months for the ingrained hesitation to chip away, to let his walls down brick by brick, to open up just enough to have his arms wide open when Skylor trips, stumbles, and crashes into his life, seeking a solace of her own.

Cole is the same way, mainly offering a shoulder for others yet rarely seeking a perch for himself—unless that perch is Zane, in which he embraces it readily and easily, until such a comfort is reserved for another. He hates to ask or assume otherwise for anyone else—tries to bury it out of his mind—too afraid of being seen as needy, clingy, constantly wanting that grounding physical contact—until he finds a familiar, comforting hand slipped into his, as it always has been, and something shifts. He falls under the magic of Jesse's presence; he lets go, head supported by the other's shorter stature, and sleeps.

Zane's guard does not drop readily for the sake of slumber—there's a time and place for resting, and alas, the demands of a ninja do not allow for many such moments. He also knows how... uncomfortable it might be to support a metal shell of a soul, or to be supported by such, and thus does not indulge often. It's only at times when his world is torn apart, or it is him that is rendered asunder, that his loved ones will pick his pieces off of concrete, desert, and city streets—and only then does he find himself cradled gently while in the midst of sleep mode.

Jay jokingly calls the others his "Starcatchers", for the only times when he's not sparking around the skies is when he's falling from them in exhaustion. He's no stranger to waking up being carried upon Cole or Zane's backs, or in Nya's arms, or strewn over Kai's shoulders like a sack of potatoes. When he's pushed to the limits of his electrical reserves, he'll keep staggering step after step, and it rarely matters who comes to bottle his lightning–he'll crash right into them unprompted, and pass out regardless.

Trust already does not come easily to Olivia, nor does she give it freely—only to those she deems worthy or have impressed her. Seldom may there be a moment where she isn't seeking opportunity or hitting the pavement anyway, but there's a few wisps of memories—when things were slightly more right in the world—when she spent an afternoon with her best friend out by the sea and found herself serenely at peace, enough to lay sprawled out on a beach using Nya's lap as her personal pillow. Day by day she dreads never being able to feel so free to feel free to do so ever again...but, "never" is a bold sentiment to cling to.

When the world is at its simplest and most predictable is when Jesse's eyelids will start to droop, his body will sink to the side, and he'll plop into the lap of another—as he sits with Miranda indulging in Saturday morning cartoons, as he curls around a bowl of popcorn on Antonia's couch for movie night, as Harumi calls him over to be reminded the world can't be as bad as she believes, as he shamelessly plunges into Cole's arms during another of their countless stolen moments and tells himself for the umpteenth time "Ah, maybe just this once"—and in slumber becomes unshackled from the threads of constant paranoia and anticipation and simply...lets the moment lie.

Lloyd Garmadon only ever finds peace in the presence of the Elements; in the warmth of a campfire, in the vastness of the ocean, in the spectacle of a stormy sky, in the comfort of a blanket of snow, in the foundation of the ground, in the creation of the universe, in the destructive heat death of it all, in the motherly absence of any Element at all, in the eternal churning of amber, in the neutralizing embrace of a crystal, and in the miracles brought upon by life itself, and they all will always welcome him with open arms should he seek solace—he need only ask. He rarely ever does, for energy does not rest; energy does not sleep. And, most certainly, the energy never dies.

Thus, inversely...no one can ever truly rest easy in the presence of Lloyd Garmadon.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Congrats on 2K! Can you do any Doctor in a train station with a letter?

[2K Followers 'Clue' Special]

During the reign of Queen Victoria, British Empire experienced tremendous technological advancement. One might even go as far as to call it an unbelievable advancement. That "one" being the Doctor himself as he, through an unimaginably strange chain of events, received a letter from 1863. The envelope simply lay there one day, under the door to TARDIS as though an actual postman had passed by them.

At first he, naturally, thought it was fake. But the letter was clearly calligraphed with a pen and the post stamp had the right design. Even the paper looked to be around 160 years old. As far as he could tell, and those were great lengths, the letter was genuine. Having no other option but to accept this inexplicable course of events, he decided to read the message thoroughly and take its contents to heart. Especially the compliments and celebrating he only half-believed to be deserving of.

Paddington train station is packed. People rush from platform to platform, hurriedly checking their luggage and documents, and exchanging goodbyes. Some of them frantically walk around and pace, unable to contain the happiness of upcoming reuniting with their loved ones.

No one seems to pay attention to him. He's still unsure whether he's doing the smart thing as he once more checks the time on his pocket watch. They should arrive any minute now.

With a screeching of wheels and an impenetrable cloud of smoke, the train comes to a halt. It's a beautiful showcase of human ingenuity and craftsmanship. The doors to wagons are opening accompanied by creaks. A mob of travellers from York floods the station.

Searching the stampede of a crowd, the Doctor finally notices a young woman. She's dressed no different than other ladies of the 19th century. There's confidence and thrill in her step as she's clearly walking towards him. Without a doubt, this is the author of the mysterious letter.

During the train ride, you kept on wondering what face he'll have. Will you be able to tell him apart from other men? Arriving at Paddington, however, you realize how silly your worry truly was. His strange, unfashionable attire makes it simply impossible to overlook him. Spotting him among the other passengers, you walk in his direction.

"This is yours, I believe." The Doctor offers you the letter as though you had merely lent it to him instead of gifting it.

You do not take up his offer. In fact, you don't even acknowledge the envelope in his hand. A polite yet excited smile appears on your face. "Then you must be him, sir."

"None other," he answers. Understanding your silent refusal, the Doctor puts the letter back in one of the inner pockets of his jacket. "Welcome to London, miss." Unprompted, he takes your luggage and offers you his other arm to walk with him.

You've got a lot of explaining to do...

[moonlightrei]

Cloud of Daggers Chapter 2 - Burning

Chapter 2 is out now - click here to read on AO3!

Relationship: Astarion/Tav (or reader) Tags: Angst, Pining, Post-Canon, Aberrant Mind Sorcerer Tav, minor shadowzel, others to be added Word count: 4.3k

Burning. Your skin was ablaze, the heat licking into every inch of your body, mind and soul. Your blood fizzed, boiling and bubbling, ready to burst out of your veins. You cried out, a raspy, disembodied scream, but it wasn’t your voice. The flames roared in response, your skin melting and twisting until all that remained was ash and crumbled bone.  

You awoke, immediately feeling how your sweat had drenched the bedsheets around you. Another night terror.  

The scorching light that poured through your window told you that you had risen late; Lae’zel would be arriving soon. It seemed the sleeping potion had worked, though you cursed that it didn’t protect you from your violent dreams.  

You stretched your arms out in front of you to shake the sleep from them, half expecting to find them covered in burns and blisters, vile reminders of the torment that had felt so real.  

Dressing quickly, you donned your elven chain and turned to the mirror. The familiar weight was comforting, your body not yet having grown used to a life without the need for armour. The road to the grove was not particularly dangerous, but it was long enough for something to go wrong, and you had learned better than to undertake such a journey with careless planning.  

Three solid raps alerted you to the presence at your door. You grabbed the doorknob and twisted, opening the way to reveal your githyanki friend.  

“No lock?” she mused. “I could have entered and gut you in your sleep. You have grown sloppy.” She smiled, betraying the lack of malice in her words. “Your head would make a fine addition to my collection of battle trophies.”  

“And Shadowheart would have hunted you down and clobbered you,” you said, grabbing your pack and untying the thread which sealed it to complete a final check that you had packed all you would require.  

“I’d like to see her try.” Lae’zel crossed her arms and leant against the wooden doorframe. “She is formidable in battle, but besting me?” She grinned at the idea, baring her teeth. “That is a farce.”  

Satisfied with your inventory, you glanced around your room one final time. Your eyes settled on the drawing of you and Astarion. You rolled it up and slid it into your pack, pulling the thread and tying a tight knot. You were taking it with you to keep Mae and her mother in your prayers, you told yourself, refusing to admit that there could be any other reason.  

The sun beat down on you as you traversed the city, shelter from the hot rays only being provided by the dark shadow that fell over you and your companion as you passed the Szarr palace, its imposing form blotting out all light to the streets below. You yearned to burst into the building and save Astarion from the wretched place as he had wished so desperately for over the last two centuries, only now you knew he would not see you as a saviour.  

“Where’s the egg?” You piped up, searching for a swift distraction. Lae’zel raised an eyebrow at the sudden, utterly unprompted and seemingly random question. “It must be somewhere safe whilst we’re away, I mean,” you stumbled, quickening your pace to get out of the city as rapidly as possible.  

“It’s in safe hands,” she assured you. “Shadowheart has been caring for it. She would make a fine mother, I expect.” Her voice softened a little. “She could heal the hatchling and I could show them the way of battle.” The wistful words tugged the corners of your mouth upward.  

“ Tsk'va , what is this pounding in my chest? It is as if I am in the heat of the fray.”  

“Yet the one you want to conquer is a certain cleric?” you prodded, noting the pink that bled into Lae’zel’s cheeks.  

“Chk.” She increased her pace further, her heavy boots clunking on the ground with purpose.   

A flaming fist stationed at Basilisk gate gave a curt nod as you passed, the sound of Rion training new recruits ringing out from the barracks. The bridge to Rivington was lowered, as was its usual position now. You hurried through the town, stopping only at the crinkle of paper under your feet.  

You peered down at the faded green and red of a poster advertising the Circus of the Last Days. Kicking it away, you cursed that Dryad and her honeyed lies. How ridiculous it was that your heart had fluttered as she gushed about your deep bond and your future together. How you had stared, utterly enamoured, at Astarion, at the delicate curls of his pale hair around his ears, his fanged grin at the answers you gave. He had been so alive, witty and hopeful. Your skin craved the incongruent sunshine he had emitted, a light you would stand in until it burned you to cinders if that was the price of experiencing it once more.  

“Now is not the time to be snivelling over that loathly clown,” chided Lae’zel. It mattered not if she thought you were mourning the loss of Dribbles or if she knew you well enough by now to see right through you, her words were sage. Wallowing would change nothing.  

Your small party continued on its way, covering ground efficiently. The surface of the earth beneath you crumbled slightly with each step, the dirt thoroughly dried out from the beating sun. Mercifully, no breeze threatened to carry dust into your eyes, an irritation you were glad to avoid.   

Lush greenery surrounded the well-trodden paths as the city was a speck in the distance. The once shadow-cursed lands, still practically abandoned, had been overcome with flourishing vegetation, a fine replacement for the vile blackened tendrils that had previously grown there.  

Perhaps once Baldur’s Gate was fixed up, you would set your sights on this place, you mused. The newly fertile land could support a vibrant community of people. You imagined a thriving society, tight-knit and kind. Bustling, but not noisy like the city. A place without the ostentatious commemorations of your achievements, without that dreadful palace looming above.   

A quaint little house of stone brick, a solid oak door adorned with a heavy brass knocker for your loved ones to use when they visited you. Flowers strung from the ceiling with twine to dry out for potions and decoration, a toasty fire to cast a warm glow throughout your abode and a soft bed, your love reclined upon it, just as he was the last time you travelled through here, gazing at you with adoration etched across his face. The fire would crackle as you undressed and joined him, the flames’ flickering reflected in his eyes as you inched towards him, warm skin against his cool pallor. A content sigh would escape you as your lips touched, a gentle graze giving way to something more urgent, his hands coming to rest at your waist, pulling you ever closer.  

You almost walked straight into Lae’zel’s back, wrapped up in imagination as you were. She had come to an abrupt halt, holding one finger in the air in a wordless instruction to be still and silent. Muscles tensed and you strained your ears to hear something, anything, searching for a sign of what had roused your travelling companion.  

She unsheathed her silver sword soundlessly, assuming her battle stance and taking careful, calculated steps. The familiar simmering of magic fizzed at your fingertips, ready to rupture from you at a moment’s notice.   

“Fer Maglubiyet!” The screech rang out through the hush, and a pack of goblins poured into view, charging with axes and scimitars raised high, faces warped into dangerous snarls.  

“ Ignis !” you yelled, your heart thumping in your chest as adrenaline coursed through you. Flames erupted from your fingers and your target screamed and crashed to the ground, convulsing, his burning flesh pungent.  

Lae’zel swung her sword with a cry, cutting effortlessly through the air and into multiple enemies, dispatching of them swiftly. She sliced through another, bringing her elbow back sharply to stun a goblin that dared attempt to race past her, his black eyes fixed on you.  

Few foes remained, the death rattles of those already felled the music to which the others danced, trying in vain to strike Lae’zel, leaving her with nothing more than slight bruises beneath her heavy armour. Your breaths steadied as you resolved that there was little hazard present and cantrips would continue to suffice.  

A frenzied dagger sailed from a goblin’s claws seconds before his foul hand was cut from his body, the appendage landing in the dirt with a sickening thud as the cruel blade buried itself in your shin.  

A pained yelp escaped you, greater flames exploding from you in retaliation, your judgement momentarily clouded by the sting of cold metal in flesh. “ Ardē !”  

The ball of fire impacted with a roar, the blazing inferno desecrating all in its path, sparing Lae’zel only as she leapt from its trajectory. You panted, your head beginning to spin. A heavy thump alerted you to the fact that your knees had buckled, and you placed your palms in the dust to steady yourself. Lae’zel was at your side in a flash, yanking the dagger out and holding your leg still as you reflexively went to scramble away.  

She grabbed one of your hands and thrust it to the wound, ordering you to keep it there whilst she slung her pack from her back and opened it, extracting bandages and her waterskin. She pulled the cork from her bottle and removed your hand, pouring some fluid over the wound to rid it of the dirt you had pressed into it before wrapping a ligature tightly around your leg.   

“Your pack,” she prompted. You shakily removed the bag and handed it to her. Its stopper discarded, she held a potion of healing up to your lips. The liquid slipped down your throat with ease, instantly comforting as a warmth spread through your body, alleviating the pain.  

“We’ll rest here for a moment,” Lae’zel said, picking through the goblins to see if they had anything of use. You repacked the items that she had hastily pulled from your bag, shaking the filth off of the precious paper you carried and tucking it safely away.   

You unwrapped a portion of your rations and began to eat, dried meat preserved in salt quelling the hunger that had blossomed once you’d calmed from your altercation. Satisfied with her inspection of the corpses, Lae’zel joined you.  

“Their rallying cry was to Maglubiyet,” you said idly. “Almost nice, hearing them praise their own god.” You swallowed the last bite of your food, rolling up the wrapping and putting it away. “The Absolute is truly gone.”  

“Have you suffered a knock to the head?” queried Lae’zel. “The Absolute was no more from the moment we destroyed it. A most valiant victory.” You chuckled.  

“I do miss travelling with you, you know?”  

“Of course you do,” the warrior nodded. “I am a formidable ally.” She smiled. “Or did you mean my famous charm?”   

“All of it,” you replied, heaving yourself up and gingerly testing your leg. “You seem to have me well on the way to healed, too. Perhaps you don’t need Shadowheart’s aid when the egg hatches, or was there possibly another reason you seek her out?”  

“Don’t make me regret helping you,” she said with narrowed eyes, though the absence of malevolence was again quickly betrayed as she picked up not just her pack but yours too, swinging both onto her back as to not burden you. “Come, there is only so much daylight remaining.” You scurried to follow as she marched away.   

“ Lae’zel -” you sang, elongating the sounds of her name. “I’ll just keep on pestering you, you know how stubborn I can be.” She continued staring straight ahead, taking such broad strides that you had to skip to keep up. “So, do you think you love her?”  

“Argh, k'chakhi ! Cease your babbling.” The tips of her ears had reddened.   

“Come now, Lae’zel, that’s no way to speak to your dear friend,” you lilted. “Especially one in such an infirmed state as I.” You held the back of your hand to your forehead dramatically. “Surely, I may be close to the brink of death, and to think that I would pass on with our last interaction being so-”  

“Fine,” she growled, cutting you off abruptly as she had reached her limit of your incessant prattling. “The half elf makes my chest tighten, my body hunger only for her. When I turned from Vlaakith I vowed I’d never bow to a deity again.” She stopped walking and turned to make eye contact, her voice hushing to little more than a whisper. “But she would be my new goddess, if only she would accept my worship.” She looked to the ground for a second, then continued on her way.  

“I would devote myself entirely to her, kneel at her feet and offer her my blade. I am free from the lich queen, free to be my own being, yet I yearn to serve her. I had thought this pebble you call Toril to be bland and accommodate no end of displeasing creatures.” She sighed. “That is still true to an extent, but Shadowheart is beautiful. She is the astral sea, glowing and threaded with silver. She is the first blood spilled in battle, the striking crimson and pulse-quickening scent. I read every vital tir’su text during my education in Crèche K'liir , and none described anything as resplendent as her. Nor did they make any mention of this feeling. I have never met a gith who knew of this love you speak of. Yet, I cannot be the only githyanki to experience this obsession. This fluttering of the stomach, occupation of the mind.” She shook her head. “Perhaps I was never meant for Vlaakith’s vision of my people.”  

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you challenged.  

“Chk. You know as well as I that these matters of the heart can be a weakness, a dagger in your side. A tragic pair we are.”  

The sun hung heavy in the sky as you neared the Risen Road.  

“You grow weary. Let us make camp,” said Lae’zel. She set down the bags and began gathering kindling as you arranged some rocks to contain the campfire. She stacked the wood then sat back for you to light the fire with a cantrip.  

You untied your bandage and cleaned your wound again, inspecting it carefully. The healing potion had knitted the flesh together, leaving only a slight raw slash where the knife had entered – with rest you were certain it would heal nicely.  

The streaks of colour drained from the sky and stars glimmered up above. It had been too long since you had sat under them. You ate your fill then lay back on your bedroll.  

With your gaze and your mind focused only on the stars, you considered if Shadowheart might have been correct. Perhaps sleeping under the night sky once more was what you needed to truly rest. You felt calm. Detached.  

You were roused suddenly from your serenity as Lae’zel shot up, her eyes fixed on something in the darkness that you couldn’t quite make out. Your pulse quickened as she retrieved a small blade and approached her target, your fingertips buzzing anew.  

She knelt to the ground, and you felt your brow furrow in confusion. The sound of easy slicing through a stem reached your pointed ears and she returned, holding a night orchid.  

“A most bewitching bloom,” she mused.   

“For Shadowheart?” you asked, already knowing the answer. Lae’zel nodded.  

“I shall have one of the druids see to it that it survives our journey back.”  

The tender gesture made you smile, though as you relaxed once more you couldn’t help but wonder which plant Astarion might enjoy as a gift. You remembered well the warm scent of bergamot that clung to him, how it had embraced you on a bitter night after he had seen you shivering and insisted you layer up with his shirt, the citrus intertwining with your own scent to create a shared fragrance that felt like home. How you yearned to envelope yourself in that aroma, to bury yourself in that coupling and shut the complications of your relationship out, to bask only in the mixture of your essences on the most rudimentary physical level. You would drown yourself in it, let it fill your lungs until they burst, if only it would bring a moment of feeling as you did then, so close to him and so loved.  

Imagining yourself choking on that sweet poison was hardly a lullaby. You swigged your half dose of sleeping potion and settled down, briefly envisioning that the sensation of being wrapped in warmth was because your beloved was there, rather than just the magic taking hold.  

Birdsong awoke you, the tuneful twittering a welcome reprieve from the horrors that met you when you slept. Lae’zel was already up, packing away her bedroll. You followed suit and shared rations before setting off again.   

The familiar sight of the grove edged into view, the rampart covered in vines as it always had been, but lacking the addition of tieflings upon it as had been the case when you first came across the dwelling.  

As the two of you approached the entrance, the great wooden door rose to allow you in. Kagha met you a little way up the path, placing her arm against her chest as she greeted you.  

“Silvanus keep you, child. What brings you back to us?” Her abandonment of the shadow druids and renewed devotion to true druidic ideals appeared to have been maintained.   

“Is Halsin around?” The last you had heard he had elected to go back to the grove to complete some business there before setting his sights on the land that Thaniel kept.  

“Master Halsin busies himself at the site of the nautiloid crash, working on returning the area to its natural state. You are more than welcome to remain here until he returns for the day.”  

“Thank you,” you replied. “I think we will go out to meet him. There’s a place nearby that I’d like to visit whilst I’m here.”  

Kagha bowed her head in acknowledgement, the loose sections of her auburn hair swinging with her movement.  

You headed south with purpose, making a beeline for the dilapidated temple you had explored long ago with uneasy new allies by your side.   

Hinges wailed as you pushed the ancient door ajar, a thick layer of dust swirling up into the stagnant air as your boots disturbed it. You cast a light spell on Lae’zel’s armour so she could see, and paced gingerly though the crypt, careful not to set off any traps you may not have disarmed previously.  

The sarcophagus stood exactly as before, cold and imposing. You brushed your fingertips over the edge of the smooth stone, and it jolted, making you jump slightly despite your expectance that it would happen. You took a step back, making room for the familiar undead that lifted from the tomb, hovering momentarily before meeting the ground.  

“And so thou returneth, as he vowed thou would.” Withers stared at you, his gaze boring through your soul despite his never changing expression.  

“Withers,” you greeted him with a smile. “it’s been too long.”  

He said nothing, continuing only to look at you expectantly. You shifted nervously, flicking your eyes to Lae’zel as you tried to put together the words you sought to speak.  

“The last time I felt lost beyond recognition you put me on the right path. Any advice for an old friend?”  

“Thy path was thy own,” he uttered. “Thy wheel of fate spins still, I can do little to change its course.”   

“Still, any words of wisdom?”   

Withers considered your request steadily.  

“Very well. I asked thee a question before and so I ask thee again.” His voice reverberated through your chest. “What use dost an empty vessel possess?” Your blood ran cold. “He hast eschewed becoming illithid, that may be, yet so it comes to pass that he hast not escaped the fate of a soulless being.”   

You stood in silence, turning over his words in your head as your stomach flipped in time.   

“Thou knowest of whom I speak,” he asserted. “And on this occasion, cleaving soul to body is beyond my abilities.”  

“Astarion,” you whispered. Withers bowed his head in affirmation.   

“And thou,” he turned to Lae’zel. “Thou seek thy bosom-companion, yet walkest alone.”  

“You are wrong, skeleton,” she spat. “Presently, I seek a blade to hold to your throat.”  

Withers looked almost amused.  

“Come, Lae’zel,” you said dejectedly. “Let us be on our way to Halsin.”   

“Friends,” Withers’ voice echoed as you took your leave. “There shall be a time yet when thou will hast need for my services. I shall remain here until such time comes to pass.”  

You swept away the tear that had spilled from one of your eyes, dampening the back of your hand.   

“Until then,” you croaked.  

Daylight blinded you as you exited the mausoleum, the heat of the outside world a welcome return from the chill of the undercroft.  

A breeze carried the stench of rot. The festering remains of the nautiloid lay sprawled over the surrounding area, a blight on the wilderness.  

Approaching the vile carcass, you spotted a tall elf, magic bursting from his hands to purify the purple flesh. Halsin.  

Hearing your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder.  

“My friends,” he exclaimed. “One moment, please.” Satisfied with his cleansing of the section he was working on, he flattened his palms above the tissue. The earth beneath the tentacles raised and roiled, blending the materials together. He raised his arms to the sky and plants erupted from the ground in reflection. The bright swirl of magic popped up throughout the landscape, a sign that Halsin was not alone in his mission.  

“The source of decay becomes a compost to feed the earth. The worms will have their fill.” He faced you and your companion. “Though forgive me, friends, if talk of worms is still of discomfort to you. It brings me great pleasure to see your faces again.”  

“It seems the wilderness will be better off without the remains of our hardship here. You are doing fine work.” You clasped the elf’s outstretched hand in salutation.  

“I am one of many,” he replied. “Now tell me, what brought you here?”  

You told him of Senta and Mae, and of the countless hungry mouths in the city that needed a druid’s touch for abundant produce.  

“If you require the services of a member of the grove, it is Francesca you need to talk to; I am first druid no more. However, I would be more than willing to undertake this task, if you’ll have me. With Francesca’s sound leadership, I am not needed here.”  

“Are you certain?” you asked. “You weren’t overly keen on the city.”  

“The city may give me a headache, but the heartache of allowing the needy to starve would be much more of a burden to bear. Let us make haste.”  

He accompanied you back to the grove and gathered his belongings, informing a dark-haired elf of his plan. Francesca, you assumed.  

The druids offered you a place to sleep for the night, but there were still many daylight hours remaining and the hungry of Baldur’s Gate could not wait, so you declined politely.  

Your party of three travelled quickly back along the path to the city, Halsin in high spirits at the prospect of sleeping in the wilds.  

“I don’t suppose you came across Thaniel and Oliver on your way here, did you?” he queried.  

“We cut down some goblins,” said Lae’zel. “But no children.”  

It was soon time to camp again, the orange glow of the setting sun spilling lazily through the gaps in the shrubbery.  

Woodsmoke billowed from the campfire and you held a skewer of small vegetables the druids had gifted you over the heat. The crackling of flames filled the quiet, interrupted only as Lae’zel cleared her throat.  

“Druid,” she began, then halted, reconsidering her diction. “Halsin.”  

“I am listening,” came the reply.  

She opened her pack, producing the flower she had picked.  

“I understand you can keep beheaded plants fresh.”  

“Ah, a token as part of your mating ritual, is it?”  

Pink crept into Lae’zel’s cheeks as her grip on the blossom tightened. She thrust it toward him, turning her face away with a scowl.  

“Yes.”  

Halsin smiled and reached out to the bloom, viridian light rippling gently around his outstretched fingers. Dark petals glimmered, instantly renewed.  

“It is done.”  

You reclined on your bedroll once more, the moss beneath you making for a comfortable bed. You slid a ring off your index finger, rolling it aimlessly in your hands, the metal reflecting jittering flames.  

You might have stared at the rotation of the jewellery for an hour, or maybe two. The hushed voice of Halsin conversing with Thaniel and Oliver carried over to you. He was being mindful not to disturb your rest, though your eyes had not grown heavy. You slid the ring back into place and turned onto your side, fixated on the fire itself. Fragments of your nightmares seeped into your mind. The flames had devoured you whole yet here you were, untouched and smooth-skinned as ever. You urged to stretch out your fingers into the blaze, to see if this too was false. How could a vision that had appeared as real as your current view leave you unharmed? Perhaps you lacked the ability to sleep because you were already dreaming.  

You sat up to down your sleeping draught, then rolled onto your other side, your back to the fire. Entertaining such thoughts was fruitless. You set your eyes on the dancing shadows cast from your body as the light flickered, creating a charming show for you to watch until your lids fell shut.

[slothquisitor]

Contrivance

Look fam, I never wrote bite night. And you know what? That needed to be remedied. Astarion wonders if Cazador's commandments still hold weight now that he's tadpoled, so he tests that theory. Astarion x Liv, pre-relationship angst and shenanigans. TW: blood. 4.5k.

Also on AO3.

It’s been three days since Astarion awoke unharmed in the blazing sun, and he still hasn’t seen a single sign of Cazador. He fully expected the vampire lord to show up in their shabbily constructed camp that first night, ready to flay him for failing to return home, for being able to walk in the sun. He spent the first two nights sleeplessly listening for any sign, any sound that might be his old master come to call. He tossed between memory and waking nightmares, all the while plagued by the ever-present hunger for blood. It’s a feeling he’s used to, and his mind used to pass over it, use to not categorize it as a concern, but it’s getting more and more difficult to ignore.

He has been hungrier than he is right now, but the long days of walking and fighting seem to sap all of his energy, all of his patience. Gale, the bombastic and longwinded wizard cheerily cooks meals with their meager rations, and Astarion hasn’t ever eaten a bite. His traveling companions have probably assumed that he’s turning up his nose at the fare out of snobbishness. 

As long as it keeps them from discovering the truth, he’s fine with that. 

But on the third night, his mind is clouded with hunger, with need. So, he sneaks away from camp, checking over his shoulder all the while. He feels slow, sluggish, and utterly careless in ways he doesn’t usually allow. He stalks through the underbrush, searching for prey, but always, always sure he’s being watched. 

He catches a rabbit first, snaps its neck and drains the small creature dry as quickly as he can. The rabbit’s fur is dirty, he can feel the grit in his mouth, but at least this meal is soft, at least it is alive. The blood is warm and fresh, and that alone is a luxury he hasn’t often had. When he is finished, he swiftly discards the body, tossing it away into a bush where it lands with a flat thump, as if he could hide the evidence. He runs then, hurrying away from that place, as if the distance will give him plausible deniability. 

Because he is waiting for the consequences to fall. They always do. He waits for Cazador’s ire, for lashes on his back. He has eaten without permission, he has drained a creature dry. Cazador must know; he always knows. If the punishment doesn’t come now, it will come later. This much he is sure of.

But as he kneels in a dirty clearing, alone in a dark forest, there is…nothing. Nothing but indifferent moonlight and the sound of the nearby river. There are no glowing red eyes searching him out in the darkness, no stinging compulsions. Maybe…just maybe…he’s free? Or free enough, anyway. As long as he doesn’t sprout tentacles. But it hasn’t happened yet, and…well, he might as well make the most of the time he has. 

He drains two more rabbits and a boar. It is an absolute glut of blood, more than he has ever had at one time. He feels pleasantly drunk, more than a little off balance. And there was no one telling him he couldn’t, stopping him from taking what he wanted. It’s incredible. He sneaks back into camp, into his tent, and as he finally closes his eyes to rest, he realizes that for the first time in two hundred years, that ever-present hunger, the ache behind his teeth, is gone.

His new companions are much easier to put up with now that he’s not constantly distracted by his hunger. It allows him to observe so much better. The famed Blade of Frontiers is more ridiculous than he imagined, and quick to empathize with the very person his patron had asked him to kill. Karlach is not only loud but far too friendly for his liking. She’s the first to ask questions, to tell stories, but if he asks her the best way to kill certain types of demons, she’ll ramble on unprompted, leaving him alone. The cleric is entertaining, at least, but that’s more despite herself than because she actually is. Besides, every time he and Shadowheart appear to agree on something she looks distinctly troubled. It fills him with an odd amount of glee. And then there’s Lae’zel, who is terrified of. Obviously. 

Truthfully, beyond the tadpoles in their heads, their group has little in common. Except that they all seem content to follow around their de facto leader, Liv. She’s not exactly leadership material; she’s soft-spoken and seems a little too invested in everyone getting along. But Shadowheart was already deferring to her when they’d met on the beach, so he’d followed suit, just like everyone else. He has no desire to be in charge of this little band of misfits anyway. No, he is more than content sitting back and watching what happens. This group seems to be his best chance of survival for now, but the second he sees his odds could improve with literally anyone else, he’ll abandon them. 

Besides, everyone in their little group is rather hellsbent on getting rid of this tadpole, and while he has no desire to turn into a mind flayer, the tadpole is the one thing that’s made his life better in the last two hundred years. He’d rather not get rid of it just yet. Especially when he hasn’t yet figured out the full potential of what he can do now. 

Oh, he can walk in the sun, pass over thresholds of homes, and even cross through running water, but do Cazador’s compulsions and commandments still hold? He has been chafing at his bonds for two hundred years with so little to show for it, but now, finally, he has some semblance of freedom, and yet, he doesn’t know just how free he actually is. But he’s itching to find out. 

Cazador had many commandments, but this was the first: thou shalt not drink the blood of a thinking creature. For years, Astarion has told himself that blood is blood, surely it doesn’t matter the source. And that was all fine and well when he didn’t have any other options but whatever animals and bugs Cazador allowed, but now? Well, now perhaps he should see just how free this little tadpole has made him. 

The idea hits him as they trek through the hills toward an abandoned village that’s likely overrun by goblins. He is traveling with several thinking creatures…and it would be oh-so-easy to drink from one of them during the night. They might not even notice. 

But who to pick? He’s sure that Gale will taste exquisite, like a fine aged wine. Wyll would also be delectable, all that righteousness bottled right up. Karlach is a no-go though, since she’s literally on fire. Shadowheart is a cleric, and it seems likely that she’d kill him for trying. Lae’zel is far too scary, though he’s very curious what she might taste like anyway. And then there’s Liv. 

Boring, nice, polite, Liv. 

Astarion has learned very little from their would-be leader so far. Somehow even when he’s eavesdropping on her conversations with the others, she avoids saying much about herself. She’s quite skilled at deflection, at dancing away from questions about herself. She’s from Baldur’s Gate, that much she’s said. Her accent is Upper City, so she’s from the wealthier part of town, though he hasn’t gotten a last name. Which could mean she’s trying to keep her connections, or lack thereof a secret. 

He doesn’t exactly care. He’s mostly trying to keep an eye out for knives in the back, and Liv seems too busy sneaking off to retch after every fight to be someone he should be afraid of. 

And that’s why he ultimately settles on her as his first target. Her kindness makes her weak, but he also knows she’ll do just about anything to avoid a fight. Maybe he’ll get a chance at the others some other time, besides, one doesn’t imbibe for the very first time on an expensive vintage, that’s something to be worked up to.  

He nearly abandons the whole idea when their little group finds the boar he’d killed and drained last night. It had been sloppy, leaving it out in the open, where their group could just stumble across it. Liv’s inquisitive nature means that she asks a lot of questions, and he makes some deflections about there being a vampire on the loose. He’s just grateful that Wyll’s not with them this morning, but then they move on, and Astarion resolves to be more careful in future.

But as the day drags on, his impatience and curiosity win out against any caution he might have exercised. He is desperate to find out if can break this little commandment because if he can break this one…then he really is free. And if he’s free, then Cazador can’t control him. And if Cazador can’t control him…he’s getting ahead of himself. 

He reads a book by the fire while he waits, only half paying attention to the words on the page while he observes everyone in camp. Tenuous friendships are forming, still stilted and awkward, but present nonetheless. He notices that he and Lae’zel are the only ones not sought out over the course of the evening. Not that he cares of course, he doesn’t want friendships with these people, just their protection. 

Finally, everyone retreats to their respective tents and Gale is on first watch, doing the rounds. Astarion deposits his book back at his own tent and then waits for Gale to drift to the far side of camp. He sneaks toward Liv’s tent, sure that Gale hasn’t seen him, but feeling watched all the same. Cazador couldn’t possibly know his plan, couldn’t possibly still have control of him, could he? Once he drinks Liv’s blood he’ll know for sure at least. He pads silently across her little threshold, closing the tent flaps behind him. 

She is curled up on her side, her perfectly delectable neck bared and waiting. Her dark brown hair pools her, and a threadbare blanket hangs off her shoulder. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, he’s practically salivating as he bends over her, inching closer to her neck. He can hear the strong, steady beat of her heart, pulsing in the darkness. The rhythmic beat drowns out everything else around him. He’s a breath away from closing his lips around her neck when she jerks awake with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene: him bent over her, fangs bared, caught proverbially red-handed. 

“...Shit.” 

She scrambles away from him. “What in the hells are you doing?” 

“No, no - it’s not what it looks like, I swear! I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed - well, blood,” he says, words quick, running together as he retreats to the far side of her tent, putting as much distance between them as possible. 

He watches her put the pieces together, the realization burning in her eyes. “You - you’re a vampire. Of course! No wonder you didn’t want me investigating that damn boar.”

He’s losing the run of this conversation. He hadn’t really considered what would happen if he was caught…only that she was least likely to kill him. “It’s not what you think - I’m not some monster!” 

She gives him a hard look. “Waking up to you leaning over me with your fangs bared is going a long way in convincing me otherwise.”

He decides to ignore the sarcastic jab, though it might be the first time she’s ever been sarcastic with him. She’s suddenly a little more interesting. “Listen, I feed on boars, deer, kobolds - whatever I can get. I’m just too slow right now, too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” It’s not quite the truth, but it is contiguous to it. As he speaks, he watches the anger and surprise fade from her face, instead replaced with disbelief. 

Things could be going worse, he supposes. What would appeal to her at this moment? How can he get her on his side? It hits him then, like a lightning flash. He doesn’t know her well, but he does know that she can’t seem to turn down anyone who asks for help. So that’s exactly what he does.

 “ Please .” He infuses the word with as much genuine need as he can. 

Unbidden, their tadpole connection awakens. He’s not sure what she’s getting from him, but for a moment he senses a bone-deep need, bordering on desperation. She wants so badly to have something to offer, a way to be useful, to be needed . There is an undercurrent of fear within that need, but he would have to probe deeper to find out the why. And he is tempted, but but he doesn’t really care, actually. She wants to help. He can work with that. 

Still, these feelings transmitted across their connection make him pause. They are so at odds with the impassive, utterly unflappable facade she has turned toward all of them. For a moment he’s not sure that the feelings are really hers at all. 

She shakes her head with a grimace, the connection fading. “You could have just told me.”

Right, talking . He’s sure she would have loved to have a whole heart-to-heart about this. He rolls his eyes. “At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely you’d ram a stake through my ribs.” That’s unlikely, he’s seen her do many things with her magic, but she doesn’t seem vaguely capable of stabbing anyone. That’s why he’s here. “No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

She’s the trusting sort, anyway. She’s rather devoted to optimism, to looking for the best in their situation. He can see that she’s warring with herself, trying to be skeptical, to be cautious, but it’s against her nature. It takes almost no time at all for her to reply. “I do trust you.”

Good. Now he just needs her to agree to help him, so that he can finally know if he is free. “Thank you. Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.”

She stares at him and the moment catches, snags on this little request. He’s pushed her too far. She’s clever and observant, and he’s almost sure that she can see through this mild deception. He’s already resigning himself to hunting down some of the local wildlife, perhaps now that she knows what he is he can simply drain a cultist or bandit or - 

“Fine, but not a drop more than you need.”

“Really? I -” The agreement surprises him, and for a moment he’s rather speechless before he gets a handle back on himself. “Of course, not one drop more. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?” He lowers his voice a bit, she’s agreed and he’s back in control. He gestures for her to lay back down, and she reluctantly does, eyes locked on him the whole time. 

There’s something strangely intimate about this arrangement as if her awareness of him has somehow heightened the moment. His own excitement is palpable, feels like it might burst right out of him. It’s time to find out just how free of Cazador he really is.

He moves slowly, deliberately, more confidently this time, and then he strikes, sinking his teeth into her neck. She might have gasped, but he’s not sure because at the first bright bloom of blood on his tongue, he is lost. Until a few days ago, he had not been sated, not once in two hundred years, but he didn’t realize quite how much he was starving until this moment. He drinks deeply, desperate for more, more, more. His hand is in her hair, clinging to her as if he is a man drowning, and perhaps he is. No wonder Cazador forbade this, the blood of a thinking creature is more incredible than he ever imagined. 

Distantly, he realizes he should probably stop before he drains her dry, but every swallow of blood is too powerful. Gods, he never wants this to end. 

Suddenly, her hand is on his shoulder, shoving him away, and at the unexpected contact, he is wrenched back into himself. He releases her immediately, dropping her gracelessly back onto her bedroll as he pulls away. The euphoria makes him lightheaded, and he sucks down breaths he doesn’t need on instinct alone. “That…that was amazing,” he manages, pressing a finger to catch the blood dripping down his chin, he licks it off without a thought, savoring every drop. He closes his eyes and straightens with a sigh. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…happy.” 

Liv looks a little pale, and a little alarmed. Has she realized how little control he really had? He hopes not. He confidently meets her gaze, until she looks away, reaching for her neck. Her fingers come away shining with blood. She stares at them a moment before wiping them off on her blanket, the concern fading to something impassive. “I guess all we need now is to see how you fight.”

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” he says, unable to look away from the small rivulets of blood that stream down her collarbone. He very much wishes he could bend down and lick them away. And that is precisely why it’s time for him to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

He doesn’t actually need anything of the sort. He is sated. Truly. There was a void within him that he didn’t even know could be filled, and now he feels more…solid. More real. Perhaps he’s been a ghost of himself for two centuries. He wants more of her blood the way he might want just another sip of the most exquisite vintage he’s ever had, but he doesn’t need it. Her blood was amazing, but would someone else’s taste even better? He very much wants to find out. 

She still sits on her bedroll, watching him with a complex look he’s not bothering to parse. She hasn’t said anything else, hasn’t attempted to fill the silence. Which is fine. He needs a moment, to consider all that this might mean. On his way out of her tent, he pauses. He is…strangely grateful. She has no idea what she’s given him. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” And then he leaves, and stalks back to his own tent. 

The world is sharper, somehow, more alive than he’s ever seen it, even in the darkness. He’s never been more sure of himself, of his abilities, but he’s also never been so off balance. Cazador’s commandments don’t govern him, not anymore. Which means…he’s free. Cazador will be looking for him, that much he is certain of. He will not rest until Astarion is back in his clutches, but Astarion has been handed an opportunity here. An advantage. 

Things are different now. He is no longer bound to Cazador’s commands. And that means that perhaps he could stay free. Especially because he’s now surrounded by heroic do-gooding types who would jump at the chance to kill an evil vampire lord. But Astarion isn’t stupid, these people are unlikely to simply help him because he asks. And he knows he has very little to offer this group of warriors. He’s proficient enough fighting from the shadows, taking his time to land critical shots, he can even handle himself hand-to-hand if he must, but he’s no warrior Karlach or Lae’zel. He cannot do magic like Liv or Gale or Wyll. And he has no god standing behind him like Shadowheart. When compared to the others, he is utterly expendable.

So he must utilize some of his other talents to get them on his side, to keep him safe. There will be a price, there always is. But perhaps he could mitigate that by ingratiating himself a bit more, especially with their leader. It would be easy surely…to seduce her, manipulate her feelings. And then she’d never turn on him, would she? He’d be safe, and she’d want to help him with whatever he asked. And perhaps there might be more of her exquisite blood in his future. A win-win all around. 

The next morning, Liv wanders over cautiously. She’s plaited her hair down her shoulder, no doubt in some attempt to hide the bite mark on her neck. But it’s still rather obvious, and Astarion is sure their other companions have noticed. 

He keeps his voice light as she approaches. “Good morning, how do you feel?” He asks because he thinks he ought to and because he needs everyone in camp to see that there’s nothing of concern here. 

“I’m fine,” she replies, words somewhat automatic. “But there’s…there’s no after effects I should be worried about…?” 

“Oh no. I’m not a true vampire. A bite from them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of the powers.”

If she is relieved, she doesn’t show it. “Is that how you can stand in the sun? Because you’re not a true vampire?”

And here come all the questions. He really doesn’t want to answer any of them, but across camp, their companions are watching the exchange tensely with unhappy eyes. He keeps his chin high, his voice loud enough to be overheard by all. As if his affliction was just something he wasn’t hiding, but had instead failed to mention to them, but certainly not to her. 

“Oh no, by all accounts I should be cinders by now. I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here. Someone - or something - wants me alive. They’ve changed the rules. Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation, they’re all perfectly mundane activities now. As for my other quirks, well we can figure those out in time.” He says the last line conspiratorily, angling himself toward her as if he could will everyone to believe that this makes them…friends. 

And because she’s nice and polite, she smiles. “Well, I’m glad you’re well.”

He puts a hand on his chest. “And I’m glad you’re being sensible about these revelations. I was worried people might turn up with torches and pitchforks. Although there’s still time…” Their companions have drifted near them, suspicion etched into every line of their faces. 

He feels a prick of fear. He is outnumbered. If they all turn on him, he’ll be utterly outmatched. But he refuses to cower. 

“So we’re traveling with a vampire, are we? Of course, we are,” Gale says. “A word of warning, Astarion: I taste absolutely awful.” With that remark, the tension eases somewhat. Besides, it sounds rather like a challenge. 

“I just better not wake in the night to find fangs at my throat,” Shadowheart replies cooly.

Lae’zel’s face is contorted in disgust. “A vampire among us, so be it. But should I wake with so much as a drop of blood on my neck, I will end him.”

Liv steps in before anyone else can get a snide remark in. “It’s alright, I trust him.” She says it so simply, so full of surety. She really means it. 

“Maybe we could get him to wear a bell, dissuade any night-time prowling,” Shadowheart shrugs. 

He knows that if he simply lets them carry on everyone will have something to say, so he steps in. “There now. We’re all friends again. Shall we go? There’s a long day ahead of us.”

The group reluctantly disperses, but Liv hasn’t gone anywhere. “We need to talk.” She looks very serious, and he doesn’t want to talk anymore. 

“Oh, come now. Everything’s fine! That went rather better than I was expecting.” 

But that’s clearly not what Liv is here to talk about; she’s not being dismissed that quickly. “I’d like to know what our plan is for keeping you fed in the future.”

Our plan for what now? It takes him a moment to realize that she’s not kidding. It’s a genuine question. He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “You really needn’t be concerned. I’ve got it all perfectly under control.”

She gives him a doubtful look. “It felt in control last night.”

“And no one died,” he reminds her with a glare. 

She sighs, holding up her hands. “I just want to make sure that you’re fed. No one in our camp is going hungry if I can help it.”

The concern sounds damn genuine. It takes him by surprise. “I…I appreciate that. I suppose that now that you know what I am, I can fight with all of my weapons - teeth included. No innocents. You have my word. Only villains we need to kill anyway. If I happen to drain the occasional bandit during a fight, what’s the harm? They’re just as dead.” He’s not sure if he’s given her the right answer. 

She nods. “That works for me, but if you do find yourself in a tight spot, you can always ask. Preferably ahead of unsanctioned midnight snacking.”

Oh? An offer to come back for a bite? He smiles. “Of course. That sounds eminently reasonable. No more late-night surprises. You have my word on that. You know…you’re being awfully pragmatic about this whole thing.”

“You sound disappointed, would you prefer I cry or have a fainting spell over the revelation?” Is she joking with him, is that what this is now?

“Well, now that you mention it you do look a little peaked this morning.” The barb isn’t a very sharp one, but it creates distance between them all the same. He’s got a plan for her, but he doesn’t want it to feel like familiarity. 

Her voice is thick with sarcasm. “I do so love compliments first thing in the morning.” 

Oh, that’s an opening if he’s ever seen one. He steps close to her, lowering his voice. “I can try again if you like. I’m very good at compliments first thing in the morning.” He expects her to blush, perhaps she’ll demure, or maybe she’ll tell him to go on and compliment her. 

Instead, she steps back, utterly unfazed. “We’re going to be heading out soon.”

He grins as she walks away, oh, this is going to be fun. 

[memovia]

Walking around Xianzhou still brings pricks of discomfort against his nerves. People have gotten used to his presence by now, but there are many who can't help but stare at his horns and his tail. In turn it causes him to be more withdrawn. Despite this, he was here for one thing only. The goal in mind was enough for a distraction and his focus on that one thing.

Where was he posted.. ah. He finally spots Muyang, seemingly speaking to a subordinate. He keeps his distance to observe and ensure that he wouldn't actually be interrupting work, waiting for the conversation to draw to a close before approaching him. "Hey." Comes a simple greeting, without much else as he hands him a small bag of gem biscuits. "I'll be busy, but wanted to drop this off. See you later." And just like that he turns to leave. Simple words from him, always.

unprompted. | always accepting!

✦。— The most turbulent of tides have passed but the effects of Sanctus Medicus still lingered like dirt upon tranquil waters. His duty as a Cloud Knight was to stay vigilant always, after all― to get rid of such filth was to cut it at its root. Weeding it out was merely part of the procedure that all of them had to go through.

Muyang was stationed at the heart of the Alchemy's Commission, delegating orders to his subordinate. Meticulous red eyes focused on the multitude of reports that were brought in as well; the status of the soldiers that had been injured or lost being one of many. War was never kind, he knew that, and yet― the long list of names made his eyebrows furrow.

How many more people did the Luofu have to lose for this to come to an end?

❝ That is all I have for you. The reports are well done and I will look them over. You may go. ❞

Muyang dismissed his subordinate with a nod, gaze never once lifting from the papers that he flipped through. Yet, moments later, the ringing of one's familiar voice made ruby hues shift. The man's eyes widened at his contrasting appearance.

A dragon's tail and a pair of horns, his short hair had been replaced with long flowing hair― many things were different about him this time. But the way his ocean hues gazed upon Muyang was unmistakable.

It was him. Dan Heng.

"I'll be busy, but wanted to drop this off. See you later."

The small bag of gem biscuits was placed in his hand neatly and the Cloud Knight's expression softened at that. Yes, they were his favourite snacks and not many people knew of it. A quiet smile graced upon his lips as he cradled the pouch in his hands, watching as the other left in a hurry. The way he spoke, the way he expressed his love― it was as though he never changed despite that appearance.

Ah. How glad Muyang was, to know he was still the same at his very core. To know that he had not lost another one today, another one whom he held special in his heart.

The Cloud Knight's feet started to move, picking up its pace to catch up to Dan Heng. A gloved hand came up to hold onto his, pulling him backwards until his back bumped against Muyang's chest.

He leaned down to press his lips against Dan Heng's cheek before resting his head on his shoulder.

❝ I will see you later. ❞ A pause, ❝ Dan Heng. ❞

His voice was low and soft, the other's name was spoken with a particular fondness. And with that, Muyang let him go.

After seeing all sides of the Moon, you are still you. | @etherealguard.

[everlastiingiimmortals]

For Veturas (or to the mun if he can't answer smh), but other than your beloved wife: Are there any other gods/goddesses you consider friends? If not, then do you have a good opinion about them as an individual overall? Are there any you wouldn't mind making friends with?

THANK YOU!!! Unprompted. Always accepting!

The gyrfalcon stares unblinkingly at you from its perch on a branch. Moments pass. You shiver, waiting for an answer, but the silence stretches on. Your breath clouds in the frigid air. You feel stupid; maybe this animal is not the Winter God, but just an animal after all? What are you doing here, standing in the middle of a frozen forest talking to a bird in the hopes that it would respond to your naive questions? Asking a god about friends... The notion of its ridiculousness hits you suddenly and you huff, wiping the frost from your lashes and turning to leave. The snow crunches underneath your feet.

There's a flutter of feathers -- the falcon follows.

You've heard the stories. The abyssal gods are the cruel, unpredictable kind, and even the Cold One is not free of viciousness. Few dare to actually enter his domain, for fewer ever return alive. The raptor's gaze is sharp as it glides in lazy circles far above your head. You keep your eyes down, fixed on the trail of your own footsteps.

You are lucky the snowfall is not heavy, nor early. The prints have not filled in yet.

Just as you reach the edge of the forest, where the ice-covered altar of the Winter God quietly stands, the silver falcon swoops slow and wide, fluttering to a halt right beside the marble structure. Wings and tail become a cloak, feathers become skin and hair. He is tall, far taller than you anticipated. One hand seems chiseled out of Everice, matching the frozen pauldron on his shoulder. His hair is the same silver as the feathers that had adorned his body only moments prior, and the silverwood mask of a snow leopard obscures half his face. You find yourself wondering what color his eyes are -- people say many things: that he inherited the eyes of the Abyss like his brothers, that his eyes are the deepest blues of the most beautiful nymph to have ever lived, that his eyes are like ice crystals, and clear, that his eyes rival the Northern Lights themselves. Only when the head of Veturas, Father of the Auroras turns to you do you realize you are staring, and you quickly look towards the ground and grip your coat tighter, the blood roaring in your ears.

You are either very lucky, or about to die, standing just beyond the border of his domain.

There is silence once again.

Then the god sighs, and you feel it in your bones more than you hear it.

Friends... His voice is raspy and hoarse, as if unused for a long time. It reminds you of the shifting and echoing cracks of a lake that's been frozen solid. Only a mortal would ask that of a god. The words scrape around in your skull, bringing a headache. You feel as though you ate something cold, numbing the roof of your mouth. You steal a glance upwards; his lips do not move as he speaks.

When the gods laugh and celebrate, I slumber. When they bicker, I do not participate. When they call for me, I do not answer. I spurn the Sun with my wakefulness. The Wind lost parts of his domain to me. I have no interest in mingling with the arrogant and vengeful. Only to Spring do I yield; only Life do I greet.

The god steps forward soundlessly, and you feel the air chill further around you. You flinch and keep your gaze fixed to your feet as he brushes past like a frigid gust, heading into the forest. When you feel brave enough to look back, all that's left is the rattling of the trees in the wind. You still feel the throbbing pain of his voice in your head.

And only the Moon and Innocence do I love.

You remain rooted to the spot for a while before finding the will to move, stumbling forth on shaky legs back home. The sun is setting soon, but fortunately the wolves seem absent tonight.

Congratulations. You encountered Veturas, God of Winter, in a good mood. Next time you may not be so lucky.

[rainbows-fanfics]

Help Unwanted (Chapter 10)

Summary: After losing the Pirate, Deacon is unwillingly paired with a partner to help with his job. The only problem is - they can't stand each other, and time is dwindling until he can re-capture all his lost prisoners.

Human AU of the Armada from Pirate101.

Pairings: Deacon/Queen!Deacon, Deacon/OC

--

Their ship sailed until they reached the village of Santo Pollo. From a distance, the crew spotted smoke rising from the church. There was no doubt that the damage was caused by an act of arson, unequivocally by the marauders that now terrorized the land. As they went about docking, Dea felt a pang of pity as she thought about the villagers. She hoped they were alright and that she could bring a hand in ending this madness. 

As soon as their ship was secured to the dock, Deacon rounded up the crew. A few villagers watched them pass by wearily while others held clear suspicion on their faces. They couldn’t be blamed - they were under attack, and the presence of visitors was unprompted. Still. No one stepped forward to question them, so they passed through until they reached the church. There, they were finally addressed by a friar, who clutched a bible close to his chest and adjusted his circular glasses. 

“Greetings, my children, and peace be with you. What brings you to our humble village?” 

Deacon pointed to the building behind him. “Do you know who did this?” 

He addressed the burning house of God with a sad nod. “We were attacked by a group of bandits last night. But no one has been in there since - we’ve been a little afraid, wondering if anyone’s still in there. Do you plan on venturing forward?” 

The fire was burning at a steady rate. They’d have to make their move as soon as possible to get clues as to the group’s recent whereabouts. Dea took a step towards him and gestured with her hands. 

“We are here to find someone who helped with this attack. If you’ll let us, we hope to rid you of them entirely.” 

He eyed her attire with obvious judgment, but begrudgingly stepped to the side to allow them in. She was mildly offended as they passed by him and into the doors of the church. None were surprised to see the state of the interior - parts of the walls caved in, a pile of benches and podiums lit aflame in the middle of the room, and rubble scattered everywhere on the floor. Deacon scanned the room while the rest of the crew peeked behind pillars. They came to the conclusion - 

“There’s no one here,” He announced. 

Dea let herself relax as she took a look around for herself. She approached one of the pillars and found a torn flag that had been recently desecrated with a golden bold ‘T’ . She pointed to it and got her co-captain’s attention. 

“..The mark of the vigilante you’ve been talking about?” She asked. Deacon came closer to observe the sight and let out a groan. 

“It’s as I suspected. He must have dealt with the raiders. I wonder if our target is even alive.” 

“-Is he the killing type?” She inquired, following the rest of their crew out. Deacon shrugged while one of their disguised soldiers informed the friar that the church was clear. 

“I don't know enough about the man to say. But I would not blame him for doing what he needs to. However, our fugitives are more valuable alive than dead.” 

They moved into the middle of the village, stopping to gather their bearings. Their crew began discussing what to do next. Dea listened to their ideas, but found her mind clouded. Something occurred to her that she neglected to pry about when she first joined the Armada. She didn’t even question it when she was assigned to aid an Elite’s objective. She’d been so ecstatic to be promoted to such a position, that she didn’t examine the motives behind it…

“Deacon?” She asked, stepping closely to keep their conversation private. She didn’t want to give them away, but also wanted an answer before they continued on. “What exactly happens to these prisoners, when we’re done with our mission?” 

He tilted his head. “You don’t know?” 

“Queen neglected to tell me. It seems to be hush-hush in the Armada.” 

“They will be brought back to Valencia to be questioned.”

“-Questioned about *what*?”

He noted the uneasiness from the villagers around them and picked up his cane. The longer they lingered, the more suspicious they became. It was exactly what he wanted to avoid. “We’ll discuss this later.” 

He moved away and she raised her voice. “I’ll be holding you to that, espía .” 

The spymaster pulled out a map from one of his pockets and unfolded it to share with the crew. They huddled around him. He pointed to an area that was not far from Santo Pollo, trailing his fingertip along as he spoke. 

“The source of the bandit’s operation must be on the outskirts of town, somewhere in Banditoad Trail. If there���s anywhere we’ll find him , I believe it is there.” 

“- ’Bandit’ oad Trail? That can’t be a coincidence?” One of their crew-members spoke up. Even their Captain paused at the implication. 

“...It made it easy to find their location, yes.” He folded up the map and turned on his heel to lead them in the right direction. “Be ready; there’s no telling how many are out right now.”

…

… 

Deacon’s warning was fortuitous. After following the trail, they were abruptly stopped by a group of bandits. The crew sprung into action - delivering good blows to the unsuspecting raiders. Dea and Deacon remained behind - shooting any who happened to slip past. They aimed for their limbs, deterring their enemies and bringing them down more easily. Their fighters remained upfront, taking care of most of the brawl. 

The number didn’t seem to decrease, as they were constantly being bombarded. In the midst of the fighting, they kept an eye out for their wanted criminal - only to come up short on the men who attacked them. Those who wore masks and bandanas were taken care of in a different matter - where Deacon made sure they were incapacitated so he could quickly check their identity. They still had no success. 

After several confrontations, the group was beginning to tire - constantly fighting with no discovery of their target. Their soldiers grew weak, having to move continuously under the blazing sun. As they took care of their enemies at a steady rate, Deacon and Dea were faced with even more bandits than before. They did their best to keep their distance, but stopping to reload their guns presented an opportunity for their opponents to get close. One had landed a rough hit on Deacon - effectively stumbling him back. Dea fired a shot in his direction, not landing, but causing him to move backwards. Her partner returned to his feet and noticed they were surrounded, their crew now long ahead of them. 

“ Cavolo!” He swore. They remained back-to-back as they shot at the marauders surrounding them, who were closing in awfully fast.  

“Where did everyone go!?” Dea exclaimed, attempting to look over the shoulders of the men around them. Deacon lowered his head as he accepted the situation - they’d been separated from their crew in the middle of battle. 

This was not good. 

Before either of them could be attacked, a laugh sounded from above. The group stopped what they were doing to gaze in the sky confusedly. A black figure jumped from practically nowhere and landed in the sand between them. He rose to his feet and pointed a sword in the direction of the bandits, laughing once more at their surprised expressions. 

“Ha-hah!” 

Without pause, the man struck the nearest few and threw his whip to wrap around a nearby branch. He swung on it to slash at the rest, grinning as he watched them fall down instantaneously. When he landed on his feet, he cracked his whip at the backs of two figures who attempted to strike him - watching them fall to their knees and scream in agony. He kept this up until the bandits ordered a prompt retreat, running from the scene as fast as they could.

As soon as they were gone, the man whipped around to redirect the blade of his sword at the two. He flashed a pearly, yet menacing, grin at them. “Now, you fiends shall suffer the wrath…of El Toro! " 

A group of trumpets played around them. They were able to get a good look at the figure that had been moving so fast. He wore a circular hat and black cape that majestically flowed with the wind, sporting a mask that covered his eyes, as well as a black outfit that had an open v-shaped area around his chest, revealing an ample amount of hair. He stomped his boot as he sliced a large 'T' in the air, for extra flair.

Before Deacon could respond, feminine laughter broke the tension. The men looked to the side and found Dea chortling as she pointed at their new company. 

“"A Zorro ripoff?...THAT’S who you are?"

He took offense at her comment and flared his nostrils. "-I resemble nothing of what you just called me! I…am EL TORO! Enemy of all oppressors, defender of the innocent!"

She ignored the trumpets for a second time and continued to snicker at his performance. El toro grew impatient and decided not to pursue her, turning his attention to Deacon instead. He narrowed his blue eyes. 

“I know what you are here for, canalla . I will not have anyone else terrorizing the people of Santo Pollo! Leave while you still can!” 

The Emissary held up his gloved hands to try and diffuse the situation. "We are not here to attack anyone. We are trying to capture a convict who has escaped from our hands."

El toro tilted his head as he closely observed their masks. He shifted his stance. "I am not familiar with your kind, but I know that you do not belong here. Who is it you are exactly searching for?"

"Our target goes by 'Esteban' . He is one of the raiders destroying your village."

His leather clad fingers twitched on the handle of his blade. He clearly recognized the name, but withheld his trust. "Who do you work for? Where have you come from?"

Dea had stopped laughing at this point and composed herself. "We're two people who are enforcing the law. And if you help us, we can help you .”

He remained on edge, refusing to lower his weapon. He turned his head to think about something. "This… 'Esteban ' character…I have learned about him. He is the leader of the bandits. An incredible thorn in my side.” 

It dawned on Deacon. “That would explain why we have not yet seen him. We are trying to reach his base, but have been separated from our group. If you can point us in the right direction, we will gladly take care of the rest.” 

“I cannot allow you to proceed!” He asserted, thrusting his blade further in their direction. “I have been watching you all, since you reached these lands. Your people have grown weak. Without my assistance, you will all undoubtedly die.” 

Deacon muttered something about that being an exaggeration while Dea moved forward. “So you’ll help us?” 

He studied them a bit longer before slowly retreating his sword. "We share a common enemy, do we not? You wish to capture their leader. Without him , I can easily chase the rest out. I will restore peace to the village.” 

He used his whip to lunge himself upward and land on a dead tree to get a better sight. He craned his head down to address the two. “Consider this a… temporary affiliation . I expect you to leave when we are done.” 

Deacon nodded. “I assure you that our departure will be swift.” 

“Good…I see your people up ahead. The place those rogues are staying is in a cave - you will reach it if you keep heading east. I will meet you there.” 

They watched as El Toro easily launched himself away with a hefty swing, and was running on his feet out of sight. They carried on when they were on their own. Deacon handed Dea the small canteen he carried on his person. She took it with grateful hands and moved her head away to take a hefty gulp of water. 

She handed it back to him and clacked her tongue. “So, why exactly did you want to avoid him? He was quick to help us.” 

His answer was one she never expected. “He’s annoying.” 

She thought back to his introduction and held her laughter. It was dramatic and a little overbearing. It still piqued her curiosity. “-You two have met before?” 

“We’ve come across paths during my time in Cool Ranch. I doubt he recognized me just now.” 

“That’s because you’re missing your cape.” She pointed out. “Was it just me, or was his flowing * against * the wind?” 

She sensed him smiling under his mask. He soon shook his head. “I pray we don’t have to fight beside him for long.”

----

They finally reached their crew, who had been desperately searching for their Captains. Once they were reunited, they exchanged water and took a little rest. In just a few minutes, they would be meeting with a masked vigilante who was willing to help them. 

El Toro was waiting there, as promised. The two informed their crew of the help they were receiving, so no weapons were pointed at him when they approached. He dropped himself to the floor of the cave entrance and turned expectantly towards Deacon and Dea. He made a quick once-over of the group that would be fighting with him. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t voice aloud, as he turned and led them inside.

“We must waste no time!” He exclaimed. 

They followed after, staying alert of their surroundings. Dea took this chance to make sure her gun was loaded while Deacon discreetly pressed a couple of buttons on his communicator. El Toro motioned for them to stay back. He moved forward cautiously as the two captains joined his side and got a good look at what awaited them. 

A group of bandits remained ahead, conversing with each other as they idly stood around. They eavesdropped on their conversation, but found nothing of value. El Toro motioned for them to charge ahead, and the rest complied. They successfully took the group by surprise and had them all knocked out in a matter of minutes. They moved forward, not sparing a minute of pause. There, they encountered another group who, this time, had apparently expected them. 

“ Ey !” One of them exclaimed, drawing his gun on their new company. “Are you itchin’ to have your brains blown out?” 

El Toro took a few brave steps forward. He was unimpressed with the barrel currently pointed in his direction. “You brutes have been terrorizing the people of Santo Pollo for too long! Now, justice will be served!” 

With a quick snap of his whip, El Toro smacked the gun out of the man’s hand and struck him with the end of his sword. Everyone charged forward - the sounds of knives clinking and gunshots echoing in the enclosed cave. It was hard to tell what was going on amidst the scuffle. Blood was sent everywhere, several strikes sending the liquid in different directions. Some cries of pain sounded on top of the other. What rang the loudest was when the fight was over and silence ensued. Everyone stood glancing at each other, taking note of who was still standing. 

Once all heads were accounted for, they rushed to continue their journey. They stumbled upon Esteban himself - who stood proudly in front of his desired group of lackeys. He was as repulsive as Dea imagined - a man with the sides of his head shaved, grease coating his skin, accompanied with ripped clothing and fingerless gloves. He had an intense look in his eyes as he grinned much too widely, stepping forward with confidence as the awaiting group poured in. 

“Well, well. Looks like the Armada has found me, after all.” He tipped his head in the direction of the disguised crew. “Have they sent their best people? I don’t want to go out without a bang .” 

“Since you’re aware of your arrest, let’s make this easy.” Deacon countered as he disposed of his cane. “Surrender yourself now before any more blood is shed.” 

“I’ll do that when you give me back Alyssa!” He barked angrily. “That’s all you bastards are good at. Bullshittin’ people ‘til they sign their lives away! We were going to start a family, for fuck’s sake!” 

The Emissary was unphased. “Turn yourself in before you leave us no other choice.” 

“Fuck off!” 

Esteban pulled out a gun and shot without warning. The bullet barely missed their battle angel. It was an invitation to run and confront the bastards. El Toro went to work disposing of the henchman while Deacon urgently attempted to make his way to the leader. He was thwarted with every step, some rogue throwing themselves at him before he could even aim his gun properly. They gradually mashed into one mess, with hands being thrown in random directions as everyone attacked those in their general vicinity. 

Dea managed her way to Esteban, and was just about to pull the trigger before a hand forcefully grabbed her from behind. Her reflexes brought her leg backwards to kick the offender in the shin, freeing herself from their grasp. This motion had caught the enemy’s attention, and when she stumbled forward to regain her footing, she was already seized again. This time, by the man she sought after. 

His voice was gruff as he spoke in her ear. “A fighter, huh? Alyssa was one, too. Come to think of it, she had a body * just * like yours…”

Then he did something Dea did not expect. His hand slid down the front of her disguise, smoothing between the valley of her breasts. He nearly slipped his fingers under the corset, but halted his touch below her waist instead. His fingertips brushed along the ends of her skirt, dangerously close to lifting it. Her body tensed as she registered this unwanted action. Then reality kicked in and she thrashed in his arms, hoping to loosen his grip. He held her down and laughed.

“That’s a nice outfit you got on. Do all women in the Armada dress like whores? If I'd known about the easy access, well, I wouldn’t have been running after her …”

An angry tear formed in her eyes as Esteban slipped his hand under and forcefully groped her. She lost every ounce of her self-control and screamed at the top of her lungs. She threw herself forward and attempted to throw him off balance. But he expected her move and countered it easily. He clearly had experience in this scenario. That thought sickened her. He was so distracted with trying to restrain her that he neglected to see the figure running towards them. 

There was no warning as a pistol struck him in the side of the head, loosening his grip and sending him to the floor. Dea reached for her gun, but her shaking arms made the attempt futile. It slipped from her hands when a hand locked itself around her ankle. She fell forward harshly - the air escaping her lungs as her ribs collided with hard rock. 

“You bitch!” Esteban was pulling her with an unexpected amount of force. 

He dragged his body on top of hers and delivered a cruel blow to her masked face. She swore she heard the material cracking under his knuckles. He grabbed her head with his other hand and smashed it against the floor - dazing Dea as the world around her began to mix colors. Before he could do it again, a shoe collided with the underside of his jaw, sending him off of her. She looked up in time to catch him wrestling with Deacon, who attempted to commandeer his weapon. 

During their struggle, one of the guns had gone off - whose it was, she wasn’t entirely sure. She was distracted when a sudden pain came near her stomach and her gloved hand instinctively covered the area. When she glanced down, the blood was already pooling from the spot. The aching in her head became unbearable and she struggled to maintain consciousness. A groan escaped her throat as she attempted to hold herself up. 

Her struggle was noticed by Deacon, who froze when he saw the sight. Taking advantage of his distraction, Esteban launched his fist into his stomach. The spymaster doubled over in pain as the other man grabbed a hold of his pistol. Before he could fire it, a whip wrapped itself around his wrist. A pained scream escaped his throat as El Toro encumbered both of his hands from behind.

“Quick!” 

Deacon jumped to his feet and grabbed a pair of handcuffs. Esteban's hands were secured and he was firmly held down by the masked vigilante, who looked proud with this feat. Deacon had no time to gloat over their accomplishment. He ran in Dea’s direction. He fell to his knees and lowered his head, noting her closed eyes and immobilized body. He desperately checked her pulse, relaxing a little when he confirmed she was still alive. 

“Santo Dios , is she alright?” El Toro implored. 

He inspected her abdomen before searching for the entry and exit wound. The rest of the crew surrounded the scene, their dragoon taking a hold of their prisoner for the time being. El Toro took a few steps forward and watched with concern in his eyes. 

“She’s still breathing, but not very easily,” He announced after a minute. He turned his masked head toward one of their soldiers. “Cinzia, vieni qui!” 

The desired soldier darted to his side and lowered herself to her other captain. She was the crewmember who had the most medical expertise between all of them. It took a few moments until she supplied, “I can’t find an exit wound. But we need to stop the bleeding.” 

Deacon nodded as he produced a roll of gauze from one of his pockets. Cinzia provided pressure and the necessary elevation as he wrapped it around her body. He could hear Rooke’s voice in his head - remembering the time his brother insisted on teaching him basic first aid practices. He encouraged Deacon to always carry around bandages, gauze, and clean cloth on his person for unexpected injury. He glanced at Dea several times as he worked, noticing the new crack in her mask that had nearly split it into two pieces. Something inside him twisted unpleasantly at the sight. 

It took a few layers and careful monitoring until the blood had finally slowed. The air around them was getting colder, so he removed his trench coat and laid it under his co-captain to retain her body heat. He still applied pressure to the wound and kept a close eye on her condition. He wondered what exactly to do next.

Transporting her using the ship was a dangerous option - there was no telling how rough the weather would become, and any excess movement could prove to be damaging. She would need treatment to locate and remove the bullet - neither of which he could supply at the moment, with their limited materials. It didn’t help that they were so far from Valencia right now. 

He sighed. “She may have a concussion. The degenerate slammed her head around pretty hard.” 

El Toro cut in. “I have heard that it is dangerous for a concussed person to fall unconscious. Is that true?” 

“Not in all cases,” Cinzia responded. “We'll need to check on her condition to see if any major damage has been done. What will we do, Captain?” 

Deacon sat there in silence, in a clear mental debate with himself. He felt angry and frightened, as much as he hated to admit it. All of this had happened on his watch - despite coming to her rescue, he could not stop the bullet that had accidentally launched itself during his struggle with the enemy. He felt nauseous knowing that it came from his own gun. He imagined Dea succumbing to her injuries here and struggled for air. El Toro approached them with a solution of his own. 

“I have a friend in Santo Pollo who can help you. His manor has a room to offer you sanctuary, until she is well.” His smile lowered into a frown. “I do not appreciate the deceit you have given me. But considering you have helped me today…It is a way to show my gratitude.”

"Does your friend have any medical supplies?" Cinzia asked seriously. 

"I am sure that he does, and he will be able to aid you better than I can. We must get there soon, so your friend can be treated."

Dea was secured in their Dragoon's arms as soon as he pawned off Esteban to Deacon, who purposefully tightened his cuffs until he heard the man inhale sharply. Several scenarios of torture played in the Spymaster's mind while they traveled to Don Rodrigo's Manor. Methods he was familiar with, and knew were painful for the prisoners who refused to comply.  He normally did not think of these things with such pleasure - he'd always carried them out with necessity and neutrality. But now he felt personal spite to ensure this man would endure every second of pain, as he was forced to spill everything he knew to the Armada.

[helllords]

@fcllederage asked: Hyacinthe was not usually this outgoing, especially with strangers, but this one had a different vibe, like he came from another time, from another century. And, most importantly in this very moment - mostly because of how drunk she was -, he looked hot. "Need a light?" she asked, as he tried to light his cigarette, holding out her own lighter towards him. / unprompted.

He is a dark silhouette against the moving crowd of people passing by, barely illuminated by the lights of the bar he is leaning against and the flickering street lamp above and with his dark hair and black suit, it almost looks as though he is blending into the inky darkness around him. A shadow within the gloom of the night and still she spots him, right as his cigarette rests between his lips and his right hand reaches for his pocket.

In reality, he does have a lighter ( planning ahead every step of the way and having everything he would ever need on his vessel ) but the confident way in which she has approached him has him curious. " I do, actually. ", his voice is a deep hum, curling around her before the smoke of his cigarette even has a chance to. He takes the lighter from her and deliberately brushes his fingers against hers, taking a drag as the flame turns into fume. The exhale is lazy, clouds seeping from his chuckle. " I would thank you but I don't think I have caught your name yet, Miss. "

[allthatisleftinthedark]

"So, Aimon, would you allow me to serenade you under this fine moonlight tonight?"

Liyan holds their lute in their hands, prepared to begin playing. They're more or less going to play anyway, but it would be nice to play something their crush wanted. They are a hopeless romantic about things.

unprompted asks | always accepting | @offrozenmemoirs

At the first pluck of the string, the note reverberates in the cool night air, an invitation harmonious to Aimon's ears. To genuflect and bend as a marionette, the power of Song has such bewitching ways over the elf. It is nothing that xe protests. Xyr willingness—the utter relinquishment and no resistance of yourself—is an unspoken trust that belies xyr easygoing nature.

Perched high in the crook of an ancient olive tree, the elf lounges against a branch, the brilliant sea-bright teal of xyr eyes alight with starry lumination. Both arms are relaxed, folded behind xyr head, while one leg languidly hangs over the other. Star bright, xyr silhouette is bathed in moonlight. Below, sitting at the base of the tree is none other than the tiefling, Song—Song to the world, but forever Liyan to Aimon. 

Bone-white and small ram-like horns curl from the crown of their head with brown side-swept hair. It frames the face of one less infernal and more earth, them being the sibling of House Zarin, displaying the least of their Avernus roots, save for their horns and hooves. Finishing the proud bust of the tiefling are their hazel eyes. Those eyes search through the darkest recesses and brightest alcoves, inspiration acting as the trigger, waiting to find a muse to ignite it. 

House Zarin, embroiled in contention and competition with House Elrose or about any leading family that pays them a passing glance, lives in poetic tragedy. Of demonic blood, their infamy came from the depths of Avernus, with a grand desire to breach through the clouds. However cruel fate it is, wishing to reach but remaining grounded, witnessing the greatness of Drakeshadow from the hilltops, only to live in its shadow. 

At the sound of a query, the elf turns xyr head, catching a glimpse of the bard looking upright at him. A bright grin parts Aimon's lips, rolling xyr wrist, "Serenade me? Under the lustrous moon?" Xe returns to watching their nightly companionship in the sky. 

Half-sung and half-spoken, xe whimsically continues, recanting, "In the company of stars, I am reminded of something I heard in passing. Some green words, you know the kind. You know who told me?" Xe hums, glancing upward to the celestial-dotted sky. "These unrelenting rivals! You see, they envy you. And, truly, I find nothing that rivals your glowing brilliance. Nothing outshines you." Xe hums. "With your musical talent, I am beyond flattered." 

With a gentle sway, as xe shifts, the branch creaks slightly under xyr weight, the sound harmonizing momentarily with the Liyan's starting notes on their lute. "Be warned, though," xe wags xyr finger, starlight catching in xyr eyes. "Rumor has it that your music casts spells, and if true, once you play, I will never be the same again. I'll be bewitched wholly by Song." 

Xyr eyes drift from the celestial audience to the musician below. "Serenade away, Liyan," xe encourages. Xyr hands splay out, xe rising from their laying spot. "Touch the very stars that those before could only dream of reaching." 

Gracefully, Aimon begins shifting and adjusting xyrself; xyr feet point downward toward the tree's base. With the assistance of neighboring branches, they push forward, down their descent until--thud! 

A less than graceful landing, Aimon winching at a stray stick jabbing xyr spine, with a groan and grimace here and there, brings Aimon beside Liyan. Xe settles on a protruding root next to them. With a sigh, xe leans in, xyr forearms resting on xyr knees. 

Under the facade of merriment, Aimon's thoughts linger like the starlight glimmering in Liyan's eyes like the smile gracing Liyan's features, and like the presence of Liyan altogether: Let me spend all the time I can with you. The earth and sea meet, and we are there at that shore. 

[knightfeared]

*UNPROMPTED STARTER. 📨 ➤   @pxnktroublmakcr / NIMONA.  [ ; ]  

It'd been a particularly hot afternoon. Face-meltingly gross, Nimona'd exaggerated. The shapeshifter had avoided the heat; for the most part. But they'd paid no mind, attention aptly taken by the television's zombie marathon. Chilling in the blessed air conditioned fortress that was Bal's lair.

Outside, sky darkened quick. A looming black wall of clouds, heavy with rain.

Suddenly, the whipcrack of lightning sounded overhead, preceding thunderous rumbles. Eyes wide as dinner plates; pink fur fluffed up making them look twice their size. Claws dug into cushioning.

Panicked frenzy to dive under nearby blankets. Only small nose poking out. ❝ Sorry, boss! On your own with, uh, this! ❞

With sweltering heat often came the harsh roar of a storm - an idle thing he'd come to learn over his years alive. Where one went the other followed, & though he took great care to stay well out of the heat these days, he knows Nimona was never one to stay in a single place for too long. Free-spirited, she was always moving, full of restless energy & a hairthin restraint for what lured her curiosity.

When she comes & goes, he's fine with making sure she has somewhere to anchor herself amidst whatever new adventures she seeks. Though the hideaway was still . . . for lack of a better word, a complete junkyard, through the months, with some help from Ambrosius, they'd made progress in making it look less like one. More livable, comfortable with an AC installed so he didn't roast himself during the summer months he'd spend inside tinkering with new prosthetic designs & odd inventions during his time off.

All in all, things were comfortable. Cozy.

But with the distant rumblings of a storm drawing in close, with a twitch of his nose, a furrow of his brows in pinched curiosity, he wonders how big a storm this one will be. How long it'd stick or if it'd just brush over them, missing them entirely. Hard to say.

As he goes to pass the question off to the shapeshifter, eyes thinned in amusement, drifting from where they'd rest on the screen ahead to seek her out, before the words can even leave him, there's a loud crackle of lightning, hungry rumbles that echo so close by he pauses with a quick blink. Nimona reacts instantly, eyes wide, face pale even in her feline form before she puffs up defensively. In a flurry of pinkened fur & claws, she's diving into the nearby pile of blankets, burrowing beneath like a makeshift nest before peeking out at him & commenting.

"You're okay."

An attempt at reassurance, but not a very good one, he sighs, head tilted to the side, torn between approaching & reassuring, or pretending he didn't see her panic upfront. Stick to comfier waters where they didn't need to address something that brought about clear discomfort. But with her looking so spooked, the quake that laces the pile of blankets so strongly & the waver in her tone, he figures it's worth the risk of getting clawed or hissed at. His own voice is careful, almost knowing as he slowly reaches over, patting at the space he knows her head is.

"Is it the storm?"

[memovia]

[ dee, for mùyáng ] Deirdre’s gaze was fixated on a singular picture frame. Unknowingly, she had started reaching for it but stopped before actually touching the photograph on it. Turning around just enough to glance at the cloud knight, Deirdre asked, “Your parents?” She could only assume due to the similarities in appearance. But, more important than that… “You’re smiling in this as well. It’s a good photo.” A happy family, that seemed nice.

unprompted. | always accepting!

✦。— The man settled beside her, yet his unfaltering gaze stuck to the photograph that Deirdre had pointed out. The old picture of three silhouettes huddled together, smiling, as though time had stopped in its tracks. A gloved hand extended forward to clasp onto the frame, tilting it upwards so the light could catch onto the glass.

His thumb rubbed against the photograph and across both his parents' faces. Something to remember them by, how gently they looked at him and how much they loved him. Yet, as centuries passed, even with this picture in hand; the tone of their voices were fading and the way they acted, their habits...everything.

He was afraid that he would forget their love and remembered them for something else. The memory of their death and his regrets remained fresh in his mind like always.

Dull red hues caught the reflection of the glass, its dark crimson casted onto shimmering ruby irises. How odd a thing, to see such a gentle grin upon his own face, paired with eyes that were full of naivety, hope and love.

How long had it been since he smiled like that?

Muyang relaxed his grip on the photograph, letting it fall back to its old position where the shadow loomed over it. Letting silence seep in between for a moment, lips parted to respond.

❝ I was— ❞ Smiling. Happy.

His tone was hushed and low like a whisper. Muyang's gaze lingered upon the photo before lashes fluttered shut.

❝ ...And they were. ❞

They were my most beloved. The ones who nurtured me, the ones who watched me grow. But I am now alone with myself. | @caemthe.

[enjomo-arch]

(  unprompted  :  nami  )    //    ♠   @chatcambrioleur

Are there a lot of class differences in Tanmesa? Rich, poor, middle class? How do people display their wealth, if they do at all?

❝  dunno  'bout  the  wealth  comparin'  it  to  the  main  town.  tam's  rather  small  i  guess.  old  man  zed  and  miss  jaina  seemed  rich  to  me.  i  mean,  they  ran  their  own  business.  i  ain't  remember  much  but  me  'n  mama  weren't  y'know  the  richest  people.  ❞  despite  how  upsetting  this  might've  sounded,  ace's  slight  smile  never  seemed  to  fade.  back  then  money  wasn't  always  all  he  cared  about,  neither  did  rouge. 

❝  mom  always  used  to  say  that  money  ain't  all.  she  was  ...  alright  with  just  me  'round.  before  she  passed  away,  that  is.  ❞  now,  the  sun  beaming  smile  was  fading,  like  thick  clouds  covered  the  rays  of  his  expression.  obviously,  as  much  as  good  memories  were  tied  to  the  place,  there  were  also  the  ones  that  made  his  heart  tighten.  ache,  and  sink  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  ❝  the  place  was  quiet.  you  probably  wouldn't  like  it.  there  was  lotta  to  do  'round  bulls,  cows,  pigs,  horses.  dirty  work.  ❞

[killer-dream]

@ofstarsxsins​ gets an unprompted god!

“...Have you ever wanted to tell your children that you’re their parent?”  It’s a deep question -- probably too much to ask -- but it’s the only thing to come to mind today.  Sitting together with Kalem, watching how the clouds pass them by as the wind carries them elsewhere...  It’s almost a mirror to raising Auretta, though he doesn’t have to keep the weather in check to avoid suspicion.

[scorching-passion]

@strifesoldier "Hey, I found this little... bike..." In his hands is a miniature motorcycle, probably a toy for children. "Do you... want it? I don't even think there's kids around here who like bikes as much as you do, so..." Unprompted Asks - ALWAYS ACCEPTING

Border patrol was truly a bane of Roche's meagre existence. So very droll and mind-numbing to a fault, there was a lot to be desired when manning the gates leading into the undercities.

Today just happened to be one of those days, where the mind doth wander and he could possibly care far less who passed through and who didn't; criminal, vagabond, stowaway or otherwise, today it was none of the blond's business as he simply stands there astride the border between the plate and its dingy underbelly.

That was until a familiar voice would capture the SOLDIER's immediate attention, his head turning - albeit somewhat sluggishly - to focus on one fellow swordsman and the tiny trinket in his hands.

Strange how each encounter with one Cloud Strife had ended with one of them (or both) retreating with their tail between their legs, and yet here he was - this strange little imposter, the twinkle in this Third Class' eye - offering gifts.

And what a sweet little thing it was too; a little tarnished, paint on the main body work worn away over the time it had been lost or discarded. The toy would bring back a fair few memories of the first motorbike Roche had ever owned - a derelict machine salvaged from the scrap surrounding Sector 5; dearest Bessie.

With a soft hum would Roche pluck the object from Strife's leather clad palm, rolling the thing around in his own for a moment or two. He had no use for it, but there was a sentiment he wished to believe in with this odd little gesture from a one time rival.

"And for what do I owe the pleasure, my friend?! For which I am aware soldier's of fortune such as yourself do not offer such pleasantries without cost!" he would boom then, arms thrown out, as if to embrace this man, the faintest wisp of a deranged grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Though he was swift to settle with a hard slap against the other blond's shoulder instead.

"Such a heartfelt gift in the shadows of uncertainty cannot go unpaid, hm~?!"