diaboeli

[diaboeli]

halsin did partake in a cup of tea whenever he could afford to. a difficult feat out in the wilderness, where transporting supplies were concerned, but a druid made do. he wondered if the infusion of spearmint and honey would perhaps taint the natural flavour of his blood that astarion might prefer. if it would be detectable at all, whilst he was in such a deprived state.

he observes his every movement, the collapse and crawl that spoke to his desperation, the trail his eyes blaze along his skin seeking a throbbing vein. to see him so deprived is painful, and halsin tucks away the mental note to never see him be so underfed again. if he could help it. of course, astarion's circumstances toed the line of problematic when it came to people and their willingness or otherwise to intervene. however, no creature should have to endure such conditions if the means to avoid it was available.

his hands are pushed to the wayside, allowing room for the elf to make himself comfortable on his lap. astarion's hands are cool to the touch, in comparison to halsin's endless heat, those which see goose bumps arise in their stead. a part of him thinks to touch him in return, to lay his hands on his waist or to caress at his back in a bid to comfort. only, a thank you, places the thought on hold, catching the druid by surprise. no gratitude was necessary, but even so, astarion had struck him as the type to give as much sparingly.

it's a fleeting thing, between then and now― astarion's tongue laving over his skin as if to prepare for the veritable feast that sat underneath him. and then he bites. the sensation is cold, first of all, like a harsh pinch that won't relent. however, it ebbs quickly as the little elf feeds. it's not immediate, but he could fathom light-headedness at the very least should the feeding prolong.

his focus on the feeling gives way to sound. there's a distinct sucking noise in his ear, akin to sucking juice from one's fingers or slurping up the last few mouthfuls of soup. astarion draws blood through the punctures in his throat and moans as he does so. the delicate whimpers conveyed relief, as he trembled like a leaf in his lap, encouraging halsin to lay his hand on his waist. a thumb rubs circles over the charred attire, and when his head starts to throb, so too does the one in his pants. it's difficult to suppress it, the desire, what with the rub of a writhing elf atop him, moaning deliciously into his ear. still, it incites apprehension in the moment, albeit delayed as astarion's satisfaction had become his priority.

time enough has passed, in accompaniment with the budding desire that burns in the pit of his stomach, to see this feed come to an end. at least for now. his throat feels heavy, and it takes him a moment to gather his wits about him to speak.

“  astar... astarion? ” halsin clears his throat, and if need be, he would lift his hand to touch gently over white curls. “  are you sated? if you require more i would need to ... to replenish myself first. ” amongst other things.

HE HAD TO WONDER... WAS HALSIN STUPID? If not stupid, then did he lack any sense of self-preservation? Astarion had very little capacity to mull over the druid's motivations when he was offering himself up so willingly. For the first time in two hundred years he was allowed to zero all of his senses in on something thinking, something far larger than a rat or any other filth Cazador had ever stuffed in his mouth.

Of course he was fucking drooling. He could hate himself for it later.

To hear Halsin speak of cruelty as if feeding had ever been anything else - deprivation, disgust, degradation - very nearly made his jaw snap shut. It didn't, though. His senses were too thoroughly overwhelmed. He was too hungry after days of fighting, nearly dying, and getting blown up. (He was never letting Karlach live that down.)

Firstly there was sight: his eyes dilated and flickering rapidly over every exposed bit of skin to take in every distended vein and how they twitched and bulged with Halsin's movements. He was settling himself down, getting himself ready.

Then there was smell. There was nuance to this: the scent of a bear intermingled with the scent of a wood elf with blood thrumming beneath his skin that smelled heady with hints of something natural. Tea? Had Halsin been drinking tea recently? Perhaps the tannins would be in his blood. It had been so long since he could enjoy a cup of tea that he couldn't miss it per se, but he could crave it.

In his ears, though there were plenty of sounds around camp he might have picked up with his otherwise sensitive hearing, there was only thrumming. While he was aware of them too, the subtleties of Halsin's movements as he got himself comfortable and exposed his pulse - Gods, fuck, fuck, what a sight - were lost to the lurch of atria and ventricles as they closed and reopened. The lurch was followed by a solid thud displacing viscous fluid and dispersing it all throughout the druid's body. Blood. These two sounds repeated in concert with one another over and over again until Astarion was swaying on his feet to the beat of it as he approached.

Distantly he thought he must look feral like this. Perhaps even frightening. Astarion took the time wasted when he tripped over his own feet (be it from injury or hunger, he couldn't know) to scrub the back of his hand over his mouth. Limping a few feet further and stumbling again, he resigned himself to the fate of the pathetically starved spawn that he was and crawled on his hands and knees the rest of the way.

Right into Halsin's waiting lap, practically slapping his hands away to make space for himself. This whole display was fucking embarrassing, but it didn't matter because -

Cold hands touched Halsin's biceps and slid up along them. Feeling the muscles twitching beneath his touch, the subtle thrum beneath his palms. Astarion's hands swept back down, this time with only the pointer finger of his right hand returning. This was the side the druid had exposed for him, and he dragged his pointer finger along a particularly bulging vein slowly. Savoring the feeling of the vibrating signs of life his own body lacked. His eyes followed the motion of his finger until it reached Halsin's carotid and he was panting like a dehydrated dog.

The words left him, trembling and pathetic. Rehearsed and forcibly regurgitated a thousand times or more in some shithole palace that didn't matter anymore. "Thank you."

Astarion's hand dropped away, and as if on puppet strings he lurched forward with his jaw unhinged to land against the side of Halsin's throat. As much as he wanted to, memories of the lengths between feedings overtook him. Once again he was savoring the feeling, for the first time the sensation of a living thinking being thrumming against the softness of his own lips. His tongue swept over the artery he'd latched to as if testing it and his entire body shuddered.

He could almost taste it through the skin. Blood. Please, oh Gods, real blood.

His self control broke and so did skin. Fresh blood flooded his mouth and wetted his tongue, dragging a broken whimper up his throat as he swallowed. He sucked at the wound as if lost in it. He could taste the tea. Honey. Something else he couldn't name. Blood, blood, blood. Warmth and comfort washed over him like a hot bath. Every fresh gush with every pull against Halsin's throat had him whimpering and shaking in his lap. He was delicious. He never wanted to stop. He couldn't stop.

How long could he keep taking desperate gulps from this mountain of an elf? Certainly long enough that he was losing all sense of proprioception and interoception. He was simply a moaning, feeding, bloodied mess of a vampire spawn in a druid's lap. Right in the middle of their camp.

[diaboeli]

continued from here, @lustraveil.

it felt like a constant waiting game, waiting for loid to realise he was too good for her, to grow tired of her, and toss her to the curb. despite his continuous support and reassurances, she was always privy to self-doubt at it's earliest convenience. insecurity, camilla had made mention of it the other day. looks aren't everything, another off-handed remark yor hadn't paid much mind to at the time. she needed to be ... good at things; housekeeping, being a mother, being a wife. the latter she felt she was repeatedly falling short on.

“  hm? o-oh, ” yor is snapped out of her thoughts, always mentally running at a million miles per hour, to the gentle brush of loid's fingers against her wrist. immediately, her cheeks flame, and she feels that familiar churning sensation, like a thousand chainsaws roaring to life at once in her stomach. again, she had forced him to reassure her. his grip is slightly firmer now, and her blush puts the sunset to shame. however, as he pulls away she feels ... strangely disappointed. nevertheless, her hands fly up to cover her cheeks, embarrassed. “  i'm sorry i keep bringing it up. it's just that― you're always so supportive, and i feel like i don't get the chance to be that for you. ”

[diaboeli]

wooing all your muses with my mind powers ( use the image of a man levitating a pizza for reference )

i uno reverse except you become the levitating pizza slice and i take a succulent bite :/

[diaboeli]

continued from here, @liarstill.

it was all a lie.

at some point during morgan's monologuing, jinwoo's eyes glaze over and he disconnects. there's no rage, no shock or upset, just bitter disappointment.

maybe he deserves this, to be played for a fool. maybe this cruelty was just another hard lesson to be learned, such seemed to be his lot in life. always the weak, poor, unwanted, loser, for people to whisper about and laugh at behind his back. to pity.

it was a testament to his stupidity then, to think that someone online would genuinely like him, would want him.

morgan's words switch between barbed jabs and attempts at reeling him back in, like he can't make up his mind. is he supposed to be flattered? comforted? to have made such a lasting impression? was he supposed to forgive him for that? because he supposedly likes him? another lie.

the hurt and betrayal balls up tightly in his chest. he wants to curl in on himself, he wants to forget. then, the question is posed. what now?

what now?

“  ... why did you do it? ” a joke? for months on end? it had to be something else. even in his current state, there's no disguising the hurt in his voice. his fingers feel numb, hanging by his sides as they are, and when he looks up into the face of the girl he had connected with over the past few months, he finds the smiling, handsome, painful truth instead.

he didn't appear to hold any regret or remorse. maybe he was a psychopath. still, jinwoo doesn't understand. if not for money or gifts, then, what?

“  what did you have to gain from this? ”

[diaboeli]

the hour was late, and this dilapidated, abandoned house they've occupied for the night provided enough space for them all to make camp, while extending scraps of privacy. he had watched her settle in, as the fire lessened and the clearing smoke gave way to the stars peeking through the holes in the crumbling canopy above. it was quiet, quiet enough for his mind to wander and his vision to cloud― occupied with thoughts of their adventures thus far, and what perils likely lay ahead; occupied with his lapse in memory and chasing thoughts that never quite reached an end.

honest to lolth, he doesn't realise he's staring until she speaks.

❛ my eyes are up here. ❜ ( elia & xvilnar ) @mythologaze.

xvilnar blinks away the haze and elia's chest comes into focus. truthfully, there's little satisfaction to be had in an armoured breastplate. his imagination could only take him so far, but he thinks he'd find his hands full.

“  ... up is a bit of a stretch, ” he shoots back for nothing but the sake of his pride. it's been a while since he's had his needs satisfied. but, since apologies weren't quite within his repertoire, he's left to offer a piss poor diversion for his wandering eyes instead.

“  nice breastplate. need help taking it off? ”

[diaboeli]

knocks whatever he's holding out of his hand and huffs >( you know what?? i never really liked you anyway ... and ... and you have stupid hair . @ xvilnar

his cinnamon bun goes flying out of his hand, landing somewhere in the dirt before he's taken his second bite. he's not happy about it, evidently, when all they've been surviving on thus far was apple cores and slop. his chewing slows, “  i was eating that, ” but he's cut off by the other drow's petulance― spewing whiny noises, it's all meaningless blather because he's just been robbed, more or less. xvilnar waits for vhaal'krin to finish insulting him before he leans in to snatch at his forearm, hauling him in close, “  you're gonna go fetch that for me, or i'll have to find something else to snack on. ” his pointed stare is enough indication. he releases his wrist and nods to the now dirtied bun sat a good couple feet away from them, “  on your hands n' knees will suffice. ”

[diaboeli]

continued from here, @unascended.

astarion had been elsewhere just now, only snapped to when xvilnar had blatantly pointed it out. his eyes were still red around the edges, glassy, on the brink of tears. despite it all, he neglects to press him on the observation.

the vampire spawn wasn't meant to be anything more than a bit of fun; a surfacer who had suffered a similar fate to his own, seeking reprieve when they were afforded moments of downtime. how was he to know that, over time, parts of him ... of them would be dredged up forcibly or otherwise, fastening another knot in that now tightening thread they continued to weave between them?

when he spreads his legs, xvilnar's good eye follows the movement with ensuing interest. he's starting to recognise astarion's song and dance, like a peacock trapped in a cage; beautiful to look at it, mesmerising when it performs it's dance, but tread on into it's territory and the façade is threatened, the claws come out― or fangs, in astarion's case.

maybe it was all that sleep-deprivation starting to catch up with him. he couldn't think clearly, could feel the exhaustion knitting itself into his very being. he needed to rest, however, should he dare to close his eyes he would find it's opposite.

another night without sleep.

if so, he needn't waste the night trying to obtain the unobtainable.

“  what, in front of lady shar? ” the name is a mockery on his tongue, decidedly permitted with shadowheart out of hearing range. his questioning isn't for lack of interest, merely amusement. a subconscious attempt at giving astarion an opportunity to retreat should he change his mind.

“  didn't realise you wanted shadowheart to slit our throats in our sleep. you're not exactly quiet. ”

[diaboeli]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 - bold what applies to your muse. italicise what sometimes applies / where there is potential. bold and italicise what always applies and what your muse loves doing. strike down what your muse does not enjoy, can't offer or will never, ever occur (if applicable). feel free to add more to the list as you see fit or make notes on whatever you feel like expanding upon!

tagged by: @saviourhe 🤍 tagging: @alveyiat , @unascended , @demonwebs , @crimsonthirst , @helldusked , @starlyht (for sol) , @ban1te , @anquenin , @moonsmourning (for utahime), @fielleuse , @onlyathief and anyone who sees this!

holding hands ㅤ·ㅤholding onto arm / holding out armㅤ·ㅤbuying flowersㅤ·ㅤcookingㅤ·ㅤcuddlesㅤ·ㅤwriting a poem / song ㅤ·ㅤholding door openㅤ·ㅤtying shoe lacesㅤ·ㅤsharing a milkshake with two strawsㅤ·ㅤoffering their jacket when it's coldㅤ·ㅤkissing in the rainㅤ·ㅤpublicly confessing love ㅤ·ㅤlong walks at the beachㅤ·ㅤdoing the titanic pose on a boatㅤ·ㅤtaking cute pictures in a photoboothㅤ·ㅤ sharing a taxi / uberㅤ·ㅤkissing the back of their handㅤ·ㅤslow dancingㅤ·ㅤgetting tickets of their favourite artist / sports team / otherㅤ·ㅤ'introducing them to their parents' ㅤ·ㅤlighting candlesㅤ·ㅤflower petals on bedㅤ·ㅤlove lettersㅤ·ㅤstar gazingㅤ·ㅤbrushing / doing their hairㅤ·ㅤpicnicsㅤ·ㅤteaching them something while gently guiding their handsㅤ·ㅤcomplimentsㅤ·ㅤlate night drivesㅤ·ㅤtaking selfies togetherㅤ·ㅤdrawing them ㅤ·ㅤself-made giftsㅤ·ㅤmassagesㅤ·ㅤproposing with a family heirloom ring ㅤ·ㅤlending them their favourite book to readㅤ·ㅤpaying for dinner / coffeeㅤ·ㅤmixtapes / playlistsㅤ·ㅤsurprise birthday partiesㅤ·ㅤfeeding themㅤ·ㅤhanding them keys to their apartmentㅤ·ㅤmaking space in drawer for their clothes when they stay overㅤ·ㅤsharing a blanketㅤ·ㅤcouple costumesㅤ·ㅤtucking a hair strand behind their earㅤ·ㅤrunning after them at the airport / delaying them from leavingㅤ·ㅤmoving cities to be togetherㅤ·ㅤblowing a kissㅤ·ㅤbreakfast in bedㅤ·ㅤdefending them in a fight (verbally / physically)ㅤ·ㅤjoint bubble bathsㅤ·ㅤdropping the L-bomb ("i love you")ㅤ·ㅤdedicating a song at the karaoke bar to themㅤ·ㅤwearing their clothes ·ㅤyawning before putting an arm around them while watching a movieㅤ·ㅤgrant them the last bite (from meal)ㅤ·ㅤlonging, affectionate gazesㅤ·ㅤstroke their hair while they sleepㅤ·ㅤdrive them aroundㅤ·ㅤsparring / play fightingㅤ·ㅤlisten to them ramble about the things they're passionate about ·ㅤread to / with them

[diaboeli]

“  that wasn't for you. unless your name is shit stain, ” bluth eluur. his chin juts out, a quick nod in the vendor's direction to prove his point. the man was cowering, rightfully so, by his feet. oh, and screaming still, but such piercing notes was akin to birds chirping outside one's window. background noise, ambience. had he been left to his own devices, who knows what would have happened? how many limbs would remain? those [ imagined ] plucked off one by one like the legs of a fly so treacherously caught in a sticky spider's web. such sick, depraved thoughts eat away at his conscience ... he ought to douse himself with cold water; find an altar somewhere and pray to whichever god would listen.

all in all, he's not so unhappy, it's just that a scowl often suits his face better. what a collision of disorderly thoughts and desires! evidenced in the downturn of his brows. people were already easy to intimidate on the grounds of his being a drow, let alone the persistent look of confusion, of disdain that wore like a smile. as for his dagger-happy hands, well, he just might find that tree later. or, a warm and comfortable sheathe.

vhaal'krin's way does manage to chink at that figurative armour of his. a huff, a curt laugh, “  ants? you trying to tickle me? ” xvilnar sneers, the sickly sweet imagery little more than child's play to a torturer of his calibre. he has no doubt the other can do better. he steps forward, switching from one prey to another, “  or are you the ant? desperate to satisfy that sweet tooth of yours? ” not that he thinks the brat will crumble under his gaze. he's been stuck up on that high horse of his from the moment they met. still, it was always worth a try.

“  maybe if you beg nicely, the man will find a pot of honey under his coat for you, little ant. ”

it's not mercy which tugs at the strings of his shallow little black heart , but rather the knowledge that it's starting to become increasingly hot and stifling under his clothes . such an overt display of aggression can't be allowed to continue ... lest his other head starts doing the thinking , and then his pride will be left in tatters , and we can't have that now , can we ? it takes conscious effort not to forget how to close his jaw while peering over the drow's shoulder on his tiptoes . why did she have to make this one so big , anyways ? he could probably squeeze his bicep between his hands and he wouldn't even feel it . where was he ? right - the screaming seller .

vhaal'krin tilts his head , turning his pert little nose up at him , fluttering those dollish lashes up at him as if unwitting , feigning ignorance . the picture of conceited nobility , he has to pull back the smile from his lips . ❝ do i look like i speak deep drow ? ❞ he does . deep drow . high drow . surface common . elvish . even a little infernal in a pinch . but while he's at it he might as well throw in a little jab , right ? ❝ anyways , you're always unhappy , ❞ he flicks his wrist dismissively , bracelets clinking like cymbals . ❝ go stab a tree or something ... we can't lose all the vendors . ❞ oh , if only his reasoning was that rooted in logic .

the man cries and screams as he falls , vhaal'krin : the face of apathy , can't help but roll his eyes with a sneer . ❝ oh , hush . this isn't about you . ❞ he tells the man with the mangled hand , promptly redirecting his attention to the drow with skepticism sitting high atop his brow . ❝ my way ? i'm sorry - ❞ he presses a hand flat to his chest in disbelief . ❝ are you tied to a table , lathered in honey while ants crawl all over you ? ❞ unfortunately , that would be a no . ❝ then this isn't 'my way' . ❞

[diaboeli]

❛ i much prefer it when i’m the one prowling in the shadows - about to strike. ❜ ( astarion & xvilnar ) baldur's gate three sentence starters, @anquenin.

the shadow-cursed lands were exactly as described; cloaked in shadow, cursed as far as the eye could see. there was little room to be surprised. the further they ventured, the darker it became and without a map or means to light the way, they were essentially stuck between a rock and a hard place. the caravan they had been fortunate enough to run into was a momentary reprieve, allowing them to regroup and hash out their next phase. moonrise towers.

still, for all their planning, there was no accounting for the shiver wrought by distant screams and constant feeling that they were being watched. unease, was the word he was looking for. astarion's confession isn't such a stretch from his own inner thoughts, and the drow considers him almost suspiciously for it. maybe his tadpole was lacking ... no. there were worse thoughts than fleeting fears swirling around in his head.

“  we'll make camp soon enough, ” where? don't ask. he hasn't thought that far ahead. xvilnar's words are his best attempt at comfort, though, it's little more than an empty reassurance at this rate. they had a lot more ground to cover still. “  when we do, we can play a game of cat n' mouse since you're feeling nostalgic. winner gets a bite. ”

[diaboeli]

i'm so normal about this btw don't look at me

[diaboeli]

scion of bhaal ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

[diaboeli]

xvilnar & elia, @mythologaze.

“   you must've mistaken me for someone else, ” the persistent feeling at the back of his mind is reminiscent of the tadpole, wriggling and writhing in his brain matter, trying to get him to remember. if only he would just remember― her face, a name, anything. it's little more than a sense of déjà vu, a dream of a dream of a dream, where he can only grasp at the seams, unable to see the full picture.

xvilnar's concentrating frown eases, as does his tadpole, which he belatedly realises had been searching for hers. she has one too, and the temptation to pervade her mind gnaws at him hungrily; the want to impose himself, his will, to seek answers to the gaps in his memory. as his eyes instinctively lower out of respect, naturally, such tempting thoughts subside.

his tongue runs behind his lower lip, apprehensive gaze trailing the glint of her blade instead, “   i don't know you. know a threat when i see one though. that meant for me? ”

[diaboeli]

there's a visible shift as his offer reaches astarion; a figurative perk of his ears, an extended favour that had nabbed his attention where talk of anything else might have earned him a few more expletives and a storming off. halsin watches on as he appears to be assessed, the unmissable wandering eyes and the way his stances seems to ease, as if the tension of starvation was already beginning to roll off of him at the mere prospect of a free meal.

mutedly, he wonders, as astarion twirls at his hair and approaches him with interest, if anyone has offered him before.

what he knew of the camp-goers was only what was shared at face-value, the few snide comments passed between them over the fire aside. halsin knew little of astarion's personal plight, other than an inkling that if he peeled back that perfected exterior, he would find an amalgamation of complexities, of vulnerabilities and desires for more than the hand he has been dealt thus far.

he hoped to be around long enough to see such layers unfold.

“  not at all, ” he intends to mention that his offer is true, to assure him that he does not ever make propositions without meaning to see them through, but the sudden desperation that noticeably takes hold of astarion gives him cause to rethink. his wellbeing was priority, not halsin's need to nurture.

the drool that starts to dribble down his chin presents within the urge to swipe it clean, he stays his hand. perhaps waving his fingers about a hungry vampire's mouth might not be the best of ideas. the plea that follows squeezes at his chest. “  easy, ” and it's unclear to him at first, if he's reassuring himself or astarion. “  it would be cruel of me to make you wait any longer than you already have, ” then, with an inviting gesture to a small patch of grass and dirt, he makes himself comfortable, his back to the trunk of a fallen tree, one fashioned into a makeshift bench.

“  come. i assume the neck would be preferential? ” as he speaks, he shifts his hair, unfastening the straps of his armour to further expose his neck and shoulder. he hadn't considered whether astarion would prefer a more private locale, although the rest of their camp seems to be distracted for the time being. while halsin was versed in all things natural, vampires were, for the most part, unexplored territory. he tries to make himself seem as approachable as possible, his hands resting on his lap.

“  when you're ready. ”

ASTARION FROZE MID-TURN TO LEAVE. Because he was going to. He was going to stalk away and find a way to peel himself from the ruined tatters of his favorite leathers and Halsin's words stopped him. There was something of a bleeding heart to this man, and he hated those. Somehow he'd said yes to letting him travel with the party, and indeed he'd spent hours asking himself why. Why, when he didn't care what happened to some scorched patch of earth? When nothing mattered but getting to the end of this journey and either killing Cazador or dying trying, why?

Was it cliche to say he found the druid grounding? Where Astarion knew could sway the others in their morals this man was immobile and gently vocal about it. When he'd made the choice to save the tieflings instead of killing them all with the aid of the goblins, somehow Halsin had made him feel like that was the right thing to do. For some reason he cared about doing the right thing. He made him care.

It was infuriating. It made Astarion want to pick Halsin apart and leave what was left behind to the buzzards. He didn't understand him. He wanted to stop the Shadow Curse. What else did he want? Surely he wanted something, everyone does.

No one spoke that gently without an ulterior motive.

Perhaps two could play that game.

This bleeding heart could be useful, whatever was coming. Astarion just had to be whatever Halsin was looking for. (Likely something to protect. A way to feel big and strong and good for something in the face of his failure with the curse. How lucky for him that in some ways Astarion needed the reverse.) What better time to find that out than with his fangs buried in his throat?

The spawn's aggravation dissolved into a sweet smile, body swiveling back to face Halsin and look him up and down. A hand lifted to twirl his index finger through a bit of white hair hanging free at the side of his own face.

Yes. He'd do nicely. He was bulky enough that he could handle feeding him, even in this state - and he was a healer. The risk of being staked for killing one of the other fools traveling with him wouldn't exist here. None of them let him feed on them anyway... in fact, this would be the first willing thinking blood. If goblins even counted. (In his opinion they didn't.)

A thrill ran through him from head to toe. It didn't hurt that Halsin was something approximating easy on the eyes.

"How sweet of you to offer, darling." Fingers released the lock of hair twisting between them. Sure feet carried him to stand a mere arm's length away from Halsin with his head tilted to meet his eyes and check that he was sure about his offer. He seemed concerned about something. "I'll admit I don't think in this state I'll be strong enough for a hunt. If you don't mind?"

Gods. Even at this distance -

Astarion could hear every steady thump of Halsin's heart in his chest. His ruby gaze locked onto his throat and he could see it vibrating like a steadily plucked lute string. He was still angry with the others, but all he could think of now was sinking his teeth in. What would he taste like? Would it be better than the swill he'd survived on for the last two hundred years?

Astarion's stomach ached far more than any part of his body after the bibberbang incident. His lips burned, causing him to realize just how dry they were and lick the moisture back into them. His mouth dropped open, unneeded breaths falling heavily past his lips just as surely as the string of drool he wasn't cognizant enough to notice dripping like honey down his chin.

The next word to fall from his lips came out scratchy and pathetic. "Please."

[diaboeli]

its nothing some ibuprofen and a blunt and 5 beers and a head injury and jacking off and killing myself cant fix

[diaboeli]

❛ there is a time and place for violence. i mean - this place is perfect. but is it the time? ❜ ( vhaal'krin & xvilnar ) baldur's gate three sentence starters, @demonwebs.

he's got the human's fingers bent back in a direction they ought not to be in, verging on popping right from the sockets. he can see the sweet pain as it flitters across their face and the apprehension that this can get a whole lot worse real fast if no one intervenes. like the flip of a switch, he, disappointingly, notes the relief that chases away the fear, as his companion urges ... mercy? something within him lurches at the novel idea, bile washing over his tongue. xvilnar pauses, eyes anchored on the merchant in front of him, missing the symbol of the zhentarim embellished over his right breast. he cants his head in vhaal'krin's direction. maybe he misunderstood.

“  what, the stars not aligned enough for you? ” despite his sarcasm, he's fixed on his chosen torment. “  price gouging's bad for business. makes hungry travellers like me unhappy, bluth eluur, ” he all but spits in drowic, bends the man's fingers back an inch and relishes in the piercing cry that it elicits. if he could consume the sound.

... but, but, but. annoyingly- but, the pale drow's words felt strangely rooted in sense. he could read between the lines. they couldn't go torturing every wandering vendor they came across, no matter how exorbitant their prices. no doubt, he'd sully their reputation, or what remained of it. xvilnar rolls his eyes as he releases the man's hand, and glances at vhaal'krin, morosely, “  have it your way then. ”

[diaboeli]

❛ sometimes we need to think with our heads before our knives, dear. ❜ ( sol & xvilnar ) baldur's gate three sentence starters, @starlyht.

“  ... does it count if they ran into it? ” a tease, albeit a genuine question, and he's still holding the dagger out like a child who never learned better. xvilnar points it at sol then, his good eye squinting as if trying to pinpoint where to direct his blade next. he traces the tip of it through the air, outlining the others' silhouette and ending on the tipless end of his visible ear. the little sliced up drow had met the finer edge of a blade more times than he, it would seem. but he's getting ahead of himself, he does know better.

teeth flash as he grins, easing up and flipping the weapon back between his fingers. as if he's some boorish brute incapable of logic and common sense ... is it his fault if people are simply itching for a fight? if he obliges them of their desire for violence and bloodshed? and if it tickles the sadist in him, well, it's two birds one stone, really.

“  they're only ... iblith, ” there's few choice words in their native tongue that express how lowly he thinks of the corpse by his feet. well. nearly-a-corpse. their chest was still heaving with their ragged last breaths. xvilnar nudges their cheek with the tip of his boot, head lolling to the side, “  doubt they have anything interesting to say. ”