#smite vampire skins

[vampiresnight]

SMITE Vampire Skins

[eganeyes]

thinking of vampires and werewolves integraded in the military clegan au im sighing in agony

werewolf!bucky vampire!buck ofc lets fall to the expected norms mainly because i am a dog coded bucky enthusiast and also as much as i think of buck as a doberman he's very much vampire coded

werewolf vampire feud being an actual and expected thing, the 100th being gunned from the beginning of the war as a trial unit to see how humans, vampires, and werewolves are able to work together. most units kind of failing at it because everyones too territorial, too much blood history, too blood-proud, and humans too cautious.

enter the 100th, always the outlier, ever the undisciplined.

officer training begins far before their assignment to the 100th, so the buckies meet each other first. born-werewolf currently lone-wolfing john bucky egan's proverbial but also quiet literal fur bristling when he firsts scents the air of his new base and zeroing on buck cleven, the vampire who's going to sleep on the bunk right next to him. millennia-old ice-cold buck cleven smelling the wet dog fur and hearing the low growls first before looking up from folding his handful of monogrammed kerchiefs to a werewolf standing by the bunk next to him, presumably assigned that bed.

buck promptly ignores the guy, which bucky doesn't take at all very kindly. john still gives the guy his name though, a week down the line, because, well, he's very pretty and very smart and very capable of putting bucky on his back.

werewolves being high in the sky is unheard of. bucky suffers through the 'trying to get closer to the moon?' jokes easily enough. no sun smiting vampires here btw, should i say they glitter like the cullens or nah. just the slightest glitter then, lets say that there's a glow when the sun hits their skin, vampires being the suns favorite child or something and when they die they return as ashes to the sun to give those vampire pilots some fear of flying too close to the sun.

complicated-relationship-with-the-moon werewolf bucky vs complicated-relationship-with-the-sun vampire buck oh the ache

but like more on the other guys because fuck clegan theyve caused me enough grief

werewolf dougie vs human blakely. sooo attached to dougley you don't understand. dougie imprinting on ev like a baby chick, scenting his clothes and his jacket and his pillows etc. blakely being sooo flustered the first time dougie actually greets him like pack—as in dougie touches his nose to the side of ev's nose, runs it to the side just before his ear, and down to his neck—face cherry red and spluttering while dougie just has the most satisfied cat-who-got-the-cream look in his face. maybe after their first successful bomb-drop practice mission? idk just obsessed with the image.

vampire duo crubbles, centuries of being together reflected on the way they're never apart on the ground. croz's diet has to be like incredibly precise and certain blood sits weirdly in his stomach so up in the air paired with the anxiety of being so close to the sun he's puking out anything that's left in his stomach. ms. jean crosby known keeper of both harry crosby and bubbles payne, only woman to keep those two in line, but nobody actually knows what she is.

another werewolf and vampire pair: hammy and brady. hammy being a werewolf disaster duo with dougie, squabbling and rucking up the base like pups, bucky having to snap at them to cut it out when he's also wagging his out-of-sight tail wanting to cause mayhem too but maybe not when some very important general is by the base yeah. brady just brings that vibes of being incredibly old and incredibly stuffy and incredibly stick-in-the-mud at first you know?? hammy first meeting his vampire pilot and scoffing because that's literally the stereotypical vampire he's shit upon pre-army. until he sees brady pilot. until his pilot manages to execute a move so beautiful he doesn't end up as a pile of burnt fur within minutes of a trial flight. until he sees john fucking brady crack a smile at him with the slight glitter of the dying sun caressing his skin. dougie, smelling this shit from literally 4 miles away groans because brother, really?

vampire!kenny stuck in the body of a 19 year old never to grow old, waiting for his passing from the sun whenever that is. very human very warm very kind rosie rosenthal easily grasping at kenny's ice-cold-yet-sun-blessed skin and sparks fly from the flat of the palm meeting rosie's and to the tips of his bronze burnt curls.

fiery human chick harding able to go toe-to-toe with wolves and vampires, mouth stretched wide the first time he has bucky egan sitting on his visitor's chair whose metabolism is working overtime trying to burn the devils piss of a hooch out of his system. meeting born-werewolf jack the next hour who's bucky's only equal in their eclectic werewolf pack—whose fur is clearly bristling from bucky grounding him but he clocks instantly that this were will be the one who will actually snap on his new boys' heels if they ever step out of line.

currently kind of obsessed with this aaaa might come back with other ships (demacon i Will love you into existence) when it hits (hopefully) probably when the bi!buck euphoria melts a bit

[violetlunette]

As it’s Silver’s birthday month and I don’t want him overshadowed, I’m going to try and put out as much Silver content as I can! To start, I’m posting some vampire Silver headcanons in an AU where Silver is unaware he's a vampire for reasons.

*Lilia sneaks blood into Silver’s dishes. However, it can’t be his blood or the blood of anyone Silver’s close to. The reason is simple: friends and family aren’t food. (Then again, neither is anything Lilia makes, but I digress.) Thus, he uses animal blood.

**Adding to this, Lilia makes sure to add a LOT of iron to dishes.

*Silver is pinker than his human version, as he burns SUPER easily in the sun. He has to use specially made sun lotion.

*He wears shades due to his sensitivity to light.

*Lilia tried to teach Silver to fly in bat form by basically dropping him from tall heights. This continued until the other bats saw what he was doing, bit him, and then basically adopted the white vampire bat.

**Lilia had to fight them to get Silver back.

*One of Silver’s vampire abilities is "tranquility,” which immediately puts others at ease around him. They even want to nap with him.

**This happens often with the first years, but also to Idia and Leona. (Riddle once.)

*Silver has difficulty traveling over water, which makes it difficult for him to swim. (He can’t swim in rivers.)

*He can’t enter places without being invited (though welcome mats and signs are a loophole). Thus, Lilia will make sure to enter a place first, then beacon Silver after him.

**If Lilia’s not around, others will unknowingly do this when they enter a place and he doesn’t follow. “Why are you just standing there? Come on!”

*Holy objects don’t affect Silver, as they only smite the wicked.

*Lilia learned about vampires needs from a book he has because.

*While Silver could technically hypnotize others, he is unaware of it. Even if he were aware, it would be hard, as Silver can’t keep his eyes open for long without getting hit by a spell.

*There is no vampire strength or speed for Silver, but Lilia’s training makes up for that.

*He is allergic to garlic blossoms (and garlic, of course).

**He can eat pizza.

*He has fangs that are dull because he doesn’t do what he needs to sharpen them.

*I think I mentioned this, but Silver can only sleep in a bed “shaped” like a coffin, and it has to have grave dirt under the cushions.

*When Silver cries, his tears are red but not blood (though others think so).

**When Silver first cried, Lilia was horrified, as he worried something was wrong, as did Malleus and Sebek.

*Malleus is suspicious of Silver’s oddities but doesn’t think about them too much, as he assumes it’s a human.

**Until he comes across a book on vampires, that is.

***Then he, like everyone else, assumes Lilia is the vampire.

*Silver used to nap upside down and would fall when startled awake.

*On rainy days, his skin will pale and sparkle like mist, which allows him to blend in and appear to vanish.

*His bat form is popular with girls and kids.

*Rook tried to hunt Silver in bat form when he was in Savanaclaw. Lilia made sure he never did so again.

And that’s it for now! I hope to get a ficlet of this series up after I finish some other stuff.

[zepskies]

Devour Me - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader 

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for. (18+)

AN: Here's Part 2! **Read Devour Me: Part 1

Song Inspo: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique. But really it’s “Ven Devórame Otra Ves” by Lalo Rodriguez. (You’ll see why.) 🤭

Word Count: 5,400

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Blood, character death and violence, smutty smut, angst, Dominican slang, and tons of sexy fluff.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 2: "Telenovela Style"

Your resulting scream of agony is as unforgiving as the ground when your knees buckle, hitting the hard cement.

Andy grips you with the strength of a monster. 

Then he holds you down as he drinks your blood. 

No matter how you struggle and whimper, you can’t push him off, and you’re getting weaker by the second.

Until Andy is ripped away from your neck, and is taken care of the way all vampires must be. He doesn’t even feel the blade coming. 

When you’re able to look up, Dean stands above you with thinly veiled fury. He doesn’t have time to consider what he’s just done. 

He bends to gather you up into his arms, all the while trying to stamp down the panic clenching his heart. He calls your name, but you can only make weak sounds as your bleary eyes meet his. 

“Dean,” you manage. The ragged wound in your neck is bleeding profusely down your chest and shoulder, seeping into your shirt. He takes your hand and clamps it hard against your neck, even though it makes you whimper.

“Gotta stop the bleeding,” he says, apologetic but firm. “Keep pressing.”

In your stupor of pain, you don’t realize that your screech woke the entire nest. Dean has to lock up his worry; he looks up and finds his brother and Cas already fighting a hoard of angry vampires. 

Dean carries you over to them and lays you down against the wall with the other humans. He keeps a protective line in front of you, but he decapitates a vampire before she can sink her fangs into Sam next.

The two of them work together, and with Castiel’s smiting power behind them, the angel and the two men are able to clear the rest of the nest. 

By the end, only you and two of the women being held captive are still alive. The third girl’s heart just finally gave out. Sam takes the survivors to the nearest hospital. 

Meanwhile, Castiel approaches where you sit up against the inside of the barn, barely awake, while Dean kneels with you, holding you to his chest. He meet’s Cas’s blue-eyed request with a nod. So Cas stretches out a hand and touches two fingers to your forehead. 

You’re healed in an instant. Dean marvels, like he always does when Cas displays his power. Dean is able to breathe a little easier, the vice grip on his heart easing as he touches your neck.

The tan skin is once again smooth, if still stained with blood. You blink back into wakeful consciousness. 

He shifts so he can see your face. “You okay?” 

You meet his eyes but can only nod. His jaw is still tight and tense, and you can’t blame him. 

You know you’ve messed up. Big time. You nearly got everyone killed, including yourself…and now, you have to tell a mother that her son was dead. 

Dean helps you up, holding you by your arms and waist until you’re steady on your feet. You have a hard time meeting his eyes, but when open your mouth to apologize, he beats you to it. 

“I hope you’ve learned your damn lesson,” he says. 

Your gaze snaps up to his. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s hands go to his hips as his brows raise at you. 

“Next time, when I tell you to hang back, I mean that shit. Hang the hell back,” he all but growls. 

You tilt your head at him as your irritation begins to spark. Meanwhile, Castiel is the one who backs up as he glances between you and Dean uncertainly.

“I made a mistake, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do,” you shoot back. “I was a hunter long before I met you.” 

“Yeah, well, color me surprised that you’ve made it this long,” he snaps. 

Your temper flares hotter. “You know, you’re not so goddamn perfect either.” 

“Never said I was,” Dean says. “But when my gut tells me something ain’t right, I need you to fucking listen. Otherwise, we get a day like today.”

His words are edged with grit by the end of his little rant, and you don’t appreciate it. Your lips purse in anger.

“I don’t care what that legendary gut tells you,” you sass back. “I’m not a little girl, and you’re not my damn father!”

Dean raises incredulous brows at the way you’re shouting at him. He crosses his arms. 

“What’s this, some kind of Latina temper?” he asks snidely. 

You truly become incensed at that. 

“Oh, you want to take it there?” you ask, as your eyes narrow. “Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Dean won’t admit it, but in that moment, he’s a bit intimidated by the quiet threat in your voice. Still, his fuse is lit, and he’s way beyond curbing his internal filter.

“Oh, I’m sorry, does this telenovela-style tongue lashing come with subtitles?” he snarks. 

You let out an incredulous breath. Your eyes begin to sting.

“You’re such an asshole!” you shout back. There, understand that?

You turn away from him before your frustrated tears can fall, but you stop short once you notice Castiel dragging out the bodies of the dead…including Andy. Your throat constricts, and you begin to stalk out of the barn. 

Dean calls your name in frustration. 

“What?” you hiss. 

The only thing that makes him hesitate is seeing the state of you when you turn back around. His anger crumbles, and maybe something in him breaks when he sees your tears. They’ve welled up in your eyes, and a few of them carve a path down your cheeks. 

You’re still covered in your own blood, and he hates it. He hates it more than anything. 

Later, you see the state of yourself when Sam returns with the Impala. In the reflection on the backseat window, you see the blood dried down your neck, staining nearly half of your shirt.

You see the black rings of your mascara and eyeliner around your eyes. You look a mess, and you try to wipe underneath your eyes. It’s a fruitless effort.

After you all finish burning the bodies, Dean starts the long drive home. You insist on stopping to tell Rachel Campbell about her son, but Sam says he already took care of it when he drove into town. 

You frown, but you no longer have the energy to be angry. You further withdraw into yourself, and your lower lip trembles as you look out the window. Through the rearview mirror, Dean sees more tears slipping down your face.

What Sam told him (but he won’t tell you), is what one of the survivors said. One of the mated pairs had taken Andy…to “adopt” a son of their own. 

That night is quiet and tense in Dean’s room. You have to wash your hair all over again, and scrub the blood and grime from your body until only your skin remains. But you don’t have the energy to do more than braid your wet hair afterwards and pull on your lucky Journey shirt, which is still full of holes. 

Dean knows that it’s bad when you need the “dreamcatcher,” as he’s called it in his head. You’ve never had a nightmare while wearing that shirt, or so you claimed a while back. 

You wear it over some long pajama pants instead of your usual shorts, or better yet, nothing at all. But he can see what kind of mood you’re in. Things are unsettled as you both get ready for bed in silence. 

He notes the way you turn to face the other side in bed, maybe to avoid him. Though if you really wanted to do that, you could’ve gone to your old room.

So in more ways than one, Dean takes some solace in the fact that you’re still next to him. And he decides to give you some time and space. 

He goes to bed and tries in vain to sleep.

In the morning, Dean’s woken by the familiar smell of coffee…and the less familiar sound of loud salsa music. 

What the fuck?

After he brushes his teeth, he puts on his robe and slippers and heads down to the kitchen, where he finds you in a seemingly better mood. You’re mopping the floor, of all things. You’re out of your pajamas, instead wearing a loose shirt that falls off your shoulder and some spandex shorts. 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo,” you sing softly along with the music as you dance from the kitchen to the living room. Your phone is connected to a Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table. 

Dean starts to smile, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway to watch you.

At an instrumental break with a run of conga drums and trumpets, you pause in your mopping to do a little twirl as you dance, with a soulful roll of hips and a flair of salsa steps. It makes Dean’s smile kick up into a smirk.

He walks in on purposefully light feet until he’s sidled up behind you in the living room.

“Nice moves, Shakira,” he quips. 

It startles a shriek of surprise out of you as you whirl around. Dean’s smile hikes up into a grin, but it soon fades when he remembers the way your scream rang through his ears last night. The way his heart dropped into his stomach, and his head swiveled at the sound. And he saw you go down hard. 

Then the rest of it tumbles through his mind—what he had to do afterwards in order to save you. How he’d did it without really thinking, his panic and determination blocking out almost everything else when he’d grabbed the kid. The monster, he forcibly reminds himself. 

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” you ask with a hand on your heart. 

Dean forces himself to smile a little. “Sorry. But might I remind you, not everyone here’s an early bird.”

You give him a wry look.

“You’re the only one around here who sleeps past 10 a.m. Cas dipped out a while ago, and Sam’s on a run.” 

But you graciously grab your phone to lower the music to a more bearable level. Dean doesn’t yet know this about you, but this—listening to music, dancing, cleaning—it’s all your way of coping…and releasing as much of your pain, terror, and regret from yesterday as possible. 

You then look up at him more guarded. The two of you exchanged a lot of unsavory words last night. In fact, it may just be the worst fight you two have ever had in almost three years of knowing one another.  

Dean senses the shift in you, and his amusement fades. He just can't let things stay like this. He won't.

He hazards drawing closer and touching your arm.

“Look…I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. I know I was being a dick,” he says. “You’ve just gotta understand something.”

You wait for him to continue with furrowed brows, sensing that whatever he’s about to say is hard for him. 

“There’s a reason I don’t do this. The uh, relationship thing,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. His thumb swipes along your arm. “It’s not just this job. It’s my fucked up life. I tried to warn you before—” 

“Dean,” you say with a sigh, but he raises his hand. 

“Please, just…let me say it,” he says. “You know the spiel. But things can change on a dime. Even on a damn milk run, like a dusty nest of vamps.”

You know that. You know you could’ve died yesterday, and he doesn’t need to remind you of that fact. Before you can start to get petulant again though, Dean continues. His jaw is working, like this next part is more difficult for him to admit.

“Trust me when I say, us being together is dangerous, for both of us,” he says. “For a while I, uh…I started to think Sam and I were better off alone.”

That casts you into dismay. Because you know Dean isn’t lying. He’s really contemplated spending the rest of his life devoid of love, so he won’t have to lose it. 

Dangerous, for both of us.

You realize then what Dean’s really saying. He’s afraid…afraid to lose you. You see it in his furrowed brows, the downturn of his lips, and whatever pain he’s trying to hide in the depths of his eyes. 

And just like that, the water works start. You can’t quite keep your tears at bay as you hold onto his shirt. He lets out a resigned sigh as he holds you by your arms. 

“You don’t have to cry for that,” he says, a bit teasing. 

“Have you met me?” you sniff. But you manage to look up at him with your glassy eyes. “I’m sorry too. God, I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Your fist clenches in his shirt when you remember Andy, latched onto your neck, and how Dean had to save you. You know he’s remembering it too when his brows furrow, and his gaze falls away. You reach a hand for his cheek.

“I know I fucked up,” you admit. “I was working with my heart, not my head. I just…”

You wanted so badly to help that kid and his mother. You also know that Dean understands; you see it in his eyes. He holds your hand to his cheek and brushes his thumb across the back of your hand.

“I know,” he says. “I really am sorry, baby.” 

The problem is, you didn’t just see your own mother in Rachel. She hadn’t been much older than you. And when you imagine a life beyond hunting, more than anything (no matter how much you shove down the idea), you really do want a family of your own someday. 

It’s just…days like yesterday remind you why that could be a very bad idea. 

More of your tears bubble over, and you head willingly into Dean’s arms. “Me too…”

He holds you tighter than ever. His hands rub down your back, tangle in your hair, and he drops his lips onto your hair. You sniffle, wiping your face dry in his shirt. And for a while, the two of you have peace in the relative quiet. 

Music still plays from the speaker though. And when another salsa song starts to play on your playlist, you start swaying. A smile works its way onto Dean’s face. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” he teases.

You smile into his chest. “We should go dancing sometime.”

Dean just laughs. “Oooh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you reply, batting your lashes up at him. You slip a hand on his shoulder and into one of his hands. He’s forced to hold you as if the two of you were about to start Fred Astair-ing across the living room. 

“Have you ever danced before?” you ask. “Like real dancing.” 

“Not salsa, I’ll tell you that,” he quips. 

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you,” you reply with a coquettish smile. “It’s just a few simple moves.”

Dean gives you a wan look. “You made it look anything but simple.”

You blush at that, but you meet him with a pout of disappointment. You don’t let up, even when Dean frowns. He huffs at you in resistance.

“No,” he insists. You just brush a gentle thumb along his neck, biting your lip in askance.  

But the longer he stares at your beautiful, hopeful eyes, the more cracks form in his resolve. 

Eventually, Dean breaks with a sigh, and a shake of his head. 

“You’re too much, you know that?” he mutters.

It’s then that you know you’ve won.

So with a happy squeal of excitement, you clap your hands and move to stand next to him so you can show him the basic steps of salsa dancing. 

You make him take off his robe and slippers, leaving in his shirt and plaid pajama pants. Then you instruct him for a few minutes, correcting his footing and getting him to move on a beat. You’re pleasantly surprised that he has some rhythm.  

Dean sighs once again. How the hell did we get here? Heat crawls up the back of his neck as embarrassment starts to set in. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbles.

“You’re doing good,” you encourage, with a growing smile. “Now come on, feel the beat in threes. One, two, three. One, two, three…”

Once he sort of has the basic steps and turns down, you move to stand in front of him. There you show him how to hold you, how he’ll move forward, and you’ll move back. It takes a little while, but you slowly move through the combinations, then do a little twirl underneath his hand. 

When he pulls you back in without faltering, you give him a beaming smile. “Very good!”

A subtle grin raises his lips at your enthusiasm. He also feels his face heating up at the praise.

But you pause when a certain song filters through the speakers. It’s an old one (and it never fails to make you blush), but you love it.  

“Ooh, yes,” you exclaim with delight, and you turn up the volume.

“What’s this one?” Dean asks.

“Ven Devórame Otra Ves,” you inform him. Not that he knows what that means. You sing along a bit with the first couple of verses while you encourage Dean to lead you in the dance. 

This song is just slow enough for him to attempt it, and the funny thing is, he doesn’t feel all that uncomfortable with the steps now. He’s starting to get a feel for how to move, both with his feet, and with his hands as he guides you by your waist, holding your hand close to his chest. Still, Dean’s also curious about the lyrics you’re singing. 

“What does it mean?” he asks.

You huff in amusement. “You sure you want to know?”

Dean raises a brow. “Well, now I gotta know.” 

You giggle at that, though you correct his steps when he leads with the wrong foot. 

“Okay. It’s about a guy who’s pretty much a player,” you say with a smirk. “His bed has been a revolving door of hot ass, but he keeps thinking about this one woman who used to have him turned inside out…”

Dean’s lips curve at the familiar image you’re conjuring. He manages to turn you under his hand, then pull you back to him in one smooth motion. He looks down at you with a deeper gleam in his eyes. You bite your lip, soothing your hand from his shoulder and down his arm.

As the song’s verses come, you translate for him. And for Dean, your voice in itself is a spell.

“Even in my dreams, he says, I thought I had you devouring me. And I dampened my white sheets remembering you,” you begin. Your words are smooth like black velvet. “In my bed, no one is like you, who draws my body on every corner, without a piece of skin left over.”

Dean is getting hot under the collar as you push away, dragging your fingertips along his back as you turn around him. When you come back into his line of vision, his attention is attracted to the sway of your hips, clad just in those little spandex shorts. He has to clear his throat a bit. 

You eventually return to him with a warm hand against his chest. 

“Ven, devórame otra ves. It means, come devour me again,” you continue, looking up at him from under your lashes, “Come punish me more with your desire. Because I kept my love for you…because my mouth has the taste of your body.” 

You smile at the laser focus of his green-eyed gaze. “Come devour me again.”

You push off with another little spin. When you reach for his hand, Dean yanks you back into him, eliciting a gasp. The move disorients you for a moment, but you giggle and hold onto his arms. Your hands glide up to rest on his shoulders. 

He’s holding you flush against him, and as you shift a thigh between his legs, you unintentionally graze against his hardening length. You look up at him with a smirk.

“You’re a little…stiff,” you say, both flirtatious and teasing. “Let’s loosen you up.”

You shake his shoulders out and try to get him to relax. Dean raises a wry brow, because you know damn well whose fault it is that his body is coiled tight. But you place his hands on your hips as you move back into the dance. 

“Feel what I’m doing there?” you ask. He looks down on you with growing heat.

“If I could do that, we wouldn’t be together,” he rumbles. 

You try to stifle a laugh as he pulls you in close again, just swaying for a bit. Soon enough, you grin knowingly when his hands start to slide lower on your ass. His head bows to yours, ready to meet you with a kiss. 

You stop him with your finger on his lips.

“Question: do you consider yourself more of a tits or ass man?” you ask him. You’re half teasing, but still curious. Dean snorts at the question. 

“More of a connoisseur,” he replies, smirking. 

“Ah.” You nod sagely, and you point between him and yourself. “So this is like a ‘sample the menu’ situation.”

Dean’s smirk deepens. “Sweetheart, you’re a goddamn buffet.”

You splutter laughing…and that’s when he finally pounces. He claims your lips with greedy passion. His hand winds into your hair, gripping tight and ruining what’s left of your loose ponytail. The strands coil around his hand in messy curls while he also gets a healthy grip of your ass through your thin shorts. 

You smile into his lips, even as you acquiesce to him guiding your head to the side, so he can slip his tongue against yours. You grip his arms more for stability while he manhandles you, kneading soft flesh and making pleasant tingles run up your spine. 

After a little while, his mouth burns a hot path away from yours. He noses down your neck, skimming his lips across your skin. It sets your nerve endings on fire and gets you breathing more shallowly in his ear. You cling to the back of his shirt, holding him close. 

Often he’s one to leave love bites of varying degrees, wherever he sees fit. But for a moment he stops at the crook of your neck, just pressing a lingering kiss.

He lets out a deep breath, and you realize he’s probably thinking about where you were bitten. The wound is gone, but it doesn’t change what’s imprinted in both of your minds.  

A softer smile grows on your face. You trail your fingers up into his hair, massaging the back of his neck. 

“I’m okay,” you remind him. Dean hums deep in agreement. You know, however, that he’s still thinking far too much.

So you slide your hands down, slow between the dips and planes of muscle in his back, and rest at his hips. Your thumbs delve under the hem of his shirt and tease the skin there. 

And you start slow, pressing wet, nipping kisses of your own to his neck while you inch his shirt up. You feel his smile on your neck. His grip on your hip flares to life. Still, he lets you tug his shirt up and over his head. Your loose shirt comes next, revealing the same black satin and lace bra you wore the first time he ever got you topless in his arms. 

A fan favorite. Dean grins. He reaches around to go for the clasp, but your firm push on his chest takes him by surprise.

He falls back onto the couch with a grunt, looking up at you then with raised brows. You’ve got a mischievous little smirk on your face that heats his blood and makes his cock twitch.

You take out the rest of your falling ponytail, shaking your hair out wild. Then you let your hands drift down your neck, over your clothed breasts, and finally to your little shorts.

Dean rubs his palms down his thighs and watches. A smirk forms across his lips as you slide the fabric down the curve of your hips. It leaves you in a red thong, familiar to him by the little tear it has on the front. (Again, his fault.)

You climb aboard his strong thighs to straddle his lap, using his shoulders as leverage as you sink down. You make sure to rub yourself teasingly against his clothed erection. He groans in appreciation. His hands fly to your soft, thick thighs and squeeze. 

“Aw, I like this,” Dean says, half on another moan as you grind down a bit harder on him. 

“Yeah?” you tease. You take his face in your hands and capture his lips with your own. Your tongue invades his mouth, and he welcomes you with a deep hum. It’s slow and hot at first, but Dean feels the loss of you when you break from his lips.

Instead, you treat him with the same trail of kisses he gave you, along the curve of his jaw and down his neck. But you don’t stop there.

Your hands move over his chest with purpose, tweaking over each hard nipple while your mouth burns a wet line down and down his sternum. Dean groans at your ministrations, but lets you leave his lap to slide down to the ground, between his thighs. 

“What’re you up to, baby?” he asks, despite having a very good idea of it. He catches the playful, yet determined gleam in your eye. 

You pause, briefly leaning back up to give him a heated kiss. You part from him with a grin. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you ask. “I’m gonna devour you.”

Dean stares hard at you as goosebumps break out across his forearms. 

Oh, fuck yeah. 

A giggle bubbles in your throat at the expression on his face. But you continue, taking his pants down his legs first, before his boxer briefs. 

Dean’s body tenses in anticipation. You’ve gone down on him before, but somehow it’s different this time. He feels like every single one of his nerve endings stands at attention along with his dick. And you’re taking your sweet time working him up. 

Even when his cock is finally free, you sooth your hands down his legs first, maybe teasing him a bit as you drag your nails down his inner thighs. Dean makes a strained sound, though he tries to hide it by clearing his throat.

Your gaze flicks up to his with a little smile. He’s holding the back of the couch; his fingers are digging into the old cushion in effort to keep still for you. But his eyes stare into yours like a man starving. You know what you’re in for after you have your way with him, but for now, he’s quite literally under your control. 

So you take him in your hands first. Dean groans as you tease him with light touches, soft movements, your thumb slowly circling over the sensitive, weeping head of his cock. It's torturous enough to make him drop his head back against the couch, closing his eyes tight.

And suddenly, he blinks them open again.

“Shit,” he utters, when you finally take him into your mouth. Your tongue is soft and wet, your lips move over him steadily, and your hands caress whatever your mouth can’t take, even teasing his balls. 

You work him over relentlessly, until he can’t help but spill everything he has to give into your waiting mouth. When you suck off and swallow whatever remains, Dean’s heart stutters like syncopated conga drums. 

He shudders and struggles for breath afterwards, watching your every movement—from wiping your mouth to shooting him that satisfied little smirk. 

You press one last kiss to the inside of his thigh before you raise from where you’ve been kneeling on the hard ground. 

Dean manages to lean forward and helps you up by your elbows. But then he pulls you back into his lap and kisses you deeply. He doesn’t let up until you’re panting with him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he manages to say. His voice is deep and laced with grit. 

He’s still panting heavily. You giggle and press your warming face into his neck. 

“What, now you’re shy?” he remarks. And he has to laugh. “Come back here.”

He brings your face back to him with a hand on your cheek. For a second, he just looks at you. His thumb strokes across your full, thoroughly kissed bottom lip.  

“Say it,” you encourage softly. “Whatever you’re thinking. Right now.”

A smile tugs at his lips. He can’t help but oblige you. 

“You’re too damn much,” he says again, both gruff and fond. Despite how you drive him up the fucking wall sometimes, he doesn't think it'll ever be enough for him, what he has with you.

Because this is something he'd almost given up on. Didn't think he'd get to have it. And it almost scares him, how much he wants you. How much he...

“I love you,” he says. His thumb traces along the familiar curve of your cheek.

It hasn’t been all that long, but he knows. You weaseled your way in without even trying. The least he can do for you is be honest.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, holding his hand in place. You tilt your head at him.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. 

Dean hesitates, but he nods. “Yeah.”

A smile grows across your face. “Eh, I’m still on the fence.”

At his flat look, you laugh and lean in for a kiss. He allows it, a little petulantly. But you make up for it with sweet affection. Your gentle hands stroke down the column of his neck, down his chest. You then lean back so he can see your face.

“Yo te amo,” you whisper. “Te amo y te quiero, más que tú puedes creer y entender.”

Dean smiles. He doesn’t understand all of it, but he gets the important bits. He hears it in the tone of your voice. He sees it in your eyes. They shine with emotion, but mainly with love. 

Dean kisses your hand. He lets go, just so he can slip his hands around you to finally unhook your bra. He tosses it across the room without bothering to see where it lands.

You do though, and you meet him with a slightly narrowed gaze. 

“Are you making a mess of my clean bunker?” you tease. 

His lips curve as he kisses you again, while his hands each get a generous handful of your breasts. 

“Ah, hello, ladies." He grins. "Miss me?”

You can’t help but laugh. He’s such a dork sometimes.

But you hum when his thumbs brush over hardened nipples, then drag deliberate circles over them, and pinch just hard enough to make you whimper in pleasure. The sensation zips through you, enhancing the flood between your legs. 

“I fucking love that sound,” Dean mutters, and licks a hot path in the valley between your breasts. His lips move against your dewy skin when he says, “Do that for me again.”

When he takes a nipple in his mouth and nips a bit hard, you have to oblige him. Your voice rising high is music to his ears.  

So he goes for your panties next. You help him get them off and return to his lap. With a breathy moan, you revel at the feeling of his fingers probing into your wet heat.  

However, you and Dean have been too engrossed in one another to notice the door of the bunker unlocking, and heavy steps down the spiral staircase. 

It’s Sam who’s back from his run. Unfortunately, he soon has to shield his eyes upon reaching the living room. 

“Damn it, Dean!”

You yelp in surprise, but Dean laughs and holds you close to shield you from view. As a bonus, it presses your breasts against his chest. 

“All right, Sammy. Go to your room,” he chides playfully (but he means it). “The adults are havin’ a moment.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re having a moment on the goddamn couch!”

“Sorry,” you say, though it’s muffled in Dean’s neck. Your face is red hot with embarrassment. 

Sam rolls his eyes heavenward and tries not to see anything else on his way to his room. 

But Dean’s chuckle reverberates through your chest as his hand goes to your cheek. He encourages you to pull back, so he can see your face again. 

When he does, he smirks at the scarlet blush dusting your cheeks and neck. You bite your lower lip, but despite your embarrassment, you’re happy.

Your own words replay in your mind when you lean in for another kiss.

I love you, you’d said. I love you and I love you, more than you can believe and understand. 

AN: Yay! I hope you enjoyed Part 2 of the “Midnight Espresso”-verse! I loved writing this one so much. I know we're just doing fanfic here, but I genuinely put my heart and soul into this one. ❤️

Also, here are a couple of Spanish translations:

(Note: other Spanish-speaking countries may interpret certain words differently.)

[During their fight]: 

“Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Translation:

“You’re fucking shameless. Keep messing with me. Then you’re going to see who I am (<- This is Dominican slang. It essentially means fuck around and find out what I'm made of.).”

[Song lyrics: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique]: 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo.”

Translation:

“I don’t know tomorrow. I don’t know tomorrow. If we’ll be together, if the world will end.”

Keep Reading:

Next in this series is "Chico Malo" ("Bad Boy"):

Summary: You catch Dean red-handed—with one of his favorite episodes of Casa Erotica.

▶️ Next Story: Bad Boy (Chico Malo)

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[abigailmoment]

In The Absence Of Stars

Tags: Tragic Kindness, Post-Solitary Confinement, Disassociation, Vampire Spawn Culture, Terrible Hurt and Strange Comfort, Starvation, Healing from Trauma, Polyamory, Community Building, Eating Disorder, Codependency, Self-Harm Through Neglect, Prevented Suicide Attempt, Familiars As Service Animals, Learning, Getting Better, Hurt and Actual Comfort

-

Astarion's neck prickled and his hands tightened around his mug. He knew he had limited time. And he knew he was doing this wrong. He was at a table in the back corner, and that was wrong of him. He should be at the bar. He should be on display. That's how you drew people. Pretty didn't work if it was hidden in a corner.

Pretty didn't work if it was hidden under stone.

"Are you all right?"

Someone was close. Someone had gotten close, and Astarion hadn't even noticed. Something inside of him flinched, but the impulse didn't make it to his body. There was a strange delay between mind and movement.

When he did move it was to look up and try to make sense of the shape next to him. Tall. Green. Teeth.

"You're not all right," said the half-orc.

-

This was inspired by this story by @ineadhyn.

I made the Samaritan a half-orc because I needed someone who would be completely unafraid to walk someone else home at night in Baldur's Gate. By the end I realized that the kind but assertive voice I had for him was based quite a bit on Finch, who belongs to @everchased and who therefore should be credited for inspiration.

It obviously isn't actually him, because that would be unbearably hideous, and also he's in the future, smiting evildoers. Possibly this is some great grand-uncle.

-

Astarion couldn't talk properly.

He was out, but his voice was back in the crypt. Trapped under a slab. Dusty and broken.

He ordered a drink by pointing. He had coins in his pocket. He had found them months ago. There was loose change in tombs, if you looked hard enough. For long enough. Funerary rites. Coins for the dead. Meant for a different corpse. His now.

Five copper for a year of solitude. Not…not a very good price.

It was enough to buy a very cheap drink that he didn't want. A necessary prop, he remembered.

He remembered the rote things. The need to get a drink to justify existing in this space. He remembered where this space was. The taven's name had changed, he was fairly sure, but it was much the same. Dingy, but not filthy. Populated by few groups, mostly solitary drinkers. Poorly lit.

Even the dim lantern light made his eyes hurt. Everything seemed so bright.

The light was better than darkness, anything was better than darkness, but it had been so abrupt. Nothing and nothing and nothing and then an assault of light and hideous movement. Dragged out by Godey. Washed by Aurelia. He had mauled a rat to tatters and not had time to pick the skin out of his teeth before he had to leave. He had to find someone. As he always did. As if it hadn't happened. As if the last year hadn't happened.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to fold down on the floor and cry.

He took his drink and went to find a place to sit. He held it with both hands. His grip was about as reliable as his voice. He found a table. He held his drink as if it meant something to him. He sat still.

This was…this was bearable. This moment. Sitting here. Away enough from the lanterns that they didn't blind so much. There was movement and noise, which was good because if it got too quiet he might actually scream, but it wasn't all around him, like it had been on the street. It wasn't doing anything to him.

At the moment.

Astarion's neck prickled and his hands tightened around his mug.

He knew he had limited time. And he knew he was doing this wrong. He was at a table in the back corner, and that was wrong of him. He should be at the bar. He should be on display. That's how you drew people. Pretty didn't work if it was hidden in a corner.

Pretty didn't work if it was hidden under stone.

"Are you all right?"

Someone was close. Someone had gotten close, and Astarion hadn't even noticed. Something inside of him flinched, but the impulse didn't make it to his body. There was a strange delay between mind and movement.

When he did move it was to look up and try to make sense of the shape next to him. Tall. Green. Teeth.

"You're not all right," said the half-orc.

He leaned over and Astarion didn't know what to do. Scripts were jumbling together in his head. There were all sorts of things he was supposed to do when someone leaned into his space and he wasn't doing any of them. Just sitting there. Like a mouse. Or a statue.

"I think you've had a little too much…" the half-orc was saying, because he was leaning over to look at Astarion's drink. He stopped talking briefly when he saw it was untouched.

"…something," he still maintained, with a fair amount of confidence. "Are you here with anyone?"

Astarion shook his head. Always no to that.

The half-orc looked relieved that he'd actually responded, and eyed him critically for a moment. Then he sat down in a chair across from Astarion.

"Did you drink something?" he asked Astarion. "Or eat something?"

A rat. It had been a moment of abject ecstasy and nowhere near enough. But that's not what was meant. Astarion shook his head.

"Did something happen to you?" the half-orc asked.

Astarion didn't shake his head. He didn't nod. What was he supposed to say to that?

"There's a Fist officer on the street outside," the half-orc said. "Do you need me to…?"

"No."

Then Astarion coughed, because there was still dust in his throat.

"Okay. Okay." The half-orc was holding his hands up. "Not that. That's fine."

Astarion finished coughing. He took a drink of pointless liquid. His hands were shaking. He was so useless right now. If even this was too much, he had no idea how he was going to…

"Do you live nearby?" the half-orc asked him.

That ticked a familiar note in Astarion's brain. That was part of a script, but it wasn't part of this script. Whatever this was. Astarion just stared at him.

"Look. I'm going to get you home, all right?" the half-orc said.

Something inside of Astarion froze. It couldn't be this easy. It was never this easy.

He nodded.

And it was easy.

Astarion was helped to his feet. He was steered very gently around the tables, chairs and other solitary drinkers. The door was opened for him.

They walked through the dark streets. No one bothered them, because one of them was six feet tall and had tusks. Astarion didn't even have to talk. He just pointed down the streets where they needed to go.

The half-orc kept a hand on Astarion's arm. Not possessive. Astarion knew possessive. It was like he was concerned Astarion might fall over and wanted to be in a position to do something about that if it happened. And it had been a year. A year since any kind of touch like that. And it was light enough that it didn't overwhelm, and Astarion felt like his body was somehow devouring it through the point of contact on his arm. Like the rat. Abject ecstasy and nowhere near enough.

And Astarion kept pointing down streets leading them closer and closer to his home.

It felt like there was a mortar and pestle inside of his chest. And every step he took turned the pestle and ground away at something. Something slender and enduring. Something that he hadn't realized he still had, didn't remember the name of, and that he was slowly destroying by doing this. A feeling like watching the night sky and seeing stars winking out.

They stopped at the base of the main stairs, that led up to the familiar mahogany door of the least convoluted entrance.

"You gonna be okay from here?" the half-orc asked.

He sounded a little intimidated. Because Astarion had led him to a castle.

And there was a moment, when the dying, ground down thing inside of Astarion's chest fluttered. A keening desire to do something, anything, other than what he was currently doing. But it was an impulse that didn't translate into motion. A death rattle. Because he was fresh from a lesson about sentiment. And the night sky was black, like the inside of a tomb.

"Would you mind…" Astarion started quietly, and stuttered, but managed to thread the words together in the end: "I may have trouble with the stairs."

"Sure," the half-orc said, immediately.

And he helped Astarion up the stairs and into the Szarr Palace.

-

This was supposed to be a short story about the POV character.

It is now an ongoing series about the half-orc. There are going to be about twenty chapters. I have all of it outlined and much of it written.

Gods preserve me. The rest of it is on AO3. -

[bosspigeon]

see me bare my teeth for you

i know i'm not the only one who thought it was incredibly stupid to let the amoral vampire twink stick his teeth in your neck, so i thought i'd do a rewrite of the bite scene with a Tav who doesn't have the self-preservation instincts of a ham sandwich~

The tiefling’s eyes burn like embers in the dark, and set deeply in the ashen-grey of his skin painted blue-black by the night’s shadows, he looks very much like a vengeful spirit risen from his grave to smite those who wronged him in his life.

But Astarion is hungry.

And now his face hurts, to boot. He didn’t expect the big devil-spawn to be able to move so damned quickly.

But, well, sore jaw or no, the cat’s out of the bag, so he has no choice but to resort to his usual means of survival, however much it rankles–he grovels. He simpers and plays up the pitiful creature, weak from hunger, with all the best puppy eyes he can muster, pouty and sweet.

The tiefling–Pyre–he’s a veteran soldier, with the discipline and strategic mind to match. Astarion watches those glowing ember eyes as they take him in, flickering over him top to bottom, as if ascertaining what sort of threat he is, and how quickly he could eliminate that threat. He hasn’t even bothered to stand up, still sitting on his bedroll, not quite relaxed but as close as he ever seems to be. He doesn’t seem to be so paranoid as to sleep in his armor, but his massive broadsword is lying conspicuously close to his hand.  Astarion curses that he didn’t have the foresight to kick it away before he tried to snack on the big bastard.

He wants to snarl, but he hides his fangs the best he can, however much his stomach protests, however much he wants to sink them into the brute’s stony flesh and feed.

“You tried to bite me,” Pyre rumbles, and finally something in his expression shifts with the slight quirk of one scarred brow. Astarion follows the line of the scar down over his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. It is one of many. The man’s face and–as one can only assume–his body are mapped with scars, wicked blade slashes and puckered burns and jagged claw gouges. A lifetime of battles fought carved into his skin like a mountain battered by storms. Still standing, against it all. “How can I trust you?”

“Because we don’t have a choice!” the vampire retorts, with perhaps more desperation than he’d ever care to admit. “Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms…” He flails his hand a bit, looking at the ground between the tiefling’s splayed legs and staunchly not at his damnably expressionless face, his burning ochre eyes. From what little he knows of Pyre, he is a man of action. Of practicality. Of making necessary decisions with what little they have. Astarion is an asset to the tiefling, same as the tiefling is to him. “I need you alive. You need me strong.” He meets Pyre’s eyes again, and he almost regrets it. The heat of them settles deep in his belly, making him feel unsettlingly warm and… seen. “Please,” he ekes out, refusing to be consumed. He does the consuming, thank you very much. “Only a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.” It’s all he’s got. He’s already weak. For all his bravado, if Pyre decided to attack him now, he’s not entirely sure of what sort of fight he’d be able to put up.

Pyre is implacable, his expression as blank and unmoving as a grey cliff face from which he seems to have been hewn. He looks to be completely immune to Astarion’s game.

The vampire tenses, preparing for a fight.

There’s a long moment of silence, and in it Astarion swears can hear every pulse of the stolen blood he does have coursing sluggishly through his corpse-cold body.

The mountain of a tiefling shifts. His gaze does not falter. But he nods, once. “Fine,” he rasps, and Astarion will never quite be over how strangely soft his voice is. “But not a drop more than you need.”

“Really?” He reels back, surprised, almost sure the man would either send him on his merry way to fumble through the underbrush until he stumbled across a sickly deer, or put him out of his misery then and there. “I-” He’s certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, however. He smooths his expression, reigns in his untoward eagerness.“Of course. Not one drop more.”

And then they stare at each other, for a beat, then two. Astarion standing, Pyre sitting up, watching him, eyebrows slightly raised and the dim firelight flickering across the contours of his damnably blank face.

“I… Wouldn’t be easier if you…” Astarion purses his lips, eyes flicking up briefly and then back down again. He gestures awkwardly to the rumpled bedroll. “Had a bit of a lie-down?”

“You’re not touching my neck,” Pyre says simply. His gambeson’s high collar is very firmly buttoned. To be quite honest, Astarion’s not sure how he thought to get past it without either waking the tiefling trying to get it out of the way, or gnawing through a mouthful of wool. Before Astarion can ask what he’s meant to do, then, Pyre extends a hand. Without his gauntlets, it is as callused and scarred as one would imagine of a veteran swordsman. His nails are thick and black and look as if they have been filed down to utilitarian dullness from naturally sharp points. He turns his hand palm-up, unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve and pushing it over the swell of his muscular forearm. There, a prominent vein snakes through the tough grey flesh, pulsing temptingly at the thin, vulnerable skin of his wrist. There are scars there, too, but older. Faded to a dull white. Neat lines in a row almost up to the elbow.

Astarion drops to his knees with a pout. “Alright, alright. Ruining my fun…”

“The blood is all the same,” Pyre says flatly, “Don’t complain about where it comes from.”

“Fine,” the vampire huffs, taking the proffered arm gently. As he draws the wrist in, saliva pooling in his mouth the closer that tantalizing vein comes to his teeth, he feels Pyre’s other hand at his shoulder. He freezes when it shifts, and strong, scarred fingers curl firmly around his throat.

His eyes flicker up to meet Pyre’s, staring at him with a coolness that belies their fiery hue. The fingers flex, but don’t squeeze.

“An assurance for me,” the tiefling rumbles, the grim line of his lips firm and implacable, jaw squared. “And a reminder for you.”

He’s not sure what he expected of his first time feeding from a thinking creature, but the reality is… more than he could have imagined.

It’s nothing short of rapturous.

There’s a squirmy weight of anticipation in his belly that sinks deep, and before he can make even more of a fool of himself, Astarion sinks his teeth into the tender skin, and a gush of dazzling heat floods his mouth. He almost moans at the taste. Almost. It feels almost too hot, like it’s going to leave his mouth feeling numb and tender, the skin peeling. And so rich. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks, wanting to lose himself in the taste, the heat of it, and never stop drinking until there’s nothing left, but he can feel the weight of Pyre’s hand around his throat every time he swallows, his thumb against his pulse, can feel yet more heat radiating from the man’s stout body, not touching his beyond the necessary points of contact, but still so close.

He takes another long, languorous pull, eyes rolling back, and when he swallows the hand on his throat squeezes hard, and he jerks away, blood rolling down his chin.

For a moment, he sits there gasping and dazed, staring wide-eyed up at Pyre, who has him by the neck. His own hand rises almost of its own accord, trembling, to his lips, fingers hungrily pushing the stray droplets of blood into his mouth, eyelids fluttering with bliss. He does moan then, and Pyre jerks his hand away, as if he’s the one who’s been burned. As if he’s the one with a burgeoning, blistering heat working its way from his belly to his extremities until his fingertips are tingling with it. 

Astarion licks his fingers shamelessly, and the scalding weight of those eyes doesn’t feel quite so stifling now that he’s full of warmth. “Apologies,” he pants around the finger in his mouth, “I was just… swept up in the moment. He stumbles to his feet, head light and floaty and bright with the fresh blood slowly working its way through his body, waking it up. “But it worked!. I feel good. Strong. Happy!” He offers a mocking little bow.

Once again, Pyre looks at him as if nothing untoward has occurred between them, even as he pulls a ragged scrap of fabric that might have once been a piece of an old shirt from his pocket and wads it up to press over the wound in his wrist. He doesn’t offer any response.

“I didn’t kill you, did I? That’s what matters.” Astarion happily chatters in his stead, rushing with newfound energy, feeling as if he could take on the world. A part of him (perhaps several parts of him) are struck by the urge that he could pounce on the tiefling now, and have a fairly good shot of taking him down. Astarion would be out a powerful ally, but oh, what a meal he’d be…

He shakes himself and beams, hands on his hips. “And look what you’ve gained! Together, we can take on the world!”

Finally, finally, Pyre cracks something that could almost be called a smile. Just a slight twist of the mouth, a touch wry, and he lowers his heavy lids a bit more. “I hope so,” he almost chuckles. “I look forward to seeing you fight.”

“Shouldn’t take long,” Astarion chirps, delighted. “So many people need killing.” He offers another stilted little half-bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

And he turns on heel and struts out of the circle of the fire, off towards the woods. There’s a swagger in his step. He feels ready for anything. But he stops, and turns back slightly, the weight of those eyes fair burning a hole through his doublet. “This is a gift, you know,” he offers. “I won’t forget it.” And then off he goes, disappearing into the trees, and only when he is certain Pyre can no longer see him does he lean heavily against the trunk of a nearby tree until he can convince his damned knees to stop trembling. He raises a hand slowly, and brushes his fingers against his own throat, eyes closing and exhaling a shaky sigh.

[clazberryk]

Well here it is the updated chapter of Difficult Truths Chapter two: Cut from the same cloth.

I feel like as i am developing my writing skills and getting a better feel of the characters this is stronger than previous. There are additonal parts that i have added as well. Its certainly significantly longer than previously, so iapologise about that.

Well without furtherado, please enjoy

Difficult Truths: Chapter 2 Cut from the same cloth:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56783278/chapters/144465073

Cut from the Same Cloth

Pain.

Searing Agony.

Unending Discomfort.

Life altering Anguish.

When the red crackling streak of chaotic magical energy started hurtling towards Astarion Taveleigha did not think twice to push him out of the way, it was instinct it was reactive, a love protecting the most important person in their life. Consequences be damned. Taveleigha knew going into this fight that she was naïve into thinking everyone was going to survive. Stupid naïve lost little elf girl. That voice was back taunting her, goading her. The voice was debilitating but true, the beast as she called it, returning now using her fathers voice to belittle her and her actions. Was it always her father’s voice? So much had happened today, so much emotional whiplash she could not recall how the voice sounded before. Clearly an unreliable source of information. What good was she if she could not even trust her own mind? If this were how she was going to die, she was happy, she had saved her lover, and she did not regret it, even now as the memories came thick and fast, one rolling over the other, she could not bring herself to regret pushing her vampire out of the way.

How could the Moonmaiden gift him with such a strange creature for a daughter? Something wrong, incorrect, unholy, and broken. Ketheric had never refrained from showing his displeasure with his youngest daughter, he showed and cursed the Moonmaiden in many ways, using fists, words, smites and gauntlets, anyway he could. Her body was a map of many bruises and scars. Her body was a roadmap of the pain she had suffered under Ketheric her father.

The scar on her cheek was from a backslap when she tried a guiding bolt and released a firebolt, the sting of a gauntlet, the grasp of the cold metal against her skin, old memories for her body but new for her memory. The large line on her sternum from the blade slicing into her and the inability for her to cast cure wounds, the experiment repeated over and over and over again. Years of abuse, the bruises, the cuts the derogatory names, all borne from grief for a mother she never knew. Her father disgraced by the Moonmaiden and then maiden of darkness, the goddess of shadow. Repeated hard hands, followed by softer ones from her older sister curing her wounds, singing her to sleep, protecting her, fixing her, but never taking her away.

A disgrace of the Thorm name, weeks of suspicions, and constant de ja vu, the vault in her mind conjured by her minds doing to protect her, the vault in her mind made to protect her heart, her body, her soul, her history, her disgrace, disintegrated because of a few simple words, as if it was never there. Maybe this was for the best, maybe this ending would stop so much damage and carnage in the future. Could she really make a difference in this world, win against these tadpoles, safe Astarion? Safe the world against Murkul, she laughed, it was desolate of emotion. Maybe she should have died at the hands of Ketheric all those many years ago. Isobel should not have died by that fireball she should have. Burnt up and exploded by her own chaotic magic.

Then all this would not have happened.

The memories came thick and fast now, unbridled, unimpeded, rolling one over another and another, too fast for her to focus on just one, where one started or she was just getting a grasp on it another overtook, pushed in demanding attention followed by another and then another. It was too much. She felt her consciousness fading around the edges, her vison even in her memories getting darker, she could feel the inky tendrils, she embraced them and welcomed the darkness. For once maybe she could have quietness, the calm, the lack of worry and no more pressure from everyone else expecting her and her companions to save the world. The only exceptional thing about her being she had been unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She could not even remember why she was in the Lower City of Baldur’s Gate on that fateful day, but now it did not matter. This way it was easy, it was simple. All she had to do was accept the abyss and darkness and not worry about the next step or the future.

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump…. thump…...thump!

Thump…. thump…...thump!

Thump…. thump…...thump!

Thump…. thump…...thump!

……thum…….th…….

……thum…….th…….

……thum…….th…….

……thum…….th…….

…………………………

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…………………………

“Taveleigha” Astarion shook the elf, but he knew, he had felt and heard her heart splutter and give out, giving her life to save him “Tavi, Tavi, Tav, please, oh god no please” He felt a stinging around his eyes, this could not happen, this was not their future, this was not what he wanted. They had only just started, only just began learning from each other, soft strokes of shoulders, grasping of hands, soft kisses on cheeks, never followed up with pain.

“No, no, get up damn you” He was starting to differentiate between the ants on his skin and the warm glow around his dead broken heart, loosening the harsh cage that Cazador had imbued on him with each day he was compelled to do something his mind screamed against, but he could not break. They were learning to be two whole healthy healing people together, two partners, equals. “I need you” His voice cracked, he pulled her against him tighter, his lips found her forehead, her skin growing cold, and he grimaced, he could feel the necromantic smell of the dead on her taking root.

Her body was growing heavy, colder still, colder than him. Oh gods, anyone that can hear me please. He knew the truth though, no gods acknowledged him or answered his prayers his pleas, not even for his sorcerer, he felt a burning in his chest, he knew this he could sue his rage. “This is not the end. No this is not how we are supposed to end. Taveleigha GET UP!” He shook the small elf, he was not angry with her, he was angry with the world, taking the one thing he knew he could grow to love. Or did he love her already? He had felt something growing in his chest for a while, but he could not understand it. Now he knew he was learning to love, and love Taveleigha he would. To hells with everything else.

“Get up dammit, you stupid maddening woman. WAKE UP!” Astarion shouted shaking his elf, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. He bit back the bile as her head lolled against his shoulder, her neck at an unnatural angle, if she were alive, she would be holding herself up, but no there was no life in her.

Not here, not in Murkyl’s chamber, please gods no, please give her back. He stroked her cheek, pressing his forehead against her, there was nothing no smile, no closing of her eyes, no tilting of her chin awaiting and asking for a kiss, always following his lead.

She was too quiet.

She was too small.

She was too still.

He had not realised how much she moved, the tilt of her head when she was questioning something. The fold of her arms when she was annoyed or disbelieving of what someone had said. Her tongue sticking out when she was concentrating on something particularly difficult, or something that required her full attention. The way her chest raised with each breath. The way her fingers twisted and flexed at unimaginable angles when she was spell casting. Her little nose twitch when she was thinking or laughing, or the way her eyes shined bright one blue one violet, the snort of a laugh. The unconscious lean of her body when she was near him, the gentle squeeze of her hand in his before they went into battle. The square of her shoulders when she was uncertain but had to push forward. The little sigh after he kissed her, or how her little dextrous hands would grip his shirt when they kissed, the little moan at the back of her throat, his lips knowing that he kept her head quiet in those few seconds.

He could hear the fight still raging around him, but the tide had turned Taveleigha had made sure of that. There was no more necromites, and Dame Aylin was wreaking havoc on the avatar, each hit tried and true, even Karlach was making decent damage. He watched Tav in his arms, willing her to wake up, he reached with the tadpole again, but nothing reacted, her arms hung limply at her sides, her head resting against his shoulder, him holding her up, her feet were limp, dragging on the ground with every jostle.

Shadowheart and Jaheria started for the central platform, he shouted out for Shadowheart, but his voice was thin and non-existent, he coughed and then screamed. Weak feeble boy.

“SHADOWHEART” The half elf looked at him, she frowned and then saw who was in his arms, she gasped.

“God dammit get over here” He screamed, finally falling to his knees cradling his sorcerer in his arms, holding her with reverence. He did not notice that Shadowheart had made it to their side, how did she get here so quickly? he heard the creak of her armour as she knelt beside him, raising her arms above Taveleigha’s body.

“Lay her down” she instructed, and he followed, feeling himself getting colder and colder, his warmth currently dead beside him. No air flowing through her lungs, the pink apple of her cheeks pale, as pale as him, her life song as silent as his own heart, not beating, no blood pumping through her body. He watched as Shadowheart’s hands glowed the healing blue, muttering under her breath, he watched wide eyes, as Taveleigha’s eyes flew open and she gasped and coughed, her blood splattering across her teeth and over her mouth, she wildly looked around gasping, crying, groaning and not being able to focus on anything. Why did she always have to awaken the minute a little bit of healing magic entered her body, it always caused her more pain than she ever deserved.

“Tav, darling, you are ok, your alive. Keep. Breathing!” He ordered; he needed her to breathe. Astarion stroked her hair back from her eyes, as they finally landed on his, and the fear he saw in them almost made him cry out himself. He could not imagine what she looked like refusing to take his eyes away from hers. He moved his right hand to her cheek, gently brushing the tears away, she weakly raised her hand and held his wrist, she was cold and still had a green sheen against her skin of the necrotic magic still rushing through her body. “Fancy meeting you here” He smiled his lopsided smile that he knew got a reaction from her, and like clockwork her heartbeat quickened, and she laughed, and then coughed, grimacing.

“Ow” Her heartrate sped up, spluttering but still beating! Please stay beating.

“Can you not make her laugh please” Shadowheart growled, sweat developing on her brow as she focused on her healing, slowly, too slowly for Astarion’s liking, Shadowheart stumbled back onto her haunches, completely spent.

“I’m out” she grimaced knowing her friend needed more healing, she was still too weak, her smallest wounds only healing. Astarion could hear Tavi’s blood whirling through her veins and body, but not all of it was going to the right areas in her body. Shadowheart started looking through her pack but only found a small healing potion, she poured it down Taveleigha’s throat, ignoring Taveleigha’s protests.

There was an almighty bellow and a loud crash of metal on bone, and then silence, the original trio looked across to the platform and saw the avatar fail, crumble, and fall back into the abyss leaving a swirling green necrotic vortex which materialised into the beaten and broken body of Ketheric Thorm. The half elf fallen paladin reached out toward Taveleigha and she shrank at her father’s gaze. She pushed herself further into Astarion’s embrace, trying to melt her back into his chest, she was just a lost little girl. Lost little elf girl. She whimpered, and Astarion pulled her tighter against him, soothing hands, and gentle pressure of lips on the crown of her head.

“You came home” Ketheric whispered, voice hoarse and for the first time it looked like his eyes had cleared of the pain, the torment, the fatigue of the last one hundred plus years and saw his youngest daughter for the first time. Not an experiment, not as a failure but just as her.

Dame Aylin gutturally screamed and used the rest of her strength to deliver the final killing blow and crushed his body with the strength and weight of her armoured boot, taking much joy in doing so.

“He is dead” Nightsong rejoiced, her head looking up arms open wide, and she turned, for the first time since they released her, she looked happy. Aylin turned towards the red headed sorcerer, finally able to acknowledge her lover’s younger “Taveleigha, Tavi, Tavi, Tavi” Damn Aylin placed her hands on Tavi’s cheeks, pressing her forehead against hers “You have returned. True as before”

“Aylin” Taveleigha whispered, her memories clicking into place of meeting the woman when she was younger, liking the strong woman, but she did not know, she did not know she had originally killed Isobel. Aylin pulled the sorcerer into a bone crushing hug, but Taveleigha stayed rigid in the embrace, the paladin did not seem to notice though. So happy to see the only connection she had left to her love alive, and somewhat well. She was shocked when she saw her following behind Balthazar I the Shadowfell, angry thinking that she had come to kill her, but then quickly realised that Taveleigha had not recognised her.

“Balthazar come to add more bars to my cage” Aylin grimaced at rotund man, who was clearly no longer human, an undead abomination, she barely acknowledged the other four people with them, fighting against the soulless phosphorus hands binding her to the soul cage, binding her to Ketheric Thorm, one hundred years of torment. One hundred years of slavery and entrapment. Why was he here again? And with companion’s, no doubt tome come kill her and complete Goddess Shars Ritual to be a dark Justiciar, a stupid meaningless spiteful ritual, with her being the punchline. It was painful dying and being reborn over and over and over again, it caused a vengefulness to seep into the very marrow of her bones, and only grow in contentment. She lunged for the necromancer, but he simply stood there defiant and laughing, “Or perhaps to lead this would-be Justicar’s blade directly into my heart?” Aylin then acknowledged the others, there was a dark-haired half elf, a red Tiefling, a silvery haired pale elf, and a wild redhaired elf…. No, not the elf! No! Aylin stumbled back the anger growing hotter and hotter.

Taveleigha was alive, it cannot be. She was alive, and she had come to kill her. Ketheric had said both his daughters had fell, both his daughters gone from the mortal coil and yet here was Taveleigha, older, hair longer, eyes less bright but still here. NO! No! NOOO! Please mother maiden not her. Do not let Shar take her! She shrugged off the hands wrapped around her shoulders holding her back, a simmering fury.

“I invite you. Heap more sins upon you head, My retribution will be all the sweeter” Aylin smiled at Balthazar, knowing when she was free, she would gladly take The necromancers life, and then some. She knew her mother had not abandoned her. Knew she would get her revenge, whatever the day. But please? I beg of thee mother not Taveleigha, she has suffered enough.

“All this time and you fail to appreciate the gifts I bestowed on you, Aylin” Balthazar smiled a sinister smile, all Aylin did was glare at him. If looks could kill Balthazar would be dead. “Sad, to see a thing of beauty not recognise its own worth” Aylin glanced at Taveleigha, she was watching her and the necromancer carefully. Aylin then realised she was maybe not here to kill her, maybe the sorcerer could help free her, but still she was wary. This was clearly not the same Elf that she knew over one hundred years ago. Even she could tell just from a glance at the Red Head that a lot had changed in this century, and Tavelegiha herself had changed. Clearly, she did not remember the Aasimar, or if she did, she was putting on an exceptionally good front. She certainly had her fooled, either way. Aylin turned back to The Necromancer grimacing more as his wounds on his face contorted with his speech “However, General Thorm, he appreciates you. And he wants you nearby, so I am here to whisk you back to him.”

“Ketheric” Aylin spat on the floor, the name felt like bile in her mouth, of course this was all of Ketheric’s doing, the Oathbreaker, the disbeliever, the vile mortal who was the reason she was in this predicament. Oh, how I wish to cleave his body in two. “I welcome the sight of him, after these hundred years. He whose immortality I supply with my very soul” Aylin saw the started look on the unknown group, Taveleigha even stumbled back slightly, clearly, she did not know.

“GENERAL, Thorm” Balthazar interrupted, “I am sure you will be on your best behaviour. Just in case I have taken some” Aylin watched as he glanced at the group “Precautions shall we say” he smiled then, and Aylin stepped back, putting herself into a loose battle stance, she would be prepared for anything.

“KEEP BACK!” Balthazar snapped at the group, Aylin watched carefully as Taveleigha looked between Balthazar, Aylin, and the dark-haired half elf. “It will take some concentration to secure Aylin for her…”

“Wait, the Nightsong is a person?” Taveleigha interrupted, and Aylin felt a sliver of hope bloom in her chest, however she did not show it on her face.

“oh no little Elf, Aylin is not a person she is an immortal, the very daughter of Selune herself” Balthazar smiled, Taveleigha looked like an annoyed teacher had chided her.

“You are the one who interferes with Lady Shar’s bidding and for that you must die” Shadowheart interrupted, and Aylin looked at the half elf then, realising it was not Taveleigha that was here to kill her, but this half elf.

“Shadowheart…” Tavelegiha warned quietly “She’s a person.”

“Do not you suggest you know more than my Lady Shar. That you are more than her.”

“Shadowheart, you are better than this. You are not a murderer” Tavelegiha cried, and that bloom of hope grew brighter in Aylin’s chest. She was still Taveleigha, still sweet, little Tavelegiha that suffered so much pain at Ketheric’s hands but still managed to see the good in people. Still sort the better and worthiness of others.

“Enough snivelling, you should be terrified Godling, this plane will be your coffin” Balthazar snapped, and turned to the group of four, quickly things turned, and Aylin watched in horror fighting against her binds to help. She watched as the Tiefling bellowed in rage and started attacking the larger skeletons, the ones that could do more damage, she watched as Taveleigha countered whatever spell Balthazar threw at the group and as the silver haired elf slithered into the shadows but stayed close to the Sorcerer.

Aylin watched in horror as a sickly green stream went straight for Tavelegiha, but she managed to repel most of the damage with a shield, the iridescent orb around her for the next 5 seconds. Aylin was in awe of the full elf, she certainly had grown into her power, or at least managed to control her power whilst she was way, and she certainly knew she had gotten stronger, but still she was never one for hand-to-hand combat, and if those skeletons got close to her, she dread to think. However, Aylin need not have worried as the Pale elf, which she quickly learnt was a vampire, ensured no harm came to Isobel’s baby sister, which enabled her to fell Balthazar with a few quick shots of fire and lightning and as quickly as the fight started it was over. Taveleigha bent over, her palms on her knees breathing hard. Aylin watched silently as the vampire placed a gentle hand on her back and she smiled up at him.

Everything happened so quickly after the battle, that even Aylin was still in a state of confusion or bewilderment she was unsure, she was replenished and reconnected with the world, enabled, and no longer drained of her power. She turned to Taveleigha a triumphant smile on her face.

“Are you ready?” Aylin asked the sorcerer.

“For what?” She replied, confused.

“To Kill KETHERIC THORM” Aylin knew this is what Taveleigha wanted to hear, she could see it in the way her body reacted, her mind not remembered but her body certainly had remembered the torment it had suffered. Taveleigha nodded and watched as Aylin for the first time in over one hundred years took flight in the blessing of her mother’s light. it was time to end this.

Karlach reached down and removed the Neverstone from Ketheric’s armour, and before she could hand it to Taveleigha their guardian emerged from a portal.

“You fought well. Now we know, we are against the chosen three” The Guardian looked towards the group. Astarion grimaced and snarled, Karlach looked tired, learning the truth about Gortash, Nightsong looked happy, Jaheria looked just as tired as Shadowheart, and Taveleigha, looked broken. Something changed in her today, in this fight, tin this past month of traversing the shadow cursed lands. She did not have the usual optimism she carried before they reached the lands. She was worn down and broken. Astarion sensed it, in the way she held herself. Normally she stood tall, shoulders squared, jaw slightly tense but ready, now she was hunching in on herself, rounded shoulder, arms around her midsection, from pain but also from holding herself together. Nobody said anything to the Guardian as they told their group what to do next, and they walked through the portal. Astarion helping Taveleigha through. It was clear that Ketheric zoned in on her in the fight, whether it was because of her kinship with him, or because he knew she would be the most troublesome, either way Taveleigha felt like she was 18 years old again and her father was doing his experiments. It had been an exceptionally long time, and she did not have the energy to unpack everything.

Astarion watched as Tavi leaned against the double doors of Moonrise Towers, looking out in the distance, she looked so small, so worn, he was worried she was not going to make it back to The Last Light Inn. He was willing to bet all his gold that she would not. He glanced to Shadowheart as the half elf, nodded at him and then followed his gaze.

“She needs to rest. She also needs to heal more, and I do not just mean physically” She whispered,

“She is not accepting anymore healing, blaming herself for all of this” Astarion waved a hand towards the towers as well as the cursed lands around them. He felt a deeper connection with Shadowheart than the other members of their motley crew, probably because for so long on that beach in the beginning it was just him, Shadowheart and Taveleigha. If it were not mentioned in the camp that the three of them were a tighter knit group, it was never even brought up, but Astarion was also aware of what could be said in the unsaid. He could also divulge a little more with Shadowheart about their de facto leader. There was a camaraderie, not a friendship but a comfortableness that he was not about to ruin with the cleric. Especially as he was aware that his sorcerer and the cleric had grown closer over the weeks and months of their travels. If anyone out right asked him though he would deny it all.

“This is the consequences of a broken man. I am unsure of what she endured with him, but I saw glimpses, and I wish I could take it away, but the only way she will get through it is time” Astorian chuckled a humourless laugh, was that not what Taveleigha had been saying to him about Cazador, time heals all wounds. She was willing to give him time, the least he could do was the same for her. They were cut from the same cloth. Two sides of the same coin. That thought had two parts of him warring against himself, the darker part sniggering stating that her abuse was not as bad as his and the other, the stronger one stating it was pointless to compare others pain to your own. Everyone had some level of trauma they were carrying, and it did not make another person’s insignificant, it was the actions, how they healed that trauma and moved forward. He knew Taveleigha was worth saving, her soul would be saved, however for him he was not as sure.

“You have no idea” Isobel walked up to the pair, and looked out to her little sister, still disbelieving that the Elf that walked into The Last Light Inn a month ago and became The Harpers offence and saving grace was none other than her long-lost sister, who she had believed was dead, because her father had decreed it so.

“If it was that bad, why did you not take her away? Why did you not run? Why did you let her suffer!!!” Astarion snapped, he knew what that could do to a person, to live through that pain and torture daily. He hated to think what it would do to his sorcerer know that she had all her memories, he did not need her to tell him, he saw it in her face, he saw her eyes, they were so much dimmer than before. She was more cut off, more drawn into herself, and he was unsure if he could help her with this, purely because he did not know how. Had he not only recently managed to escape his tormenter and abuser himself?

“I do not know. I hoped he would change and accept Tavi. I did as much as I could, I healed her when he went too far, I hugged her as she cried herself to sleep. I fought with the man daily, but he was not my father anymore. But I was too blinded to see that his grief had completely consumed him and distorted him into a mimic of my father a shell of a man” Isobel looked down at the ground shame seeping out of her pours, but still Astarion did not care.

“You should have taken her far away. You are no better than him” He snapped, and then started walking towards his sorcerer. Shadowheart watched him agreeing but also too shocked because someone had said what they both were thinking. She turned to the other cleric.

“I’m sorry, it has been a long day” She tried to broker peace.

“That it has. But he is also speaking true” Isobel whispered her voice echoing her emotions. The two clerics watched as Astarion gently stroked Taveleigha’s shoulders and she looked up at him, he kissed her temple, and she closed her eyes and leaned on him.

The group eventually made it back to The Last Light Inn, Astarion with his arm around Taveleigha’s waist, holding her up, she was waning, and he could hear her heart slowing, but still beating and he could smell the changes in her energy.

“Come on my dear, nearly there” He swept his lips against her temple again and she whimpered, she just wanted to lay down and disappear. Taveleigha had purposely ignored Isobel, not able to understand or process all the new feelings and memories. She saw from a distance Dame Aylin and Isobel embracing the Aasimar twirling the half elf cleric around in a big circle. The two had tried to talk to her but she moved away to the entrance of the throne room. Not caring if she was being rude. She had wondered if her room was still how she left it or had that been destroyed as well.

Isobel watched as the vampire carefully and dotingly looked after her little sister, clearly Taveleigha had taken the brunt of their faither’s assault, and she was struggling, however still stubbornly refusing anymore healing. Isobel and Aylin tried to talk to her, but she just looked at the two of them with a faraway gaze and walked away, she did not want to admit it but that hurt more than learning that she was dead like she originally thought. It was clear to any observer that the pale elf loved Tavi a great deal, not so much in the words but by the way he held her with reference, it was soft, the gentle squeeze of their hands, the lips brushing her temples, the glances and checks to ensure she was ok and still in the present. The arm around her waist, hand resting on her hip, and lazily drawing circles all minute details but important, and her sister reciprocated, the two whether consciously or subconsciously naturally leaned against each other, their body’s always aware of where the other person was. It was a beautiful dance to watch and observe, a clear dance of two people in love or two people that have their trust in each other so unashamedly it was beautiful. Isobel watched as they rounded the corner at the just inside the inn and went upstairs not talking to anyone.

Astarion lead Taveleigha up the stairs on the left of the inn and into the bathroom. It was a large room made for communal bathing, however when he made sure Tav was sat securely on the bench and was not going to fall over or fall unconscious he drew the deadbolt across with a resounding screech of metal against metal. He glanced at his sorcerer and noticed she was not paying attention, lost again in her mind. He kept an eye on her heartbeat, the sound oh so lovely in his ear, and started the bath nearest to her, ensuring the runes for clean and hot water were working. Thankfully, they were. He looked around the room but noticed there were no clean linen for them. He reached out to Shadowheart with the tadpole, asking for clean clothes for both.

He stayed at the running bath, pulling unneeded air into his lungs. Today had been difficult. He just needed a moment. He needed to compose himself. Later he would deal, later he would assess his emotions, but currently right now he needed to be strong for Taveleigha, gods know she had done it for him many times over. It was the least he could do for her. Is this what it was like to be equals? No questions, no expectations just love for another person agreed to spend your life with? Was this what healthy looked like? Without the world ending bullshit obviously. Today had been the hardest on all of them, over the past month the win of saving the grove had felt further and further away in the past. However today it truly showed that the groups path forward was going to be a hard one on all of them. If this were the worst that Taveleigha was going to experience he would gladly accept that. Surely you are not that naïve, child. Wretched child. He did not wish to have a repeat of today for as long as they both lived. Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose and looked the heavens, turning to Taveleigha and grimacing, she had slouched in her seat, it was clear she was not in the present.

“Gods below” He muttered and marched over and knelt in front of her, gently grabbing her chin with his thumb and forefinger “Darling, let’s get you out of these robes” He muttered, she did not respond, her mismatched eyes looked through him, faraway glaze over them, she was seeing something else, something he was not privy to. Astarion gently started unclasping the buckles on her hips, not that her robes were armour, but they were magical to offer at least some armour protection. Astarion shuddered, thinking of the alternative if her robes did not have the magical enchantment. He truly hoped they could salvage the beautifully detailed and intricate robes, originally a beautiful pink and silver colour, however she had found some clothes dye, and coloured it a deep sapphire blue, making her uneven eyes pop and her red hair stand out more. He reached for the clasps at her neck, and when his fingers brushed against her skin under her jaw, she gasped and drew in a ragged breath, flinching at the connection. He stopped and held his hands up in peaceful surrender, showing his palms to her.

Goddammit! Astarion understood that reaction, he had that reaction many times when caught off guard.

“You are safe, my sweet. I have you” He whispered, not touching her, just being a calming constant present. She had done it many times for him during his episodes, he would do this for her. It was not even a chore or a difficulty, which took him by surprise. He wanted to take care of her. Astarion watched slowly, painstakingly slowly, as her eyes became clearer, they darted around the room, taking stock of the bath, the benches, the windows, the door, the deadbolt across the door looking for an escape before landing on him, he stumbled at the sorrow in them. Does she know how expressive her eyes are? Taveleigha crumbled against Astarion’s chest, gut wrenching sobs, unaware of if anyone else could hear her, she grasped at his black under armour shirt and for a second, he did not know what to do. Then he wrapped his arms around her back, her tears quickly soaked through the fabric and onto his chest, each tear burned his skin, but not because of him, but for her. Taveleigha fell further into his lap, unable to hold herself up, her body shaking, her sobs guttural and visceral, and all he could do was hold her and let this pass. fell into his lap unable to hold herself up and she just cried, painful guttural body wrecking sobs. A mirror image of her holding him after he explained his difficulties and his silly little plan only a tenday ago. Was it only a tenday ago? It had felt like weeks.

Eventually Taveleigha calmed she sniffled and looked up at Astarion. Gods below, what must they look like, a pile of limbs, Taveleigha encircled by his arms and legs, him holding and protecting her from the outside world as best as he could. This was unfamiliar territory for him, something he had never done before he was just as lost in the dark as her, however he did what felt right, stroking her hair and back as she felt her emotions and tried to make sense of her contradicting memories. Eventually she did come back to her senses, back to the present.

“I’m sorry” She mumbled “I didn’t mean too…” and started to pull away, very aware of how close their body’s where, how he held her with such kindness, this was clearly uncomfortable for him, even if he was not showing it well. What surprised her the most was when Astarion pulled her closer and held her closer.

“My love, never apologise for needing me” He smiled her favourite lopsided smile, and she snorted. There she is. Only he could find her snorts of laughter adorable. He pressed his smile against her lips. “Let’s get you cleaned up” He whispered against her skin.

“I can do this” She mumbled “You do not need to make yourself uncomfortable.”

“Oh, my love, you are a silly, silly woman” He laughed, and then tentatively brushed his lips against hers. Oh, I wish I could keep doing this, and I will show you how many times I want to do this. She responded with reverence, her little dextrous fingers wrapping into his shirt, she moaned, and that caused him to react involuntarily, he pulled her tighter against him, her knees going on either side of his hips, and he traced her lower lips with his tongue. He moved down to her jaw, her neck, his bite mark, his place in her neck, he took a deep breath. He did not want to do this here. Well, that is something new. He stayed against her neck, waiting for the crawling to fall across his skin but it did not happen, it was because they were fully clothed, but he was unsure, however it was something he wanted to just keep doing. “I am unsure of many things, but this, this of which, I am sure. This is nice” He smiled, and held her gaze, he saw something flash in her eyes, but it was quick before the guard went up, her insecurities again. They really were similar. He pressed his lips against hers again, this was just a kiss he could do for the rest of their lives. A sweet kiss, an everyday kiss between partners, equals. A kiss that is shared and the know that you would do it for the rest of their lives.

Enjoy: @roguishcat @shewhowas39 @asweetlovesong @bellasmumblingsandmusings @marlowethebard

[imbiowaresbitch]

Fever - Suptober 2023 Day 14

Summary:

Cas' grace is at a critically low ebb due to his isolation from Heaven, and without it to keep his instincts at bay, his first rut in millennia approaches.

He's always known Dean was an Omega, but it never mattered. It can't matter now.

His control is better than that.

~~

Castiel was having a bad day.

Abysmally low on grace, he could feel his skin itching, his familiar clothes chafing. Everything was too loud, too sharp, scents and sights and sensations all clamouring for supremacy. The noxious stink of the demons they were facing made his eyes water and his nose burn, and his Alpha roared to the surface, baring its fangs and tearing the demon who'd just grabbed Dean from behind away. He couldn't manage to smite the foul presence, but a stab with his angel blade put the victim out of its misery and beyond the demon's reach as it burned out.

Impossibly strong hands grabbed his shoulders, flinging him into a wall, and Cas spat blood onto the ground before spinning his blade to bring it around it a backhanded slash. The demon sneered as it dodged, unnaturally fast, the grandmotherly face a rictus of mocking cruelty.

"Poor little angel, run out of juice?" it mocked, and Cas circled warily, his eyes flicking around for Dean.

Dean was facing another demon, his movements fluid and graceful as he stabbed his opponent with his blade, and Cas felt a surge of… something. Their eyes locked for a moment, and fear flashed over Dean's face.

"Cas!!" he shouted, drawing his arm back and whipping the angel blade he carried through the air. It flew past Cas' shoulder, so close it nicked his coat, and Cas whirled just in time to see another demon had crept up on him while he was preoccupied. He quickly dispatched the one possessing the old woman, his chest heaving. His right shoulder was aching from impacting the wall, limiting his reach, and he used another precious trickle of grace to heal it.

An enraged shout reached his ears, and he spun, his eyes darting about the storeroom. He could hear the sounds of a struggle, but where?

"Dean?" he shouted, getting only a pained grunt in response from beyond a stack of shelves. He scooped up both angel blades and ran. Darting around the end of the stack, he found Dean in a chokehold, his hands clawing futilely at the hands of the possessed teenager who was killing him.

Red.

Cas thought perhaps he flew, but he wasn't certain. What he did know was that the teenager's body burned completely, disintegrating like the vampires in that show about a blonde teenage vampire hunter that Dean made him watch, and an instant later, Cas slumped to the ground, spent.

~~

Read it on AO3.

Thanks @malicmalic for giving it a read first! 🥰

[jettyfisher]

Retelling of a scene from a Hunter session. Kinda NSFW. Just putting this here for my own reading tbh. Cut with no context. You have been warned. (TL;DR Hunter gets bit by a vampire and likes it. Gets away and is left feeling fucked up about it.)

-

Before the axe could connect with his neck, he grabbed me and pulled me from the railing effortlessly.

His hand gripped my wrist tightly, and I had no option but to look at him. His eyes were like the bottom of a well. Shadowed in mystery, and cold as the void.

At first, I felt his wrath. Like at any moment he would smite me. I begged him not to, that my blood was tainted by a mold. A poison that rots my core. He looked upon me, unmoved by my plea. So I coughed upon him to deter his interest. Only, a droplet of blood escaped my lips. As if the mold dared to test his resolve.

The ruby jewel of blood planted itself upon his lip like a kiss. His eyes flashed and his tongue rolled over the offering with delight. His scowl turned to a warm smile. His hands, ever so slightly softened on my wrists.

My heart beat throbbed inside so loud I could hear it. The longer I stared, the more I fell into the dark pools of his eyes. I saw the flash of his teeth. The glint of his fangs. He was beautiful. Like a panther before it would pounce.

It was the end for me, so I thought. A rabbit caught his paws. I remembered I had read about the kiss of a vampire and how it felt like ecstasy. The most dangerous part is it was worth dying for.

I spoke softly to him and admitted that dying by his teeth would be a favourable way to go compared to any other way of death. And I asked, if it would truly feel as enjoyable as some accounts said? His smile brimmed with amusement. Their body leaned close to me to whisper reassuringly that his kiss would be the most pleasurable experience in all my life. A rush of heat flushed my face and chest. The sound of his lips parted close to my ear. He came only partially towards me, his other hand sliding up to grasp my arm. I closed my eyes and expelled my trembling breath to brace against his fangs.

My hand clenched against the handle of the axe as it hung loosely in my grip. I thought to make a final effort to cleave his head right off but the gentle prick of his fangs sent a wave of ease throughout my body. Nerves forgot the axe, as it fell to the stairway. My thundering heart was lulled into a false security. It was as if his mouth touched my neck, I was brought to a home that welcomed me.

A flame ignited inside the hearth of my soul. A yearning I had never felt for anyone. Fear thrown to the wayside, my arms reached forth to embrace him, pulling him close to me. To hold him desperately to my flesh like a lonely girl starved of love and affection.

His body moved into mine like I was his church. As though he knew of my halls, familiar and comforting. His arms slid around me, and his hands caressed up my waist and upon my back to hold me in a tender, euphoric embrace. I could feel my body sing with satisfaction, of the acceptance, of his intimacy.

My body became weightless as he picked me up off the stairs and into his hold. I remember feeling grateful for his gentleness towards me as he laid me down in the darkness of the room upstairs. I could no longer see him, but felt and heard every doting moan, and the lap of his hungry tongue against my skin. I heard the other vampire trudge about in the background of our intimate lock. Their eyes were watching with hunger. My devourer’s hold became tighter on me. Clutching my limp body like a possessive dragon to their new found treasure.

I whimpered quietly, as words failed to break my lips. 

He paused to hush me, “Shh..” Only to dive eagerly back into my flesh. My hands lovingly held his head to my neck. His black, long hair was surprisingly soft and light. I wanted to feel this way forever, I thought. If only he could make time last just a moment longer. 

A noise meekly came from my throat, and I was able to beseech that he took his time. I wanted to savour my death. I wanted to feel my soul rapture from the first and final bliss of my life. Maybe, he might let me go, just so that we could do this over and over again. Heaven damn me, I thought. Hell would consummate our souls. But, something shifted in him as I appealed to some heavy consideration. I felt him savour my blood like some vintage, fine wine. I had unwavering faith, I answered him in thought. Nothing could daunt my dedication. With a pant of satisfaction, his teeth retreated. The warm sensation of my vitae slithered down my neck. His voice, ripe with my essence, rang with certainty. Like true branding and a touch mark of his pride.

“Mine,” a whisper against my skin.

His divine word sounded like the gong of a church bell. My heart slowed. Time stretched infinite. I had not known true devotion, or love like this before. Though I had heard it sung by choirs and clergymen. My head was spinning, swooning at the thought that anyone could want me like this. And eat me so tenderly like him. The other vampire in the room grumbled, stepping closer to mutter of his own hunger. I felt my embracer tense angrily close to my body. He inhaled sharply and practically hissed at the tall, glowering man to go eat chopped off fingers down stairs if he was so hungry. He pulled me tight and declared I was not mere food. I was his. His to be enjoyed. 

Defeated by the rage of the vampire that laid claim to me, the other obeyed and lumbered off. He left us alone. Hidden in perfect darkness. I felt… Alive. Though dying, true. Yet it was peaceful. Quiet. And he held me. Watching me as my will to keep fighting was dissolving. I felt like he was freeing me of my true pain. I was so.. Tired. I heard the voice of my Cell call my name. A light at the end of the tunnel flashed in my mind. Awoken from the deepest sleep of my life. They returned for me, I thought, like I did not believe it. I was not forgotten? Guy’s voice cried my name once more. Desperate. Frightened. My lips parted, some part of me wished to live. Live for them. “Guy?” I panted weakly. The beast above me stiffened and lost his focus for a moment to gauge the approaching voice of my Cell. I knew this would be hard. Hard to get up. Hard to leave and run away from this. But, the will to try burned just as badly as my will to be loved. My hands slipped between the dark vampire and I. Trained hands steadily grasped my camera and tilted the bulb directly upwards towards him. Snap. The bulb’s light lit up like a white high beam. It made my ears ring, and all the sound and sensation around me vanished for a second. The beast reeled back, cupping their face in pain from the blinding light. Not wasting my opportunity, I fell to my side out of his hold and staggered to my numb legs. I clambered for dear life down those stairs. My embracer roared with stunned delirium. Turned into a beast of hatred. He was not about to lose me. Not after every other fuck up for them tonight. He was going to get me, no matter what. This he would not fail. I could hear him bellow to his other vampire companion to not let me get away. His voice was laced with malice that it could shatter the stars. He meant death. He was death and my soul was laid claim to reap. ….

He might have been my sire, if only I hadn’t gotten away. And deep down, I wanted that fact to stay that way. Even now, knowing what he did. What he is. What he would do. Had I killed him, it wouldn't set me free. We were there in the dark, when he drew my first blood. A girl can never forget what that does to her heart.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Seven (Wicket's POV)

Astarion puts his new plan into motion.

“Darling it’s a celebration, not a funeral.  If I can manage to feign having a good time, surely you can as well.” 

“Hm.”  I flash Astarion a half-hearted smirk and motion for him to join me.  He moves next to me, and I fill his goblet from the only half-decent bottle of wine I’d scavenged from the druids. 

“So why are you brooding over here in the shadows when you could be celebrating?”

“Did we really give them anything to celebrate?”  I shrug and take a drink, the heavy, rich red wine rolling over my tongue.  “We cleared one obstacle for them but there’s another twenty for them to clear before they get to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Gods,” Astarion groans.  “Is it too much to ask for just a little bit of fun for one night?  A bit of excitement?”

I glance over at him from the corner of my eye, choosing to remain silent and continue drinking.

He leans closer to me; close enough for me to smell the fresh scent of the soap he used to wash up with earlier, and the warm, slightly spicy scent of his perfume.  “You know, we could always make our own entertainment darling.  Get a little closer, so to speak,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry.

I start at the blatant proposition, spilling a little wine onto my trousers.  Astarion gives me a cat-like grin and tilts his head to the side, waiting for my answer.  I restlessly tap my fingertips against the stem of my goblet, ignoring the burn in my cheeks as I consider the elf’s offer.

On one hand Astarion is objectively beautiful, and it’s been longer than I care to admit since I’ve enjoyed the touch of another.  On the other hand, he is a vampire and I’ve already betrayed my oath by allowing him to live this long.  Accepting his proposition would be akin to daring Kelemvor to smite me.

I am so godsdamned tired.

I swallow down my nerves.   “What did you have in mind?”

“Find me after the other have gone to sleep,” he purrs in my ear.  “And we’ll have a more… private celebration.”

I shiver at the feel of his warm breath against the shell of my ear, tantalized by the prospect of his fangs scrapping against my skin… the feel of his lips against mine…  I nod in affirmation, not trusting myself to speak.

“Then I’ll see you later tonight, my dear.” 

[whatisurgatepolicy]

Yesterday, Justin attempted to speak with the leaders of the Goblin camp. Unfortunately his brand of diplomacy involves him firmly telling the goblins that he hates what they're about, and aggravating the entire camp at once.

But, the team persevered. And there was a party. One in which his new party all seemed to want to get him alone. He'd rather be singing the praises of dragon daddy than going on dates.

Lae'zel disagreed.

Later, they came across an Owlbear cub.

(why was this familiar?)

(is that why he can't find his mother, except in his dreams?)

Gale let him in, after that. A story of love and ambition and a corruption in his soul.

The last time Justin allowed himself to feel pride, he killed a party member and his best friend's parents. Gale is an alien quantity to him. But he will keep this wizard safe. Wizards are so small and delicate. Do not worry Gale. You will live through this.

And just as he learned more about Gale, he learned more about Astarion.

He should not keep this man like a pet, the way Cazador did. He is aware. But Justin, the professional vampire boogeyman of Barovia, feels...attached to this spawn. So Justin feeds him. He takes care of him. He feels confident, in the way a person might feel confident in their dog, that Astarion will only bite if asked.

(but why did Astarion ask to sleep with him too?)

Even as he adopts Astarion, Justin himself has become the emotional support animal of other party members. Shadowheart, for example, is prickly but her actions do not align with a Sharran, he thinks. He has never met one, but assumes a Sharran would behave similarly to a worshipper of his hated Tiamat. And not stand so close to him that they constantly start combat in the same square.

(Selûne is the twin and hated enemy of Shar. Bahamut is the twin and hated enemy of Tiamat. Once, early after he had lost his oath, Justin had heard a voice calling to him in the darkness, pretending to be Bahamut, trying to become the new source of his power. Justin has a better idea than most of why Shadowheart, who loves small animals and was anxious about doing penance for protecting the Tieflings even though her first response was to save them, might follow Shar.)

At some point between the party and the Underdark, he let Astarion and Shadowheart cut his hair, change his clothes, and clean up his beard for the first time in ten years. It hasn't made much difference. But they washed some of the old Barovmart Brand Baked Beans stains out of his shirt and fixed his moustache.

(he didn't see his parents in the mirror.)

More questions for Gale. Like, is this why you cook for us?

And then, one night, a surprise. An attempted murder in camp. How Barovian.

Justin is not used to being the peace making party member. He is the party member that sniffs new companions, breaks plates when asked to take meals with the morally grey, and has to leave buildings to stop himself from smiting the evil, when his party would rather talk to them. One of the reasons he fell out with his party was their decision to go to Strahd's castle for dinner, instead of a fight.

But he didn't want to lose either Lae'zel or Shadowheart. Lae'zel's eyes and cold green skin make him think of dragons. Shadowheart's elf eyes reflecting in the dark make him think of dragons also. Shadowheart also enjoys the hobby he is most passionate about (drinking alone). Lae'zel recently convinced him to lose his virginity to her by sniffing him repeatedly.

For the first time in history, he managed to say the right thing.

And the honour mode journey continues, with an Owlbear cub and two weirdo cultists who no longer want to murder each other.

[ravenspeakrp]

Welcome to Raven’s Peak, M, we’re excited to have you! Isabelle Capet (Vampire, Phia Saban) has been accepted. Please be sure to stop by the CHECKLIST for the follow list, tags to track, and other reminders.

OUT OF CHARACTER 

NAME: M. PRONOUNS: she/her. AGE: 21. TIMEZONE: GMT+1.

IN CHARACTER 

FULL NAME: Isabelle Capet. SPECIES: vampire. AGE: 23 / 814. DATE OF BIRTH: 1st of May, 1210. GENDER IDENTITY: cisgender female. NEIGHBORHOOD: Hidden Hills OCCUPATION: socialite / none. WORKPLACE: none. POSITIVE TRAITS: attentive, sympathetic, generous. NEGATIVE TRAITS: mercurial, sadistic, domineering. LENGTH OF TIME IN RAVEN’S PEAK: one week. FACE CLAIM: Phia Saban.

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGER WARNING:violence, murder, and death. It was a tale found repeated often throughout history; a child of the wrong gender was born, and was thusly punished for it. For this, Isabelle, having the misfortune to be born into a minor branch of the royal House of Capet, was demeaned without pause for her short mortal life; by her father, by her ever sonless and bleeding mother, by her step-mother and all her vying male cousins.

She perfected the balance of being ever apologetic, ever sweet, ever so thankful; she haggled for the best prices on the jewels and fabrics gifted to her by suitors, and spoke to the bandits and witches without so much as a quickened heartbeat. Killing kin at their dinner tables and dark country roads and the birthing beds was hard work, but hardly anything to worry over.

A pious girl, she prayed in a small meadow every night. Granted, she was praying for all her tormentors to be skinned and boiled like little lambs, for God's righteous smiting, but prayer was prayer, was it not?

It seemed that something was listening, at least.

The dark shadow between the trees first attempted to take her maidenly blood with cooing and promises --- and, when that did not work, by force. When she would not stop biting and cursing it to hell, it took from her the blood of her throat, if only to make her quiet.

When she awoke, there was no hesitation. Violence had burned away all her fear and all her love, even if only for the night; she did as her thirst dictated and laid ruin to her house, as they had accused her of doing for all the years since her unfortunate birth.

In the years that followed, she travelled wherever she pleased, both kind and destructive in her constantly changing, forgotten whims. She found herself returning to France every few decades, where she had once been born.

It was during one of these visits, as she made the catacombs of Paris seem a castle in her quiet nobility, that she met a boy - or was he already a man grown? She can no longer recall, and no longer cares --- all are children compared to her.

Where was she? Ah... He was more a pet than a companion, really, but what a darling thing; ever her temporary coven's eager and, importantly, capable servant, she grew more than fond of Sebastien - and when the time came, it was her teeth that tore open his beautiful skin, and her blood that returned him to life. Such was her habit; Isabelle, saver of orphans, Isabelle, whose tears were more precious than an angel's, Isabelle, whose love waned and grew when she deemed it most effective.

The coven's destruction was imminent; to her, this was clear. She prepared with only a modicum of haste --- acting too quickly would alert the others of the danger, after all, and would disturb the results of her newest project --- and took anything of worth to estates outside of accursed France. Her body remained in the catacombs, smiling and sweet and appropriately frightened when holy fire rained upon them

She lingered, just enough to ensure her fledgling had survived the cleansing, before leaving once again, filling her years with art and jewels and a few killings of fellow immortals. Truthfully, she did forget poor Sebastien --- but was furious all the same to find him nowhere in France.

Since childhood, she worked hard to get all that she felt she deserved --- and nothing awoke her ire like being robbed of even the smallest piece of lace. She chased after his trail with a newfound hunger, ending up in Raven's Peak, where she now prowls for her missing servant.

EXTRAS

FILLING CONNECTION: yes - SIRE for SEBASTIEN BOUCHARD.INSPIRATIONS: N/A.

[swordmaid]

also by nature of shri’iia just being so arrogant and pompous on her beliefs I think that transfers to anyone she likes too and she WILL hype them up that it gets ridiculous, borderline embarrassing. like if she’s standing off with an enemy and they’re starting talk about how they have one of the most powerful fighters in the realm shri’iia is just like ‘well MY arlussrin, who is one of the most beautiful creature that deigned this land, is ALSO a very strong vampire with a deadly set of teeth (that I’m intimately familiar with) and he will skin you alive while letting you bleed out because your blood is so foul and disgusting and not even worth drinking (not like mine!!!). and you are so shit compared to my love who is so very strong and perfect and lethal and a hundred creatures would kill themselves to have a sliver of his attention and be grateful that he deigned you worthy enough to be in his presence otherwise I would’ve just smited you right off.’ meanwhile astarion in the back is like ……actuaalllyyyy I would’ve preferred if we took them out quickly and quietly I don’t really want to get in a long fight but thanks babe I guess

[crimsontrxcks]

@jadedsalvatore CLOSED STARTER

No one accidentally wandered into these ghostly regions where the crimson haired woman found her refuge. Even the beasts, creatures born of shadows and darkness with malevolent intentions avoided the territory with invisible borders -- dreading what might face them there. Solitude was priceless, and left undisturbed due to the eerie threat lingering in the cold foggy air. Months, maybe a year, the last time the emerald orbs captured a sight of something that had human features, or at least was hiding behind them. Rustling of the leaves bothering the eardrums, aching warning under the ribs and tingles rushing through the arm Moira partly controlled sharpening her focus, as the jade irises glared at the person daring to enter these grounds. Tongue ready to produce a language not known to the common folk, curses that Moira learned hundreds of years ago to smite down any intruder, to ensure no one comes close enough.

Then she saw him. Recognized the face without a name, name she never wished to learn. A surprise, questionable interest mixing with slight irritation of his return after all these years -- after she saved his allegedly immortal life and asked for nothing in return except that he leaves, and never comes back. Yet, there he was, years unable to do any damage to the false youth of his face, movement graced with unexplainable dedication and commitment to whatever cause he had to stumble upon this grounds again. Hourglass shape moved, long tattooed legs carrying her closer, dark eyebrows lowering and slender shoulders tensing. " 'Never' maybe is a distant concept to your kind, but it applies to you nonetheless. ' cold, flat tone greeted the vampire as she appeared a few meters in front of him. " ' Never to return.' That was the price for your life that I asked. " Clare reminded him of the promise he made when he left, and was now breaking by simply standing there. " I will not repeat myself. " The more she observed him, the more she recalled all the thoughts that once bothered her mind. The unspoken torture and agony hidden beneath the porcelain skin, the painful dedication to hide the demons grabbing at his ankles for years, the suffering he endured and didn't voice -- all the things so similar to her. Slightly shaking her head to drive away the thoughts, Clare balled her fists. " There is nothing here for you, or anyone else, vampire. Leave. "

[dys-trashcan]

SMITE: Beast Hunters Headcanon

Tsukuyomi (Silver Bullet) is a beast hunter, but his goal is to find a cure for Amaterasu (Witch Seeker). She was bitten, even if she turned into a vampire, there is a high chance to transform into a ghoul-like creature (Susanoo was killed by a werewolf and turned into a horrible creature, so he's worried that will happen to Ama).

Amaterasu (post-bite/Vampiress) belives that won't happen, and is irritated about how stubborn Tsuku is about it (she doesn't want Tsuku to fight beasts, she wants to solve this problem herself, alone). Due constants arguments, they end up fighting a few times; once got really intense; they separate and take different paths.

Alone, Tsuku is still finding an antidote for her sister, and very often accepts the job of killing monsters that harass towns or villagers in excharge of money, resourses or information.

He ended up helping a mysterious villager. He killed several witches for work. This villager promised him that he had what he needed; this mysterious person was actually Cu Chulainn (Beast Within), and provided him with potions to suppress the vampire transformation.

The very first time Tsuku fights a vampire, he gets bitten (Ao Kuang Cursed Bloodline) (thus why he carries a lot of green-ish potions with the Silver Bullet skin). However, his fangs are visibly larger and sharper, so he wears a mask.

ALSO, Athena (Demon Scourge) is Tsuku's master, he learned everything from her (including those ranged autos lmao, or to TP... but into enemies instead of allies, lol).

This is pretty much a draft and I'll change stuff later

[furrarth]

Day 7 of Smitetober with a skin concept, Count Bakasura for the Vampire prompt.