archive-of-note

[archive-of-note]

Does anyone want to pet a mushroom dog?

#mold dad! he’s a dad made of mold!

[archive-of-note]

fic: a difference in being

Astarion ponders the differences between wizards and sorcerers. Baldur's Gate 3, Astarion/Tav & Gale/Tav. Tav is a male Drow & a wild magic sorcerer.

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Prior to his current circumstances, Astarion never gave much thought to the differences between wizards and sorcerers. They both used magic and, because of it, Cazador had forbidden Astarion from targeting either of them. They were too risky, untold power at the ready with just a flick of their wrist, power that they could use to fight back, so they were best left avoided.

Now, though, Astarion ponders the differences as he watches Tav and Gale in camp. 

They’ve bunked down for the night at the edge of the Blighted Village. Astarion had anticipated a fight to get through, yet the goblins guarding the entrance had immediately granted access to Tav simply because he was a Drow. Astarion would have preened under such visible deference, but Tav had just stared for a moment at the goblin addressing him before he strode past. Another set of goblins had been similarly deferential, ceding the remains of what seemed to be a house at the southern edge of the village, and there the group had set up for the night.

It hadn’t taken long for Gale to ensare Tav in a discussion about magic, and now the two are by the fire, demonstrating to the other their spellcasting techniques. Even to a casual observer the differences between them would be obvious, yet Astarion has spent a significant portion of the past two centuries studying people, searching for the perfect victims, for the perfect way to lure them into Cazador’s trap.

To him, the differences between Tav and Gale are monumental.  

Gale stands mostly upright, his feet planted shoulder width apart. His motions are powerful and precise and clearly practiced for there’s little variation as he repeats certain incantations at Tav’s request.

Tav is different.

If Gale is solid rock, Tav is shifting sand. His feet are apart as well, but his knees are bent and he moves with the motions, as though he were sculpting the magic out of the air. 

It’s fluid and flexible, a rushing river to Gale’s still pond.

The differences grow even clearer when they retrieve their respective weapons. Both of them use a quarterstaff, but Gale grips his securely in both hands and brandishes the staff in front of him, making quick, powerful blows that would efficiently stun or trip an enemy.

Tav’s staff swirls around him in swift, graceful arcs. It reminds Astarion of the coin tricks he’s learned over the years, how he can make a copper dance across his knuckles as though it were alive.

Astarion isn’t sure if Tav is the hand or the coin, if he wields the magic or is an expression of it.

At the thought, Tav glances his way.

There’s no time for Astarion to avert his gaze or even to school his features into something arch or wry. Tav has caught him staring, so Astarion holds the stare. And another difference becomes clear. Tav doesn’t question him, doesn’t demand an explanation for the staring or offer one about the lesson. Gale would. Gale would elucidate and pontificate and prattle on and on until Astarion shoved his daggers into his ears to get a moment of peace and quiet. 

Tav simply stares. 

He stares and then, after a couple of seconds, one corner of his mouth curls into a smile.

Before Astarion can parse the flavor of it, whether it’s pleased or mocking or sly, Tav turns away, back to Gale and their conversation. 

Astarion’s hands tighten around his book. For a moment, he contemplates chucking it at the back of Tav’s head. What sort of reaction would he provoke if he did? A lecture, no doubt, from Gale. Disdain from Shadowheart. A cool inquiring gaze from Lae’zel, at least until she realized that a fight was unlikely to ensue and lost interest. 

But Tav? Astarion isn’t sure.

So far, he’s persuaded when Astarion thought he would fight. Then he’s deceived when Astarion thought he would persuade. He stood down Kagha when she threatened to kill that tiefling brat for stealing, yet he had Astarion slink around the Emerald Grove to find something, anything, that could be used to unseat her, sending them on this current mission to the southern swamps to find her conspirator.

Flexible, fluid tactics, and all the more dangerous for it.

Hunger flares within Astarion. His gaze drops to the back of Tav’s neck, placed on display for all to see with that ridiculous hairstyle. Only a Drow raised in the Underdark would think that an undercut is the height of style. Though if Gale’s hair were any indication, perhaps the lack of style has less to do with Tav’s race and more to do with his magic. The wizard could manipulate the Weave at his will, but he lacked the ability to effectively use a comb. Tav does at least, his long white hair gathered into a neat, if utilitarian, bun at the back of his head.

Perhaps Astarion could aim for the bun and knock it loose. The strands would tumble free and whip about in the wind.

Perhaps Astarion could grab a fistful of them and yank, pulling Tav’s head back and exposing the graceful line of his neck and-

Astarion shuts his book with a snap. At the sound, Tav looks back at him. Gale does, too, a few seconds later, his gaze following Tav’s. The frown that forms on his face as he spots Astarion is almost enough to satisfy Astarion’s hunger. Twice now Astarion has drawn Tav’s attention away from him, and all without saying a word.

Slowly, gracefully, Astarion rises to his feet. Tav watches him as he does, yet from this distance Astarion can’t discern how, whether it’s with lust or apprehension or simple curiosity. 

“Do carry on, darling. I was quite enjoying the show.”

At that, the small smile returns to Tav’s face. 

Interesting. 

Very interesting.

Astarion flashes him a grin before he turns and saunters away. He had seen boar tracks on the way into the village. That would do for now.

Later, he would have bigger prey to hunt.

[archive-of-note]

Ask and ye shall receive

I would like to put forth a Baulder’s Gate 3 writing prompt that I call “Murder Most Fragrant”. Spoilers!

Astarion wakes up from the overwhelming smell of blood as Durge Tav is murdering *the* bard. That’s it. that’s the prompt.

[archive-of-note]

Murder Most Fragrant

Set in Act I of a Durge run. I used my Durge, Markus (Tiefling, Wild Magic Sorcerer) cause he’s my murder son and I love him.

Warning: Canon divergence, descriptions of gore, allusions to sexual assault, assumed sexual assault (This is told from Astarion’s perspective, and his first assumption is not “oh this weird tiefling who killed a bird has already worked his way up to mortals.”) I think I got Astarion’s thought process but I’m not so sure about his voice? However it is 5 Am and I have been writing this since at least 1:30. All mistakes are my own, cause again, one sitting in the early AM.

@simplyalexeiofficial who posted the initial prompt.

Astarion wakes up from the overwhelming smell of blood as Durge Tav is murdering *the* bard. That’s it. that’s the prompt.

The smell of blood is what shakes him from his trance. It’s living blood, not the subtle rotten stench of dead man’s blood or his own.

While the smell woke him up, it’s the sounds that really grab his attention.

Soft whimpers, harsh breaths, the slick wet sound of something moving through flesh.

Astarion ever so slightly turns his head.

That bard from the grove is whimpering, staring up at Markus wide eyed as the sorcerer crouches over her body.

Astarion rolls his eyes, both for the tieflings’ lack of subtlety and the ineffective angle Markus seems determined to keep.

The sorcerer was already low on the vampire’s list for who to manipulate, he was a bit unsettling, prone to getting lost in his own thoughts, and after he tore that bird to bits with all the glee of a toddler with a new toy, Astarion began thinking Markus might be too volatile.

Yes, an amnesiac sorcerer with wild magics would be a great meat shield in regards to Cazador, but there would be no point if Astarion doesn’t even make it to the gate.

With this new revelation of Markus’s ineptitude in regards to pleasure, the tiefling has been moved to the very bottom, Astarion may have been forced through worse, but he’d like to actually get some enjoyment from the inevitable bedding.

“…please…sto—hap—!”

If he still had blood in his veins, Astarion is sure it would be running cold.

Murderous violence is one thing, one thing Astarion can get behind and indulge in, but this… maybe he should consider going off on his own.

More whimpering, more sounds of flesh.

Then a crack. Astarion’s head jerks back to the scene, that noise could not mean anything pleasant.

The bard’s arm is stretched out towards the fire, towards Astarion, and not only is it covered in blood, there’s an unnatural bend to it.

The girl’s fingers twitch with every regular roll of Markus’s shoulders, the man letting out a few muffled grunts as he roughly pulls at something.

A high pitched wheeze from the girl, Astarion didn’t even bother listening for her name, and then splatter.

Markus stands, and between his legs and the idle back and forth of his tail, Astarion sees what he had been doing.

There’s a morbid relief in the realization the bard’s lower half is still clothed. Even if her trousers are soaked heavy with her own blood.

The sorcerer begins muttering something, an incantation perhaps, his blood soaked hands held above his head.

Astarion looks back down and makes eye contact with the mutilated bard.

Her mouth opens, broken arm shifting as she tries and fails to make a fist, silently, desperately begging Astarion for help.

He stares back at her, eyes wide.

“… accept this offering, Sanguine King, accept my humble apology for my failures.”

Disgust and rage bubble beneath the horror, doing this for a god? The gods never did anything for Astarion, and considering the predicament they are all in, the vampire is confident in his belief that all of his companions have been abandoned by their beloved gods as well.

“Take this paltry flesh, I beg of thee send a sign, I have not strayed, I have not betrayed or abandoned my mission, I beg for nothing but a chance to correct my failures, a chance to bring about the world as I have pledged.”

The bard is still making pathetic attempts to escape, as if her insides pooling around her aren’t an indication for how this will inevitably end.

Markus looks down, head tilting and tail swaying in something like amusement as the girl keeps fighting.

The man shifts his weight and Astarion freezes, even holding his breath, the air stuck in his chest putting pressure against his unbeating heart.

“They can’t help you, even if they found us like this, even if they killed me, there’s no saving you.”

Markus crouches back down, cupping the bard’s cheek to force her to look up.

“You’ve lost too much blood, tissues have already begun necrotizing, sepsis is a terrible way to die, if anything, killing you now is a kindness.”

Astarion’s stomach rolls, Markus sounds kind, his soothing rumble adding an unnerving comfort to his words.

The sorcerer rubs his thumb against the bard’s cheek, like a parent comforting a crying child.

She spits in Markus’s face, or at least she tries to.

The glob of bloody spit doesn’t even disconnect from her lips, barely more than a pathetic bubbling from her mouth.

Markus’s eyes narrow even as his lips quirk up into a forced smile.

With a harsh motion Astarion doesn’t entirely see, Markus does something that makes the bard gasp, her haggard breathes turning into desperate gurgles as her body convulses.

Markus twists his body, giving Astarion a clearer view of the bard’s death throes.

The sorcerer’s arm is buried elbow deep in her stomach, and if the angle didn’t give it away, the unnatural bulging beneath her skin does.

He’s digging in her chest cavity, and with the sudden stiffening of her entire frame, Astarion knows the man has a gotten a hold of her heart.

The air is still, the night silent, and Markus seems to be savoring the sensation of the girl’s heart in his hand.

With a sudden harsh motion, his arm twist, and the bard goes limp.

After another moment of stillness, Markus sighs, arm slowly retreating from the corpse as he stands, the girl’s mangled heart is a lump of torn flesh in his hand.

The tiefling stares down at the body, his expression hidden from view.

Another sigh, less satisfied than the last, and the tiefling begins drawing on the ground around the bard’s body.

Again he stands above the body, hands open at his sides, staring at the sky as he mutters something.

The words are quiet and rushed nonsense, even as Astarion can hear the tiefling’s heartbeat speed up, with the words becoming louder and more slurred.

Until, with a sudden choke, the tiefling stops speaking, obviously panting as he sways in place.

Markus’s head rolls, his swaying becoming even more precarious before suddenly stopping.

The tiefling looks to his hands with a gasp, his tail thrashing as he steps back, another gasp and another more panicked step back that almost knocks the sorcerer onto his ass.

Markus looks around for something, and Astarion wants to roll his eyes at the performance, why waste the energy when, as far as he knows, he’s the only person awake.

———

“Overwhelming violent desires fester in my skull.”

Markus is twitching, his jaw rolling as he picks the drying bits of bird blood and sinew from beneath his claws.

“The norm is to keep dirty thoughts like that to ourselves. But do carry on.”

Suddenly tearing the bird at the infirmary apart may have been a bit concerning, but if this tiefling isn’t just capable of violence, but relishes in it, he may be useful to Astarion.

“A feeling deep inside possesses me and whispers murder, over and over.”

The tiefling bites his nails, a loud crack coming from between his teeth before he spits out the broken off tip of his claw.

Markus sounds shaken, so Astarion tries some sympathy, “It sounds like you’ve been dealt a vile hand…” but not too much sympathy, he can’t dull this potential blade, “I say: Play it. Play it for all it’s worth!”

The tiefling’s tail twitches, the jagged barb flicking back and forth as the smell of ozone slowly grows.

“Nobody should deny themselves of their true nature.”

Markus doesn’t respond, instead wiping his hands down the front of his robes, before he picks at his nails again.

Astarion lays on a bit more concern, Markus needs to think he cares, “But, do take care of yourself.”

Markus grimaces, humming a noncommittal, but affirmative, note.

———

Astarion didn’t consider the possibility of actual possession, but with the way Markus is acting, it’s a possibility he now has to consider.

The tiefling’s panic seems to settle, not entirely, but enough that the man doesn’t look ready to collapse in a panic.

Markus stands over the body, before seeming to make a decision.

He grabs the bard and her measly bedroll, dragging them both away with some effort, but there’s an ease to his movements that imply some familiarity.

Astarion is still staring at where the tiefling vanished into the brush, thinking over his options in regards to the sorcerer.

He can pursue Markus, and hope that the bloodshed of their adventure satiate whatever demands the tiefling kill.

But if he does try, and it doesn’t work, would those violent parts of Markus begin demanding Astarion’s blood?

He needs more information.

There’s a rustling, and Astarion pretends to trance, taking note of the sounds of sloshing water and kicking dirt.

He’s properly trancing again before Markus starts snoring.

———

“Where do you think she went?”

Markus shrugs at Shadowheart’s question, not looking up from the pack he keeps reorganizing.

“Astarion?”

“Not a clue, maybe she wondered off, there are certainly many things capable of mauling you out in the woods.”

Markus pauses for a moment, eyes glancing toward Astarion before quickly returning to the pack.

“Wouldn’t we have heard something?”

“Not if it got her in the throat first.”

“Or if it crushed her lungs.” It’s the first thing Markus has said all morning, and Astarion realizes he doesn’t know which one Markus did.

“Shouldn’t we go looking? What if she’s—“

“We have illithid tadpoles in our heads, we’ve been lucky so far, but I’d rather not tempt fate more than necessary.”

“But she wanted to help!”

“And we told her it was dangerous, and that was taking into consideration all of us, if she decided she knew better, well then who are we to undermine her choices?” Markus’s tone implies finality, and no one else pushes the matter.

As they leave the campsite, Astarion notices a dark red splotch in the dirt. He kicks some loose sand over the spot, not noticing Markus watching him as he does.

#self reblog

[archive-of-note]

Murder Most Fragrant

Set in Act I of a Durge run. I used my Durge, Markus (Tiefling, Wild Magic Sorcerer) cause he’s my murder son and I love him.

Warning: Canon divergence, descriptions of gore, allusions to sexual assault, assumed sexual assault (This is told from Astarion’s perspective, and his first assumption is not “oh this weird tiefling who killed a bird has already worked his way up to mortals.”) I think I got Astarion’s thought process but I’m not so sure about his voice? However it is 5 Am and I have been writing this since at least 1:30. All mistakes are my own, cause again, one sitting in the early AM.

@simplyalexeiofficial who posted the initial prompt.

Astarion wakes up from the overwhelming smell of blood as Durge Tav is murdering *the* bard. That’s it. that’s the prompt.

The smell of blood is what shakes him from his trance. It’s living blood, not the subtle rotten stench of dead man’s blood or his own.

While the smell woke him up, it’s the sounds that really grab his attention.

Soft whimpers, harsh breaths, the slick wet sound of something moving through flesh.

Astarion ever so slightly turns his head.

That bard from the grove is whimpering, staring up at Markus wide eyed as the sorcerer crouches over her body.

Astarion rolls his eyes, both for the tieflings’ lack of subtlety and the ineffective angle Markus seems determined to keep.

The sorcerer was already low on the vampire’s list for who to manipulate, he was a bit unsettling, prone to getting lost in his own thoughts, and after he tore that bird to bits with all the glee of a toddler with a new toy, Astarion began thinking Markus might be too volatile.

Yes, an amnesiac sorcerer with wild magics would be a great meat shield in regards to Cazador, but there would be no point if Astarion doesn’t even make it to the gate.

With this new revelation of Markus’s ineptitude in regards to pleasure, the tiefling has been moved to the very bottom, Astarion may have been forced through worse, but he’d like to actually get some enjoyment from the inevitable bedding.

“…please…sto—hap—!”

If he still had blood in his veins, Astarion is sure it would be running cold.

Murderous violence is one thing, one thing Astarion can get behind and indulge in, but this… maybe he should consider going off on his own.

More whimpering, more sounds of flesh.

Then a crack. Astarion’s head jerks back to the scene, that noise could not mean anything pleasant.

The bard’s arm is stretched out towards the fire, towards Astarion, and not only is it covered in blood, there’s an unnatural bend to it.

The girl’s fingers twitch with every regular roll of Markus’s shoulders, the man letting out a few muffled grunts as he roughly pulls at something.

A high pitched wheeze from the girl, Astarion didn’t even bother listening for her name, and then splatter.

Markus stands, and between his legs and the idle back and forth of his tail, Astarion sees what he had been doing.

There’s a morbid relief in the realization the bard’s lower half is still clothed. Even if her trousers are soaked heavy with her own blood.

The sorcerer begins muttering something, an incantation perhaps, his blood soaked hands held above his head.

Astarion looks back down and makes eye contact with the mutilated bard.

Her mouth opens, broken arm shifting as she tries and fails to make a fist, silently, desperately begging Astarion for help.

He stares back at her, eyes wide.

“… accept this offering, Sanguine King, accept my humble apology for my failures.”

Disgust and rage bubble beneath the horror, doing this for a god? The gods never did anything for Astarion, and considering the predicament they are all in, the vampire is confident in his belief that all of his companions have been abandoned by their beloved gods as well.

“Take this paltry flesh, I beg of thee send a sign, I have not strayed, I have not betrayed or abandoned my mission, I beg for nothing but a chance to correct my failures, a chance to bring about the world as I have pledged.”

The bard is still making pathetic attempts to escape, as if her insides pooling around her aren’t an indication for how this will inevitably end.

Markus looks down, head tilting and tail swaying in something like amusement as the girl keeps fighting.

The man shifts his weight and Astarion freezes, even holding his breath, the air stuck in his chest putting pressure against his unbeating heart.

“They can’t help you, even if they found us like this, even if they killed me, there’s no saving you.”

Markus crouches back down, cupping the bard’s cheek to force her to look up.

“You’ve lost too much blood, tissues have already begun necrotizing, sepsis is a terrible way to die, if anything, killing you now is a kindness.”

Astarion’s stomach rolls, Markus sounds kind, his soothing rumble adding an unnerving comfort to his words.

The sorcerer rubs his thumb against the bard’s cheek, like a parent comforting a crying child.

She spits in Markus’s face, or at least she tries to.

The glob of bloody spit doesn’t even disconnect from her lips, barely more than a pathetic bubbling from her mouth.

Markus’s eyes narrow even as his lips quirk up into a forced smile.

With a harsh motion Astarion doesn’t entirely see, Markus does something that makes the bard gasp, her haggard breathes turning into desperate gurgles as her body convulses.

Markus twists his body, giving Astarion a clearer view of the bard’s death throes.

The sorcerer’s arm is buried elbow deep in her stomach, and if the angle didn’t give it away, the unnatural bulging beneath her skin does.

He’s digging in her chest cavity, and with the sudden stiffening of her entire frame, Astarion knows the man has a gotten a hold of her heart.

The air is still, the night silent, and Markus seems to be savoring the sensation of the girl’s heart in his hand.

With a sudden harsh motion, his arm twist, and the bard goes limp.

After another moment of stillness, Markus sighs, arm slowly retreating from the corpse as he stands, the girl’s mangled heart is a lump of torn flesh in his hand.

The tiefling stares down at the body, his expression hidden from view.

Another sigh, less satisfied than the last, and the tiefling begins drawing on the ground around the bard’s body.

Again he stands above the body, hands open at his sides, staring at the sky as he mutters something.

The words are quiet and rushed nonsense, even as Astarion can hear the tiefling’s heartbeat speed up, with the words becoming louder and more slurred.

Until, with a sudden choke, the tiefling stops speaking, obviously panting as he sways in place.

Markus’s head rolls, his swaying becoming even more precarious before suddenly stopping.

The tiefling looks to his hands with a gasp, his tail thrashing as he steps back, another gasp and another more panicked step back that almost knocks the sorcerer onto his ass.

Markus looks around for something, and Astarion wants to roll his eyes at the performance, why waste the energy when, as far as he knows, he’s the only person awake.

———

“Overwhelming violent desires fester in my skull.”

Markus is twitching, his jaw rolling as he picks the drying bits of bird blood and sinew from beneath his claws.

“The norm is to keep dirty thoughts like that to ourselves. But do carry on.”

Suddenly tearing the bird at the infirmary apart may have been a bit concerning, but if this tiefling isn’t just capable of violence, but relishes in it, he may be useful to Astarion.

“A feeling deep inside possesses me and whispers murder, over and over.”

The tiefling bites his nails, a loud crack coming from between his teeth before he spits out the broken off tip of his claw.

Markus sounds shaken, so Astarion tries some sympathy, “It sounds like you’ve been dealt a vile hand…” but not too much sympathy, he can’t dull this potential blade, “I say: Play it. Play it for all it’s worth!”

The tiefling’s tail twitches, the jagged barb flicking back and forth as the smell of ozone slowly grows.

“Nobody should deny themselves of their true nature.”

Markus doesn’t respond, instead wiping his hands down the front of his robes, before he picks at his nails again.

Astarion lays on a bit more concern, Markus needs to think he cares, “But, do take care of yourself.”

Markus grimaces, humming a noncommittal, but affirmative, note.

———

Astarion didn’t consider the possibility of actual possession, but with the way Markus is acting, it’s a possibility he now has to consider.

The tiefling’s panic seems to settle, not entirely, but enough that the man doesn’t look ready to collapse in a panic.

Markus stands over the body, before seeming to make a decision.

He grabs the bard and her measly bedroll, dragging them both away with some effort, but there’s an ease to his movements that imply some familiarity.

Astarion is still staring at where the tiefling vanished into the brush, thinking over his options in regards to the sorcerer.

He can pursue Markus, and hope that the bloodshed of their adventure satiate whatever demands the tiefling kill.

But if he does try, and it doesn’t work, would those violent parts of Markus begin demanding Astarion’s blood?

He needs more information.

There’s a rustling, and Astarion pretends to trance, taking note of the sounds of sloshing water and kicking dirt.

He’s properly trancing again before Markus starts snoring.

———

“Where do you think she went?”

Markus shrugs at Shadowheart’s question, not looking up from the pack he keeps reorganizing.

“Astarion?”

“Not a clue, maybe she wondered off, there are certainly many things capable of mauling you out in the woods.”

Markus pauses for a moment, eyes glancing toward Astarion before quickly returning to the pack.

“Wouldn’t we have heard something?”

“Not if it got her in the throat first.”

“Or if it crushed her lungs.” It’s the first thing Markus has said all morning, and Astarion realizes he doesn’t know which one Markus did.

“Shouldn’t we go looking? What if she’s—“

“We have illithid tadpoles in our heads, we’ve been lucky so far, but I’d rather not tempt fate more than necessary.”

“But she wanted to help!”

“And we told her it was dangerous, and that was taking into consideration all of us, if she decided she knew better, well then who are we to undermine her choices?” Markus’s tone implies finality, and no one else pushes the matter.

As they leave the campsite, Astarion notices a dark red splotch in the dirt. He kicks some loose sand over the spot, not noticing Markus watching him as he does.

#self reblog #*shakes post like a toddler who has just discovered the magic of dry beans in an old peanut butter jar*

[archive-of-note]

Murder Most Fragrant

Set in Act I of a Durge run. I used my Durge, Markus (Tiefling, Wild Magic Sorcerer) cause he’s my murder son and I love him.

Warning: Canon divergence, descriptions of gore, allusions to sexual assault, assumed sexual assault (This is told from Astarion’s perspective, and his first assumption is not “oh this weird tiefling who killed a bird has already worked his way up to mortals.”) I think I got Astarion’s thought process but I’m not so sure about his voice? However it is 5 Am and I have been writing this since at least 1:30. All mistakes are my own, cause again, one sitting in the early AM.

@simplyalexeiofficial who posted the initial prompt.

Astarion wakes up from the overwhelming smell of blood as Durge Tav is murdering *the* bard. That’s it. that’s the prompt.

The smell of blood is what shakes him from his trance. It’s living blood, not the subtle rotten stench of dead man’s blood or his own.

While the smell woke him up, it’s the sounds that really grab his attention.

Soft whimpers, harsh breaths, the slick wet sound of something moving through flesh.

Astarion ever so slightly turns his head.

That bard from the grove is whimpering, staring up at Markus wide eyed as the sorcerer crouches over her body.

Astarion rolls his eyes, both for the tieflings’ lack of subtlety and the ineffective angle Markus seems determined to keep.

The sorcerer was already low on the vampire’s list for who to manipulate, he was a bit unsettling, prone to getting lost in his own thoughts, and after he tore that bird to bits with all the glee of a toddler with a new toy, Astarion began thinking Markus might be too volatile.

Yes, an amnesiac sorcerer with wild magics would be a great meat shield in regards to Cazador, but there would be no point if Astarion doesn’t even make it to the gate.

With this new revelation of Markus’s ineptitude in regards to pleasure, the tiefling has been moved to the very bottom, Astarion may have been forced through worse, but he’d like to actually get some enjoyment from the inevitable bedding.

“…please…sto—hap—!”

If he still had blood in his veins, Astarion is sure it would be running cold.

Murderous violence is one thing, one thing Astarion can get behind and indulge in, but this… maybe he should consider going off on his own.

More whimpering, more sounds of flesh.

Then a crack. Astarion’s head jerks back to the scene, that noise could not mean anything pleasant.

The bard’s arm is stretched out towards the fire, towards Astarion, and not only is it covered in blood, there’s an unnatural bend to it.

The girl’s fingers twitch with every regular roll of Markus’s shoulders, the man letting out a few muffled grunts as he roughly pulls at something.

A high pitched wheeze from the girl, Astarion didn’t even bother listening for her name, and then splatter.

Markus stands, and between his legs and the idle back and forth of his tail, Astarion sees what he had been doing.

There’s a morbid relief in the realization the bard’s lower half is still clothed. Even if her trousers are soaked heavy with her own blood.

The sorcerer begins muttering something, an incantation perhaps, his blood soaked hands held above his head.

Astarion looks back down and makes eye contact with the mutilated bard.

Her mouth opens, broken arm shifting as she tries and fails to make a fist, silently, desperately begging Astarion for help.

He stares back at her, eyes wide.

“… accept this offering, Sanguine King, accept my humble apology for my failures.”

Disgust and rage bubble beneath the horror, doing this for a god? The gods never did anything for Astarion, and considering the predicament they are all in, the vampire is confident in his belief that all of his companions have been abandoned by their beloved gods as well.

“Take this paltry flesh, I beg of thee send a sign, I have not strayed, I have not betrayed or abandoned my mission, I beg for nothing but a chance to correct my failures, a chance to bring about the world as I have pledged.”

The bard is still making pathetic attempts to escape, as if her insides pooling around her aren’t an indication for how this will inevitably end.

Markus looks down, head tilting and tail swaying in something like amusement as the girl keeps fighting.

The man shifts his weight and Astarion freezes, even holding his breath, the air stuck in his chest putting pressure against his unbeating heart.

“They can’t help you, even if they found us like this, even if they killed me, there’s no saving you.”

Markus crouches back down, cupping the bard’s cheek to force her to look up.

“You’ve lost too much blood, tissues have already begun necrotizing, sepsis is a terrible way to die, if anything, killing you now is a kindness.”

Astarion’s stomach rolls, Markus sounds kind, his soothing rumble adding an unnerving comfort to his words.

The sorcerer rubs his thumb against the bard’s cheek, like a parent comforting a crying child.

She spits in Markus’s face, or at least she tries to.

The glob of bloody spit doesn’t even disconnect from her lips, barely more than a pathetic bubbling from her mouth.

Markus’s eyes narrow even as his lips quirk up into a forced smile.

With a harsh motion Astarion doesn’t entirely see, Markus does something that makes the bard gasp, her haggard breathes turning into desperate gurgles as her body convulses.

Markus twists his body, giving Astarion a clearer view of the bard’s death throes.

The sorcerer’s arm is buried elbow deep in her stomach, and if the angle didn’t give it away, the unnatural bulging beneath her skin does.

He’s digging in her chest cavity, and with the sudden stiffening of her entire frame, Astarion knows the man has a gotten a hold of her heart.

The air is still, the night silent, and Markus seems to be savoring the sensation of the girl’s heart in his hand.

With a sudden harsh motion, his arm twist, and the bard goes limp.

After another moment of stillness, Markus sighs, arm slowly retreating from the corpse as he stands, the girl’s mangled heart is a lump of torn flesh in his hand.

The tiefling stares down at the body, his expression hidden from view.

Another sigh, less satisfied than the last, and the tiefling begins drawing on the ground around the bard’s body.

Again he stands above the body, hands open at his sides, staring at the sky as he mutters something.

The words are quiet and rushed nonsense, even as Astarion can hear the tiefling’s heartbeat speed up, with the words becoming louder and more slurred.

Until, with a sudden choke, the tiefling stops speaking, obviously panting as he sways in place.

Markus’s head rolls, his swaying becoming even more precarious before suddenly stopping.

The tiefling looks to his hands with a gasp, his tail thrashing as he steps back, another gasp and another more panicked step back that almost knocks the sorcerer onto his ass.

Markus looks around for something, and Astarion wants to roll his eyes at the performance, why waste the energy when, as far as he knows, he’s the only person awake.

———

“Overwhelming violent desires fester in my skull.”

Markus is twitching, his jaw rolling as he picks the drying bits of bird blood and sinew from beneath his claws.

“The norm is to keep dirty thoughts like that to ourselves. But do carry on.”

Suddenly tearing the bird at the infirmary apart may have been a bit concerning, but if this tiefling isn’t just capable of violence, but relishes in it, he may be useful to Astarion.

“A feeling deep inside possesses me and whispers murder, over and over.”

The tiefling bites his nails, a loud crack coming from between his teeth before he spits out the broken off tip of his claw.

Markus sounds shaken, so Astarion tries some sympathy, “It sounds like you’ve been dealt a vile hand…” but not too much sympathy, he can’t dull this potential blade, “I say: Play it. Play it for all it’s worth!”

The tiefling’s tail twitches, the jagged barb flicking back and forth as the smell of ozone slowly grows.

“Nobody should deny themselves of their true nature.”

Markus doesn’t respond, instead wiping his hands down the front of his robes, before he picks at his nails again.

Astarion lays on a bit more concern, Markus needs to think he cares, “But, do take care of yourself.”

Markus grimaces, humming a noncommittal, but affirmative, note.

———

Astarion didn’t consider the possibility of actual possession, but with the way Markus is acting, it’s a possibility he now has to consider.

The tiefling’s panic seems to settle, not entirely, but enough that the man doesn’t look ready to collapse in a panic.

Markus stands over the body, before seeming to make a decision.

He grabs the bard and her measly bedroll, dragging them both away with some effort, but there’s an ease to his movements that imply some familiarity.

Astarion is still staring at where the tiefling vanished into the brush, thinking over his options in regards to the sorcerer.

He can pursue Markus, and hope that the bloodshed of their adventure satiate whatever demands the tiefling kill.

But if he does try, and it doesn’t work, would those violent parts of Markus begin demanding Astarion’s blood?

He needs more information.

There’s a rustling, and Astarion pretends to trance, taking note of the sounds of sloshing water and kicking dirt.

He’s properly trancing again before Markus starts snoring.

———

“Where do you think she went?”

Markus shrugs at Shadowheart’s question, not looking up from the pack he keeps reorganizing.

“Astarion?”

“Not a clue, maybe she wondered off, there are certainly many things capable of mauling you out in the woods.”

Markus pauses for a moment, eyes glancing toward Astarion before quickly returning to the pack.

“Wouldn’t we have heard something?”

“Not if it got her in the throat first.”

“Or if it crushed her lungs.” It’s the first thing Markus has said all morning, and Astarion realizes he doesn’t know which one Markus did.

“Shouldn’t we go looking? What if she’s—“

“We have illithid tadpoles in our heads, we’ve been lucky so far, but I’d rather not tempt fate more than necessary.”

“But she wanted to help!”

“And we told her it was dangerous, and that was taking into consideration all of us, if she decided she knew better, well then who are we to undermine her choices?” Markus’s tone implies finality, and no one else pushes the matter.

As they leave the campsite, Astarion notices a dark red splotch in the dirt. He kicks some loose sand over the spot, not noticing Markus watching him as he does.

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #baldur’s gate 3 spoilers #bg3 spoilers #bg3 dark urge #bg3 durge #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 alfira

[archive-of-note]

So a few days ago(? Maybe? What is time anymore) an anon sent an ask to a blog I follow ( @absurdthirst ) , the ask was about the Hanahaki trope.

Then I remembered I had some notes about that trope that I never really put together, so here’s this, a bit of fiction, no fandom in mind, about how I think Hanahaki could work.

if i missed a tag go ahead and tell me, ill fix it right up

Keep reading

#original fiction

[archive-of-note]

Florida man hasn't completed any fic in a hot minute... returns with a different fandom and POV style...

Astarion x Dark Urge OC (Markus) a bit that sprouted off from a different fic attempt but felt too different to stay in the other doc... so here it is now, on its own.

no real... anything really, just an interaction as i try and hammer out their whole deal, so two traumatized men who's whole lives have been defined and shaped by violence, trying to figure out how to interact with each other and the rest of the world.

some tweaks to the Durge backstory, and whole deal really. the way the game treats the Urges is... odd, almost like they're a separate thing from your character's thought process at times

oh, implied past Gortash x Durge, but even he isn't completely sure what the exact nature of their relationship used to be.

I'm terrible at naming fics btw, that hasn't changed, suggestions welcome

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We need to talk.”

Markus breathes in, the fact Astarion is initiating heavy conversation is enough of a warning that he shouldn’t try and put this off.

“Okay.”

Markus just keeps scrubbing his clothes, waiting.

“Are you going to even look at me?”

Markus doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t know what to expect, but the waiver in Astarion’s voice, that sliver of fear, it supersedes his own.

Astarion’s shoulders relax just a bit when Markus turns, and the elf takes a few steps forward until he’s standing next to the tiefling.

Markus wrings out his clothes and waits.

“What are we? To you.”

Markus almost giggles, the same words he’s asked the elf a few too many times, to the point Astarion has had to preemptively reassure Markus that yes, what they are is something important and special to him.

“I—“ Markus sighs, dunking his robes in the wash basin, more so a fidget than actual cleaning.

“You, you make me happy, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been happy like this, and that scares the shit out of me.” The admission makes Markus feel raw, like an exposed nerve.

Astarion huffs, and if Markus didn’t know better he’d be hurt by how dismissive it sounds.

“Aroused certainly, annoyed definitely, but happy?” Astarion sounds almost disgusted with the word, “Not usually the feeling people associate with me darling.”

The thing is Markus isn’t even completely certain if what he’s feeling is happiness. Before his memories decided to rush back into place, before Gortash went ahead and talked about their history with vague fondness and some deep tonal implications, he was quite certain what Astarion had him feeling was happy.

But now? Now he has bits and pieces, choppy and half formed but coherent enough to paint a picture.

What he feels with Astarion is good, but it’s nothing like what he knows to be happy.

Happy for Markus is being elbow deep in viscera, the terrified whimpers of someone desperately trying to keep silent, wide eyes collapsing as all hope is lost and they beg for some sort of mercy.

That’s happy.

Markus presses his face into Astarion’s hip to think.

Astarion jumps at the sudden press of the tiefling’s face into his side, but after a few seconds he places a hand between Markus’s horns.

Markus inhales, brandy, bergamot, rosemary, and beneath that, the subtle saltiness of sweat and leather.

How many times has he blindly followed that smell? How many times has he pressed his face into the dips and creases of Astarion’s skin, using his scent as an anchor?

Safe.

It’s some small part of him that had been crushed and muffled since his father claimed him. The scared child he was when he opened his eyes to bloody hands and flesh filled teeth, the people he called parents dead and decorating the walls of their small home for his nameday.

Gods, when was the last time he thought about his parents? When was the last time he could think about his parents?

Astarion presses his thumb to the base of one of Markus’s horns, it’s that spot that sends a tickle down the scar Orin left down the side of his nose.

“Let me in?”

Markus presses his face a bit deeper into Astarion’s side, some delight wiggling it’s way into his crowded mind when he realizes the elf actually has some give, a touch of softness where his waist turns into hip.

“It’s a mess.”

Astarion scoffs, “The only one of us messier than you is Karlach, at least you have the excuse of drama worthy amnesia.”

Markus snorts.

“You’ve seen my messes, helped me clean them even, let me return the favor?”

Markus stiffens, but before he can say anything Astarion continues.

“Because I want to, darling. Not because I think I owe you.”

Markus sighs, shoulders dropping when he feels the bit of insistence from Astarion trying to probe his mind.

He opens the connection a crack, and he can feel Astarion brush past the confusion, the worry, the few memories of Gortash he was able to cobble together.

“The way he spoke, I assumed you’d been sharing more than world domination plans.”

“I still don’t know if we did.”

Most of the memories are factual, no real emotions come with them, deaths he’s caused, tortures committed, he isn’t numb to them, but the only emotions he feels are the ones he has to them now.

The few that flood him with emotion, all have to do with his father.

The truth of his lineage, the first day Sceleritas appeared before him, the first mass he lead in his father’s name.

Those come with fondness, warmth, pride. He has a feeling those emotions are not entirely, if at all, his own.

“Red is a lovely color on you dear, but I must say, even this is a bit much.”

Markus snorts, letting that starburst of fondness in his chest bleed over into Astarion’s awareness.

“I’m quite certain most of the memories I had returned were ones my father felt were necessary, if I recall anything else, it is by sheer happenstance.”

Astarion hums in distaste, “Quite telling, don’t you think, that Bhaal would have to censor your memory.”

Markus… Markus hadn’t considered that.

Astarion taps Markus with his foot, a silent instruction for the tiefling to make space for the vampire to sit.

Markus does just that.

“Try and remember something, anything, that has nothing to do with him.”

Markus opens his mouth to argue, his entire being, his very person hood, was a facet of his father, that was the intention.

“Cazador tried to break me, he intended to break me.”

Markus’s mouth clicks shut.

“I did not break, I bent and I bowed, but I did not break.”

Flashes, moments, bits and pieces of hunger pangs and broken fingernails. Rotten rats and the burn of an ill handled blade. Condescending coos and obviously false promises, disrespect and degradation.

They all come with emotions, disgust, fear, exhaustion, but there is a constant.

Rage.

The true depths of which were kept under wraps, the flairs and bursts Cazador saw only fractions of what the younger elf truly contained.

“You were not helpless without Bhaal’s guidance, and I doubt that was something that just suddenly came to you.”

Markus can feel Astarion shuffling through memories, tossing aside bloody images and and terrified screams, looking for something that has nothing to do with Markus’s divine inheritance.

“Well hello.”

It takes Markus a moment to orient his mind to what Astarion has found.

It’s her.

Heat rises to Markus’s cheeks before he really knows why.

“Now I do believe daddy dearest had nothing to do with this.”

The memories are haphazard, choppy.

The swish of a tail, the supple curve of a thigh, the drag of claws beneath his chin.

Vanilla and pine covering the electrified ozone that comes with high magic use.

Astarion’s eyes widen, his hands cupping Markus’s cheeks as he digs around for memories of the woman that once drove the tiefling mad.

“Oh darling, I knew you had taste, but my oh my, I’m surprised they’re so refined.”

Markus doesn’t know how to take that, but before he can say anything a new memory emerges, a dagger at his throat.

Not when he first met Astarion, no, the dagger in his memory is sharpened to a delicate but lethal edge, a smooth curve and jeweled pommel.

“It seems you have a type.”

Markus feels a chuckle forming, but it stalls in his throat.

The memory of her flirtatious smile turns horrified, a thick line of blood dripping down her brow, the smell of burning fabric and the sting of electricity beneath his skin.

Anger, fear, disgust, regret.

The message is clear, “You have no time for such needless distractions.”

Markus grabs Astarion’s wrist as he pushes the elf from his mind, desperate for some comfort but also scared for his safety.

No wonder he believed Sceleritas so quickly, he’d tried to kill someone he cared about before. Had succeeded in the case of his parents in name.

“I…” Markus feels a trembling in his chest. Fear, promising placations, promises that his lapses in judgment were long term plans, that his lack of bloodshed wasn’t stalling, it was all part of a plan.

The Plan.

His head pounds as his mind scrambles, fragments of answers to even more fragmented questions.

Desperate calls for silence, the singing of blood, a moment's respite from the violent flesh craving, desperation and fractions of perfect quiet moments.

His nose is bleeding.

“No need to let that go to waste.”

A cool callused finger wipes his lip.

Markus… Markus wants to sleep.

“Are you hungry?”

Astarion understands.

Astarion understands and Markus knows whatever he had with Gortash didn’t have this. A silent knowing, intrinsic understanding. They had been made rotten by circumstance but Gortash just made Markus’s rot worse.

Gortash saw him a feral lap dog, something kept on a leash and appeased with random bursts of praise and the occasional treat.

Astarion may have started by playing a similar hand, but even his calculated approvals were more heartfelt than the admitted drivel Gortash would randomly lob his way.

Astarion smiles, sultry and playful, the vulnerability being hidden away for another time, another night.

“Oh darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

Markus smiles, his own playful deflections returning as he stands, barely remembering the wet robe that’s been soaking in the wash basin.

He presses his forehead to Astarion’s, a moment of unfettered affection and relief, warmth and understanding, those soft mushy feelings neither of them know how to articulate.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

Markus nudges forward, just enough for the bridges of their noses to press against each other before standing entirely, tail swaying behind him in an exaggerated tease.

#self reblog #*I shake this fic hoping somebody sees and likes it*

[archive-of-note]

Florida man hasn't completed any fic in a hot minute... returns with a different fandom and POV style...

Astarion x Dark Urge OC (Markus) a bit that sprouted off from a different fic attempt but felt too different to stay in the other doc... so here it is now, on its own.

no real... anything really, just an interaction as i try and hammer out their whole deal, so two traumatized men who's whole lives have been defined and shaped by violence, trying to figure out how to interact with each other and the rest of the world.

some tweaks to the Durge backstory, and whole deal really. the way the game treats the Urges is... odd, almost like they're a separate thing from your character's thought process at times

oh, implied past Gortash x Durge, but even he isn't completely sure what the exact nature of their relationship used to be.

I'm terrible at naming fics btw, that hasn't changed, suggestions welcome

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We need to talk.”

Markus breathes in, the fact Astarion is initiating heavy conversation is enough of a warning that he shouldn’t try and put this off.

“Okay.”

Markus just keeps scrubbing his clothes, waiting.

“Are you going to even look at me?”

Markus doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t know what to expect, but the waiver in Astarion’s voice, that sliver of fear, it supersedes his own.

Astarion’s shoulders relax just a bit when Markus turns, and the elf takes a few steps forward until he’s standing next to the tiefling.

Markus wrings out his clothes and waits.

“What are we? To you.”

Markus almost giggles, the same words he’s asked the elf a few too many times, to the point Astarion has had to preemptively reassure Markus that yes, what they are is something important and special to him.

“I—“ Markus sighs, dunking his robes in the wash basin, more so a fidget than actual cleaning.

“You, you make me happy, and I don’t know if I’ve ever been happy like this, and that scares the shit out of me.” The admission makes Markus feel raw, like an exposed nerve.

Astarion huffs, and if Markus didn’t know better he’d be hurt by how dismissive it sounds.

“Aroused certainly, annoyed definitely, but happy?” Astarion sounds almost disgusted with the word, “Not usually the feeling people associate with me darling.”

The thing is Markus isn’t even completely certain if what he’s feeling is happiness. Before his memories decided to rush back into place, before Gortash went ahead and talked about their history with vague fondness and some deep tonal implications, he was quite certain what Astarion had him feeling was happy.

But now? Now he has bits and pieces, choppy and half formed but coherent enough to paint a picture.

What he feels with Astarion is good, but it’s nothing like what he knows to be happy.

Happy for Markus is being elbow deep in viscera, the terrified whimpers of someone desperately trying to keep silent, wide eyes collapsing as all hope is lost and they beg for some sort of mercy.

That’s happy.

Markus presses his face into Astarion’s hip to think.

Astarion jumps at the sudden press of the tiefling’s face into his side, but after a few seconds he places a hand between Markus’s horns.

Markus inhales, brandy, bergamot, rosemary, and beneath that, the subtle saltiness of sweat and leather.

How many times has he blindly followed that smell? How many times has he pressed his face into the dips and creases of Astarion’s skin, using his scent as an anchor?

Safe.

It’s some small part of him that had been crushed and muffled since his father claimed him. The scared child he was when he opened his eyes to bloody hands and flesh filled teeth, the people he called parents dead and decorating the walls of their small home for his nameday.

Gods, when was the last time he thought about his parents? When was the last time he could think about his parents?

Astarion presses his thumb to the base of one of Markus’s horns, it’s that spot that sends a tickle down the scar Orin left down the side of his nose.

“Let me in?”

Markus presses his face a bit deeper into Astarion’s side, some delight wiggling it’s way into his crowded mind when he realizes the elf actually has some give, a touch of softness where his waist turns into hip.

“It’s a mess.”

Astarion scoffs, “The only one of us messier than you is Karlach, at least you have the excuse of drama worthy amnesia.”

Markus snorts.

“You’ve seen my messes, helped me clean them even, let me return the favor?”

Markus stiffens, but before he can say anything Astarion continues.

“Because I want to, darling. Not because I think I owe you.”

Markus sighs, shoulders dropping when he feels the bit of insistence from Astarion trying to probe his mind.

He opens the connection a crack, and he can feel Astarion brush past the confusion, the worry, the few memories of Gortash he was able to cobble together.

“The way he spoke, I assumed you’d been sharing more than world domination plans.”

“I still don’t know if we did.”

Most of the memories are factual, no real emotions come with them, deaths he’s caused, tortures committed, he isn’t numb to them, but the only emotions he feels are the ones he has to them now.

The few that flood him with emotion, all have to do with his father.

The truth of his lineage, the first day Sceleritas appeared before him, the first mass he lead in his father’s name.

Those come with fondness, warmth, pride. He has a feeling those emotions are not entirely, if at all, his own.

“Red is a lovely color on you dear, but I must say, even this is a bit much.”

Markus snorts, letting that starburst of fondness in his chest bleed over into Astarion’s awareness.

“I’m quite certain most of the memories I had returned were ones my father felt were necessary, if I recall anything else, it is by sheer happenstance.”

Astarion hums in distaste, “Quite telling, don’t you think, that Bhaal would have to censor your memory.”

Markus… Markus hadn’t considered that.

Astarion taps Markus with his foot, a silent instruction for the tiefling to make space for the vampire to sit.

Markus does just that.

“Try and remember something, anything, that has nothing to do with him.”

Markus opens his mouth to argue, his entire being, his very person hood, was a facet of his father, that was the intention.

“Cazador tried to break me, he intended to break me.”

Markus’s mouth clicks shut.

“I did not break, I bent and I bowed, but I did not break.”

Flashes, moments, bits and pieces of hunger pangs and broken fingernails. Rotten rats and the burn of an ill handled blade. Condescending coos and obviously false promises, disrespect and degradation.

They all come with emotions, disgust, fear, exhaustion, but there is a constant.

Rage.

The true depths of which were kept under wraps, the flairs and bursts Cazador saw only fractions of what the younger elf truly contained.

“You were not helpless without Bhaal’s guidance, and I doubt that was something that just suddenly came to you.”

Markus can feel Astarion shuffling through memories, tossing aside bloody images and and terrified screams, looking for something that has nothing to do with Markus’s divine inheritance.

“Well hello.”

It takes Markus a moment to orient his mind to what Astarion has found.

It’s her.

Heat rises to Markus’s cheeks before he really knows why.

“Now I do believe daddy dearest had nothing to do with this.”

The memories are haphazard, choppy.

The swish of a tail, the supple curve of a thigh, the drag of claws beneath his chin.

Vanilla and pine covering the electrified ozone that comes with high magic use.

Astarion’s eyes widen, his hands cupping Markus’s cheeks as he digs around for memories of the woman that once drove the tiefling mad.

“Oh darling, I knew you had taste, but my oh my, I’m surprised they’re so refined.”

Markus doesn’t know how to take that, but before he can say anything a new memory emerges, a dagger at his throat.

Not when he first met Astarion, no, the dagger in his memory is sharpened to a delicate but lethal edge, a smooth curve and jeweled pommel.

“It seems you have a type.”

Markus feels a chuckle forming, but it stalls in his throat.

The memory of her flirtatious smile turns horrified, a thick line of blood dripping down her brow, the smell of burning fabric and the sting of electricity beneath his skin.

Anger, fear, disgust, regret.

The message is clear, “You have no time for such needless distractions.”

Markus grabs Astarion’s wrist as he pushes the elf from his mind, desperate for some comfort but also scared for his safety.

No wonder he believed Sceleritas so quickly, he’d tried to kill someone he cared about before. Had succeeded in the case of his parents in name.

“I…” Markus feels a trembling in his chest. Fear, promising placations, promises that his lapses in judgment were long term plans, that his lack of bloodshed wasn’t stalling, it was all part of a plan.

The Plan.

His head pounds as his mind scrambles, fragments of answers to even more fragmented questions.

Desperate calls for silence, the singing of blood, a moment's respite from the violent flesh craving, desperation and fractions of perfect quiet moments.

His nose is bleeding.

“No need to let that go to waste.”

A cool callused finger wipes his lip.

Markus… Markus wants to sleep.

“Are you hungry?”

Astarion understands.

Astarion understands and Markus knows whatever he had with Gortash didn’t have this. A silent knowing, intrinsic understanding. They had been made rotten by circumstance but Gortash just made Markus’s rot worse.

Gortash saw him a feral lap dog, something kept on a leash and appeased with random bursts of praise and the occasional treat.

Astarion may have started by playing a similar hand, but even his calculated approvals were more heartfelt than the admitted drivel Gortash would randomly lob his way.

Astarion smiles, sultry and playful, the vulnerability being hidden away for another time, another night.

“Oh darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

Markus smiles, his own playful deflections returning as he stands, barely remembering the wet robe that’s been soaking in the wash basin.

He presses his forehead to Astarion’s, a moment of unfettered affection and relief, warmth and understanding, those soft mushy feelings neither of them know how to articulate.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

Markus nudges forward, just enough for the bridges of their noses to press against each other before standing entirely, tail swaying behind him in an exaggerated tease.

#astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion imagine #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate iii #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #dark urge spoilers

[archive-of-note]

Ezra One Shots/Drabbles Part 3

You'll find all the Ezra One Shots/Drabbles that I've read/am currently reading/want to read, with the writer tagged below.👇🏻

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.

Please show your love and appreciation to the writers by re-blogging their work. 🖤

Domestic Ezra Masterlist - @iamskyereads

The Rescue - @the-ginger-hedge-witch Cowboy!Ezra

In Print - @prolix-yuy GN!Reader

Lost In The Weeds - @haylzcyon GN!Reader

Ezra Masterlist - @thewayofthemandalorian

Ezra Masterlist - @lowlights

All The Good Girls Go To Hell - @psychedelic-ink Priest!Ezra

Exquisite Tragedy - @moonlight-prose Professor!Ezra

Fly Away With You - @santigarcia Virgin!Reader

Warm Bath - @emmikmil

Wallflower - @the-witty-pen-name

Kinktober Day 10 - @oogaboogasphincter

Rushing Decadence - @highsviolets GN!Reader VoiceActor!Ezra

A Wolf In Sheepskin - @jettia

Take A Breath - @bonktime AFAB!Reader

Little New Beginnings - @honey-dewey GN!Reader

Ritual - @acrossthesestars

Kinktober Day 3 - @acrossthesestars

A Thread Of Appropriate Reactions - @refinedpalette

Breathe For Me - @coastielaceispunk Cowritten with @lowlights

Kinktober Day 27 - @supernaturalgirl20

Caught - @bacarasbabe

Fae King - @supernaturalgirl20 FaeKing!Ezra

Life Beyond The Line - @kingofkingdom

A Raven & A Pigeon - @sketchy-rosewitch

Search For My Tongue - @pedros-mustache

Shameless Sanctuary - @lavendertales

Keep You Warm - @princessxkenobi

Drawn Away - @alwaysbethewest

Ezra Masterlist - @oonajaeadira More Ezra To Choose From!

Ezra Drabble - @archive-of-note Reaper!Reader

Mechanical Bull & A Ghost - @honestly-shite Featuring Agent Whiskey

Mirror Message & Forever Be My Always - @supernaturalgirl20

Ezra Masterlist - @beecastle

Stuck - @sneetsnootyoit GN!Reader Hard Of Hearing/Deaf!Reader

Into The Shade - @brandyllyn

Pleasure - @thatredheadwriter

Snowed In - @thatredheadwriter

Home - @pagannightwitch

Dinner With A Scoundrel - @deadhumourist Lord!Ezra

The Smuggler, The Marshall & The Prospector - @all-the-way-down-here Featuring Joel Miller & Agent Whiskey / Wild Western AU Ezra

A Sunflower & Their Encyclopedia - @kayleezra GN!Reader

What Lies Beneath The Surface - @beskarandaurelac

Kisses Of Fire - @simpingcowboy GN!Reader

A Forgotten Scene - @fromthedeskoftheraven

Ezra Drabble - @novemberrain-writes

Ezra Masterlist - @scribbledghost Too Many To Choose Just One!

#so this has been up for 11 days and I’m only seeing the notifacfion now???? #ezra prospect #thank you for enjoying and sharing!

[archive-of-note]

Lemme buy all the books you want during a bookstore date then let me eat you out while you try to read.

#very Ezra coded #not fic #ezra (prospect)

[archive-of-note]

embers

Pairing: Ezra x afab reader (no pronouns)

Warnings: 18+, pwp, fingering (f receiving), ezra being ezra, a lot of sweat, reader is nicknamed stardust but no gendered language as far as I am aware, this was originally written with a plus size reader in mind and there is one description of body type (soft stomach) but nothing major beyond that

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: It's too hot to sleep. Ezra helps you with your frustration, but only makes things hotter.

A/N: comments and reblogs forever appreciated! To follow for fic updates only go to @sp00kyupdates​ or see taglist details on my masterlist. Credit to gif maker.

It’s hot. Too hot. The kind of sticky hot that fills the air and makes it hard to breath, no cool breeze of comfort as it melts the brain until you can’t think straight.

It sticks to your body. The heat causing discomforting damp across you, in the places where flesh meets flesh. You groan and turn from your side to your back, looking up at the mildewy roof of the tent you’re trying to sleep in.

“Shouldn’t have taken this stupid fuckin’ job” you mutter to yourself quietly, aware of Ezra somehow sleeping beside you.

Ezra; you’re partner in prospecting and crime and a variety of other unsavoury activities. Right now you’re too aware of him and his warm body. He’s always too close but you’d never usually complain. Except for right now when you want nothing more than to kick him out of the tent completely so you can spread your limbs wide and try not to feel so damn sticky.

You move again with a huff, turning your pancake-thin pillow over to the cooler side. It barely helps. You can feel the sweat gather between your breasts and your thighs and on your back. The only thing you can think to thank Kevva for is that you’d at least come to a planet with a breathable atmosphere, because if you’d had to wear your suit all day too you’d have lost your mind days ago.

“Something the matter, stardust?” Ezra asks, voice thick with sleep. Guilt pangs when you realise you woke him with all your movement, but he just gazes at you sleepily with a half-amused smile as his eyes flutter closed then open again adjusting to the low flickering glow of the lamplight.

“Just hot” you sigh turning on your side again to face him, body thrumming with restlessness and a jolt of other when his deep brown eyes flicker down to the loose, thin top that’s pulled up enough to reveal the curve of your body from waist to hip, your soft stomach, and the small shorts riding up the tops of your thighs.

He suddenly seems much more awake.

“Well I certainly won’t disagree with you on that” he practically purrs and chuckles when you roll your eyes.

“Shut up, Ez” you retort slightly more stern than you had intended to sound and he raises an eyebrow at your annoyed tone.

“Sorry” you murmur after.

He smirks at you but doesn’t respond, his eyes darting back down your body then to your lips with very clear intent. You look back at him. He’s shirtless with a pair of shorts slung low on his hips and you always love to see that despite the hard life of drifting he is still soft and comfortable, getting by with just enough food to never be gaunt. The scars from decades of dangerous living are visible on his golden skin which is sheened with sweat. The starlight blonde patch of hair sticks to his forehead.

Perhaps he is another thing to thank the goddess for.

Like magnets drawn together you both shift a little closer, even the heat of his body not able to deter you as your eyes meet again.

He reaches out a hand and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb making contact with your cheek with a sweet caress. With a barely audible sigh he leans closer and offers his lips to you. You’ve never denied him a kiss, you aren’t going to start now but you do hesitate.

“I’m gross” you mutter against his lips when his hand pushes up the flimsy top and skims the underside of your breast, knowing the moisture of sweat clings there.

“You’re radiant” he responds.

You roll your eyes again.

“It’s sweat”

“Stardust, what exactly makes you conclude I would ever care about that?” He whispers, voice low. “It’s you. That’s all that matters”

He leans in to you more then, his hand gently grasping a breast, thumb swiping over your sensitive nipple as your body reacts to him all on its own. His words make you warmer but this time you don’t curse the heat. Your conscious of how prevalent your perspiration is but the way in which Ezra simply doesn’t care gives you cause to give in too.

“Relax now, I’ll make you forget all about the torridity” He says.

He’s intent to make you stop thinking as he leans towards you and kisses you harder. His tongue welcomely intrudes your mouth and his hand pursues new territory as he drags it down your curves and around to the front of your shorts.

“Ezra..” you whine, bewildered by how you can be so desperate to have him closer now when just moments ago your wanted him far away. His palm presses against you at the apex of your legs and then you feel his fingers slip up the leg of your loose shorts. He huffs out a happy grunt as he finds you slick there from more than the heat.

"You..." He kisses you again, even less restrained than before "...are wanting of this more than you let on, stardust" He groans as his fingers slip up the seam of your cunt, finding their way to your sensitive bundle of nerves as he makes you gasp for it.

Your body is heating up to impossible lengths and you imagine what a state you must look like; dewy skinned and exasperated from lack of sleep and a new desperation for him. Your hair is stuck to your skin, the damp beneath your breasts and between your thighs increases. It's maddening but Ezra is looking at you like you are some unearthly delight that he has happened upon in his own garden of eden. He could never make you feel anything less than desired even when you feel anything less than desirable. It's a talent of his, really.

That quick tongue of his is occupied now with other things, the delicious drag of it from your lips, down your jaw and then your neck. He groans against your skin, his fingers working their way from clit to your entrance so he can gather your slick on them. He pushes one in, and you already feel like you could forget more than just the heat, you could forget where you are entirely if he keeps going.

You whimper and he smiles so delightedly.

He’s soon moving his head to a place further down, sucking in a nipple over the fabric of your shirt. He takes you completely off guard as he pushes in another finger, toying with you when he knows exactly what to do to make you forget your own name.

"I'm all...all...You don't have to...it's not…" you stutter not even a full sentence.

"Take off your shirt" Is all he responds with. No preamble, no flowery wording. A simple instruction.

"I…" You hesitate because you really are so sticky hot and some prevalent part of your brain is still stuck on that undesirability you feel.

"Do it"

You do. The little top comes off in a moment, giving Ezra access to your breasts with that wicked tongue of his. He swipes your pebbled nipples, once on each, with it and then sucks one in to his mouth, using his teeth to ever so gently pull.

Meanwhile those talented fingers do their own work. In...deep, deep, crooking at the place that makes your stomach clench in pleasure. Back out, just a little, playing with you because he knows how much he can make your mind blank if he just makes it a little more difficult for you.

"Teasing me..." You whisper, your own hands playing in his damp hair, grabbing slightly. He knows you know what he's doing to you.

"Making you forget. Making your think about nothing else. Let me" He smirks. He is a devilish man, you decide, and you are glad he is the devil of your own heart and no one elses.

"Mmmh, I- Yeah. You can do that..." You sigh. Finally feeling his thumb barely touch your clit as his fingers work inside of you to bring on something that will make you cry out his name for all the planet to hear.

"Would you like more?"

"Don't you...dare stop"

He laughs, that delightful laugh of his that you fell in love with.

The heat and his hand make you feel kind of like you're in a dream, dizzy with all of the things you feel inside and out. You love him like this, love him to be so intense, so incredibly devious in making you feel exactly the thing he wants you to feel.

"Come kiss me" You whimper and he grins like the cat that got the cream, knowing he has you.

Ezra does exactly as you want kissing your lips once, twice before pulling away. You can taste the sweat on his skin and it only drives you more in to want. You're starting to understand his way of thinking; why should you care about anything but the two of you and what your bodies can do? Perpiration or no, he feels good and makes you feel good.

His fingers work magically in you until your getting breathy and close to the inevitable edge. He's hard against your hip but when you reach to help him with that he pushes your hand away.

"Not now"

"Feels- oh, feels so right" is about all you can give him as he slips another finger in and stretches you so deliciously. You want it again and again and again and he gives it to you as his fingers hook and rub deep inside, and you start to cry desperately for him to never, ever stop “Ez...”

“Shh, stardust. Let it take you, let me help you” He groans feeling your wetness gush around his fingers. His thumb rubs your clit in faster little circles and you arch.

You come in a frenzy of blooming heat, a pleasure that makes you push against him as if begging for even more. Your skin is glistening now not just from the torridity of this unforgiving climate but from the pure fire in your body. How can he make you feel like this every time? It is so unreasonable that he has this power, but it is so right.

Ezra licks a swipe between the valley of your breasts, and then up to your neck where he kisses you gently as you slowly catch your breath. Your eyes are heavy, sleep already taking you in to its arms as you lay your head down and pull him up for a slow, lazy kiss that keeps the fire flickering just a moment longer.

“Mm. Ez” is about all you manage for that moment, fingers playing again in the damp hair at the nape of his neck until your eyes are closing.

“Sleep, my lucent love. You’re welcome” Ezra chuckles letting you fall back as he lays on his side watching you.

You’re asleep in moments, sticky hot but satisfied enough to not be able to think about it any more.

You’ll certainly thank him in the morning.

#ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect #as somebody who lives in S.FL without central AC (meaning we have windows ones we have to replace) #sploodge an snooze is an extreamly effective method

[archive-of-note]

I finally figured out what my personal issue/usual squick with large age gap fics is even though I know I’m personally attracted to older men.

It’s the pretty regular lack of real acknowledgment of the implications outside of sex and what the relationship is beyond that.

And I’m a horny dude don’t get me wrong, but I realized what was missing from the fics (for me anyway) was attraction beyond sex.

A good example is @frannyzooey ‘s In the Dark

There’s actually chemistry between the reader and Ezra, there’s mutual enjoyment of things outside of breaking each other’s bed frames, the fear of getting caught is also tinged with the fear of real loss, because they do really enjoy each other’s company.

Anyway I’m rambling, and here’s more of it as I couldn’t sleep and was feeling a way.

Joel Miller x younger!Reader (about 20ish years) no outbreak, really calling it a TLOU fic feels a bit off but he’s who I was thinking about when I wrote it. Also it was like 4am, and seeing as I feel asleep with the notes app open, there’s gonna be some mistakes and clunky writing.

———

You can’t keep doing this.

You look into your own eyes as the realization hits you, the humidity of the shower fogging up the streak you’d just wiped away.

You can’t keep doing this.

But you can’t have a breakdown here, in the shower of a man twice your age with a daughter you could’ve easily gone to elementary school with.

Your stomach rolls, and saliva fills your mouth. You’re going to be sick.

Somehow, you hold it back, at least long enough to get dressed, but when it won’t stay down you flush the toilet as you hurl, hoping he won’t ask questions as you leave.

You breathe in, hold it, and let it out in a stream, before opening the en suite door and rushing out of the bedroom.

He’s in the kitchen, and he tries to say something as you rush past, but you just wave him off, muttering something vague about needing to leave, not even putting on your shoes properly as you rush out of the front door and down the street to where you parked.

You’ve been terrified to park in front of his house, terrified to get caught, terrified of being found out.

Terrified of it being real.

You start the car, thankful for the habit you’d developed of hooking the keys to a belt loop.

A habit you’d picked up from him.

Your stomach twists again, your vision blurs as tears form, and a part of you just wants him to hold you.

A tap against the driver side window makes you jump.

He has your wallet.

Cracking the window open enough for him to slip the fake leather billfold through the crack isn’t enough, he shakes his head and points down, wanting you to open the window properly.

You shake as you do.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong darlin’? You ran out-!”

A cry breaks from your lips and suddenly you’re sobbing, the loud panicky sort, the kind you can’t pretty up in a few seconds or lie about convincingly.

He doesn’t look scared, he just looks worried, and for some reason that makes this worse.

He walks around the front of the car, and you’re already double checking that the locks are open, more out of habit than really thinking about it.

He fits a bit awkwardly into the passenger seat.

“Now I need to know what’s wrong, cause I can’t leave you alone like this, not in good conscience.”

You hiccup, engaging the parking break for something to do with your hands and excuse a few more seconds of silence.

The words stick in your throat.

“Baby?”

His hand cups your cheek and you flinch, he pulls away, shocked. Shocked and hurt.

“What are we doing?”

His brow furrows, confusion and concern coming off of him in waves.

“What do you mean?”

“What is this?” Your voice cracks, “What are we?” It feels like something is trying to choke you, “What are we doing? Really?”

His mouth opens, but words don’t come out, and you’re fighting your body to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

“I-“

“What do you want, Joel?” Pressure is building like something pushing on your chest, forcing the words out, “What do you want from me?” The question ends with a crack, and it just emphasizes the following silence.

“I— can we talk about his inside?” He points out the window, head tilting in that way that makes the light catch the errant grays.

“No.”

If it doesn’t happen here, it won’t happen at all. You need some sense of control and your car is better than his kitchen.

He sighs, pushing your wallet in what would’ve been an ashtray, before turning to more properly face you.

“What do you want me to say?” This whole thing already feels like it’s falling apart, which hurts, but it’s better that it happen somewhere somewhat private.

“The truth.”

He looks down, eyes flicking over the center console and a part of you wants to take it back, take it all back and return to where you were not even twenty minutes ago.

“I don’t know.”

“At all?”

“Not-“ he sighs, turning to look out the windshield, “it’s complicated.”

“No shit.”

He huffs in something that sounds like amusement, and even on the verge of a panic attack you can’t help but crack a small smile.

“You make me happy,” he presses a point between his thumb and forefinger, “and that’s all I’ve really been thinking about.”

“Really?” You can’t believe it, because you know he’s a worrier.

“Been putting everything else on the back burner, it was easier.”

You sink a bit into your seat, most of the tension moving to the back of your neck.

“We can’t keep doing it like this.”

He sighs, “No, we shouldn’t.”

You both sit in the car, silent as you consider what to do now.

He suddenly speaks up, “Made French toast.”

Your stomach rumbles in interest, “With the little maple bacon bits?”

He laughs like that was a stupid question, “is there another way to make it?”

You giggle, sniffing as the sound cracks in your throat.

———

This is where I fell asleep, and honestly I don’t think I could write anymore for this, cause it’s bringing up a lot of feelings I don’t wanna deal with rn.

#joel miller #archive-of-note #joel miller the last of us #age gap fic

[archive-of-note]

Writing fic as an awkward way to get comfortable with the mental aspects of using a mobility aid (a cane in this instance) after getting discouraged by my mother immediatly suggesting surgery and ignoring my concerns about that…….

It’s more likely than you think

#not fic

[archive-of-note]

The Deathly Devout

Pairing: Executioner!König x Nun!Reader (Medieval au) 

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Religious themes and settings, talk of death, religious guilt, nothing much this is pretty tame. I have very little knowledge of how catholic confessionals actually go especially in a medieval setting forgive me. probably many spelling errors im sorry. 

Author’s Note: was talking to @thesadvampire about @hffhifjou fucking amazing art of the 141 as knights and now we have Executioner!König. This is mostly just a word burst from this morning but I really like this concept and wanted to share with you all 

Tagging some mutuals I think might enjoy this: @sprout-fics @humanransome-note @moondirti @fnny-bnny @yeehaw-djarin @captainsamwlsn

_______________–

     It was quite amusing to see the executioner in the confessional booth. 

     That isn’t to say that he doesn’t visit often, no. If anything it’s the exact opposite, Father Montomgery sees him more than any pious banker or self-hating gambler in the city. But the man was monstrous, broad in his shoulders with thick arms and legs to match, resulting in him having to twist and fold his body to properly fit into the little wooden booth. He could see the silhouette of the poor man’s shoulders hunched in and head tucked low. 

     It almost made up for how absolutely aggravating he was to listen to. 

     “Forgive me father for I have sinned.” 

Keep reading

#könig cod #I think I want to have brunch mimosas with padre Montgomery

[archive-of-note]

Idk why but it seems like since I’ve decided to quit/put in my resignation I’ve had at least one customer a day say that I need to keep working at the store? Like in a grateful way, and I don’t even mention I’m leaving, they just say smth along the lines of ‘I like you, you’re good at this, keep doing it.”

And it’s sort of weird/flattering, but mostly weird? What sort of interactions have you had in customer service that you think how I’ve conducted myself during our interaction is noteworthy? And it doesn’t feel creepy, or malicious, it’s just a weirdly specific thing that happens at least once a shift.

Anyway dumb/terrible thought… Frankie x craft store employee! meet cute cause his daughter is a menace with construction paper and glitter glue who wants to try/make a new thing every time he has her. (Also his favorite jacket has a hole in it and he has no idea what to do)

i totally get what you mean!! I think its because you like. genuinely want to make things at work smoother for yourself and customers (ie helping with coupons and such) and customers really appreciate that. I've gotten the same kind of compliments before when I give them the talk of 'if you buy this now its 20 percent off and you cant use a discount but if you wait two days it wont be on sale and you can use a 50% off coupon' and those moments are nice (sadly they are often lost in a sea of incredibly rude customers in an overhwelming shift)

also this idea is AMAZING because it's so on brand. Little girls love to craft and make the weirdest things and sometimes craft supplies can be so speicfic he has to go to a craft store instead of the usual like. walmart. Heaven forbid the sweet girl wants to learn how to sew? Oh his mother is telling him to take her to the fabric store so she can teach her how to make a dress (and now that he sees it. there is a hole in his jacket that's slowly getting bigger. maybe he can find something for that too while he's there) but he hasn't been in a fabric store in SO long. He remembers going when he was a kid with his mother but gosh things are so different now it feel like a whole other world so please imagining this sweet man coming up during a shift like 'hi, im so sorry to bother you but I have zero idea what im doing. Can you help me?" while his daughter hangs off his arms because she made a run for the tulle and he had to stop her from bolting off again.

but That being said? I absolutely see Francisco Morales as the kind of guy who can do upholstery. We have guys who come in on a regular basis, often times the same men who work for upholstery businesses or car detailing that get the same fabric everytime and he gives off that energy. He'll come in still in his work clothes and always says hello, will make a comment about the weather or maybe pick up something small that he says his daughter will just love until one day he comes in with her holding his hand and all but dragging him over to the fabric because this year she's decided she wants to make her own halloween costume so they HAVE to get started NOW even though it's only may and he meets your eyes and mouths 'help' because he can hem his pants and fix the odd hole but sewing full garments is completely lost on him so you spent a good chunk of your shift leading him and his adorable little girl through fabric and sewing patterns and fall even more in love with him.

#exactly the chaos I was looking for #frankie 'catfish' morales

[archive-of-note]

Extra Whipped Cream

Chapters: 1/2/3

Pairing: Porn Star!Dieter Bravo x Barista!Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: Curses, very very short sex scene, descriptions of insecurities, masturbation, sex dream. 

Summary: Dieter contemplates the meaning of life during a day at work and answers some emails. You offer a cafe patron a corner brownie.

Word Count: 2.3k

Author’s Note: Coming back to this fic after a literal year of nothing I am so sorry to you all and kisses to those who have no left me in this dry spell lmao. Note is that Dieter Bravo is only this character’s stage name, his real name is Dexter and he will be addressed as such through the story! Big thank you to @thesadvampire​ and my lovely boyfriend for reading this and giving me your advice. Love yall <3

*Reblog with tags in the morning*

———————

“What’s up your ass this morning?” 

Dieter didn’t bother to look up from his phone to answer his assistant’s prodding. 

“Was that a rhetorical question or are you just curious?”

She looks over his shoulder, just barely catching the tail-end of an email before the screen goes black. He meets her eyes with a frown but she doesn’t back down, she never did with him. After being his assistant for who knows how many years, she had gotten more than used to his dramatics. 

“You seem..twitchy, lately.” She sets her hands on her hips like a scolding mother. “You didn’t take anything, did you?”

Keep reading

#DEXTER!! my boy!! my sweet romantic boy! #dieter bravo