careful—i bite.

astarion listens, one brow slightly cocked. his dignity is damp. but he stands there all the same, as if none of it matters, because he’s just heard the most inconveniently fascinating thing all day. four pieces. she says it so casually. like she’s listing off the contents of her lunch. four. he almost doesn’t hear the rest. his mind floods with noise — strategies, negotiations, petty acts of thievery — but he keeps it all behind his smile. the one that curves at the edges just enough to look amused, not hungry. not desperate.

and yet, when she speaks again — introduces herself — he’s jolted from his scheming like someone snapped fingers in front of his face. ❛ isabelle vadas, ❜ he repeats, softly, letting the name roll over his tongue like wine he’s considering swallowing. ❛ a lovely name for a lovely creature. ❜ his voice purrs just beneath the words, velvety and warm. he takes her hand — filth and ichor and all — and gives it a gentle shake.

he watches her speak, but his eyes — traitorous things — keep roaming. to her own fangs. her black fingertips. her eyes. double irises. he wonders, idly, if she tastes as different as she looks. if her blood would burn like wine laced with starlight. the thought makes his throat tighten — not with thirst exactly, but something more complicated, more shameful. he tamps it down with an amused breath through his nose and flicks his gaze back up to her face before she can catch him staring.

and then the offer. back to my place for a proper meal. he stiffens — just slightly. ❛ my, my, darling, ❜ he says with that purring drawl, half - lidded eyes gleaming, ❛ you’re either very forward, or i’m about to be kidnapped. either way, it will likely be exciting. ❜ he gives a slight, ironic bow. ❛ astarion, ❜ he says simply, straightening, ❛ at your service. sometimes. under specific, pre - negotiated conditions. ❜ his smirk deepens, but there’s a flicker of genuine uncertainty there. he can’t decide if he’s amused by her or cautious. probably both. he looks down at the chest again, fingers tightening for a heartbeat.

❛ as for this… map, ❜ he says, voice lower now. ❛ i won’t insult you with a lie. i need it more than you do. ❜ he glances up. red eyes meet hers with unflinching intensity. there’s something hollow in them now — something raw, but briefly unguarded. a glimpse into the pit beneath the charm. ❛ i have coin, ❜ he continues, his voice measured. ❛ plenty of it. i kill corrupt, self-important bastards for a living. you’d be shocked what people will pay to have their enemies bled dry and buried quietly. ❜ a half - smile. more tooth this time. ❛ so i could pay you. a lot. for those four pieces. ❜ he doesn’t say please. he won’t. but the weight behind his voice hums with something close.

     ⧼        ·˚       ༘      ⧽       it's   not   until   his   mention   of   the   smell   that   isabelle,   finally,   inhales.    (    how   in   the   hells   did   she   not   notice    ?!    oh,   you   naive   little   thing    …    look   at   the   distraction   before   you.    )    a   cough,   then   another.    and   another.    the   aroma   stings   her   eyes,   and   she   can   tell   it's   beneath   the   skin.    it's   in   her   pore   and    …    fucking   hells,   it's   rancid.    putrid.    “    and   if   y'   think   we   smell   like   shite   now,    ”    she   attempts   to   bugger   off   the   feeling   of   twenty   pounds   of   gross,   a   half    -    assed   smile   bending   her   lips,    “    then   maybe   we   should   get   t'   moving   before   someone   exiles   us   for   the   smell.    ”    an   unlikely   case   (    she   once   got   into   it   with   some   kind   of   ogre   who   sneezed   on   her.    she   roamed   the   city   streets   smothered   in   ick.    took   her   four   days   to   get   the   stuff   out   of   her   hair.    )   but   one   that's   next   to   laughable,   all   things   considered.

he   said   her   name.

oh.    a   blink   of   her   eyes   had   isabelle   weighing   the   want   to   hear   him   say   it   again.    a   sound   that   was   almost   too   beautiful.    a   sound   that   had   her   ears   twitching,   ever   eager   to   hear   him   say   more   things.    “    can't   tell   if   y'   are   flirting   with   me   or   if   this   is   some    …    plot   t'   get   something   from   me.    either   way,    ”    she   moves   around   him,   too   keen   to   leave   toriel   for   the   night,    “    it   might   be   working   on   me.    ”    the   last   love   she   had   wasn't   here.    it   was   on   exandria.    a   purple   tiefling   who   stole   her   heart.    he   reminds   her   of   him.    of   a   night   that   was    …    no,   stop   thinking   about   that.    she   swallows.    it's   too   dry,   too   lost   as   isabelle   turns   to   glance   back   at   the   other.

“    astarion,    ”    his   comment   about   being   ‘    kidnapped    ’   happens   to   be   all   it   takes   for   isabelle   to   laugh.    it's   a   thought,   that   much   is   true    !    but   she's   not   one   to   do   that.    least   not   in   recent   years.    instead,   her   tail   twitches,   swaying   from   side   to   side.    an   honest   sign   of   trust,   of   something   she   cannot   quite   put   her   finger   on.    “    as   for   y'   comment,   i'm   a   very   forward   creature.    ”    there's   no   need   to   deny   the   truth    ;    if   she   sees   something,   someone,   she   likes    …    there's   often   too   high   a   want   to   take   them   home.    to   show   them   her   life.    a   spoil   for   a   spoil.    a   night   for   a   night.    (    falling   for   a   stranger   wasn't   on   her   to    -    do   list   and   yet    …    —    )

mention   of   the   map   caused   for   the   elafu'sari   to   huff   a   sigh.    she   knew   where   the   other   parts   were   (    safe   and   sound,   in   her   home.    )   but   the   weight   of   astarion's   words   pull   her   to   a   realisation.    but   it's   the   mention   of   money,   of   a   price,   which   brings   isabelle   to   pivot.    four   eyes   examine   astarion   for   longer   than   necessary    ;    he   radiates   something   she   can't   quite   put   her   finger   on.    a   longing   that   comes   with   the   weight   of   a   life   unwanted.    “    and   what   makes   y'   think   i   want   your   money    ?    ”    isabelle   doesn't   hesitate   to   come   in   closer,   head   tilting   to   the   side    ;    curiosity   mixed   with   an   emotion   she   can't   put   a   finger   on.    “    the   ring   of   amaunator   belongs   t'   those   who   need   it.    do   i,    ”    she   juts   her   hands   out,   as   if   to   say   ‘    look   at   me    !    ’   while   a   loose    -    lipped   chuckle   washes   over   her   words,    “    look   like   i   need   it    ?    ”  

within   seconds,   her   brow   lifts.    he,   astarion,   he's   the   kind   of   man   she   finds   familiarity   towards.    and   within   seconds   does   the   mood   shift    ;    resentment   isn't   for   her.    she's   done   one   stupid   thing   in   her   life   (    riding   the   beholder   doesn't   seem   to   count.   )   so   isabelle   can   only   shrug   off   the   weight   of   his   words.    “    well,   for   one,    ”    she   remains   too   close   to   astarion,   having   to   look   up   at   the   marbled   beauty   [    red   eyes,   a   smirk   that   could   slaughter   an   entire   town   if   he   so   pleased    …    he's   the   kind   of   beauty   she's   seen   in   museums,   in   the   archives.    never   to   be   touched,   but   longingly   looked   at.    like   there's   nothing   more   beautiful   than   the   shamelessness   in   lusting   after   such   a   creature.   ]   that   he   is   while   beneath   the   glimmer   of   moonlight,    “    i   prefer   little   shites   for   i,   too,   am   a   little   shite.    and   secondly,   don't   do   that.    don't   do   the   whole   ‘    shame   on   me    ’   shite.    i'd   be   livid   if   y'   hadn't   made   it   out.    ”  

another   inhale.    fuck,   the   smell   is   pulled   into   her   nostrils   and   isabelle's   quick   to   step   back,   stumbling   with   the   want   to   burn   her   clothes   and   dance   in   the   fire.    “    if   y'   don't   mind,    ”    she   extends   a   hand   once   more,   too   keen   to   get   to   a   shower   and   discard   every   bit   of   clothing   the   moment   they're   safe,    “    whatever   romantics   i've   gotta   say   should   wait   until   we   don't   smell   like   absolute   beholder   arse.    ”    her   extended   fingers   flex,   unsure   of   what   to   do    ;    part   of   her   seeks   to   reach   for   him,   another   hushes   the   want.    “    not   askin'   for   you   t'   hold   my   hand,   it's   just   easier   t'   get   to   where   we   need   to   go   if   you   lemme   blink   us   there.    hells,   i'll   even   make   y'   a   damn   good   deal.    ”    it's   a   matter   of   astarion's   choice   to   believe   her,   but   the   following   statement   rings   true   to   her.    “    lemme   take   y'   to   m'   home   and   i'll   give   you   the   four   pieces.    all   i'm   gonna   ask   for   in   return   is   a   new   dagger,   and   maybe   for   y'   to   tell   me   why   you   need   the   map.    ”    she   pauses   then,   four   eyes   steady   on   astarion's   blood    -    red   stare.    “    deal    ?    ”  

the way she says his name. the accent coats it like honey. he likes the sound of it. it’s enough to make his ears twitch in quiet approval, though he masks it well with the lazy raise of an eyebrow. ❛ i do like forward, ❜ he replies, voice rich with mischief and menace in equal measure. ❛ straight and to the point — no beating around the bush. saves quite a lot of time, don’t you think ? and the less time we spend in this state ❜ — he gestures vaguely to the both of them, filth - caked and damp — ❛ the better, for everyone involved. especially any poor sod within a ten - foot radius. ❜

and then she steps closer. that familiar tension coils in his shoulders. he knows that look in her eye, like she’s coveting what she is seeing. he doesn’t quite remember what his own face looks like, he hasn’t seen it in over two hundred years. the only reason he knows he must be desirable is precisely this — the way other people look at him. ❛ very well, then, ❜ he says with a soft, almost theatrical sigh. ❛ no shame. that makes things easier, doesn’t it ? ❜

he watches her hand extend. and for a moment, he doesn’t understand what the hells she expects him to do. until the word blink registers. ah. right. teleportation. of course. his instincts immediately whisper, absolutely not. stranger. unknown location. but another part of him — the part that has always been louder — is already reaching for his satchel. she offers a deal, and by the sounds of it, a generous one. four map pieces, in exchange for a dagger and an explanation.

he smiles at her. the trail crunches beneath their boots as they walk, sunbeams filtering through the canopy above. it’s hot — far too hot for layers of leather and silk — but he lets the sunlight soak into his skin like he’s hoarding it. greedily. secretly. his pale flesh doesn’t burn, not anymore, and so he savors it with quiet reverence. two centuries of shadows, coffins, and stone - cold floors — they make you a worshipper of light once it finally returns. it must be like that, he thinks, for her, in a way.

he watches the way the sunlight kisses the curve of her shoulder, how the heat never leaves her — how it is her, caged inside the infernal thing ticking away in her chest. no touch. no soft comfort. no skin on skin. there’s a bitterness in his mouth that has nothing to do with hunger. ❛ it must be quite lonely, ❜ he murmurs, almost absently — and then, louder, with a curious lilt: ❛ how long have you lived with that wretched engine inside of your chest, karlach — if i may ask ? it must be rather… difficult ? not being able to touch, or be touched in return ? ❜

the words are elegant, offhanded, as though he’s asking after the weather. but there’s something in his eyes when he meets her gaze — because if he’s being honest ( which, of course, he won’t be ) there are moments when he envies it. the certainty of distance. the guarantee that no one can use you if they can’t reach you. that sounds like safety. that sounds like power. that sounds like peace.

Perhaps it was the way it’d been Astarion to be the one to tell her not to dote too hard on it; thinking about solutions for the ones she cared for was secondhand nature for the tiefling, a trait that compacted itself into miniscule crates of loathing where they couldn’t be fulfilled. She felt it was merely reasonable– the disdain that cradled itself hotter than the depths of her chest over the fact that no matter what she did, where she went, even now, there was still so little she could do. So little of a release on the leash that constantly ticked and ticked within her chest.

Fiery eyes carry toward her counterpart, as though checking to ensure she’d still been traveling with the same conniving elf she’d left with. The reflection that graced her had been true, just different in a way she’d lacked the perception. He was hard to read, even at her best moments– now, she’d simply been composed down to mirroring the simplicity, letting a loose smile curl upon her lips. “Suppose you’re right with that one.” 

Merely a thought that counted to some degree where her physicality couldn’t, where her help couldn’t extend that far. It was all bullshit that surpassed utterly infuriating, and she was set on making her ends meet if she’d been able to. She wasn’t sure how close to the city they’d be able to get– Hells, she wasn’t even certain where they’d landed, but if there was one goal outside of the obvious that she had, it was to find some form of fucking payback. The fucker that did this to her, if he’d still been alive, had a storm coming. She’d make it happen one way or another. 

She had to before either the worm or her engine got to her first.

Her own introspective dive, while rare, did take hold of her awareness for only a beat; the demons that clawed heavily were hard to silence, especially if they were physically trying to expel themselves. The murmur to her left merely shuffled with the sound of their footing, the dirt kicking up alongside the mechanical click that stuttered within her ears on occasion– it was the inquiry that caused her attention to snap back toward the elf, the innocent raise of her brows fixing as though she’d been caught doing something. 

She was caught off guard by the inquiries alone. Though, it wasn’t unwelcome– she was an open book. 

“Feels like a lifetime.” It was a huff of wording, spit around distaste and sorrow. “Ten years or so, stopped counting after a while. It’s fuckin’ hard, Star. Difficult isn’t even the word. It’s… just fucking lonely. There’s so much I want to give and to do and to just love on others is– it’s all I want. Well. The majority of it, anyway. I’ve got more love than I do fight, but I was made for the other.”

“And at least with theatrics, you can touch people. You can shake ‘em by the shoulders, you can hug ‘em, kiss. Gods, just to hold hands with someone would be–” Karlach shook her head with a laugh that bordered incredulity, both hands coming up to ball into fists and shake minutely– a rather silent display of her frustrations, per her typical outlet. “The shit I’d do to have it all, even if for just a fuckin’ second.” 

her pain isn’t the same as his, but it hums at a frequency he knows intimately — that cruel brand of freedom, where the collar is gone, but the chain still drags behind you. and though her burden is loneliness and fire and isolation, and his is blood and shadows and centuries of servitude — they share, at least, this one thing: wanting to live, and not being allowed to.

❛ i think i know how you feel, ❜ he says at last, quiet but certain. the words come slow, like he’s choosing each one from a shelf of locked - away things. ❛ not exactly, of course — but… still. ❜ he casts a glance her way. not flippant. measured. ❛ you’re free, technically. your own person. no master looming, no leash pulled tight. but you’re not free, are you ? you can’t do what you want. not really. everything you crave is just — ❜ he reaches out, fingers curling like he’s grasping at a fading sunbeam, ❛ — a breath too far. a leash loosened, but never quite released. ❜

his lips curl, not in a smirk, but something more bitter. a laugh rises in his throat, sharp and humorless. he lets it escape. ❛ i’d become a bhaalist, ❜ he says, smiling now — not because it’s funny, but because it’s awful. ❛ truly, i would. i’d murder my way across the sword coast in the name of bhaal if it meant i could go back in time and be anywhere else the night cazador found me bleeding out on that gods - forsaken street. ❜

he shakes his head, silver curls catching the light. ❛ can i be honest with you for a moment ? ❜ he asks, though he doesn’t wait. he’s already begun. ❛ i think… i would’ve preferred to die there. on the cobblestones. bloodied and broken after the gur were finished with me. i’d have ended. instead, i got eternity — carved into, fed rats, chained, turned into a monster’s pet. ❜

calling her “tent” a tent is — generous. but it smells like her, and that alone makes it feel like sanctuary. astarion steps inside, ducking beneath the flap, and exhales a long, unnecessary sigh. the furs beneath his feet are somewhat clean. he notices that. ( he knows she keeps it this way for his sake ) she flops into the mound of furs like a cat into sun - drenched blankets, naked and stretching, giving him a sleepy invitation with a yawn.

gods. he loves her. it terrifies him.

he doesn’t let that thought linger. instead, he peels off his still - damp trousers with practiced efficiency and drapes them near the entrance to dry. he doesn’t feel modest around her quite as much anymore. nakedness isn’t performance here. it’s warmth. it’s closeness. it might even be safety. he lies down behind her, bare chest pressing gently against her back, his arm snaking around her waist. she’s a furnace — alive and burning. the contrast of her heat against his deathly chill sends a shiver up his spine, but he breathes it in anyway, holding her close. his eyes fall to her neck. her pulse thrums there, steady and slow. offered freely.

his fangs ache. he wants to just take and ignore everything else for this one, small moment. but he doesn’t bite. instead, he presses his lips to her skin, just beneath her ear — a kiss, not a wound. a gesture. ❛ katya, ❜ he murmurs, voice low, almost fragile, ❛ there’s something i’ve been meaning to talk to you about. ❜ his mouth hovers a moment longer, as if he might taste the words off her skin. ❛ we don’t have to do it now — i know you’re tired. and i don’t want you to feel like i’m ambushing you with… heavy topics right now. but in the morning — ❜

SHE  HADN'T  BEEN  ALL  THAT  awake  mere  moments  ago,  more  than  ready  to  sink  into  the  furs  of  her  tent  and  let  Astarion  make  a  mess  of  her  neck  .  .  .  until  that.  Was  there  any  way  in  the  world  to  stress  anyone  out  faster  than  to  tell  them  they  had  to  have  a  talk  about  something  important  and  serious?  She  didn't  think  there  was,  and  if  there  was,  she  did  not  want  to  know  about  it.

A  frustrated  little  noise  passed  through  her  nostrils  as  she  quickly  turned  around  in  his  arms,  silver  eyes  glaring  up  at  him  with  a  pout.  How  dare  he  bring  up  heavy  topics  when  she  was  about  to  fall  asleep?  She  loved  sleeping,  she  was  so  very  ready  to  sleep  after  a  night  out  hunting  to  impress  him  -  and  now  he  would  rob  her  of  one  of  her  favourite  things?  Him  biting  her  as  she  fell  asleep? 

                                    Terribly  rude. 

                         She  would  not  let  him  forget  this  one.  No  matter  how  serious  his  topic  was.

But  she  should  have  known  it  was  coming,  something  seemed  to  have  been  weighing  on  him  the  whole  night  as  they  bathed  and  spoke  together.

“  You're  a  terrible,  terrible  monster  -  I  hope  you  know  that,”  she  grunted,  still  pouting  and  glaring  before  sighing.

She  was  awake  now,  too  late  to  go  back.

“  -  tell  me  what  it  is.  Just  talk  t'me  before  you  stress  us  both  out  more.  And  then  we  can  go  to  sleep.  .  .  Y'know  I  love  my  sleep,  ”  she  grumbled,  nudging  her  head  gently  under  his  chin  in  a  sign  of  affection  to  get  him  to  open  up. 

Even  grumpy  with  him,  she  still  wanted  to  make  sure  he  knew  she  cared  and  that  he  was  safe  to  say  whatever  heavy  thing  he  wanted  to  say.

❛ i know, ❜ he murmurs when she calls him a monster. his voice is low. ❛ i am sorry. perhaps i should have waited until morning, but… ❜ he trails off, shrugging slightly, helplessly, ❛ too late now, i suppose. ❜ she nudges her head under his chin, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who was just accusing him of emotional sabotage. it nearly undoes him.

and then, she tells him to shut the fuck up if he’s planning on breaking up with her — playfully, if not entirely jokingly — and he huffs out a soft, surprised laugh, almost inaudible. ❛ oh, no, ❜ he says, shaking his head, voice turning warmer with affection, ❛ nothing like that, gods no. ❜ a pause. his hand, resting at her side, curls just slightly into the fur beneath them. ❛ quite the opposite, actually. ❜

the moment hangs. too quiet. too heavy. his heart would be hammering if it still had rhythm. but instead, it’s his mind that races — racing through every possible reaction she might have, every way this could go wrong, every fragile thread he’s about to risk snapping. ❛ i— ❜ he starts, then stops. his lips press together, searching for words that won’t make this worse.

❛ i haven’t been completely honest with you, ❜ he finally says, his voice quieter now, more raw, more real than he usually allows it to be. ❛ about the way all of this started. ❜ his eyes search hers, and for a brief moment he wants to look away — but he doesn’t. she deserves to see him when he says it. ❛ i had a plan, ❜ he admits, ❛ a simple one. i would seduce you — sleep with you, manipulate your feelings, bind you to me. keep myself fed. protected. make sure you’d never turn on me. ❜

his voice cracks a little. a shadow flits across his expression, shame taking root. ❛ so that… maybe, when the time came, you’d help me face cazador. all you had to do was fall for it. and all i had to do…❜ he swallows, hard, ❛ was not fall for you. ❜ a bitter, breathless laugh leaves him. his smile is twisted now — not cruel, not mocking, just broken. ❛ and that… well, that’s where my simple little plan went straight to the hells. ❜

the silence after his confession feels deafening. he can feel her body next to his, warm and real and terrifying. the weight of her presence, her trust, all laid bare —and he’s just lit a match beneath it. it’s too much. he can’t stay still. astarion sits up, carefully gathering the furs around his waist — not out of shame, but as armor. a fragile, threadbare barrier between him and the unbearable vulnerability blooming in his chest. he turns to look at her fully now, not hiding, not running.

❛ katya, ❜ he breathes, voice rough with emotion he barely knows how to carry. ❛ you are… gods, you’re the most incredible person i’ve ever met. you make me feel things i didn’t think i could feel. ❜ his eyes glisten — just faintly. ❛ you deserve more than manipulation. you deserve truth. something honest. something real. ❜ he closes his eyes for a second. a steadying breath he doesn’t need, but takes anyway.

❛ nothing is too lovely for you, darling, ❜ he says, and his voice is velvet, but it means something, too. ( more than it did when he used to say things like that to get fed, or adored, or obeyed ) ❛ even if you get mud all over it, i’ll probably get blood all over it at some point. ❜ a grin ghosts across his lips, a flash of fang. ❛ in case you’ve forgotten, ❜ he continues with a practiced flick of his wrist, ❛ i’ve become an expert in removing bloodstains from almost anything. mud stains are leagues below bloodstains on the difficulty scale — so…❜

he kisses him, and it’s not long, and it’s not deep — but it makes him feel like he’s melting. like he wants to hold his face and say stay even though he isn’t going anywhere. then he asks his question — soft and teasing — and astarion laughs. ❛ i was guilty of it once, ❜ he echoes, eyes gleaming. ❛ i may or may not be guilty of it again in the future. ❜ he tilts his head up, looking at puck with something close to worship, ❛ i’ve got to keep you on your toes, haven’t i ? wouldn’t want you getting bored of me. ❜ it’s a joke. mostly.

because the thought creeps in even as he speaks — the idea that puck could get tired of this life, of him, of tiptoeing through the world in twilight. that someday, he might want a morning again. and he can’t follow him there. he doesn’t let himself spiral. not tonight. not while she’s smiling. but the thought sits somewhere low in his chest like a stone dropped into still water. he clears his throat. tries to find the shape of what he needs to say without dressing it up in flattery or mischief. it’s harder than it should be, this honesty business. he’s never been good at it. it feels like carving out pieces of himself and offering them up in a bowl.

❛ puck, my love — ❜ he says it before he can second guess himself. his voice is gentle, but urgent in that way he gets when the thoughts are bigger than the room they’re in. ❛ are you still… happy ? ❜ he says it quietly, but not timidly. there’s a steadiness to it. ❛ i mean, you’ve given me no reason to think that you aren’t, ❜ he says quickly, as though trying not to spook him. ❛ but i’ve been feeling the urge to… check in, i suppose. make sure you’re … alright ? i know we move around constantly. for my work. and while i do think i’m marvelous at it, it doesn’t leave you much room, does it ? to figure out what you want. who you want to be. and that’s been on my mind. ❜

        ❝   IF   I   GET   UP     on  my  toes,  how  in  the  world  will  you  ever  reach  my  lips  again   ?    ❞   She  teases,  resisting  the  darkest  urge  of  all  —  the  urge  to  press  her  massive  palm  against  his  skull  below  her  &  ruffle  those  pretty  curls.  She  almost  does,  but  then  there's  a  shift  in  Astarion's  demeanor,  &  that  impish  instinct  dies  in  an  instant.

Like  a  switch,  Puck's  flirtatious  manner  cuts  itself  off,  replaced  with  something  more  attentive,  more  focused  —  as  if  she's  slipped  on  her  reading  glasses.  Her  eyebrows  knit  together  with  concern.  For  a  fleeting,  absurd  moment,  his  stomach  drops.  He  thinks  that  maybe  his  own  joke  was  a  misstep  somehow,  that  he  shouldn't  have  teased  his  lover  so  much.

Then  it  clicks  as  Astarion  starts  to  speak,  &  relief  floods  through  Puck's  body.  A  laugh  he  can't  stop  pops  out  of  his  mouth.

        Oh,  how  funny. The  two  of  them  are  very  alike,  even  if  Puck  has  chosen  what is essentially a  life of pacifism  for himself now.  They  are  both  deeply  insecure  about  their  own  existences  at  times.

        ❝   I'm  sorry,  I'm  not  laughing  at  you.  Never  you.  We're  just-  We  are  like  a  funhouse  mirror  when  we  stand  opposite  each  other,   ❞   she  whispers,  amusement  shining  in  her  eyes.

The  mirror  can't  be  one-to-one  because  Puck  is  much  too  tall  for  that  &  their  problems  are  not  identical,  so  the  glass  must  be  distorted,  but  they  do  reflect  one  another  in  ways  that  always  catch  her  by  surprise.

        ❝   You  worry  about  being  a  weight  at  the  same  time  that  I  worry  about   -    ❞

His  gaze  flicks  up  to  the  ceiling  in  thought,  tongue  wetting  his  lips  as  if  to  capture  the  words.  Then  he  laughs  again  &  holds  out  his  injured  thumb,  wiggling  it  for  good  measure.   ❝   About  sticking  out  like  a  sore  thumb  that  embarrasses  you.  I  don't  exactly  blend  into  the  shadows  very  well.   ❞

In  truth,  Puck  is  unsure  if  he  would  describe  himself  as  happy.  He's  unsure  what  emotion  to  describe  himself  with  at  all.  He  gives  himself  whiplash,  finding  that  he  is  a  different  person  every  day  that  he  wakes.  He  mourns  a  past  life  that  was  never  his,  &  must forge  a  new  one  without  any  meaningful  experience  to  anchor  it.

Most  of  all,  he  misses  Iago.  He  feels  untethered  without  them  in  a  way  that  aches.  He  knows  he  made  the  right  decision  asking  them  for  time  apart,  but  that  doesn't  ease  the  pain  of  missing  one's  other  half.

        Puck  is   .   .   .      complicated,  to put it lightly, nearly  everything  in  her  life  uncertain now  —  save  for  one.

Puck  takes  the  garment  only  to  set  it  aside  on  the  bed,  a  lovely,  thoughtful  gift  but  ultimately  secondary  to  the  man  that  stands  before  her.  She  takes  Astarion's  hands  in  hers  &  squeezes  them  reassuringly.   

        ❝   It  is  sweet  of  you  to  ask,  but  I  promise:  you  do  not  hold  me  back.  You  keep  me  grounded.  I  would  be   .   .   .    helplessly  lost  without  you, really. And I like traveling, especially with you.   ❞

Being  the  earnest  golden  retriever  that  he  is,  Puck  continues  by  meeting  Astarion's  honesty  with  his  own.   ❝   I'm  as  happy  as  I  can  be  for  the  time  being,  as  I  find  my  footing  in  the  world  again,  &  you  are  the  reason  that  I  remember  what  such  an  emotion  feels  like  at  all.   ❞

He  lifts  Astarion's  hands  to  kiss  his  knuckles,  voice  growing  softer  than  ever.   ❝   I am not as eloquent with my words as you are, but know that I  love  you,  too. Now & forever.   ❞ 

his hands move without thought, rising to meet puck’s. slender fingers against his massive palm, his pale skin stark against the rough - hewn texture of puck’s, a contrast he never quite stops marveling at. he cups his injured hand between both of his own, cradling it like something delicate, something sacred. ❛ you don’t ever embarrass me, ❜ he says, voice velvet and certainty. ❛ but it would be a lie if i said i didn’t miss seeing the way the sunlight kisses your skin. ❜ and then — without pomp or flourish — he presses his lips to the bandaged thumb. ❛ i can try to make up for it with my own, ❜ he murmurs, and lets the next kiss fall softer. then another. and another. he scatters them along his palm like drops of ink.

but when she sets the lace aside — beautiful though it is — and takes both of his hands, all his focus returns to her. to her words. to her reassurances. to the impossible swell of emotion building beneath his ribs as she tells him she’s not just here for him, but that she’s here because she wants to be. when she says she loves him — now and forever — it hits him like the sun cresting over the horizon. astarion chuckles, rich and unguarded, at her self - deprecating remark about her eloquence. he shakes his head, still holding her hands as though they’re the only things anchoring him to the world. ❛ eloquent or not, when you speak to me this softly, it makes me feel like i could melt away every time — so i’d consider that a win for you, darling. ❜

his voice dips as he gazes up at puck — far, far up. ❛ you know, ❜ he continues, tone quieter now, though no less sincere, ❛ opening up about my true feelings has always been something that was… nearly impossible for me. but you— ❜ his thumb strokes across the back of his hand, ❛ you make it so easy. it feels less… frightening… with you. ❜ he lifts one hand to brush puck’s silver hair back affectionately, ❛ everything feels less frightening with you, for that matter. life feels… exciting. and i never really knew what unfiltered joy felt like until i met you. ❜

dust still breathes up from the ground in soft exhales. the collapse has long since finished, but he lingers like a fool. a stupid, guilty fool. he glances down at the chest in his arms. its lock glints beneath the moonlight, the arcane trap long gone but the tension of its contents still radiating like heat. a map. or part of one. a path to something he has wanted ( needed ) for so long now that he’s forgotten how it feels to want anything else.

but all he can think of is her. the little chaos - born gremlin woman with her twitching tail and her laughing, even when she was hurt. even when she was riding a beholder like it was a mechanical bull in a tavern with no gods. and then — a voice. from above on a nearby ridge. he nearly drops the bloody chest. there she is. standing ( somehow ), posed like it’s the end of a play and she’s waiting for her applause.

he exhales hard, half from relief and half from resenting the fact that it is relief. it washes over him like wine hitting an empty stomach. and it’s insufferable. he straightens, brushing the dirt from his shoulder with theatrical disdain, though it does very little good. ❛ darling, don’t flatter us both too much, ❜ he says, voice dry as aged parchment, eyes sweeping over her like a well - honed blade. ❛ i wasn’t worried. you seemed perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. ❜ a pause. a long one. his fingers curl tighter around the chest. his expression falters. just a little.

❛ but…❜ he starts again, eyes flicking toward her face, then the ground, then back again. ❛ if i’m being honest — i am pleased you’re not dead because of… this. ❜ he gives the chest a mild shake, as if it is the one responsible for the ridiculous guilt curdling inside his gut. of course it’s not. he is. his need. his selfishness. he shifts again, pulling his gaze away, only to glance back up at her, his lips twitching with a bitter, faint smirk.

❛ you’re a complete and total lunatic, ❜ he says, with far too much fondness to be convincing, ❛ i hope you know that. ❜ another pause. this one longer. his expression softens. not much. but enough. ❛ why did you help me ? ❜ he asks, the question not sharp, not suspicious — just genuinely curious. ❛ there’s a map in here, if my educated guess is correct. or part of one. are you some kind of adventurer ? ❜ he tilts his head slightly, studying her like she’s another piece of the puzzle. ❛ a treasure hunter ? a bored noble’s daughter slumming it with the sewer filth ? ❜

another glance. her look. her posture. her scent — even beneath the stench of waste, there’s something strange about it. his eyes narrow slightly, not in distrust now, but in curiosity. then, after a beat, the smirk returns — thin, wicked, far too good - looking for someone with literal shit on his boots. ❛ also, ❜ he says with a flourish of one hand, ❛ i hope you weren’t expecting a ‘thank you.’ that would be wildly out of character. ❜ a pause. ❛ but. still. ❜ he glances away. then back.

       ⧼      ·˚       ༘      ⧽       if   there's   something   one   should   know   about   isabelle,   it's   her   glorified   love   of   the   theatrics.    hells,   some   part   of   her   (    the   part   that   seems   to   care,   that   burns   a   bit   too   bright.    )   doesn't   consider   the   weight   of   what   he's   feeling.    selfishly   so,   isabelle   can   only   think   of   one   thing    ;    she   never   learned   his   name,   and   after   all   of   that    ?    a   name   and   a   drink   are   well   deserved.    “    uh   huh,   because   the   way   y'   look   doesn't   scream   absolute   concern.    ”    it's   all   playful.    all   speculation.    he   could've   left.    he   didn't.    he   stayed,   watching   as   the   maw   of   the   sewer   came   to   a   violent   shut.    oh    …    he   stayed   behind.    gods,   if   she   hadn't   made   it   out    …    nope.    thinking   that   way   isn't   going   to   change   anything.

mention   of   the   ornate   box   only   happens   to   be   half   of   her   reason   for   returning   to   toriel.    everything   about   this   place   is   aged,   older   than   what   she's   used   to.    as   if   permanently   stuck   in   an   era   she's   barely   had   a   chance   to   enjoy   viewing.    well,   if   there   were   ever   a   time   to   do   that,   it'd   be   now.    especially   as   four   eyes   lift    ;    where   she   looks,   however,   is   up   for   debate.    (    his   lips.    )    a   cough.    distract   yourself.    she   turns   then,   pivoting   as   if   she's   looking   for   something.    but   his   comment   about   her   being   a   ‘    complete   lunatic    ’   happens   to   be   enough   to   have   isabelle   chuckling   beneath   her   breath.

“    been   called   a   lot   worse.    but,   since   it's   comin'   from   a   pretty   face,   i'll   take   it   as   a   compliment.    ”    the   toe    -    box   of   her   shoe   toys   with   a   rock   before   isabelle   considers   his   question    ;    honestly,   her   desire   to   help   came   from   the   not    -    so    -    subtle   box   he's   holding   onto.    he   hits   the   nail   on   the   head.    which,   to   be   fair,   spawns   about   a   grin   on   isabelle's   face,   her   tail   twitching   with   wonderment   as   to   what   part   of   the   map   is   in   there.    “    i'm    …    ”    his   assumptions   lead   to   another   bark   of   laughter    ;    maybe   a   white   lie   would   suffice.    the   bored   noble's   daughter   had   her   lifting   a   brow,   but   that's   the   furthest   from   the   truth.    nope.    she's   just    …    —

“    i'm   an   oddities   curator.    and   i've   got   about   four   pieces   of   that   bloody   map   in   m'   bag.    was   thinkin'   it   belonged   to   some    …    i   dunno,   king   or   some   such   shite,   but   toriel's   sucha   odd   place   t'   be   so,   i   came   here   looking   for   that.    ”    she   points   at   the   box,   only   to   huff   a   sigh   at   the   fact   that   they   went   through   all   that   for   just   one   bloody   thing.    “    kinda   figured   if   it   did   have   something   about   the   map,   i'd   get   t'   put   the   pieces   together,   root   around   and   find   the   shite   then   return   home   t'   shove   it   in   m'   grandie's   face   that   i   was   right.    ”    the   amount   of   rambling   isabelle   does   saves   her   no   time   to   consider   that   she's   just    …    willingly   talking   about   something   like   it's   a   bigger   piece   to   something   she,   and   the   handsome   white   haired   elf,   are   looking   for.

but   it's   his   following   statement   that   has   her   clutching   her   pearls.    an   apology   ?!    no    !    better,   it's   a   ‘    thank   you    ’   that   comes   about.    most   don't   say   that.    they   see   what   she   is   and   turn   a   cheek.    he   doesn't   do   that.    (    weird,   but   alright.    )    “    y'   don't   thank   someone   when   y'   smell   like   that.    ”    her   smug   grin   returns,   and   while   the   thought   of   returning   to   merahki   spawns,   isabelle   gives   herself   a   good,   long,   look.    and   then   a   long   sigh.    she   smells   horrible.    they   look   like   a   proper   mess    ;    a   collective   reminder   that   children   would   see   when   told   about   not   meandering   through   the   sewers.

“    oh    !    ”    before   she's   a   moment   to   question   his   want   for   a   drink,   a   bath   and   some   decent   food,   isabelle   blinks   towards   her   bag,   slugging   so   over   shoulder,    “    before   i   don't   go   about,   makin'   an   ass   of   m'self,   isabelle   vadas.    oddities   curator   of   the   archives   located   in   merahki.    ”    a   hand   extends,   ichor    -    stained   knuckles   and   a   very   decorative   middle   finger   to   shake.    “    dunno   about   you,   but   i   wanna   get   this   shite   off   me,   so   if   y'   wanna   gimme   your   name,   feel   free.    least   y'   can   do   before   i   take   y'   back   to   my   place   for   a   proper   meal   and   the   like.    ”  

astarion listens, one brow slightly cocked. his dignity is damp. but he stands there all the same, as if none of it matters, because he’s just heard the most inconveniently fascinating thing all day. four pieces. she says it so casually. like she’s listing off the contents of her lunch. four. he almost doesn’t hear the rest. his mind floods with noise — strategies, negotiations, petty acts of thievery — but he keeps it all behind his smile. the one that curves at the edges just enough to look amused, not hungry. not desperate.

and yet, when she speaks again — introduces herself — he’s jolted from his scheming like someone snapped fingers in front of his face. ❛ isabelle vadas, ❜ he repeats, softly, letting the name roll over his tongue like wine he’s considering swallowing. ❛ a lovely name for a lovely creature. ❜ his voice purrs just beneath the words, velvety and warm. he takes her hand — filth and ichor and all — and gives it a gentle shake.

he watches her speak, but his eyes — traitorous things — keep roaming. to her own fangs. her black fingertips. her eyes. double irises. he wonders, idly, if she tastes as different as she looks. if her blood would burn like wine laced with starlight. the thought makes his throat tighten — not with thirst exactly, but something more complicated, more shameful. he tamps it down with an amused breath through his nose and flicks his gaze back up to her face before she can catch him staring.

and then the offer. back to my place for a proper meal. he stiffens — just slightly. ❛ my, my, darling, ❜ he says with that purring drawl, half - lidded eyes gleaming, ❛ you’re either very forward, or i’m about to be kidnapped. either way, it will likely be exciting. ❜ he gives a slight, ironic bow. ❛ astarion, ❜ he says simply, straightening, ❛ at your service. sometimes. under specific, pre - negotiated conditions. ❜ his smirk deepens, but there’s a flicker of genuine uncertainty there. he can’t decide if he’s amused by her or cautious. probably both. he looks down at the chest again, fingers tightening for a heartbeat.

❛ as for this… map, ❜ he says, voice lower now. ❛ i won’t insult you with a lie. i need it more than you do. ❜ he glances up. red eyes meet hers with unflinching intensity. there’s something hollow in them now — something raw, but briefly unguarded. a glimpse into the pit beneath the charm. ❛ i have coin, ❜ he continues, his voice measured. ❛ plenty of it. i kill corrupt, self-important bastards for a living. you’d be shocked what people will pay to have their enemies bled dry and buried quietly. ❜ a half - smile. more tooth this time. ❛ so i could pay you. a lot. for those four pieces. ❜ he doesn’t say please. he won’t. but the weight behind his voice hums with something close.

he trails after him, graceful as ever, as halsin makes his way to the water’s edge. astarion doesn’t sit — refuses to, really. the damp earth, the grainy texture of sand and soil — it clings to his flesh, presses against the hems of his trousers in a way that makes his skin itch just imagining it. nope. he’ll stay on his feet, poised and perfect, thank you very much. but he stands close enough. close enough to peer down at halsin with idle curiosity, to let the sunlight gild his pale skin and the breeze stir silver curls across his forehead. the water sparkles ahead, impossibly clear, glinting like gems scattered over stone.

and then the question. astarion hums. his gaze stays on the water. his smirk fades into something smaller, quieter. ❛ perhaps not, ❜ he murmurs at last, voice dry but not cruel. ❛ would you let a snake bite you if it asked nicely ? ❜ he glances down toward halsin with one finely arched brow. ❛ well… perhaps you might. ❜ a softer huff of breath. ❛ but most people aren’t… you. ❜

he exhales through his nose — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. a preamble. a hesitation. and then, without fanfare, he begins. ❛ it’s a rather long story, ❜ he says, tone shifting like velvet pulled taut. ❛ and i’m not sure how much you know about vampires — but the short version is this: vampire spawn, like myself, are little more than extensions of their master’s will. ❜ his eyes trace the ripples across the stream, watching the light shiver on the surface.

❛ cazador — the vampire who made me — he gave me many commands. but one was this: i am never to feed from thinking creatures. i could drain a deer, a rat, a boar, but a person ? i physically could not. i’ve never been able to disobey a single one of cazador’s commands, no matter how badly i might have wanted to. ❜ the bitterness creeps in. not toward halsin — but toward memory. ❛ but now… since this parasite slithered its way into my skull, i don’t feel that leash anymore. ❜ a pause, and then, a breathless, fragile sound: a laugh. ❛ surely he’s been summoning me. ❜ he closes his eyes for a heartbeat, lets the warmth of the sun rest on his eyelids.

❛ and yet i hear nothing. ❜ his voice quiets, lips parting slightly. ❛ i feel nothing. no pull, just… silence. stillness. ❜ he finally looks down again, watching the water slip past rocks. ❛ it feels like freedom, ❜ he says, softer now. ❛ for the first time in two hundred years, i think i might be free. ❜ the words tremble there, on the cusp of joy — but something inside him stifles them before they bloom. because he knows.

The explanation only further tightens the thorned vines ensnaring his heart, puncturing it deeper. This fleeting moment in the sunshine, the bittersweet ability for his companion to delight in its light and warmth after two long centuries only to understand it came at the cost of a parasite, the threat of becoming another brand of monster, wounded enough. Now, to understand the depths of this mock freedom, this tantalizing second to experience life freed of his master's will and commands thanks to the parasite truly bared the tragedy of it to the druid.

Whether he removed the parasite or it remained, Astarion faced thralldom on either side of the raging river.

" Astarion... " His name was all he could manage at first, tongue heavy and throat tight with grief. His fingertips dug into the loamy soil, gaze favoring the woodlands in the distance as if to comb the trunks and branches and leaves for a solution to an impossible scenario: either the wisdom to cure vampirism or the power or strength to best a full-fledged vampire lord. For the time to accomplish either before ceremorphosis could claim him or his companions.

And then...if they stumbled upon a cure for their tadpoles, would it be worth risking transformation to hunt down his master to ensure at least that aspect of his freedom?

He lifted hazel gaze at last to look upon his company, unkempt brows knit tightly and frown set deep on his lips. A shadow descended over Astarion like a mourning veil, and the sunshine he coveted for so long failed to assuage its influence. Though he did not say it, the tremble in his voice--of longing, of understanding--betrayed his despair.

" If you are truly free of him in this moment...if Cazador's influence on you is truly severed, then we must take advantage of this moment and deal with him. This could be our only opportunity. "

Oh, how familiar a desperation this was. To see possibility budding before you while knowing that an unexpected freeze could kill the bloom before it could begin to blossom. He faced it with the Shadow Curse, and he imagined Astarion felt the same of his position.

He straightened up, folding his arms in his lap and bending one knee toward him. " To know with certainty, however, we will need to test whether your master's orders still stand... " The bridge of his nose scrunched, his mouth a thin line as the conflict of self-preservation and centuries of druidic teaching warred with his desire to aid Astarion warred behind his eyes. At last, he exhaled, expression resolute.

the word escapes him before he can catch it — too quick, too eager, too… hungry. it’s humiliating, how his voice pitches up like that. like a child offered his first sweet. he clears his throat immediately, forces his spine a little straighter, smooths the edges of his tone into something silkier, less desperate. ❛ i mean…❜ he flashes a grin, all teeth and charm, though it doesn’t quite mask the glint of a predatory look in his eyes. ❛ my dear, generous bear, i wouldn’t dream of betraying your trust. nor would i dream of killing you. ❜

not quite a lie. he doesn’t dream. not unless you count the nightmares — the endless loops of darkness and chains and red, red mouths that smile while he screams. no, dreams are for the living. for those with hope. this, though ? this is something else entirely. he stares for a moment, eyes fixed on the other elf like a starving man faced with a banquet. it’s not just the blood. it’s the permission. the choice. to take something he was always forbidden. to be allowed.

he hesitates a heartbeat longer. then, grimacing slightly at the thought, he lowers himself into the sand beside halsin. it’s damp and grainy and already working its way into his clothing, and he absolutely hates it, but it’s a small price to pay for the opportunity at hand. he adjusts his posture until it’s something more languid — an artful sprawl, limbs arranged like marble statuary, feigned ease hiding the coil of tension running through him.

❛ and you’re positive you’re alright with this ? ❜ he asks, glancing up through pale lashes. there’s something fragile tucked beneath the usual bravado — uncertainty, maybe. gratitude, even. ❛ i promise i won’t need much, ❜ he murmurs, gaze drifting to the thick line of halsin’s throat for a moment too long. ❛ just a taste, really. a polite nibble. ❜

it sours in his mouth the moment it lands. his gaze drops to the water, to the ripple of her warmth bleeding into the chill around them. he’s not starving anymore. he doesn’t have to take like it’s survival. doesn’t have to perform like he’s in heat and she’s just another mark to sink his fangs into. she’s not prey. she’s not a means to an end. she’s katya.

he lifts his eyes again — his expression softer now. the sharp gleam in his irises dulls to something gentle. ❛ we do need to be in tip-top shape, ❜ he says, the smirk returning with a touch more sincerity, ❛ for this charming little jaunt through shadowheart’s death cult goddess’ personal horror show. ❜ his lips twitch. ❛ and thankfully, our dear cleric has just the right spell for curing the fatigue of… extracurricular activities with a vampire spawn. ❜ a dramatic sigh. ❛ such a useful girl. ❜

he steps back, finally letting the cold creep in against his skin as he wades toward the edge of the water. ❛ come, ❜ he says over his shoulder, reaching for his trousers with a disdainful sniff. they’re damp and clingy and he loathes the feeling of fabric on wet skin, but modesty is a habit he’s kept out of sheer stubbornness. he tugs the trousers up with minimal grace. ❛ we’re sleeping in your tent tonight, just so you’re aware, ❜ he says, voice light but unyielding. ❛ i refuse to spend a single hour lying next to that bloated, rotting… whatever you left bleeding outside my own. ❜ his nose wrinkles with theatrical distaste.

"Keep mentionin' how useful Shadowheart is and I'm going to start gettin' jealous," she joked, though she felt a brief pain in her chest that told her it wasn't as much of a joke as she would like it to be.

Though it was true that the Sharran priestess was useful, at least. Katya didn't mind the woman terribly, especially compared to some of their other companions. Her spells were useful, the healing ones, especially so. But hearing anyone else's name come from those delightfully lovely lips of the vampire before her made her gut wrench and a growl build in her throat - though she managed to suppress it before it made a sound.

She wasn't sure she had the right to jealousy right now. Certainly she wasn't sleeping with anyone else, both literally and sexually. And she didn't think Astarion was either, given she never smelled anyone else on him - but she was far less experienced in matters of the heart than of sex. She had no idea if relationships generally progressed in such a way or if she was reading too much into it.

But as she left the water, watching unashamedly as Astarion got dressed as she herself remained unclothed, she couldn't help the emotions swirling in her body. Many unfamiliar territory for a wolf like her. That doesn't stop her from taking his outstretched and unsure hand however. She didn't think many things could stop that.

" Yes, yes, dear, no more monster guts for the night, " she drolled dryly as they made their way to her tent.

Calling it a tent was rather generous. She hadn't even bothered with one when they first started travelling - she simply slept in the woods, as far from camp as possible while still being somewhat in range in case of an emergency. She wasn't exactly the friendly and approachable type. But as their adventures continued, she had finally caved in and put together a makeshift tent, lined with more furs than a fur market. She liked her comfort and being surrounded by the scent of the wild, even in an enclosed space.

And a couple of shabby walls did at least offer some privacy as she kept her tent slightly closer to camp now - given their current dilemma of the shadow lands.

As they arrived at her tent, Astarion dressed rather damp and her undressed completely, she basically dragged him inside before flopping down on a mismatched pile of cleaned furs. She tried to keep her tent fresh and cleaned for what it was - after all, she didn't think Astarion would enjoy laying on the dirt surrounded by blood and musty furs.

" - alright, comfortable and ready t' be bled," she cackled quieter, yawning as she finished her sentence, stretching out like a cat.

calling her “tent” a tent is — generous. but it smells like her, and that alone makes it feel like sanctuary. astarion steps inside, ducking beneath the flap, and exhales a long, unnecessary sigh. the furs beneath his feet are somewhat clean. he notices that. ( he knows she keeps it this way for his sake ) she flops into the mound of furs like a cat into sun - drenched blankets, naked and stretching, giving him a sleepy invitation with a yawn.

gods. he loves her. it terrifies him.

he doesn’t let that thought linger. instead, he peels off his still - damp trousers with practiced efficiency and drapes them near the entrance to dry. he doesn’t feel modest around her quite as much anymore. nakedness isn’t performance here. it’s warmth. it’s closeness. it might even be safety. he lies down behind her, bare chest pressing gently against her back, his arm snaking around her waist. she’s a furnace — alive and burning. the contrast of her heat against his deathly chill sends a shiver up his spine, but he breathes it in anyway, holding her close. his eyes fall to her neck. her pulse thrums there, steady and slow. offered freely.

his fangs ache. he wants to just take and ignore everything else for this one, small moment. but he doesn’t bite. instead, he presses his lips to her skin, just beneath her ear — a kiss, not a wound. a gesture. ❛ katya, ❜ he murmurs, voice low, almost fragile, ❛ there’s something i’ve been meaning to talk to you about. ❜ his mouth hovers a moment longer, as if he might taste the words off her skin. ❛ we don’t have to do it now — i know you’re tired. and i don’t want you to feel like i’m ambushing you with… heavy topics right now. but in the morning — ❜