Experimental Zone

(* Means NSFW)

The Mandalorian (click here for all content, including HCs)

On The Feed (Din)*

Alraune  [Part 2](Monster Hunter!Din) (incomplete series)

Pero Tovar

Untouched *

Apex Legends

Without Question [Caustic]*

Retired Fandoms (things I don’t write for right now)

JJBA

Fire Emblem

And of course, he’s never going to say no to an opportunity to buy her more clothes and jewelry.

When she brings up the idea of couple’s costumes, it’s something he hadn’t really thought much about. Dressing up is a little silly for him, no? Perfect for her, she’s just a sweet little thing who can look cute in anything. But him? 

He hadn’t intended to do any real dressing up at first, but of course he loves the idea of him and Princesa living basically within the context of each other. Makes him a little crazy– the thought that even when she’s playing a part, wearing a costume, that she needs him to be next to her– a part of the story. So it’s gonna be only couples costumes from here on out lol

And he still doesn’t want to look silly, so he’s not going to go too crazy with outfits and he’s not gonna wear no fuckin’ face paint or wigs. Besides, she thinks he’s perfectly handsome the way he is, no? Not gonna scare his girl by looking like a completely different guy.

Cowboy and Cow (Lalo)

This one is Lalo’s idea, through and through. His Princesa is just a sweet, cute, helpless little thing that needs to be herded around and kept safe, you know? Not to mention when her tears cling to her lashes when she cries, and her nose gets a little wet– just like a scared little vaca, no? 

His Princesa wears little cow ears, a cow print dress with a fluffy skirt and an apron, a little tail on the back. Most importantly: she’s got a collar with a little bell on it that he just can’t stop playing with. And he’s got a lasso around her waist that he holds onto all night long– like a freak. He likes to see her nearly stumble when he tugs on it. He did it because she was wandering too far.

The costume for Lalo is minimal. We all know he owns cowboy boots, he’s probably got a hat and a vest he can dig up, and plenty of jeans.

This costume is definitely making a comeback when his girl gets pregnant and she’s actually milkable.

Dracula and Mina (Princesa)

Princesa’s idea– very classic, and very classy. Lalo very graciously lets her color in just a smidge of widow’s peak for him and puts in some fangs. He’ll probably take them out almost instantly as soon as he feels them getting in the way of him talking.

You don’t want to know what the vintage nightgown cost. It’s authentic– off white with age, floor length, detailed with lace and ruffles. Lalo’s gonna tell everyone exactly how much it cost, with some teasing about how his Princesa has such exquisite taste.

“She’s got such a way of– of restoring them to their original beauty, no? Unbelievable,” he says with adoration and a kiss to the crown of her  head.

She and Lalo are the only ones who know that the bite mark is real.

And yeah, it’s Princesa’s idea. But let’s not pretend that Lalo has never thought about coming quietly into their room while she’s sleeping in a pretty nightgown and drinking her blood. In fact, he’s probably already done it– just not from her neck.

Morticia and Gomez (Princesa)

Principally Princesa’s idea, but Lalo likes it when she suggests it. He tries to hide it, but he likes enjoying her little romance movies with her. And he’ll admit to the similarities– Morticia and Gomez so in love that they’re seemingly on an endless honeymoon.

He will, however, insist on amending your dress to be less clinging. Something more shapeless, demure, cute. Not that he doesn’t want to see a dress like that on her, but assuming they’ll be at a party, he doesn’t want people seeing his girl like that.

Once again, a very minimal costume for Lalo. Just a pinstripe suit– he can tolerate that to see his Princesa so happy.

Hello Kitty and Dear Daniel (Princesa)

This is an “I’m sorry” type of costume. Like Lalo probably hugely jumped to some sort of conclusion (which is crazy because he’d never do that right lol) that wasn’t true, and his innocent gatita cried for it. So he’s giving her some more leeway with the halloween costume selection this year. 

Let’s be real, though. While he may not be thrilled about wearing the kitty ears and the tail and having a couple of whiskers drawn on, his Princesa is also wearing all of those things, which is something he didn’t know he needed. Those costume pieces are ending up in a drawer in the bedroom.

Cop and Robber (Lalo)

Lalo’s not ashamed to admit that he’s always thought he’d be hot in uniform. And he’s completely correct. And he knows his girl agrees.

This is also a great excuse to keep her handcuffed to him, which is something he probably thinks about doing every time she leaves the compound with him.

For all of the party guests, this is Lalo’s most insufferable costume. He’s constantly fake arresting people for literally any reason. And honestly– despite not being much of a costume guy, I can see him getting really into it in a very annoying way. Like he has a flashlight he’s shining directly into people’s eyes, and he’s sticking post-it note tickets onto people’s backs all night

Holly Golightly and Paul (Princesa) [Breakfast at Tiffany's]

This is the perfect costume for them. Because Lalo basically just has to wear regular clothes, while completely spoiling Princesa rotten with a beautiful vintage dress, gloves, shoes, and real vintage Tiffany jewelry pieces. And it’s just like at Eladio’s party when he took her– he brings her around to everyone so he can show her off, telling everyone to look at how completely radiant she is.

This is definitely one of those moments where Lalo is the most smug in his ability to provide for her, how well he knows her, and how perfectly suited for her he is. His cute little caterpillar, and with him he fed her, rested her, pleased her, and kept her safe so she could metamorphose into this beautiful angelic butterfly. Tonight, all eyes are on her for a moment, but he’s the only man in the world who’s seen deep inside her, felt the tender and fluttering pulse of her heart.

Nick and Nora Charles (Princesa) [The Thin Man]

We can’t have a Madman!Halloween without at least one couples costume featuring a cock with a mustache.

Once again, Lalo in a suit, and Princesa decked out in expensive vintage with her hair immaculately styled.

Lili and Paul (Princesa) [Lili]

Lili (1953) is one of those movies that I think gets to Lalo. He sees a lot of Princesa in Lili. A frightened, helpless girl left alone in the world by a dead father. She makes mistakes, doesn’t know what’s good for her. An adult but still very much naive, not able to see the meal the world wishes to make of her. And despite all of her misfortune, she has an endless font of sincerity that endears her to just about everyone.

And yet again, she’s in a lovely little vintage costume– a very modest and plain dress with a lacy collar and cuffs and a cute hat, while he just needs a button down shirt and some slacks.

And you know what? Lalo can keep a puppet on his hand for this. That's minimal enough.

Bonus!

These are my insanely unrealistic ideas that i cant let go of lol

Patrick Bateman and Jeanine (???) [American Psycho]

Not going to pretend this one is a realistic idea. Don’t think Lalo likes the idea of his girl watching that kind of thing. But you’ve gotta admit that Lalo would slay in a suit and a clear raincoat, face splattered with prop blood. All while he’s got his Princesa next to him in a pale pink sweater and pencil skirt.

And once again, the relationship parallels. A sociopathic murderer and the innocent girl who cares too much about him. The big difference is that Jean’s genuine nature saves her from Patrick, but Princesa’s made it so she’d never be safe from Lalo.

Quentin and Leaven (???) [Cube]

Just want you to think about Lalo as Quentin, Princesa as Leaven, and Nacho as Worth. That’s all.

King Arthur and Guinevere (Princesa)

He helps you over to the sink so you can remove your hand, the pooled blood splattering against the steel. He can’t help the anger that simmers in his gut as you turn on the sink, and the blood swirls with water down the drain. Part of his princesa, lost.

Lalo cups your chin, turning you to face him. He presses his lips to yours, pulling the red tissues away. He licks the blood from your lips.

“Lalo!” you gasp. He laughs, low in his throat, wiping his thumb above your lip.

“Look at that, princesa. Your nose stopped bleeding, hm?” a calm covers his voice. Disappointment? You’re not sure.

“I-I don’t think it’s good for you to lick that stuff,” you confess quietly. “It’s not, uhm… I don’t know, sanitary? I think…” 

Lalo grabs a paper towel and wets it under the sink just barely, wiping at the blood drying on your face, his other hand around your waist to keep you close. He laughs at how you scrunch your nose at the sensation of the cold water.

“You don’t sound so sure about that, pretty girl. And besides– how could it be bad? la sangre de la mujer que amo? Don’t worry so much, princesa.”

2– Lalo feels like such an old fuck, falling asleep for once. Maybe dozing is the better term. He groans, stretching out as he sits up. Today was one of those days that he wanted to get a good look at his girl before he went back to holding her.

Red fills his vision.

A large stain under your face, a few reddish streaks around from when you’d moved in the night. He watches as another rivulet of blood rolls down your cupid’s bow, joining the rest. Lalo knows it can’t be good for you, but before he can stop himself, he’s kissing just above your lip. The blood fills the gap between his lips before finding its way into his mouth and onto his tongue.

He groans like a sick fuck, feeling the taste of copper force his own bloodflow elsewhere.

It’ll be fine as long as he cooks you a big breakfast, yeah? Something with steak.

Like a man possessed, Lalo finds himself undoing his pants, pushing up your shirt (really one of his, now complete with your signature red on the collar from your tossing and turning). He reaches down to feel you bare cunt– his sweet little pussy– just about as warm and sticky as the blood flowing down his throat from you. Lalo pulls out his cock and rubs it against you gently, smiling beneath the red when he feels your arousal coating him. Never took much with you, did it? Not when it was him. And god help the world if it was ever someone else.

He parts from your stream of elixir vitae just in time to see you blink. His sleepy princesa, dazed and staring at him from beneath her lashes. You whine at the taste of yourself, eyesight focusing as Lalo’s tongue pokes out of his mouth to catch some of your blood from the corner of his lips.

“Still sleepy? Poor princesa. Don’t worry– Papi’s taking care of it, huh? His girl’s just too sweet. Qué hermoso y jodido lío de sangre.”

Your cheek is blushed and ruddy from laying against the pillow as you bled. Lalo dives back down to press his lips to yours, licking into your mouth as the blood drips in. Your faces must be patterned with the same rorschach by now. One of his hands pins your thigh back as he pushes himself into you– always so fucking warm and ready for him, he never wants to leave.

You twist your head as the taste and heat becomes too much, but his free hand grips your chin to keep you in place. His sweet girl wouldn’t leave, would she? Not when he still has to clean her up. Sick. No one else can have her this way. Esta dulce sangre es toda mía.

Your moans are muffled by his mouth. Lalo’s hips snap into yours, not nearly as gentle as he usually is this early in the morning. He wants to get as deep as he can. His cock pulses as he remembers the state of the sheets after he took you for the first time. Lalo wants your azoth, his libation, to keep flowing. He’ll pray at your altar for as long as he has to.

You curl up, face drawn in as little hot breaths escape your lips. Poor princesa. His sweet girl is just so sensitive under him, he can’t help but want to push her. So cute.

Yeah, he’s not gonna last, try as he might to make this go one forever. He slaps your cunt, leaning up and spitting where your bodies meet so he can see some of your red coating him. Lalo’s thumb finds a steady pace against your clit that has you mewling.

“Fuck, so good for Papi, hm? Be a good princesita, cum all over my cock. Déjame pintar tus entrañas, princesa.”

You don’t hold yourself back with Lalo, not unless he’s telling you to. When you cum, he sighs like this is what his whole life has been leading up to. Maybe it is. He keeps his thumb on you until you start to sob, and he can’t stop himself, not when the sound of his girl being all helpless and needing him fucking chars his heart an awful black.

Lalo fills you like it’s what he was born to do, growling like a rutting wolf on top of you. Between the sobbing, the blood, and the sounds he makes– an outsider looking in might think he was killing you.

You sniffle, and what must be love makes his chest heavy, like his ribs are going to crack.

Lalo cups your cheek while his other hand goes beneath you, pulling you up so he can hold you, chest to chest. So early in the day and you’ve already had so much more than you can handle, huh? Good thing your guy doesn’t have anywhere to be today. Nowhere but your side, where he should be.

“There, baby. Está bien, princesita. Your guy just couldn’t help himself, you know? Seeing you looking so pretty like that. Goteando y rojo…”

“I… I f-feel like such a mess, Lalo.” The first thing you say to him this morning, and it’s that. But he can’t be mad, he did make a fucking mess of you.

“You’re still my pretty girl, princesa. I’ll run you a bath… cook you something good, huh? Don’t worry. You got me to do all of the worrying for you.” Lalo rubs your back as you start to quiet and calm again. Maybe he’ll get you back into bed after you’ve had something to eat. And after he changes your pillowcase.

3- You pad down the stairs near silently. It’s the middle of the night, and Lalo’s on the couch, taking a phone call. If you were in a better mood, you might’ve found it funny how quickly he whipped his head around when he heard you sniffle.

“Call me back tomorrow, yeah?” he says, not waiting for a response before shutting and tossing his phone to the side. Blood is dripping down your face in two telltale tracks, over your lips and down your chin. A large crimson stain blooms from the collar of the shirt you’re sleeping in– one of his plain whites (which he’s surprised he owns). Tears drip down your cheeks, making a wet shine on the skin of your neck. 

Lalo’s heart and cock swell so much and so quickly that he should’ve passed out.

“Ai– come here, sweet girl,” he coos, beckoning you into his lap. You perch on his thigh easily, naturally, but avoid curling up into him the way he knows you want to. He’s not having that.

Lalo pulls you into his embrace. He wouldn’t be in the business he was if he cared about blood on his shirt. And the fact that it’s yours…

“Another nosebleed, huh, princesa? Poor baby… Why the tears, hm? You know your guy doesn’t care if you make a mess, mi pequeña niña sangrienta.” He brushes some hair away from your face so he can see his pretty girl.

“This, i-it keeps happening, and I keep ruining your things… you’ve had to get so many new pillowcases for me, Lalo.” He tries to keep his amusement to himself– at the fact that you think that could possibly bother him. Especially when he’s kept each and every one of the things you’ve ‘ruined’. Ai– but he knows you’re so sensitive. Laughter from him would bring more tears. Not that he minds those, but his princesa needs to calm down so he can clean her up and tuck her back into bed.

“To be honest, princesa… I just can’t bring myself to care about those things you ruin. And my sweet girl, she can’t help being so sensitive to the dry air, hm? You can’t help it, baby, Papi knows you can’t.”

Lalo kisses your cheeks, wiping away some of the tears, tasking them. Because when he tells himself that he’s a man of great restraint when it comes to you, it’s a lie. He nearly purrs what he says next.

“And Papi is so proud of you for coming to him, princesita. I know you get a little stupid when I’m not around– getting stuck in your head, thinking you don’t need your guy. But you came to me this time, no? I’ve got you. Your guy is gonna take care of his sweet, bleeding girl.”

As much as Lalo would like to see you bleed some more, he can see the tiredness in your eyes. And these nosebleeds are getting a little excessive– he’s worried you might start running out, not that he would ever mind giving you some of his. He grabs a tissue from the box on the table by the couch, pinching your nose with it. Your brows draw together in discomfort, huffing gentle little metallic breaths through your mouth. His other hand spreads your legs, leading you to mindlessly straddle his thigh. He knows what his girl needs.

“Papi,” you murmur, your voice a little funny from your covered nose. Lalo slowly pulls the tissue away, setting it on the table once he sees the bloodflow has stopped.

“There, see? You’re fine, pretty girl… Just a little red, that’s all.” His hand on your hip guides you to start rocking yourself against his thigh. Got him feeling a little nostalgic, you know? He remembers the first time you used him to make yourself cum, and him thinking it had to be a trick. His sneaky girl, just trying to distract him from all of the lying she did back then. That was before Lalo knew just how helpless and sweet you really were. He finds it harder and harder to believe such a time existed as the days go on.

You mewl, hiding your face in his neck as you take what you need from him. The way you should. His hand flexes, squeezing your hip, helping you quicken the pace just a little. He loves you in his lap like this, but he likes seeing you at peace in bed even more, especially this late. Lalo’s free hand drifts, this thumb settling on your clit, feeling your wetness cling to his finger through the thin cotton.

Your moans get pitchy– his girl is so tired, so overwhelmed. Needs to be held and pleasured, or she just can’t relax. Lalo chooses not to think about the sleepless nights you suffered through before he met you.

Your orgasm hits you in a way that makes a shiver run up your body, your panties and Lalo’s jeans sticky with the evidence in a way he’ll never fucking get tired of. He wants to wear your clear on his jeans for the rest of his life.

You settle against him, like a good girl, and that’s how he knows you’re ready to go back upstairs in his arms. If you never wanted to walk again, he’d be fine with that. Lalo sets you down on the bed, leaving for a few moments to grab a washcloth and wet it with some warm water. The room is dark, but he’s worked in less ideal conditions.

You hear the soft sound of rustling fabric as Lalo undoes the buttons on the shirt your wearing, tenderly shrugging it off of your shoulders before tossing it aside. He wipes at your face and chest with the washcloth. You blink slow at Lalo, and his hands burn for every second he has to keep you awake. He picks a new shirt out of the closet, dressing you like a doll. Pulls your panties off, stuffing them shamelessly in his back pocket. He’d keep you naked, but he knows his sensitive girl gets cold at night.

Lalo doesn’t wipe the slick from between your legs for the same reason he doesn’t put a new pair of underwear on you. He swaps your pillow for his– it’s not like he’s using it. And he’d rest his head on hot coals if it meant his princesa was comfortable. He’ll rescue your old pillowcase tomorrow. A kiss lands on your temple as you’re laid back, comforter tugged over you. 

“Yes it matters, chiquita. Direction is everything in sewing.” Anyone else might not be able to see the subtle smile playing on his lips. You smile back. 

“Sorry— I must not be a very good student, huh?”

“Nah,” he scoffs, “you’re quick. Pretty soon you won’t need me anymore…. And even if you weren’t, I don’t mind,” he hums with a quick kiss to your temple. “It’s nice, you know? Having someone to teach this to.”

Nacho takes a lot of pride in the skill he has with his hands. You know that all too well. But he can really talk to cartel guys about fucking sewing. He’s been getting shit about that since he was a kid. 

“You think if things had been a little different… if you’d never been a part of the game. You would’ve wanted to take over the family business?” He mulls it over, like he’s done lots of times before. 

“Whether I wanted to or not— it’s what I would’ve done. It’s what you do, as a son. I dunno.”

“Well, if we still met in that world, I would’ve been happy to do it with you. Not that I’d be any good at leatherwork— I can barely handle linen,” you snort, laying another set of sewn squares onto your little pile of imperfect puzzle pieces. Ignacio stares at you for what feels like forever, and not long enough at all. 

“You got a good eye, though. You know colors,” he says a little lamely, quick to speak up again when you start to laugh. “I mean it! What was that color you said my shirt was the other day?”

“Prussian blue,” you say with your teeth showing through your smile. 

“See? I don’t know shit like that… you would’ve been great. Would’ve made my papà so proud.” You take your foot off of the pedal of the machine, turning to kiss him. He meets you, suddenly open mouthed and hungry after a few moments against your lips. You push him to lie back on the couch. 

Nacho smiles, sparks in his eyes and running through his hands as he moves them over your body. “Ai— what about your quilt?”

He stops by one of those old buildings, nice and gentle. He’d hate to jolt his girl when she’s just gotten so relaxed. He unbuckles himself, then her. “C’mon, mi pequeña niña dormida, let’s go for a little walk.” She rubs at her eyes as she nods, fuck, does she have any idea what that can do to a guy? You would think she does, seeing as she does cute shit like that all the time.

He opens the door to help her out, holding her hand for a bit while she stretches and yawns like a gatita. His little kitty. But he’s gotta stop thinking about pussies, or he’s not gonna last the drive home without being all over her. She just walks and twirls a little, loosening up while he undoes his belt to take care of things. The side of this building sure as fuck isn’t gonna mind.

Night has fallen over the desert, but the headlights of his car are on. His eyes adjust quickly anyways. But not before some boar of a guy tackles him to the ground– the fuck?

They must’ve been hiding out. Waiting for him– must’ve scouted out his way home fucking good to catch him off guard. No car around, either– guess they were dropped off. But they’re not getting picked up, that’s for damned sure. Lalo’s blood runs hot when he hears his querida’s muffled cries, the fabric rustling as she thrashes and kicks. He’s just barely able to see past his own assailant to witness a knife flick open as he covers her mouth with his free hand.

With all of her twisting and squirming, one of his fingers finds its way into her open mouth. He’s gonna wind up wishing he’d never been born, hijo de puta, for invading his girl– his pequeña querida that way.

And then her teeth find their way into that sacred space, where tendon and cartilage separate bone from bone. And they sever.

Hot red fills her mouth while the attacker staggers– she’s able to pull from him and grab the knife from his hold, slicing open her palm in the process. By some miracle, fumbling and bleeding in the dark, she’s able to pass the knife to her other hand and push herself forward just enough to plunge it into the back of el cerdo on top of him before she’s grabbed again. The bastard howls alongside his friend. A symphony of pain to Lalo’s ears, and they grant the few precious moments he needs to reach into the holster at his side and start unloading point blank into the sternum of the man on top of him.

Lalo rolls him off into the dirt as he becomes a corpse, training his sights on the man with his arm around her neck, cursing you with insults she can’t understand, but that he’ll regret. He squeezes the trigger when she pulls him into the blinding beams of the headlights, granting Lalo a clean shot into his shoulder. She shrugs him off and scrambles the few feet it takes to get to Lalo’s side, an arm around her waist to greet her as he unloads a few more bullets into the guy.

Why couldn’t Nacho have been third wheeling them, for once? He’s not gonna wrestle this guy into his car for further interrogation. Not when his girl is needing him. He squeezes her hip. 

She spits out the finger. And a healthy amount of blood. Well, not healthy for the guy it came from. 

Tears spring to her eyes as their minute-long battle draws to a close. She curls into him, like always, and sniffles against his shirt. She tries to pull away after a moment, gasping as Lalo keeps her close. No, you’re not leaving. Not when you need me, poor little thing.

“Lalo, I-I’m sorry– the blood– I’m getting it a-all–” Of course his sweet girl is worrying about making a mess at a time like this. So silly.

“Ai, querida– I have a closet full of these. But there’s only one of you, pretty girl. Which one you think I’m concerned about, hm?” He’s able to say with a smile. His smile drops when he feels the blood continue to soak  his side, and he remembers her palm. He peels it off of himself so he can take a look, and she peeks from his shoulder, eyes shiny with tears. Poor little querida. He scoops her up so he can take her back to the car. Fuck, his pants are still undone. He hears a quiet little sniffle against his neck, and it makes the blood surge so hard he can feel his own pulse.

He sits her down in the passenger side, pulling the first aid shit from the glove box. Never hurts to be prepared, huh? He kisses her palm, and can’t help himself from licking it once or twice to clean her up. He pulls open the gauze packet with his teeth before wrapping it around her cut. He glances up to see the drying blood around her mouth. 

Lalo feels heat rise and burn in his chest at the thought of her consuming a part of another man. Of drinking something made by someone other than him. His blood is hers the same way her blood is his.

He wipes away the blood with his thumb. Her tears make it easy. He shushes her, leaning up to kiss her cheeks and taste her salt. “I have myself a little wolf girl, huh? Una lobita. Tearing into people for me, Dios mio… You know how to make a guy feel special, huh, querida?” Her tears slow with her bleeding.

Lalo sighs, pulling her into his lap as he takes her place in the car seat. He holds her so they’re chest to chest. His heart thrums as he feels the tiny little kisses being placed on his jaw. His pretty girl starts to rub herself on him, the way she’s so used to. Her skirt rides up, one hand on her hip to help her along while the other strokes her hair. Just needs her guy to take her mind off of things, hm? He’ll let her use him whenever and however she pleases.

He’d fuck her now, but he wants to stay alert. And besides, she deserves a real bed, their bed, to be under her the next time they make love. Making love. He’d never been able to bring himself to call it that before her. Didn’t feel right. But with his girl that’s the only thing it can be. He coos at her.

“That’s right, gatita… Just use your guy. Take what you need, hm? Papi’s got you, baby. I’ve got you.” The fabric of his jeans catches on her clit, just like always, making her mewl and whine in a way that nearly forces a growl out of him.

“Lalo, I– Papi– I’m gonna cum,” she confesses quietly into the fabric of his collar, as if she were afraid that anyone but him would hear.

“Go ahead, querida. Take what you need. Get yourself nice and relaxed. Cum on me, sweet girl.”

With a shiver and a sharp inhale, she does, like such a good girl, it makes Lalo’s hand flex against her hip. She goes more or less limp against him. He waits a few moments before pulling her out of his lap. He swears he can see her wetness string from the cotton of her panties to his jeans. He smoothes out her skirt, kissing her forehead before buckling her up. He does his own pants back up after he closes her door, walking around to the other side to get in. For a second, he sees the finger on the ground and thinks of taking it. His lobita’s first trophy.

He eyes the bodies in the dust without much thought. He’ll call someone once she’s asleep– get someone to come here and check it out. He starts to pull back onto the road, giving his hand to querida for her to hold.

“Lalo, will we be home soon?”

Home. Her home. Their home. Seems a little empty with just the two of them, but he’ll fix that soon.

“So, where did you learn your skills with the blade? I’ll readily admit I was never so attuned to the physical arts— most people inclined to magic aren’t— so I find it quite impressive that you can hold your own with either,” Gale says in a jovial, complimentary tone. 

No better time than looting one’s enemies to engage in a bit of bonding.  Gale spies Astarion from the corner of his view, rolling his eyes at what he perceives as a blatant attempt at sucking up to Tav. 

Truly, though, it was a little terrifying when Tav used a sword near the end of the day, as this often meant she had little remaining mental fortitude to speak of. 

“Swords? Oh, uhm… From an old boyfriend. Boyfriends, actually. And a girlfriend. Wait— those aren’t…..” she withdraws to think on it further for a few seconds, tapping her blade in the dirt as she considers her next words. “Party members! That’s a better term. I learned it from my old party members,” she said with a shrug and a smile as if her response hadn’t caused more questions than it had provided answers to. She sheathes her sword, beginning to walk on, their combat diversion at an end. Astarion quickens his pace a bit to catch up with her, walking at her side. 

“Tav, you dog,” he teases, a pretend scandalized tone coloring his words, “Just how many paramours did you have at once within your last group? I certainly hope you don’t intend to attempt the same maneuver with our little band of murderers,” he says with a playful smirk. Gale hurriedly put away the scroll he’d picked from a fallen foe, coming to walk abreast with the two of them. 

“I wouldn’t say ‘paramours’ is exactly accurate… There was a degree of love involved, with some more than others, but it was complicated. And highly circumstantial. With the way things are here, I doubt the same could happen. But never say never, I guess!”

“So you…. Wouldn’t say your preference is to take more than one lover at a time, then?” Gale supposes gently, casually, hoping that his own fragility isn’t plain on his voice. But it certainly is— to Astarion, at least. The wizard fusses with tucking his hair out of the way like a schoolgirl. 

“Why do you ask, Gale? Afraid of a little more-than-friendly competition?” The vampire goads. Gale almost breathes a sigh of relief when Tav more or less ignores Astarion’s ribbing. 

“No, it’s certainly not my preference. I’m not against the idea— I just don’t think it’s for me. I’d like to give my attentions to one person, and vice versa. I don’t think I really have the social fortitude to handle having more than one true love…” Gale stares at her intently at her mention of true love. Could it be that she had the same desires as him when it came to looking for companionship? The look in his eyes is sickening to Astarion, that much is for certain.

“Darling, you were telling me about that Sylvian the other night– shouldn’t a devotee to the god of sex be a little more giving with their affections? Not to mention all those parties you spoke of with those masks,” he smiles like a devil– No offense to Wyll, of course– as Gale’s face pales at his words.

“I told you I only did that once! And it was only with– you know what? You’re not tricking me into telling this story again,” she humphs, turning away with her nose up. Astarion laughs heartily, throwing his head back, tossing his alabaster curls with a delicate touch to the chest.

“Oh please, darling, I’m begging you to tell it again. If only to see the look on the wizard’s face.”

Gale closes his eyes for just a moment to collect himself. He remembers the way she held his shoulders when she whispered in his ears. The thrumming in his ears as his heart filled to burst with singing blood. The ambrosia– the ichor that Mystra once denied him. He feels divine. He straightens himself out.

“While I always endeavor to deliver nothing but the finest of entertainment to our traveling companions, I think you should save that story for later tonight. For when we talk at my tent, after dinner? I’ll provide the wine, you can provide the riveting tales of your exploits in faraway lands.” He quickens his pace just a tad to go on ahead before he completely loses all that bravado he was able to build. 

Karlach waves at him from the tree she found herself under. She was still so unable to get over just how bright and beautiful the surface could be after all that time down in the pits. She smiles, wide as  ever.

“Cavorting with a dark priestess. You do poorly to refute the expectation that an interest in netherese magic leads to ruin, Gale of Waterdeep.”

“Excuse me— I don’t recall prostrating myself at a statue and begging for an audience with you. So I’ll have to ask— to what do I owe the pleasure, Mystra?”

“I come to warn you, my former chosen,” she says with an acrid bite to her chosen words, “before you once again meddle with ancient arts that have irreversible consequences. Or have you already forgotten the orb?”

Gale shifts his stance, a million oft-reviewed retorts dancing on his lips, none of them able to find purchase on his tongue. What he manages to spit out holds none of the steadiness and composure he wants it to. 

“You don’t know a thing about her. Perhaps you feel threatened, is that it? Her telling me the truth— that some gods can be slain, that ascension is possible.”

“And did you ever stop to ask what she did to obtain such knowledge? She has indulged in acts you cannot imagine. She’s been brought low— to depths that devolved her to little more than animal. The kind of depths one cannot return from.”

Gale huffs. He can’t pretend he doesn’t wonder about her own pursuits of knowledge. Their conversations are often dominated by his own needs, his own miseries— in reality, he knows so little of her despite how much he’s come to depend on her. He finds it harder by the day to ignore how haunted she is— his greatest wish is to give her just a fraction of the comfort she’s given him. 

She meticulously scouts their camping grounds before they settle. She always takes first watch, but barely ever closes both eyes even when it’s her turn to rest. He often cooks the camp their meals, he’s always enjoyed cooking and it brings him comfort to be useful. But she is the one meticulously carrying every shred of food they can find, keeping a detailed mental inventory of how much they have and of what, an internal calendar of what will spoil when. The only time he had ever seen Shadowheart nearly outraged rather than simply vexed was when she forced Tav to give up her growing stash of rotten meat. Thanks to Tav, they had always been well fed with an unprecedented excess of supplies, which made it all the more perplexing when she nearly broke down in tears at the notion of throwing away things that weren’t fit for even Scratch to consume. 

She didn’t flinch when informed that the meat on the spit in the goblin camp was from a dwarf. She stared at it for a long time before leaving when they looted the cleared area the next day. 

The calling of ravens makes her twitch. 

“She’ll tell me in due time. I’ve no intention of forcing her to reveal such sensitive information as her past traumas even a moment before she trusts them to me implicitly. And unlike you, I don’t feel entitled to knowing such things about my partner.” He crossed his arms in a way he’s willing to admit seems a bit petulant, especially when considering that he’s being given what is essentially a scolding. 

“No matter,” the goddess says with a line in her brow that suggests it is anything but, “I cannot protect you from a grim fate you seem determined to bring yourself to. I can only forewarn you. Hers is a path sewn to shadows and pain. The deeper you involve yourself, the further you will fall in the end.”

He looks at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“You know, Tara said something quite similar about you, long ago.”

Gale wakes up with a sudden, sobering inhale— as if he’d just been held underwater. Tav isn’t truly asleep, she barely ever is, and she’s on him in an instant, cradling his face as he stares dazed at the cloth ceiling of his tent. 

“Gale, what’s the matter? You sounded like you were being hurt— just before you woke up. Was it a nightmare?”

His breathing evens as he relaxes back against the bedroll. He places a hand gently on the back of her head to pull her into a kiss that lasts about as long as his lungs can stand. 

From the moment Gale had felt her magic wash over the portal that had become his prison, he knew her magic was different. He could feel it all around him— a suffocating, rotting presence that eroded the pure weave he was trapped in. Gale was an arch wizard, and as such, learned in all schools of magic, even those considered forbidden. There were entire libraries and departments of universities dedicated to unethical magic, necromancy, shadow magic, and how best to limit their falling into the wrong hands. 

Even if her magic had fallen into one of those categories, were her hands truly the wrong ones? Though its effects were gruesome and maddening at times, he had only seen her use them in self defense. How could he criticize what he understood so little about? How could he condemn her magic when she had used it to protect him at his weakest and soothe his affliction? Perhaps most poignant of all points— how could he judge her when he himself had meddled with ancient, forbidden artifacts?

And he refused to be ashamed of his own curiosity as a scholar of the arcane. A form of magic, entirely alien to the study he’d dedicated most of his life to, and yet so inextricably connected to it. 

Maybe it was his damnable curiosity. Maybe it was his loneliness, no, his neediness coming off of the coattails of his flawed relationship with Mystra shattering his body and sense of self. Maybe the tantalizing idea that Mystra was in fact not the end-all-be-all when it came to magic. 

Maybe it was because she was so kind to him. Especially when they had first started out, when it had just been her, Shadowheart, Gale, Lae’zel, and Astarion. He could feel the judgment in their eyes as they looked down on him for his weaker physical constitution, for his affliction, for how it made him quick to tire. By any and all accounts he was less useful, and caring for his curse was a sink of time and resources that their merry band of infected vagabonds didn’t need. 

Yes, they had seen him as little better than Scratch— a pathetic whelp Tav had taken pity on because she couldn’t help herself around helpless creatures. Worst of all was Astarion— who saw the umbrella of Tav’s protection to be a finite resource, and was determined for a time to edge Gale out from under it. 

In those early days, Shadowheart’s talents had been stretched thin, and as the one in least physical proximity to danger, Gale often fell in priority when it came to receiving her aid. It was at those times that Tav sat up late with him by the fire, cradling him with her own dark whispers. Unlike the healing magic he had known, hers came with a sensation that was numbing, painful, and addictive all at once. It deafened him to the rest of the world beyond her words. It created a dull, throbbing ache in the untouched corners of his heart. Then, as suddenly as he fell under the spell, it was broken. While he felt stronger than he had in years, he also felt a gnawing sense of loss as soon as the whispers stopped— as if he was suddenly aware how upsetting it could be to be alone in his own body. 

In return, he stayed with her as the mental toll overtook her. On days that she had strained herself, she would rock back and forth clutching her head with her eyes darting around, as if she would suddenly be able to catch whatever devil had been drilling holes into the base of her skull. He had even learned how to pack her pipe for her. 

“Your magic… it isn’t weave, is it?” He once probed gently, unable to hold the question back after one of their late night sessions as she relaxed with her pipe. She exhaled a beat after he asked. 

“Weave… that’s what the people in Toril use, right?” She asked. Her talent for magic made her ignorance baffling to him. 

“Yes. Though not everyone worships Mystra… that’s more of a wizard-specific thing. Had you truly never heard of her before we met?” It’s a question he’s mulled over in his head every day since they’d first started discussing magic together. 

“No. I am from a place so far away that we worship a different pantheon altogether— and our worship is very different to what I’ve seen here. Magic can come from your worship, but there’s more than one way to learn spells.” She tiredly leans her head on his shoulder. His heart soars when she depends on him in this small way, but he’s still naive enough to think it’s just the human contact after a year of complete abstinence that’s making him react so strongly. “I worship Sylvian, personally. God of love, sex, marriage… though I doubt I’ll ever be a part of a Sylvian marriage myself.”

“Why is that? Don’t think you’ll land yourself a suitor? I can assure you that’s far from the truth,” he says in a tone he tells himself is smooth and alluring. She laughs. It sounds precious, like the babbling of a brook. 

“It’s because I don’t think I’ll ever be desperate enough to perform the ritual. Say, is there healing magic that can reattach limbs here?” His brows furrow thoughtfully in response, his confusion set aside as he browses his mental catalogue of spells. 

“Seeing as there are spells for resurrection… surely, there must be something for reattaching limbs— mustn’t there?” He says with a smile. 

“You said you had your own huge wizard tower full of books. I bet one of them must have something on the subject…. Unless your collection isn’t as comprehensive as you claim,” she teases. 

“Unfortunately, my filling system isn’t quite as robust as I’d like— and things tend to end up all over the place… maybe you’d be interested in stopping by to help me look for such a spell someday? Once this tadpole business is sorted, of course,” he suggests with unprecedented boldness, by his recent standards. 

“It might have to be a sleepover. I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself from trying to put things in order…. Which I gather could take a while.”

Meanwhile, Jack is trying to reason with himself, and maybe find out what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. Was he really ignoring a lifetime, no, generations of belief for the sake of a pretty face? No, it was more than that. Whiskey had seen pretty vampires. Plenty of them, beautiful enough to drive mortals to madness. But that beauty has always been backed by intent, it existed for pride, and to be used against others. 

But there was something about you that seemed different. Maybe it was those sad eyes, that nervous pout, but you weren’t pretty like an angler’s lure or a thorned rose. You were pretty like pictures of angels on stained glass windows, like fresh garden strawberries in summer. The kind of pretty a man could grow to look forward to, and protect. 

Before he knew it, you’d reached the clearing in the forest’s center. You walked ahead before turning to face him.

“That village knows about you. It’d be safer if you moved on, sweetheart. I… I won’t follow you.”

“Thank you, but…” you trailed, looking to the moon as if it would understand better than him. “If not you, there will always be someone. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I wish you’d end it now. I’m too much of a coward to do it.”

It broke his fucking heart. You, a monster without soul or heartbeat, without love or virtue, called to his humanity more than most humans had. To leave you in such a state… He’d regret it.

“Then stay with me. Stay and… And I’ll protect you,” he swore, finding himself hoping desperately that you’d say yes. In the back of his mind he wondered if this was all a part of your spell, if he’d finally met his match, a power even he couldn’t resist.

A million questions rose up from the back of your throat, to the tip of your tongue. What would he do when he had to face other hunters? Would he face rejection from his own kind for a stranger? Would he wither before you, leaving you alone again, or be turned and reject his own humanity? But you held your mouth shut. The first rule to life eternal is that the present is the only real time. To ponder all futures and regret all pasts is to die a true death.