#asangel

unprompted ( always accepting ).

“ you want one of my feathers ? ” their wings are drawn close. no one has asked for a feather – wanted a feather, they correct, and they search @asangel for a hint of a tease. “ are you sure ? if you ask me, they’re dull. it wouldn’t catch an eye. ”

@asangel asked:

what if they kissed + whoever you think would really consider kissing him lol

Send 'what if they kissed' for me to write a scenario of our muses kissing.

The motion was gentle, chaste, full of a soft warmth. It felt like a warmth hearth on a cold, snowy day. Like a cup of tea, soothing the nerves. A whole body comfort. Safety, like a blanket.

Gwen's lips had touched softly to Azariel's, the action laced in magic. A magic that conveyed the peace of the forest, the comfort of home. Old, woodsy magic. With luck, his cares and fears would wash away. Tension would leave his body.

Astarion moves through the camp with the languid grace of a predator, his sharp eyes taking in the familiar sights of their haven: the crackling fire at the center, the bedrolls arranged in a loose circle, the quiet murmur of his companions engaged in hushed conversation. Yet tonight, his focus isn’t on them. His attention is drawn to the new addition—a figure whose presence has stirred more than mere curiosity in the vampire spawn.

Azariel sits apart from the others, a spectral figure of divine elegance beneath the pale light of the moon. The blue hues of his skin catch the firelight, shimmering like the surface of a twilight sea. His wings, now unfurled and free, stretch out behind him in a display of celestial power, the kind of power that hums just beneath the surface of his flawless skin. Astarion has to admit, there’s a certain allure to the demigod—a beauty that’s almost too perfect, too radiant to be of this world. But it’s not just the aesthetics that draw him in; it’s the scent, faint but distinct, of divinity that lingers around Azariel. The tantalizing thought of what his blood might taste like—rich with divine essence, an ambrosia few, if any, vampires had ever known—makes Astarion’s fangs ache with a hunger he hasn’t felt in some time.

But hunger alone isn’t what propels him forward. There’s something else, a shared understanding buried beneath the years of torment that they both endured at the hands of merciless captors. Astarion knows the pain of being reduced to nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. He knows the bitterness of having one’s freedom stolen, the endless days of suffering with no promise of escape.

Iago glances up at the voice, surprised they were spoken to at all. They had hoped they could pass by the prisoner unnoticed with an easily overlooked presence the same way they have with any of the Myrkulites crawling around. It's only been a few days since Iago stumbled into Moonrise Towers, half-alive, requesting sanctuary from the Bhaalists ( and more concerningly, their sister ) that they had just betrayed and abandoned. 

They’ve yet to fully come to terms with or even begin to get a grasp on their position here ( or, horrifically, what they'll do next ), so they've spent most of the past few days recovering from a myriad of injuries and trying to avoid each and every person here. 

That does not include the resident pest, Steelclaw, who is the reason they were drawn from their quarters in the first place. She’s stolen their hair tie. Chasing a cat around while they’re still limping a little and their hair is over their face like curtains does very little to help them look like they belong.

Iago looks at the prisoner for a long few moments, curious, ignoring their own less-than-ideal presentation. They have no room to complain, they suppose, at least they’re on the other side of the bars. 

Sitting where he was, knees drawn up and his arms resting on them so that his hands dangle freely in the air, Togame was staring straight ahead, his expression oddly still and his eyes... somehow they seemed so sad. Should he have known another was approaching him he would have never allowed them to see him like this, but as it was he didn't hear Azariel approach... not until they were talking and offering the water over to him.

The rugged canyon, embraced by barren, serrated mountains, lay in a deep valley, and unlike the mountains that hugged it, the precipices in the lower regions were adorned with vegetation, though sparse. On a plateau, separated from them by a gaping abyss, lay the monastery — or what remained of it. Though, the facade had endured the passage of time well, the same could not be said of the vestiges of collapsed structures they’d happened upon during their travels down the hauntingly abandoned roads leading here.

Careful not to disturb structurally unsound rock, the elf edged closer to the ravine, placing a hand on a partially crumbled pillar for support and something to hold on to while glimpsing down. He had never been a mathematical wonder, but he figured that it was quite the drop. At the bottom of the gorge only sinister shadows and death awaited those unfortunate enough to tumble...

Luran stepped back from the edge and elevated his gaze to the ancient, with foliage overgrown building on the other side; once a peaceful abode for monks, now a crèche of the ruthless githyanki that colonised it — and they were planning to just waltz in there, hoping to find a cure. Though, his hope was mere, for countless people, healers, had already informed them it was impossible to extract the brain worm without killing its host in the process. But desperate times called for desperate measures...

The high-elf was faintly aware of Lae’zel notifying the others of what their eyes could perceive and their minds could deduce for themselves, but the theatrics of it all elicited a small half-smile from him.

*☆:｡ 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭, 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭, 𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓾𝓯𝓯

"You... you can curse??" the Tiefling's surprise was evident, so much that he even forgot the oozing wound in his stomach. He even made a small step away, lest he'd get struck down in case the other's god sent down a lightning bolt or something akin.

No godly interventions happens, and he finds himself stumbling against the wall behind him.