#spellsniper

"You're sacred and they're starved"

♡  𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗜𝗧𝗬  𝗙𝗢𝗥  𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗦𝗡𝗜𝗣𝗘𝗥  ♡

THEIR LITTLE DANCE WENT LIKE THIS. Around and around, so dizzying that the eye couldn't catch the true subject of either of their interests. This was not a vulnerable woman sat by herself in a tavern whose loneliness called to Astarion's need to find a warm body to be made cold and bloodless by the realm's most vile fangs. Galatea was an impenetrable fortress, a table he'd pass for fear of tangled bodies snaring him with a wooden spike through the breast.

Yet of everyone in their band of misfits and weirdos, she was the least forthcoming about her past. None of them had trusted one another with intimate details in the first weeks, but they'd reached a point where every one of their companions had exposed the myriad of messy reasons they were on this journey beyond the things writhing away in their skulls. Astarion, naturally, had taken her lack of openness as an indication that he ought to keep his own more pressing issues close to the chest.

Yet somehow, bedded down by the campfire for the night to sap its warmth like a cat basking in a sunbeam, the topic of intimacy arose. What was it like to sleep with people as a vampire? Astarion could only provide the most apt description, yet even still that lacked the substance of the experience.

It had been horrid. What else could it have been?

There was a queue of early bodies piled up that had once held him more gently than all the rest. Sweet things Astarion sought like an answer to an unknowable question, only for the answer to come from Cazador. He could not have this. If he dozed he would wake with his face bruised and the body wrapped around his own ripped away to be drained.

Then there was punishment.

Did he lead or follow in that dance? Astarion, settled on his belly with his chin resting on folded arms, winced. Tilting his head downward to crush his cheek into his forearm in an attempt to mask that reaction, he considered. Which was it?

rivals (to lovers?) sentence starters, @spellsniper.

“   i don't take orders from the likes of you, iblith, ” lazily, he points his dagger at her from his position sat by the fire, the blade's tip dripping juice from the apple he was in the middle of peeling. a threat? well, maybe, if she chose to perceive it as such.

xvilnar stares at her, impassively, through the flames of the fire flickering between them. was it the scraping sound of his blade on the piece of fruit that was pissing her off? the sound of him chewing? he almost laughs.

this continuous, harsh friction between them was bordering on enmity, rising to near boiling point.

Are you Atreion's type?

MIA: THE MEME THIS IS FROM — @spellsniper

"barely."

the fall from the roof is nothing, honestly. it's a cake walk compared to whatever had happened to the back of her head. sure she was down most of the battle but their enemies assumed she was dead. a great advantage even if it did not net anything for her aside from surviving until the end.

she's a bit disappointed in missing the killing.

WRATH  OF  THE  NORTHMEN // @spellsniper