#yeeeeeeeeeeeeees

MORE THAN ONE

For around the fiftieth time, as they slog through the black, freezing murk of the Depths and the ossuaries of ancient bones that gaze down at them from narrow passages, Derossi Vargo grimly reminds himself that he did, in fact, sign up for this. A fetid, frigid fog curls off the dark water, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead, and as the only member of the party without enhanced senses, skills, or sight, he's afraid of falling behind and getting eaten by a skeleton or something. He misses Alsius' nattering even more than usual. The old man would probably have something useful to say, or could at least serve as a second pair of eyes on lookout. No imbued magical hood and costume for him, of course. Though if he's going to be running around with not one but two legendary outlaws, maybe he should look into that. It seems like a sound business decision.

"Wait," Vargo pants, clambering over one last slippery barricade of rocks and landing with a splash on the other side. This is what he gets for becoming too much of an Upper Bank cuff, too comfortable in well-appointed warehouses and masquerade balls rather than the filth and grime of the Nadežran underworld. "Blast it, wait!"

Up ahead, as if only just realizing that they've lost the third member of their party, the Rook and Rose slow down and glance around, silhouetted eerily against the bones and graves and secrets of the Old Island, the Depths, the city of Nadežra itself. They look eerie, timeless, and it gives him a shudder. Vargo knows perfectly well that it's Grey under one hood and Ren under the other, but down here in the mist and dimness of this Masks-damned place, it can be hard to tell. But they both hurry forward and give him a hand, pulling him over the porous stones, and hold on for several moments on the far side. "Are you all right?" Ren asks anxiously. "You probably didn't need to come along -- and if you're still healing from the kidnapping -- "

"I'm fine." Vargo huffs and straightens up, brushing himself off. "And besides, what was I supposed to do? Let you two come down here on your own? You'd undoubtedly manage something like resurrecting the Tyrant before the day was out, and then we'd really be fucked."

The Rook snorts. "I doubt that."

"Do you?" Vargo gives him the fish-eye. "You paid attention to anything we've been doing lately, Serrado?"

The Rook, or rather Grey, slaps at his arm instinctively, as if warning him to shut up, even though there's nobody down here but the three of them and the endless, echoing chambers of the dead, stacked up over centuries. They huddle close instinctively, craving each other's warmth, each other's presence, and neither Grey nor Ren has let go of Vargo's hands. He doesn't remember how it happened, exactly, and sometimes he's afraid of saying anything to draw their attention to it, in case it makes them come to their senses and decide to stop. But he's blood-sworn to Grey and knot-mated to Ren, and it just... happened, that's all. The first time he kissed Ren, he was terrified that Grey was going to haul off and punch him in the face. Grey did, for a moment, look like he was considering it. Then he grabbed Vargo's arm and pulled him down and kissed him too, violent as if it was in fact a blow, biting and scrabbling, and Vargo took mental notes that there was a great deal for him to teach the bastard, legendary outlaw or otherwise, about how to make proper love to a man and he should set to it with due diligence. And then, well. He did.

He tries to act casual about it. He tries to pretend that he could leave any time they told him to, stroll out and resume his old life. He still has his own townhouse, of course; tries not to spend more than a few nights a week with Grey and Ren, lest someone take notice of the pattern. He doesn't know what a szorsa's cards would reveal about it, other than what it's always been. He loves them. He loves both of them so much he can hardly stand it, and what's it the Vraszenians say about three parts of a soul? It's them. It's them.

Not wanting to get too distracted with maudlin sentiment when they could still very much be eaten by said cursed skeletons and/or resurrected Tyrants at any moment, Vargo clears his throat and gets back to business. "We should keep going. Oh, and. If this is going to be a habit with us, any chance of me getting one of those things?"

"What? You mean a Rook's hood?" Grey sounds unflatteringly skeptical, and Vargo is tempted to punch him again, just a little, for old time's sake. "I'm not sure you're exactly the model for a -- "

"We'll think about it," Ren interrupts bossily, and both Grey and Vargo snap to attention and look at her with meek yes, alta expressions. (Grey's is behind the Rook's hood, but there's no doubting that it's there.) "Now let's go, you two. I'm freezing."

JASDFLKJSDKLFJSD THE WAY MY LOVE FOR YOU JUST WENT 📈📈📈📈📈 SHALL WE DANCE BY BLOCK B IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS AND EVERY TIME I TALK ABOUT IT NO ONE KNOWS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT pls have my whole heart hAN’S PART HAS ME ON THE FUCKING FLOOR ADFSJKLDFKL

Anonymous said:   

why be with a guy like alastor who cant appreciate a woman with voluptuous as you?

A brow rose before a smirk plays on her features.

“No idea what’cha talkin’ ‘bout, grey face~!” Hands slide themselves up, feeling along her hips, up her waist. “He appreciates aaaalll’a me...” Palms press up against her chest, dragging up and along her fluff as she pushes out her curves. Feeling herself up slow and teasing until her hands reach up to her hair, running through pink locks.

“Includin’ past my appearance,” she practically spat.

DETECTIVE!!!!!

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