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anotherdayinsimworld · 1 year

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Scarlet Killer takes a trip to San Myshuno and the Casbah Gallery and views a painting of herself as a child, painted by her mother, Mele Killer. (I have used "Paint by Reference" quite a lot to create portraits.)

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #my sims #San Myshuno #Casbah Gallery #Scarlet Killer #Mele Killer #mele kahananui

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bonnieisaway · 7 months

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@lichrott I finally got around to making a side by side :3 at least of most moments i could find or remember

don't mind the music i didnt want it to be dead silent so i just grabbed the first thingi had. also one of the redtooth ones I wrote wrong i said season 3 ep 9 when i meant season 2 ep 9 we're not gonna talk about iitttt

This man really is only surviving through a fuck around and find out fight style huh. Also I think it's a bit telling most of the ones he DOES pick up from other people are almost always more offensive, aggressive fighting moves because Seven's naturally pretty defensive and doesn't have much issue dodging or avoiding things (or just fucking taking it like a champ) most often, but really often turns to others around him for how to attack people and that's how he's most often won fights or escaped the situation, and most of these aren't exact copies of them but he's able to adapt and adjust them for the situations he's in: holding down the Prince of Stan not to immobilize him but to stall him long enough for Thirteen to attack unlike Dachun trying to stop Seven entirely, using the drill move from Xiao Fei not entirely to attack Meowcai but also using it with his scissors to continue rushing forward and block his attacks, adapting Thirteen's fighting style to fight one on one with Meowcai when he had seen Thirteen defeat a solid majority of the other cats like this, etc etc

I think actually something that does interest me a little: different character's qi can have different colors and take a lot of different forms, but even though purple and red are more of Seven's signature colors (I'm being fairly generous with the red there given he's got a neutral color palette, but it compliments his purple well) the qi he uses with his scissors is the exact same color as Thirteen's and she's the person he tends to pick up certain moves or dual wielding in general from. I know it's pretty much always been that color but

especially here where he's physically holding them and that same color energy is still emitting from them. I might be reaching with the color thing a little but I think it is at least safe to say though Hua was the reason Seven was able to master his qi better he picked up quite a few things from Thirteen (and Green Phoenix in the past, I'd assume)

#he's a fuckin moron but he's clever #sorry if some of these are wrong or if i missed any #im ngl i rushed a little cause i wanted an excuse to talk to people abt s7 more it's been a bit since ive had like a full in depth convo #i might be floundering a little #also is it me or like #dual wielding melee seven goes fucking hard #i know it's not really his style but i do kinda wish we could see him pick up thirteen's fighting style like this #i mean melee isn't always his thing but i just think he looks really cool there and about as confident as he is with his scissors normally #or when using both his sword and scissors #anyway the point here is dual wield melee seven <3 #scissor seven #killer seven #wu liuqi #seven #thirteen #scissor 7

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killerinstinctgold · 1 year

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i hit my 10,000th post and to celebrate my time on tumblr, id love to show some of my all time favorite screenshots ive taken throughout the years. i've met some amazing friends on here because of our love of video games and i wouldn't change that. much love to my friends and followers who enjoy my content<3

#10000th post #last two were my very first screenshots #love you all #my memories #soul calibur #castlevania 64 #sonic adventure #phantasy star online #star gladiator #tomodachi life #harvest moon #animal crossing #f-zero x #super smash brothers melee #shenmue #killer instinct 2 #crash tag team racing

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maemele · 14 days

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Tuxpaint Livestream Doodles 3

#art #mele-art #artwork #furry #tuxpaint #fish #spongebob #rabbit #oneshot #undertale yellow #killer fish from san diego #beastars

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inplodinggofer616 · 7 months

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I like looking at depictions of swords in fantasy/fictional media the same way a cat loves a piece of random furniture: by absolutely ripping that shit up

sometimes it's little things like "ok the guard is really tall for some reason that's weird" or "ooh the quillions are silly shaped that could let you do some goofy blade catching stuff

sometimes it's "oh, you went full daedra on this poor thing? let me tear it up with my brain and psychically tell you you're dumb (with all the love in my heart, of course) because your design could hurt you as much as the other guy" or "that's just too fuckin big what is it for nuts bersk or smth" and then it is and im like ":p why am i surprised"

I do this with all the goofy thangs I like where I feel comfortable with my understanding of the subject because it's fun and a reblog is a reblog and I still liked the post too and again I want to say here "with all the love in my heart" because someone worked hard on that and I still respect that and if I ever post art here I want to see this kind of interaction with it I like when they tell me how to improve

#gay people gunposting #gay people melee posting #killer catboy postin #gay people scifi posting #gay people explosives posting #gay people

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jimmawww · 8 months

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Fave Continue Screens

Sonic The Hedgehog 2

Kirby Super Star

Street Fighter III: 3rd Strike

Super Smash Bros

Super Smash Bros Melee

Earthbound

Ninja Gaiden

Puyo Puyo 2

Killer Is Dead

#Sonic the Hedgehog 2 #Kirby Super Star #Street Fighter III: 3rd Strike #Super Smash Bros.#Super Smash Bros. Melee #Earthbound #Ninja Gaiden #Puyo Puyo 2 #Killer Is Dead

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burr-ell · 15 days

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With respect to the previous reblog—I sped up almost all of the Otohan combat to 1.5 and only put it back to normal when Sam started FCG's last turn. And it's not that I can't be invested in climactic combat or even really difficult climactic combat! I watched the fights with Ripley, Thordak, Raishan, Vecna, the Iron Shepherds, Uk'otoa, and Vespin Chloras, some of them multiple times, and I was invested the entire way through.

But here's the thing: I do not currently play DnD, and prior to watching CR I knew very little about the mechanics. I learned with the cast as I was watching C1, and as the show went on I paid more and more attention because I could see how the mechanics of combat interacted with the story. When there's a moment where the crunch of combat powerfully reflects a character's arc? That hits, even as someone with little personal knowledge of the PHB. I am not, however, invested in just watching three hours of combat for its own sake...and Otohan's build feels like combat for its own sake.

Obviously the cast is really invested in the story; it's their characters and they're the ones making the choices and rolling the dice. They've been doing this together for over a decade, and they're really impressed by the raw power of Otohan's build. But as a viewer? This simply is not fun to watch. I mean, there are some great moments for the Hells—all of Orym's nat 20s, Fearne using the power of Rau'shan and deliberately casting Blight through touch, Chetney's last words—but I don't know anything about Otohan. I don't know why she's here. I don't know what her motives are. I don't know why exactly she's so OP—"Legend of the Peaks" is just set dressing to me because none of the characters care about the Apex War and Matt has never forced the issue.

Like, sure, they're an exaltant Ruidusborn, but...okay? Why do they get legendary actions and resistances? Where'd their goofyass lil Lands End backpack even come from? Why are they here? No one can do a swagless villain monologue like Ludinus; no one can evade child support like Liliana. But who cares about Otohan, as a character and not just the scary hero-killer? That role in the story could be occupied by any well-built level 20 melee combatant and the narrative wouldn't miss anything.

Without all of the necessary development to get me invested, this just seems like she's OP just to make her "hardcore" or whatever—and Matt's never made a villain like that, so I know this could have been portrayed better and simply wasn't. As it stands, she's had more presence in the stupid Moon Moms fanon (which seems to have been found dead on Ruidus anyway) than she has in the actual canon of the show. I'm always happy when a villain dies, but in this case, it's just good riddance.

#critical role #cr spoilers #otohan thull

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ceaseless-watchers-special-girl · 1 month

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can we talk about the ending for a second??? i feel like we're all still in shock.

disclaimer these thoughts came to me at 11:30 last night it's just that i didn't write them down. trying to remember.

i don't think they've created a killer army. why would they need to kill people?? like iirc they're primarily a pharmacorp. they might want to kill their competitors, but even that seems like an inefficient and frankly stupid way to deal with them, and now that they can literally bring people back from the dead they have a product no-one else does, so they don't really need to compete with anyone.

as far as i know they don't have beef with anyone either?? they're not trying to start a war i don't think. there's no need for them to have a killer army.

something about the way the first zombie shot her lover in the head feels like the way melee's dad was shot in the head. someone has been killed again just so they can be revived and made into a cog in the dokana machine. i don't think these zombies are primarily programmed to kill. i think they're programmed to work.

i think dokana is going to kill most of the present human workers they have and bring them back as mindless zombies to work alongside the people whose lives they were fighting for. double their workforce, double their profit, zero the chance of uprisings/unions/people trying to get out.

and anyone who they deem smart enough to be worth more as the human they were than as a mindless zombie is being kept for the "very special project". dokana need these "very special" brains to function properly, so they're taking their time to make sure that they can bring these people back exactly as they were. once they do, they're going to find a way to make them comply so they can use them to create products which will put them way ahead of their competitors, while a mindless zombie factory makes them steady profit down in vivopolis.

fuck capitalism fr

#forgive me if this is something we've already established??? i feel like most of us are all #AAHHHH KILLER ZOMBIES #or at least i was. but i got my thoughts together last night here you can have them #the penumbra podcast #tpp

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anotherdayinsimworld · 1 year

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I decided to make a cemetery in Sulani so I bulldozed the residence on the Tangled Flat lot and made myself a Tangled Lot Cemetery. Most of the original "townie" sims from the beginning of the game have since passed and their tombstones have been placed here.

Included here are:

Alika Killer and Mele Killer (Journey's End, Lani St. Taz)

Oliana Tsunami and Leila Sand (Reef Finery, Lani St. Taz)

Paka'a Uranium (Sapphire Shores, Lani St. Taz)

Kalamainu'u Salt (Pier Perfection, Lani St. Taz)

Ukupanipo Trident (Admiral's Wreckage, Mua Pel'am)

Nalani Octopus (Admiral's Wreckage, Mua Pel'am)

Makoa Drowning (Kin-Ship, Ohan'ali Town)

Lilliana Drowning (Kin-Ship, Ohan'ali Town)

Lia Witch (Chieftain's Villa, Ohan'ali Town)

Two other long time Sulani residents, Kayla Freak (Sapphire Shores, Lani St. Taz) and Brytani Cho (Lagoon Look, Ohan'ali Town, and later Caldera Camp, Mua Pel'am) are both global superstars from Del Sol Valley and so their tombstones have been placed there.

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rootsofdread · 8 months

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Hello! While I had intended to place my second request when my first one was completed, I'm worried you'll close your asks before then, so here we go. A gender neutral reader who steals the killer's melee weapons. It's not a one off thing, no, it's something they do all the time. They grab it and run. I'll leave what killers to you, I want to be surprised, but please do two if you have the time. Sincerely, a wolf.

did three for ya, wolf! :-D

Evan MacMillan / The Trapper:

Evan had lodged his cleaver into a tree to set up some traps unencumbered, he knew he’d be unhappy if he ran into one of the survivors without it, but he figured it was the best way to do it quickly. A little while later, he came back to find it had been ripped out of the bark. The tracks in the dirt were still fresh, he knew you had to have only recently taken it. He huffed. He knew it was a mistake to leave it behind, now one of you has taken it…bear trap in hand, he sets off to find where you’d run off to. He found you almost halfway across the grounds using his cleaver to hack down a wall. His hand twitched.

He’s already an angry man, and taking his weapon just makes him angry. It’s a quick way to set him off rampaging through the grounds slaughtering anyone in his path simply to find where you’ve gone with it. He finds a way without his cleaver, you’ve seen it first-hand. Fortunately, with his weapon, you’re able to do a moderate amount of defending yourself and your teammates — until he grabs you by the collar of your shirt and stares deep into your soul, disapprovingly.

Even though he gets angry, he feels like he has to admire your fighting spirit when you decide to use his own weapon against him. You remind him of himself, in a weird way…and in an even weirder way, he likes that. You’d think he’d come to hate you for taking his things, but it’s quite the opposite.

Max Thompson, Jr. / The Hillbilly:

The first time you’d done it, Max had only set his chainsaw down for a second to throw somebody on a hook. He didn’t even know anyone else was lurking around. When he turned to pick it back up, it was gone. At first, he thought he must’ve misremembered where he put it. He doesn’t have the best memory, and it’s happened before…until he saw you running around in the distance with something clutched in your hand that didn’t look like anything you were supposed to have. He didn’t immediately register that it was his chainsaw, but when he did…to say he was furious would be an understatement.

After this, he’s a little more careful about where he puts his chainsaw and when he puts it there. He checks around corners before setting it down to make sure you’re not hiding nearby to swipe it. Sometimes, you don’t, and he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to chase you down to get it back. Unfortunately, most of the time you do end up getting your hands on it one way or another; he’d be willing to throw away the entire trial just to get it back and throw you on a hook for inconveniencing him.

He doesn’t appreciate your thievery, but sometimes, he does seem to appreciate having someone to run around with. Nobody else cares much for him; and even though he doesn’t read your stealing as caring, necessarily, you’re still spending time around him, and going out of your way to do so. Some part of him almost, in a way, finds it sweet that you’re doing this.

Talbot Grimes / The Blight:

Talbot had accidentally thrown his cane a ways away once when trying to rush at someone. Miraculously, the hit had landed, but he had no idea where the Bonebuster had gone off to. He glanced around as he carried them over to a hook, trying to see the glint of the top in the moonlight; instead, in it’s place where it had landed, he saw you brandishing it and grinning. The second you realized he was staring at you, you bolted away with it. He cursed at you. He needs that, you insolent twerp, give it back! He immediately threw his victim on the ground and rushed after you.

You’d be surprised how often his cane slips out of his hand, and how many opportunities you have to snag it. Sometimes, he even thinks he’s safe setting it down for just a moment to replenish his energy with his serum. You take every chance you get, and he’s angry every single time, without fail. He’s not one for colorful language, he is a scientist, and a gentleman, after all, but it comes out when he’s running after you. Most of the time, you catch the giggling of other survivors as he curses at you. It’s so unlike him.

That said, he seems to have a strange admiration for your boldness, your courage, your willingness to push the limits and the buttons of himself and, as far as he can assume, other killers. No one else is quite as brave as you are, stealing his weapon and getting close enough to do so, for that, he feels he has to give you credit. He may even be compelled to run experiments: exactly how close are you willing to get?

#inbox #gender neutral reader #survivor reader #evan macmillan #max thompson jr #talbot grimes #dbd imagines #dbd x reader #dbd x you #evan macmillan x reader #the trapper x reader #max thompson jr x reader #the hillbilly x reader #talbot grimes x reader #the blight x reader

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dnd-shows-have-my-soul · 10 days

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Yesterday, I was talking with a couple of friends about the newest Dimension 20 episode and it was brought up how killer a party the bad kids are. Their levels of optimization and total mastery of the battlefield is a sight to behold. From there, it was mentioned how Bells Hells and the Bad Kids are at the same level (level 13). And naturally, we began to compare the two parties, and it became quickly apparent that one party felt leagues ahead of the other. And that got me thinking, what do the Bad Kids have that Bells Hells don't?

And this is nothing about the players themselves. All 13 players from both CR and D20 are masters of what they do. Their level of strategy and creativity is unparalleled. And you can't say that one group of people is specifically better than the other. So then where are these problems coming from? And then I realized the problems didn’t have anything to do with the players. Not with characters or even their choices

It’s their party composition that’s the real issue.

While on the surface, BHs looks like a very diverse party, everyone in it is very locked into specific roles. We have three melee fighters (who can really only act as melee fighters), two spell casters who mostly have damaging spells (mixed in with some support stuff) and a cleric (that is really locked into their role of healing and support). Fearne is really the only character with any real versatility but because of the current party setup, she kind of has to play support or healing, otherwise the party becomes very unbalanced.

Because so many characters are unable to deviate from their “roles,” everything becomes much harder.

Look at the bad kids in comparison, Adaine can quickly switch from pure damage dealing to support moves very quickly, Fig can switch between melee to spells to straight up healing, and Fabian, who is mostly melee, is still able to take on a support role because of his levels in bard. And while they do have some more rigid roles (Kristen, Gorgug, Riz), these characters still have options via spells.

The best DND parties are the ones where the individual roles are fluid and ever changing. And because BHs setup, that becomes a difficult feat to pull off.

And then I was thinking about why.

Why they would design the party this way if it was so clearly unsteady.

But the thing is, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Because there is one word that explains exactly why the party is what is. One word that simultaneously explains and fixes everything.

One word.

Dorian.

Having a bard in the party would go miles into helping BHs and make a lot of those issues outright disappear. Dorian ,as a Swords bard, can engage in direct melee, but can also provide additional support and be another source of healing within the party. Spells like Hypnotic Pattern, Warding Wind, and Shatter are all incredibly useful within combat, and having caster that can take a hit is always a good thing.

And again, do I think that Bells Hells doing something wrong by having the party they have? Absolutely not. Despite my earlier statements, I'm genuinely impressed by their accomplishments, strategy and overall creativity. I love them all. But having a Bard in the party wouldn't hurt.

TLDR; Dorian we need you.

#critical role #dimension 20 #bells hells #the bad kids #critical role spoilers #d20 #cr #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjr #bad kids #dorian storm #no hate to either #i love both cr and d20 alot #analysis #your free to disagree just don't be a dick about it #cr spoilers #i really want dorian to come back if yall couldn't tell

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dogesterone · 7 months

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New Lancer mech for my character. IPS-N Nelson equipped with Light and Hunter-Killer Nexuses, a Tactical Melee Weapon, and a Graviton Beam Emitter Linac Coherent Beam Cannon

#art #lancer

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ghastlytofu · 7 months

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I listened to Kamina's "All The King's Horses" while writing this. If you feel like crying about Wyll today. :)

Titled 'joke's on you i'm into that shit' while it sat in my drafts and you know what..? Still applies. Consider this chapter one of at least two, prompt courtesy of @hiriaeth: "Wyll offering Astarion to feed but feeling guilty bcse it's not just about keeping Astarion healthy it's cause he's really into it for sexy and deeply personal reasons" and @mz-elysium's replies positing masochist Wyll. I can only hope I deliver.

This ended up being very introspective and soppy, slightly gory? And probably only sexy if you're an unholy but SOFT monsterfucker like me, so. Fair warning.

(Still working on my other prompts!)

They are knee-deep in gnolls, which is one thing - but the next, oh, before they've cleaned the blood off their blades they're set upon by what appear to be human slavers. Thayan, perhaps, though Wyll can't say for certain. Normally not much of a challenge for adventurers of their ilk - there are no Red Wizards among them, only the grunts and thieves that make their lives easier, but they are fresh off a much harder fight and haven't had time to rest when the first strike comes.

He keeps the location of his companions in mind as he casts Arms of Hadar, sending necrotic power surging menacingly towards his target. It finds it, he notes grimly as the man screams, and Wyll ducks and takes him with his rapier, bloodspray hitting the soft soil like rain. A few paces behind him Shadowheart's mace crushes the skull of an unfortunate rogue and she's rushing to aid Lae'zel, casting quick healing spells to treat what looks like a sprained or broken ankle and - he winces - some kind of acid burn running up her leg, effectively taking them out of the fight, at least for the moment.

Wyll moves to cover them. Successive eldritch blasts slam into the only archer left, felling him. There are at least three more melee combatants on the field, and that's if they don't have reinforcements. They have to move quickly. Lae'zel stumbles to her feet with Shadowheart's assistance, already swinging her greatsword and Astarion -

He hasn't seen Astarion, until now. Hasn't needed to; knew that he would've slipped into cover of darkness when first the fight began, and that he has. He takes one of their foes by surprise, his whirling daggers at their wicked work as one plunges into her heart, the other arcing across her throat. She falls.

There's screaming, and burning. Someone is on fire to his right - another of their enemies, and over the noxious stench of burning flesh and the rising smoke he sees their suffering ended with a swift strike of Lae'zel's massive sword.

There was one more, wasn't there?

He turns, but it's too late. The enemy is upon him, driven by desperation and fear at witnessing his fellows' violent deaths to strike wildly and carelessly, but it's enough at this range. He can't avoid the blade, can't think fast enough to make the mortal wound a minor injury, steels himself against the impact -

It doesn't come. Not like he expects. The blade bites through his armor and grazes his flesh, but he isn't skewered. He turns to see - Astarion, backlit by the afternoon sun, one hand gripping his would-be killer's hair and the other grasping his shoulder. Faster than Wyll can think, he's plunging his fangs into his attacker's strong neck.

Astarion has kept to his word all these long weeks. Animals and hostiles only, he'd promised, hand over his unbeating heart. And when those bodies inevitably fell in the heat of battle - throats torn, blood burbling through gaping wounds and into Astarion's eager waiting mouth -

Wyll watches the slaver struggle, watches his struggling cease. Astarion is - Astarion is drinking deeply, hungrily, Wyll can hear him swallowing greedily as he devours the man before him. A wicked man, a man who'd every intention of ending Wyll's life just moments ago. He has never seen it. Like this, before. It's too intimate. Through the faint sucking sounds, Wyll's - he finds himself staring at those teeth, and after a moment his one working eye meets Astarion's two, catching over the almost-limp body of his. Food.

He knows it's a mistake as soon as it happens - his head throbs with psionic energy, and Astarion's eyes go wide. He is still drinking as he sees-feels Wyll's morbid interest through their tadpoles: something beyond simple gratitude for thinning their enemies' ranks (as had happened in the past: with all professional gravitas, of course, "I appreciate you doing your part to ensure our little group lives to see another day," he'd say. "One hunter to another.")

But underneath. His tadpole squirms - underneath lies the heart of his fascination, and he knows Astarion is consuming it as surely as he's consuming their foe: for every time he's witnessed an enemy die in Astarion's arms, Wyll is alight with pity and envy in equally terrible measure, a heady concoction that flies in the face of everything The Blade of Frontiers stands for: Gods, I wish it were me.

The body falls. The spell breaks.

They return to camp.

There is no use beating around the bush.

With their illithid connection, he knows he's been had. There is no point denying it. He'll have to explain himself or risk being subjected to endless teasing - has to hope that Astarion is feeling particularly magnanimous tonight. Because.

He does want to help. He always has. He feels earnestly that Astarion shouldn't have to go hungry - that no one in their camp ought to go hungry - wading through uncertain days and nights when there was a ready supply of fresh food available. It was only practical.

And yet...

It gnaws at him, how much he wants it. How easy it is to get lost in the fantasy of those sharp canines penetrating his skin, his flesh and blood yielding to hungry ministrations. He imagines his own hot blood coursing through Astarion's body, warming him up. Of being the flush in his cheeks, the throbbing in his loins -

Well.

It's a recurring thought, suffice to say.

It burns within him - something hot and hungry that was stoked inside long before the Hells got their hands on him. He expects Astarion's face to be mocking when he confronts him at camp that evening, perhaps just this side of cruel - the man takes his petty pleasures where he can, and following the life he's lead Wyll can hardly blame him - but instead the rogue's looking at him thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he saunters forward. Considering.

"You know, dear," he says, keeping some distance between them. But not much. "This could be quite fortuitous for you and I," and he gestures between them, easy and graceful, as if there could be any doubt about whom he speaks.

Charming bastard. My, but he is in deep.

Astarion's voice hasn't fallen into a seductive register, as one might expect. The tone one supposes he would've - might've - used to entice innumerable patriars of the past.

Not that Wyll's thought about it.

But he does sound hungry. Underneath the civility, there's an edge. And Wyll is intensely aware of that gaze on him - of his own heart hammering away in his chest, a bird beating against the bars of its cage.

It's almost worse because he trusts Astarion. It would be so much easier if he didn't, if the vampire spawn were just another monster to slay. He could be righteous then, and not want, and not wonder.

But wonder he does, and Astarion's incessant teasing doesn't help. Oh, not that Wyll minds as such - finds him more charming than not, by and large an agreeable menace - but some words rattle in his brain more than others: Astarion admitting within three feet of him, bold as day that he'd favor a taste of Wyll's blood above all others. No question, he'd said, and hasn't that thought kept him up countless sweaty nights.

Perilous were the waters of flattery when the source was such a danger. And Astarion was dangerous - is dangerous, deadly even. And catty, and brave. Surprisingly sweet under all the bluster and defensive sarcasm. He's proven a steadfast ally and delightful company to boot, if a tad knife-happy. And even were that not the case, Wyll thinks. He's of no mind to condemn any creature that isn't actively preying on innocents.

He's not sure if he counts himself among them.

He's struck by the memory of a book he once read, tucked away in his father's study. Certainly not meant to be seen by his young prying eyes, The Salty Mermaid was as debauched as it was dramatic, the salacious and harrowing tale of the mermaid Allura, a beautiful and brave battlemaiden of the sea, and the hapless half-elven fisherman that loved her.

Descriptions of desire and alien anatomy - the salt spray painting the scales of the mermaid's tail, running in rivulets down her iridescent body, slick in secret places. Her lover's tongue tracing them tirelessly, feverish in his devotion to her pleasure. She was known. She was heeded.

To this day the memory of that damnable book inevitably has him swelling in his smallclothes, clenching his thighs in a hopeless attempt to alleviate the arousal that builds in him. He's never thought of himself as a man of peculiar tastes - has always considered himself rather old-fashioned in love, if he's being honest - but it leaves an imprint on his memory that's tied directly to the fire within him - a chord that resonates in every nerve of his body, plucked by Astarion's knowing smile.

He can see his fangs.

Drivel, his father had called it. But still Ulder kept it in his drawer, a shameful but coveted secret tucked away like so much hoarded treasure. An action that befuddled young Wyll at the time.

He thinks he understands it better, now.

He doesn't want to. Use. And that is the crux of it - this mad desire to be bitten feels at odds with his sincere desire to see Astarion well-tended to, however symbiotic they may seem on the surface, and this is the why of it:

Motive is important. He's always argued - staked his very soul on the principle - that intent matters. It's how he's justified seven years in Mizora's service. He signed that contract for the people, and that has to matter, because if it doesn't. If it doesn't, and his soul is damned for naught -

That thought threatens to consume him, or it would if given any chance of flourishing. Wyll does not let it see the light of day. He cannot afford to dwell on such things. So he doesn't.

What does he have that's his? His heart for the Gate, laying there at his father's feet. His soul to the Hells, and now his body: Mizora has taken them both. All he has is his duty to the Coast, and here is someone who needs him, plainly.

He steels himself. Swallows around his shame, and speaks. He owes his friend an explanation - and Astarion is his friend, despite the odds.

"It isn't- I don't want you to think that's why," he starts.

"And whyever not?" Astarion interjects, voice honey-tempered and calm. He is very still, and Wyll feels clumsy, inadequate. He is twenty-four and feels like a foal, stumbling and uncertain. He has never had this conversation before. Hardly understands that which he's so desperate to communicate.

"I want to help you," he says, somewhat helplessly. It feels pathetic. He feels pathetic. But it's-

"But you want it," it's not a question. Astarion's tone is sharp, leaving little room for doubt though his face is not unkind. He nods thoughtfully without waiting for Wyll's response, seeming to have come to some conclusion within himself.

"Yes," Wyll says anyway, because he owes the man an honest answer. It would not do to lie now. He doesn't squirm, but only because he's had a lifetime of uncomfortable confrontations eerily similar to this: he's six years old standing stock still in front of his father, fighting against his trembling legs. He's ten, he's fourteen, he's -

He's seventeen, and Ulder Ravengard says go.

Wyll banishes the thought from his mind, but not before Astarion shoots him a knowing look, surely experiencing echoes of his unwelcome ghosts via the parasites nestled in their heads. He sighs.

"What do you want from me, Astarion? Yes, it's tempting. I don't- it isn't a consideration I want you to place above your own needs. It doesn't matter. We can drop it," he offers.

There is a lengthy pause. He hears only insects in the distant night, his own blood rushing in his ears. There is the faint whisper of his breathing; Astarion's chest is still.

"Or we could not drop it," Astarion responds evenly. Steady. It is a second option. Astarion is giving him a second option.

Something in him buckles, and he takes a step forward. Astarion grins victoriously - excited, gleeful even, the prospect of what's to come lending to his countenance a certain joie de vivre seldom seen on the road. "My dear," he coos, fully stepping into Wyll's space now. "Consider how we might take care of one another." One hand winds about the back of his head, caressing a horn. The other lands on his shoulder and Wyll relaxes into the touch, a familiar gallantry, his arms coming up tentatively to rest on Astarion's waist, earning him a brilliant smile.

It is a peace offering, Wyll recognizes. A familiar script he can follow, and he sighs with relief and gratitude. He has the distinct impression that the other man is indulging him with such pageantry, letting him play the strapping hero come to this poor vampire spawn's rescue in his time of need, offering selflessly of his body, his blood, though it's clear to him now - in his honest heart - that the two of them are offering of one another.

Ebb and flow, he thinks. Like the sea, sure as the steady thrum in his veins.

He feels... quiet. Perhaps it's the thought that if he says it quietly enough, no one but Astarion will know. "Will it hurt?"

Astarion's cool lips are close to his ear. "Only a little, my sweet," he admits, voice soft. "But you may well enjoy that."

Wyll shivers.

"Worry not, O Blade," he says, nosing along what part of Wyll's jaw he can reach from where they stand. "I like that you like it. Do you think I'd rather be where I'm not wanted?" It's not quite a pout in his voice, but something like it. Wyll can hardly argue, so he nods, feeling discordantly shy.

Astarion steps back. Wyll feels suddenly bereft - cold, though his companion's body is not warm by any measure. But he only takes Wyll's hand, leading him out from under the awning and into his tent proper, pulling him down so that they're kneeling together in the faint light of the hanging lantern. Softly instructing Wyll to lay back, sweetling.

He does as he's told. His breath catches. Some monster hunter, he thinks, in a voice not unlike his father's. Considers this moment, considers countless others in his recent and not so recent past. Thinks of the horns on his head and the fork in his tongue.

The tent smells like Astarion. Blankets and pillows especially, but the dusty tomes, the neatly arranged bottles on a shelf are all evidence of his presence. It's not unpleasant. Faint jasmine perfume, and underneath, traces of blood-iron seem to permeate the air and every surface. Evidence of the not-quite-living. Or... no. Perhaps a different, but equally valid form of existing. It makes him shiver.

Wyll's glad they're not doing this in his tent. He can't bear the thought of laying awake every night in a puddle of his own desperate sweat, triggered endlessly by the inescapable scent-memory of this moment. Such occurrences happen often enough already.

He's splayed out like a meal, and with a dull sort of shock remembers he is one. Astarion's leaning over him now, haloed by the glow of the lantern, shadows cast against the canvas walls of their shelter. His pupils are wide and dark.

He's looking at Wyll like he sees him. Wyll meets his gaze, and with a sort of courage that doesn't remind him at all of the Frontiers, tilts his head back to bare his neck.

"How very considerate of you, darling," his companion murmurs. He draws one hand across Wyll's face - across his day old stubble, his chin, down the scarred line of his throat - pausing significantly at his pulse point, which thunders like a war drum, riotously loud in his ears, he can't imagine what Astarion hears - before continuing his trajectory downward to better brace himself against Wyll's shoulder.

Astarion gives it a squeeze before catching Wyll's eye once more. Seeking confirmation - assurance, perhaps, that Wyll is here with him. That he wants this.

He does, desperately. It is too late to play coy; he owes it to Astarion not to attempt such a thing. So he swallows, and nods, and lays an encouraging hand over Astarion's where it rests on his shoulder. For a moment he worries it's too much. Too tenuous a path to tread in this fragile moment, but Astarion does not pull away. The look that it earns him - Wyll cannot put a name to it. It feels tender and put-together, furious and fraying.

"Thank you," Astarion says, simply.

He leans in, and Wyll closes his eyes.

tbc

#they've invaded my brain like mindflayer tadpoles. i grow wyllstarion tentacles as we speak #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #wyll ravengard #astarion ancunin #wyllstarion #bloodpact #bloodfrontier #wyll ravengard x astarion ancunin #fanfiction #fic

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