More Intense Vibes (or Smth Idk Theyre Just Vibes)

more intense vibes (or smth idk they’re just vibes)

emotional? angsty? fighty? yep. check, check, and check again. bon appetit!

“ go. ”

“ stop this. ”

“ let go of me. ”

“ you’re gonna have to make me. ”

“ please don’t do this. ”

“ don’t make me do this. ”

“ you have no idea what i’m capable of. ”

“ don’t you dare. ”

“ i wouldn’t do that if i were you. ”

“ i can’t do this. ”

“ i won’t let you do this. ”

“ i’m not gonna let that happen. ”

“ go! get out of here! run! ”

“ i’m not what you think i am. ”

“ don’t get in my way. ”

“ revenge won’t bring peace for you. ”

“ you always knew this would happen, didn’t you? ”

“ what’s going on in that head of yours? ”

“ you do not turn against your family. ”

“ i will kill you if i have to. ”

“ we need you. ”

“ it’s okay. i got this. ”

“ you were chosen for a reason. ”

“ get up. ”

“ it’s too late. ”

“ you can’t do this. ”

“ i thought i might find you here. ”

“ you’ve never had to fight me. ”

“ it’s over. ”

“ it’s over. we won/lost. ”

“ it’s over. you lost. ”

“ enough! ”

“ you can’t protect any of them. ”

“ stay here! ”

“ give me your hand. ”

“ i can’t help you. ”

“ you can’t help me! ”

“ i can’t do this anymore… ”

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟐𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟏, 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭

𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝚈 𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙳!

independent / slightly selective

s/low activity

history & headcanon based

captained by ren

21+ only, please

template by calisources

Bad dreams are making a run of the camp.

Behind closed eyes a storm rages on, lashing rain and howling wind making a massacre of the ship. Splintered wood and broken bodies litter the deck, sails and ropes hang in tatters and whip the remaining crew at the wind’s command. Anne’s voice is lost in the crashing of the waves and the cracking of thunder, but she shouts herself hoarse nevertheless. She screams in defiance of the storm and the storm screams back, sending a tall wave over the ship’s railing where it hits Anne square in the chest. She stumbles backward, trips over something, ends up on her back on the rain-slicked wood. She pushes herself up only for the heels of her hands to slip rather than find purchase; the rain pooling around her here is is tinged a discomforting shade of red.

In spite of herself, in spite of not wanting to know whose blood is painting the deck, Anne follows the reddened waters to their source and finds Read. Their dark, precious curls are flattened against their face in the rain, their wide eyes staring unseeing back at Anne. They were no casualty of the storm: there is a gaping hole in their chest where their heart used to be. Above the winds and the waves she hears his laugh, turning to the source, dead set on turning him inside out for thinking he could lay a fucking finger—

Something touches her neck, and pale green eyes snap open almost as if in response, taking the storm and its horrors away in so doing. The night she wakes up to is calmer than the one she has left, but clearly it’s no less dangerous. Frankly, she’d rather have woken with a dagger to her throat: at least she’d have known the score then. The sweat from her nightmare clings to her skin, cooling it in the cold night air. The campfire barely breathes, more warm ember than actual fire, and above her hovers the elf, mouth open like he’s trying to eat her. Like a dumbass.

She sits up slowly and slides a hand under her pillow, wrapping it around the hilt of the scian though she doesn’t pull the blade out. They didn’t turn her out for piracy, after all, even with all that implies; the least she can do is hear him out, let him see if that pretty tongue of his can twist its way out of trouble again. He’s had ample opportunity to do this before now, after all, and he hasn’t.

And anyway, she’s curious. What sort of idiot looks around this party and picks her for easy prey?

“The faster ye start talking, the less likely y’are to end up with a knife stickin out of yer gullet.”

closed starter | @neverhangd

The spawn wakes with a start, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, the remnants of Cazador's voice echoing like poison in his mind. His master’s commands——cruel, unyielding——linger in the corners of his consciousness, tightening their grip on his every thought. "Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures——thou shalt know that thou art mine," the words slither through his veins like a toxin, as if even now, across the distance and the freedom the mind flayer tadpole grants him, Cazador still holds the chain around his neck.

It’s not just the dreams that haunt him. It’s the hunger——the gnawing, insistent ache that’s been growing harder to ignore. For weeks now, Astarion has managed to sneak away, feasting on whatever meager, unsuspecting creatures he could find. But these past nights, the camp has been more vigilant, the party sticking closer together. He hasn't fed properly in days. And now, under the cover of darkness, with only the low crackling of the dying fire, the craving sharpens into something unbearable, something dangerous.

His gaze falls on Anne, sprawled out nearby in a restless sleep. Her breathing is steady, her body bathed in the soft light of the dwindling flames. She’s close enough to reach——too close. Astarion’s eyes narrow, pupils dilating as he silently slips from his bedroll, gliding toward her like a shadow. His instincts——those primal, vicious instincts——take over, drowning out reason and logic, urging him forward. Just a taste. Just enough to know. The thought rolls through his mind, feverish, irrational, but so very tempting. His fingers brush against her neck, cool against the warmth of her skin, and the scent of her blood is intoxicating——so close, so rich——so alive. His fangs ache in his mouth, a dull throb begging for release.

But then, her eyes open, and in an instant, reality comes crashing down around him.

His body tenses, fangs poised inches from her throat, the hunger screaming at him to take, to feed. The moment stretches, unbearably fragile, until he jerks back, panic clawing at his insides. ❛ Shit, ❜ he hisses under his breath, barely able to mask the tremor in his voice. He’s been caught——caught in his hunger, his weakness, his desperation. And now, he’s not sure which is worse: the hunger gnawing at him, or the way Anne is looking at him now.

Finally back in New Providence and it feels like the mud here is trying to get her stuck. It sucks at her heels every time she moves, like a grim metaphor for what being back on this island is doing for her health. The Republic of Pirates felt like the only safe port left in the storm of her life, but maybe she’d been wrong on that count. Anne’s been wrong an awful lot lately.

It doesn’t take a well-trained eye to pick apart the afternoon bar flies and find them wanting. It does, however, take guts to approach the meanest of them and drop on in, no warning, no greeting, no invitation. It should warrant a piss off at the nicest, but Anne says nothing, eyeing the stranger up. Sharp. Hungry. Not for food, necessarily; she shared the same spark in her eyes that Anne had sometimes felt in hers.

It’s lunacy to sit here trading stories with a stranger, especially when said stranger’s saddled with an English accent. But there’s something comforting in playing the mad bitch again.

“My husband abandoned me on a foreign coast with little more than the clothes on my back and my name t’make a living on. I don’t know if ye’d call that running away from so much as being run away from.” Half-truths suit her just fine in almost all regards. She expects far less honesty in the answer she’ll receive, even as she asks for it. “Why, what’re you running from?”

█ ▌ liked ( ... ) ↷ @neverhangd : from HELENA .

❛ ❛ there is a marked difference between running towards & running from . chasing & fleeing . ❜ ❜ it's something helena prides herself upon ; being able to tell them apart . knowing when one's own shadow is their deepest fear , or when their heart yearns for something so DESPERATELY that they would perish thricefold on the journey just to find fulfillment . ❛ ❛ what past are you running from to have ended up here ? i'll tell you mine , if it sweetens the pot . ❜ ❜ [ as much as you are willing to share , of course ( ... ) it would do you little good to go around frightening the locals with the truth . ]

Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

Fuck, Marry, Kill: Alfira, Wyll, Shadowheart :)

FMK! Send me three names.

…well. That’s quite the fucking list, isn’t it? A stranger, the Blade of the Frontiers, and the Sharran cleric—none of whom have expressed an interest in her, making this game a mite harder than she’s found it in the past.

“Ah…kill Allfire. Allferal. Allfeara. Whate’er her name is. En’t nothing personal, just don’t know her.” Now…which fate’s worse, married to the secretive Sharran or married to the insufferable folk hero? It’s a hard decision. Truly. “…fuck Shadowheart. Haven’t had many nice things in my life—may’s well give myself one halfway-decent shag afore shacking up with Wyll.”