#babelard

[acreaturebythewater]

WIP WHENEVER

thank you for the tags @graysparrowao3 and @darkurgetrash <3

tags for @lizziemajestic @krawwan @lemonsrosesandlavender @arach-tinilith if you want to <3

here's something from ophelia's magnae accessio :D

Ophelia von Valancius is used to getting what she wants. Even when she was simply known as Ophelia Stubbs, the third generation ruler of a whole star system of wonderfully corrupted thieves, she still got what she wanted.

That never meant her desires came easily to her, thieves are, after all, opportunists, a finer expression for turncoats and backstabbers, meaning at times goals had to be reached by force, and at other times the price was higher than Ophelia ever could have imagined. 

Nonetheless, that is all in the past now. The newfound knowledge of the blood surging through her veins turned her world on its axis, and with it her desires. It had been difficult to accept at first, the nagging feeling of the whole revelation being a long run con never fully ceased, but with every battle won, with every betrayal shot down, the desire to take her seat on the throne grew stronger. 

It's so close she can taste it. The voices of thousands of her charges gathering to see her assert her right to Theodora's legacy echo from the streets and through her cracked open door to the balcony, and they're all there for her. 

The last obstacle should be an easy one, but judging by the fussing of the maids, it might as well have been as difficult as getting out of Rykad. 

At first glance, the gown might be considered simple compared to the flamboyant creations the other nobles wear. High-collared — as she prefers it — with bare shoulders, but the midnight blue silk hugs her body in all the right places, and when she moves, light catches on the tiny beads embroidered on the skirt, making it look like a galaxy. 

Much to the dismay of the maids, Ophelia has chosen to keep her hair down, though she still lets them fuss about with the make-up, by now they know what she likes. 

Another sweep of blush on her cheek before Ophelia raises her hand. The maid stops immediately.

“Leave me,” she says. 

The maids scramble to vacate the room. 

It's rare for Ophelia to have a moment of peaceful solitude, she cherishes every second of it, quietly observing herself in the mirror. 

Her heart beats like a field drum within her chest, an equal mix of nerves and excitement, but her hand is steady as she reaches for her lipstick. The blood plum red stands in stark contrast to her pale skin, a colour she's used as long as she can remember, as much a safety as the rifle she usually carries on her back. 

As always with her moments of solitude, it gets prematurely interrupted, this time by the sound of the door cracking open. 

Do people not even have the decency to knock anymore? 

“I said I wanted to be left alone,” Ophelia snaps without tearing her eyes from her reflection.

“My apologies, Lord Captain,” Abelard says from the door. “It’s time.”

The scowl immediately drops from Ophelia's face, a soft smile taking its place. 

His presence soothes her nerves, warmth and safety caressing her racing heart. At the same time it overwhelms her, desire surging through her body with a force that has her lose her breath for a moment. 

There's also the uncertainty, between running across galaxies and dealing with the workings of her ship, there hasn't been time to talk through what happened between them. 

There won't be time for that today either, for now she'll just be happy to see him. 

She stands up, twirling once with silk flowing around her before facing him.

“How do I look?” she asks, now grinning from ear to ear. 

Abelard’s face is unreadable, his lips pursing ever so slightly. His natural eye stays put on her face, but the red lens of his ocular implant twitches downward.

“Suitable for the occasion, Lord Captain,” he says, tone short.

It takes all her strength to not show her disappointment, hiding the lump in her throat by taking another look in the mirror, applying another layer of lipstick to already immaculate lips. 

"Fantastic," she says, walking past him without batting an eye his way. "Let us begin." 

[acreaturebythewater]

WIP whenever/whatcha working on friday?

thank you for the tags @genrushh and @graysparrowao3 <3

tags for @lizziemajestic @littleplasticrat @lemonsrosesandlavender

two short things from two completely different wips

yksu first!

There's a hole in the wall where Tav's front door used to be. A gaping darkness in place of the warm glow that used to come from her home. Dust covers the surfaces that were once filled with everything that made her home hers.  Standing on the threshold between moonlight and pitch black shadows, Astarion hesitates. He's been here plenty of times since he found the house empty and boarded up, looking for any sign that she might be back, that she might just have gone onto another city, leaving to go on another adventure.  He doesn't hesitate because of the lump that forms in his chest when he thinks of her disappearance, he hesitates because between the growing smell of mildew and rot, there's a hint of sulphur pushing its way to the back of his throat.  One of few times he's happy he doesn't have to breathe. 

babelard second:

Of course, he’s kept an eye on the Rogue Trader throughout the ceremony and following celebration. It's his duty. He's watched her move through the room like royalty, observe and converse with the nobles as if she was born for the role, and throw her head back in laughter as Lord Winterscale led her through the dance floor.  Abelard knows she's had three glasses of amasec, four bites of the canapés, and he knows he lost sight of her after young Master van Calox ushered her away from the throne room.  He should have followed them right away, instead he was too caught up with choking down the pang of jealousy that gripped tightly around his throat at the sight of the two of them leaving together. Now, instead of a the images flashing through his mind, he's simply met with a locked door and two Inquisitorial guards outside the door to his Lord Captain's office.  They eye him warily, but still with the same untouchability he sees in the stowaway Interrogator. Abelard does nothing to subdue the look of disapproval that spreads on his face, it's better than revealing the worry that churns away in his gut. 

[acreaturebythewater]

LAST LINE/WIP WHENEVER

thank you for the tags @graysparrowao3 and @clericblood <3

tags for @lemonsrosesandlavender @darkurgetrash @honeybee-bard if you want to + anyone else who wants to! <3

i haven't written anything coherent since the last wip whenever so i'll go with last line:

With a protecting layer of fabric between them, he allows himself to let his fingers linger on her upper arms.