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bardic-inspo · 9 months ago

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

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urfavoritewriter · 9 months ago

Text

Ghostface Meal, Part II

A gift for a very good friend of mine. <3

Content: M/Multiple Prey, Oral Vore, Digestion, Unwilling Prey, Muscular Pred, Ghostface, Male Observer, Belching

As Chris ventured back into the lively atmosphere of the party, his shirtless form with the bulging, full-of-Alex belly stood out amidst the sea of costumes and flashing lights. The Ghostface mask perched atop his head added an eerie allure to his imposing physique. He moved through the crowd with a predatory grace, his eyes scanning the room for his next target.

Nearby, a young man dressed as a cowboy caught Chris's attention. The cowboy's outfit consisted of a worn leather vest adorned with fringes, tight jeans, and a classic Stetson hat perched jauntily atop his head. His rugged appearance contrasted with the flamboyant costumes around him, drawing Chris's gaze like a moth to a flame.

With a confident stride, Chris closed the distance between them, his muscles rippling beneath the dim lighting of the party. The cowboy glanced up at him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, clearly taken aback by Chris's squirming belly.

Without a word, Chris reached out and grasped the cowboy's shoulder, his touch firm yet strangely inviting. The cowboy's eyes widened in surprise as Chris's strong grip guided him closer, their faces mere inches apart.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Chris's other hand shot out and wrapped around the cowboy's waist, pulling him even closer until their bodies were pressed tightly together. The cowboy's heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement as he found himself ensnared by Chris's powerful embrace.

“Hope you don’t mind joining the private after-party,” Chris said, “’Cause you’ve got a one-way ticket there.”

With a primal growl, Chris lunged forward and engulfed the cowboy's head in his gaping maw, his powerful jaws snapping shut with a resounding crunch, bitten as he’s being swallowed whole but not enough to end him right away.

As the cowboy's struggling form disappeared into the darkness of Chris's gullet, a deep, satisfied belch reverberated through the room, signaling the completion of yet another successful feast.

As the partygoers began to notice the peculiar sight of Chris, shirtless and bulging with an unmistakable gluttony, a wave of confusion rippled through the crowd. Some exchanged bewildered glances, while others gasped in shock at the spectacle unfolding before them.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Chris patted his distended belly, relishing in the weight of his recent indulgences. His appetite had been ignited, and he had no intention of stopping now, especially since Robin was waiting for him up there where he promised he’d be back.

With a predatory gleam in his eye, Chris began to move through the crowd once more, his strides purposeful and determined. He approached his next unsuspecting victim, a young woman dressed as a glamorous flapper from the roaring twenties. Her sequined dress shimmered in the dim light of the party, her laughter ringing out like music to Chris's ears, oblivious & thinking people were having rowdy fun.

With a deceptively charming smile, Chris sidled up to the flapper, his muscles bulging beneath the dim light of the party. Before she could react, Chris's strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close to his towering frame. His grip was firm yet strangely comforting, drawing her into his embrace with a mix of fear and fascination.

With a playful wink, Chris leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered teasingly, "Looks like you're the next lucky contestant in my little game."

The flapper's eyes widened in disbelief as Chris's other hand shot out and clasped the back of her head, tilting it back at a precarious angle. In one swift motion, he opened his mouth wide, revealing row after row of gleaming teeth.

With a mixture of horror and fascination, the flapper watched as Chris's jaws descended upon her, swallowing her head whole in a single, merciless gulp.

Undeterred by the chaos unfolding around him, Chris continued to waddle through the crowd, his eyes scanning for his next victim. Man or woman, it mattered little to him.

As the chaos of the party escalated into mass panic, Chris found himself swept up in a whirlwind of movement and noise. People were running in every direction, their screams echoing off the walls of the house as they fled from the terrifying spectacle unfolding before them.

But amidst the chaos, Chris remained strangely calm, his focus unwavering as he continued his relentless pursuit of sustenance. With each swift movement, he snatched up another unsuspecting partygoer, his powerful arms enveloping them in a vice-like grip before they even had a chance to react.

As he swallowed down his latest victim, a surge of exhilaration coursed through Chris's veins, driving him onward in his quest for more. He moved with an almost supernatural agility, darting through the crowd with ease as he zeroed in on his next target.

But amidst the chaos and confusion, there was one person who remained firmly planted in Chris's mind: Robin, the shy and unassuming boy whom he had left behind in the room upstairs. With each passing moment, Chris's thoughts turned to the young man, his heart swelling with a strange mixture of protectiveness and desire.

As he swallowed down yet another hapless partygoer, Chris's mind drifted back to the image of Robin, sitting alone in the room, tears glistening in his eyes. The memory fueled his determination, driving him to continue his rampage through the party with renewed fervor.

With each swallow, Chris felt a strange sense of satisfaction wash over him, his belly swelling with the weight of his latest conquests. As he swallowed down another partygoer, Chris couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation at the thought of having the boy rub & worship his growing belly, putting all his weight to work.

As Chris sat on the floor, his muscular frame dominating the room, his shirtless torso gleaming under the party lights, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself. His belly, now swollen to a massive size, bulged out between his powerful thighs, a testament to the feast he had indulged in moments ago. He absentmindedly rubbed the distended mound, feeling the weight of his conquests squirming within.

With a mischievous grin, Chris whistled for Robin, the shy and slender man he had left in the room earlier. As Robin descended the stairs, his eyes widened in shock and amazement at the sight before him. The room was filled with the aroma of food and the sound of muffled protests emanating from Chris's belly.

“U–Uh… Chris–”

"Well, don't just stand there cutie, this is all for you to enjoy~," Chris said casually, gesturing towards his swollen midsection with a nonchalant flick of his hand. Robin approached tentatively, his gaze fixed on the round mass before him. With a mixture of curiosity and excitement, he gingerly reached out to touch Chris's belly.

As his slender fingers made contact with the warm, taut skin, Robin felt a rush of exhilaration. “You’re so big ,” He began to explore every inch of the dome-like mound, his hands tracing the contours and feeling the occasional punch or kick from the prey trapped within. “I can feel them moving inside you!” Despite the chaotic scene unfolding around him, Robin couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and admiration for the powerful figure before him.

“Probably just letting you know they love being in there,” He said, as Robin continued to worship Chris's giant belly, his slender fingers exploring every curve and crevice, Chris casually reached up and pulled his Scream mask back down over his face, the eerie grin now concealing his features once more. The mask perched perfectly on his head as he leaned back against the wall, enjoying the sensation of Robin's touch against his distended abdomen.

With each gentle caress, Chris could feel the vibrations of the prey inside, their muffled protests only serving to fuel his amusement. He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Robin, so small and delicate compared to the massive mound of flesh before him.

“You’re so warm, so big, and so squishy!” Suddenly, Robin leaned forward, his entire weight pressing down onto Chris's stomach with surprising force. The sudden pressure caused Chris to let out a deep, rumbling belch that echoed through the room, the sound reverberating like a beast's roar in the quiet of the night.

BuUuUuuRrRpp!

Chris laughed heartily at the sound, reveling in the sheer power of his own body. Bringing Robin in closer, Chris lifted his mask up slightly, revealing his lips beneath the eerie grin. He looked into Robin's eyes with a mixture of amusement and desire, his voice low and husky as he spoke.

"Well, aren't you a bold one," Chris said, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of admiration. "Feeling better already?“

“Very.” He said, his expression a stark contrast to when he was crying back in the bedroom; He had a smile on his face, enjoying himself as Chris’s huffed breath washed over his face.

As Robin leaned in closer, unsure of what to expect, Chris met him halfway, his lips crashing against Robin's in a fiery kiss. The intensity of the moment took both of them by surprise, their mouths moving together in a passionate dance fueled by desire and hunger.

"Mmm, that's it," Chris murmured against Robin's lips, his voice husky with desire. "You feel so good."

Chris's hands roamed eagerly over Robin's slender frame, exploring every curve and contour with an almost primal hunger. He could feel the heat radiating off Robin's body, the softness of his skin driving Chris wild with longing.

Meanwhile, Robin's fingers found their way to Chris's chiseled pecs, kneading them with a mixture of awe and reverence. Each touch sent shivers down Chris's spine, his body responding instinctively to Robin's every caress.

"You're so fucking hot," Robin whispered, his voice laced with admiration as his fingers trailed down Chris's chest.

Chris chuckled, the sound vibrating against Robin's lips. "You're not so bad yourself," he replied, his tone playful yet tinged with a hint of lust.

As their kiss deepened, the air around them crackled with electricity, the intensity of their passion igniting like wildfire. Moans and gasps escaped their lips, mingling together in pleasure as they lost themselves in each other's embrace.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as they surrendered to the heat of the moment, their bodies pressed together in a frenzy of desire. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, as Chris’s belly groaned loudly, churning around its occupants.

Chris broke the kiss, but instead of pulling away, he wrapped his strong arm around Robin, pulling him close in a tight embrace. Their bodies pressed together, the warmth of their closeness enveloping them both as they shared a moment of intimacy.

As they held each other, Chris let out a contented sigh, his eyes closing in bliss. "Let's sleep here while I digest," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "And then, how about we go on an official date? That's if you're fine with me carrying a belly tomorrow from what I got in front of me." He slapped his belly, prompting a muffled yelp of pain.

Robin's blush deepened, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'd love that," he replied, his voice soft and earnest as he nuzzled against Chris's chest. "And I don't mind at all. Besides, it's just proof of how lucky I am to have such a strong, handsome man like you."

Chris chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Robin's forehead. "You're too sweet," he murmured, his voice filled with affection. "Now, let's get some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us."

Together, they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms, the promise of a new beginning lingering in the air. For Chris and Robin, the night was just the beginning of their journey together, filled with love, passion, and the occasional indulgence in their shared desires.

#male vore #digestion #male prey #female prey #mass vore #multiple prey #male pred #worship #belching #observer

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 5 months ago

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a/n: trade? what trade? brady’s a cane, always will be 😭 seriously tho, odds are pretty good that i just keep writing him as a cane bc i have no interest in having to learn the preds beyond beau and josi 🤷🏼‍♀️ had this written for a bit but never posted it bc i was yelled at during the playoffs for even thinking about the canes 🙄

tw: stomach flu, mentions of vomiting, mentions of dizziness

word count: 3.4k

summary: norovirus makes its way around the canes’ locker room and it finally takes you and brady down

Brady’s fingers are cool as they card through your hair, brushing gently against your temple and scratching lightly at your scalp. Your cheek is pressed against his thigh, smushed up so it interferes with your vision - not that you’re really focused on the TV. Comedy Central has a repeat of The Office on and above you, Brady chuckles faintly as Dwight complains about identity theft.

You roll your eyes back to cut your gaze at him and Brady’s head is resting against the back of the couch, his eyes partially shut. He’s mostly just listening to the TV.

Norovirus had swept through the Canes’ locker room, taking the players and their families out one by one - starting with Burnzie, which had led Jarvy to conclude that one of the Burns’ children had brought it home from school. As one player recovered, another was taken out. Last week had been Brett and Jordan, this week it’s yours and Brady’s turn to be down for the count. He’d come home from morning skate two days ago looking paler than usual, a greenish-grey tinge to his skin. You’d already dry heaved over breakfast that morning, thinking it was pre-period nausea.

Less than an hour later, you’d each retreated to separate bathrooms and hadn’t emerged until there was nothing left to purge. Brady had managed to text Rod, who was entirely unsurprised by the turn of events.

The next day and a half had been a blur of Instacarted Gatorade and crackers, the smell of Clorox and Lysol a permanent fixture in the house. Unfortunately, the smell of Clorox only triggered your gag reflex even more. Only this morning you’d managed to keep down more than a few spoonfuls of chicken broth.

Your stomach cramps a little and you curl your body into a tighter fetal position, turning your head to muffle your groan against Brady’s thigh. His fingers pause in your hair and he asks, “you okay, sweetheart? Need the bowl?”

“The bowl” is your combo popcorn/salad/vomit stainless steel bowl and it’s resting on the couch next to Brady, easily within arm’s reach just in case. The bowl has seen a lot of action the last two days and honestly, you’re contemplating tossing it out at the end of this. Or burning it, if stainless steel even burns. Hell, you’ll just throw it into the ocean at this point. You never want to see the bowl again.

“No,” you mumble against the fabric of his shorts, voice raspy and throat sore. “I think my stomach is eating itself.”

Brady nods his agreement and you can hear his stomach growl slightly behind your head. “Think we can manage more soup?” His fingers continue their work in your hair and it’s so soothing you find your eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay open.

“Honestly?” You nuzzle your face against his leg, tucking one hand under your cheek and the other underneath Brady’s thick thigh. “No, but you should try. You don’t want to be too weak when you get back to practicing.”

He hums and his fingers slow down, tangling gently in your hair. “Maybe ‘fter a nap,” he mumbles, head going back against the couch and body slouching a little deeper into the cushions. You can’t really argue with him - like clockwork, you’d both been with your heads in the toilet every thirty minutes. You don’t remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.

Brady falls asleep quickly, his hand covering the side of your head like a mask. The dogs pad into the den, semi left to their own devices the last two days and you feel bad about it. Reese settles on top of Brady’s feet, curling into a little ball and letting his tail swish along the floor while he looks up at you with big brown puppy eyes that bear a striking resemblance to your boyfriend’s.

“Sorry, pup,” you murmur, reaching out to scratch his head. “We’ve been bad pet parents, huh?”

He lets out a little whine that you take to be golden retriever for ‘yeah, mom, you guys suck lately.’

Sully hops up on the couch and wedges his body between your back and the back of the couch, a warm, solid presence. His nose presses against your shoulder and you wiggle forward a little to make more room for the big dog. Neither of them are supposed to be on the furniture, but you have no energy to shove him off.

“Just for today,” you warn him in a rasp. “Back to the floor with you tomorrow.”

Sully yawns, tongue lolling out of his mouth, showing just how much he cares about your proclamation.

With a soft scoff of your breath, you roll your eyes and keep them shut, pressing your face more solidly against Brady’s thigh. The muscle twitches under your cheek and you blink slowly. Soon enough, the combination of the low volume of the TV, Brady’s gentle snores, and the dogs’ soft breathing lulls you to sleep.

You wake with a jolt, your mouth filling with saliva and your stomach lurching. Sully’s draped over your legs and you don’t think, panic flooding your senses. Clamping your lips together tightly, you lunge over Brady’s lap and grab for the bowl, heaving into it. You empty the minimal contents of your stomach into the bowl, feeling Brady’s legs move under your torso. His hand fists in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail so it stays out of your way.

“Okay, there you go,” Brady’s voice is low and soothing, his other hand rubbing circles on your back as you spit into the bowl. After a moment, nothing is coming up anymore and you groan, easing back carefully onto your knees.

Brady squints at you. “You okay?”

“I love your teammates,” you groan. “But I could kill every single one of them.”

Your boyfriend laughs and then winces when his stomach muscles tense. “Fuck, this shit really is no joke,” he mutters, stretching his arms over his head.

Your mouth tastes disgusting and your entire body hurts from heaving. On shaky legs, you carefully step off the couch, snatching the bowl and padding slowly into the bathroom to get clean it out. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror over the sink and wince. Dark purple circles under your eyes highlight just how pale you look. Little red pinpricks of broken blood vessels are scattered over your cheeks like freckles and your hair is a matted, knotted mess in a limp bun on the side of your head.

“Ugh,” you mutter to your reflection, honestly surprised that you look so awful. You’d been avoiding mirrors as much as possible. You rinse out the bowl and douse it with Clorox, leaving it in the bathtub for now, before rinsing your mouth twice with Listerine and brushing your hair back into a semi-decent ponytail. This bathroom’s going to need a major disinfecting too.

Add it to the list.

Brady’s in the kitchen when you leave the bathroom, his body hidden behind the open fridge door. Both dogs are at his feet, circling his legs like he’s about to drop some food for them. He pulls back and shuts the door, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and a wan look on his face.

“Nothing looks appetizing,” he explains, leaning a shoulder against the fridge.

You slump over the kitchen island, one arm folded between the granite and your chest. Reese lopes over to you, brushing his head against your thigh and you reach down to scratch behind his ears. “What, blue Gatorade and saltines lose their appeal on the third day?” You joke, tucking your chin into the stretched out neck of your ancient crewneck.

Brady’s lips twist up in a small smile. “I would kill for the ability to keep something else down,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging his skin down on the second pass.

“We could try the golden diet,” your head feels so heavy, so you prop your chin up on your palm and look over at Brady. He lifts an eyebrow and you continue, “plain boiled chicken breast and rice.”

Both dogs bark, excited, and you wince at the noise and how it feels like an ice pick in your brain.

“I’d rather not feel like one of the dogs,” Brady laughs faintly. Almost immediately, he clamps his lips together and freezes in place, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows harshly. He doesn’t make a move for the bathroom and you wait another moment before it passes and he frowns. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “thought I might have to make a run for it.”

“I could try and make some more soup,” you suggest, your stomach rumbling a little. You honestly have no idea if you’re actually hungry or if you’re going to have to run off again. Reese butts your thigh with his head and you sigh down at him. “I feel bad that these guys haven’t been getting as much outside time.”

“How do you feel about a short w-a-l-k?” Brady spells out the word because the dogs will go insane otherwise and it always makes you giggle a little.

You hum and skirt around the island so you can wrap your arms around Brady’s waist and bury your face into his chest. His arms come around your back, warm and strong. “Not great,” you mumble into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “But maybe some fresh air and sun will do us some good?”

He nods, chin bumping the top of your head. “A short one, like two blocks,” he suggests. “And then right back to the couch.”

Agreeing, you give Brady a little squeeze around the waist before reluctantly pulling away. You clap and grin down at the dogs, “okay, puppies, time for a little walk!”

Predictably, they go nuts, barking and jumping at you so that Brady holds his arms out to brace his hands at your lower back so you don’t fall over. He laughs a little in your ear before whistling to get the dogs to calm down. They stop barking, but they’re still bouncing around your legs and you laugh as you push past them, heading for the hall closet. It’s warm enough in Raleigh that you don’t have to change out of the thin sweats and crewneck, but you do pull on a plain black vest just so you have a pocket for your phone.

Brady clips the leashes onto both dogs’ collars and steps into a pair of slides, holding the leashes out to you so he can lock the front door. You let the dogs have some leeway with the leashes, watching them as they roll around together on the front lawn. It’s bright and sunny and you squint even behind your sunglasses.

“Has it been this bright out all week?” Brady asks, taking a leash in one hand and lacing his fingers with yours. He still has the hood up on his hoodie and when you look up at him, all you can see is the side profile of his nose and chin. His nose wrinkles up and you can’t help but mimic the expression.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you sigh, starting to walk down to the sidewalk. You feel like a baby deer, all wobbly legged and weak, but the breeze is nice and you have to admit that it feels good to not be breathing in Lysol scented air.

The dogs tug at their leashes and you give them more leeway, walking slowly down the sidewalk. Brady’s thumb rubs over the backs of your fingers, your linked hands swinging slightly between your bodies as you walk. It’s quiet in the neighborhood since it’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday and you savor the peace.

Your stomach cramps a little and you lean into Brady’s side as you walk, huffing a frustrated breath through your nose. “When I get my hands on Jagger…” you trail off the threat, ruining the effect with a little laugh. You’re on board with Jarvy’s theory about patient zero for the Great Norovirus Crisis.

Brady’s laugh wraps around you like a hug and trails off into a brief cough as he catches his breath. “You and Svechy, beefing with a middle schooler,” he shakes his head, sounding a little breathless.

“For valid reasons,” you grumble, stumbling a little when Reese pulls on his leash. Brady’s fingers tighten around yours and you manage to keep your footing, but your heart pounds in your chest and you suck in a startled breath. Your head spins a little and you close your eyes to stave off the lingering nausea from your stomach lurching.

Brady’s hand is warm in your own and he squeezes your fingers to draw your attention. “Ready to go back home?” He asks, a concerned frown turning his lips downward. You nod and Brady whistles for the dogs.

It’s been the world’s shortest walk, just two blocks away from the house, but your head is throbbing and you’re feeling lightheaded. Brady still looks pale too, his jaw tight as if he’s trying not to vomit. He rubs the tips of his index and middle fingers against the space between his eyebrows and you know he’s probably developing the same headache you’ve got pinching your brain.

“I think we pushed it enough for today,” you murmur, tugging on the leash so Reese will come back from where he’s sniffing at a patch of flowers at the base of a tree.

Brady nods and he looks a little better after his pause. He leans in and kisses your forehead, where you can feel his lips turn down in another frown. “You feel kind of warm, sweetheart,” he says.

You tug at the neck of your sweatshirt and shrug. “Probably just a little overheated,” you start back towards the house. “I’m going to put shorts on when we get back, I think.” Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you pull it out, reading the texts on the screen as Brady talks.

“I think we need some lunch too,” Brady says, digging his phone out of the pocket on his hoodie. “I’ll order something. Even if we can’t manage all of it, we probably need something with protein.”

“No need,” you laugh a little, waving your phone in his direction. “Amy felt bad we caught the plague from Brett, she dropped off chicken noodle soup and fresh sourdough.”

Brady grins and pumps his fist, making you laugh even more. “Oh hell yes. I think I’ll be able to manage that,” he unclips the leashes from the dogs’ collars and lets them into your backyard, closing the gate behind them before following you up to the front porch. You cradle the giant brown paper bag in your arms like a baby.

“It’s still warm,” you sigh happily, wiggling your shoulders a little. “I love Amy, god, she’s the best.”

You kick off your slides and head into the kitchen, getting lunch ready while Brady pulls open the back door so the dogs can traipse in and out of the house. They’re both barking up a storm while they roll around on the lawn, so you figure you might actually have a minute to eat in peace. Brady reaches around you to pick a piece of the crust off the loaf of bread, popping it into his mouth with a happy little noise. You laugh a little under your breath at how adorable he is and finish divvying up the soup into bowls.

“Bigger bowl is yours,” you tilt your head and Brady sets a glass of ginger ale in front of you, tugging lightly on the end of your ponytail as he withdraws his hand. You lean lightly back against his chest, bumping your head against his collarbone and Brady dips his chin to kiss your forehead.

“Still a little warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

You shrug, “I’ll take another Tylenol and sleep in the guest room, just in case.”

Brady snorts and drapes one arm over your shoulder to hold you in place since you’re leaning heavily into him. “Sweetheart, if you’ve got a fever, I’ve probably got a fever. The house is germ central,” he rips a piece of bread off the loaf with his other hand and tosses it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he continues, “no use in separating now.”

You’re not about to argue with him because you’re feeling clingy and needy, desperate for the comfort of Brady at your side while you’re recovering. So you nod and reluctantly let him step to the side to eat.

Amy’s soup is probably magic because you both manage to polish off your bowls, with Brady going back for seconds, and a few hours later, nothing threatens to reappear.

You and Brady spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around, disinfecting the house, and just generally relaxing in preparation for return to normal. You’re planning on working remotely, easing back into your inbox after three days away. Brady will see how he’s feeling, if he’ll go to practice. But for now, Brady sits on the floor, his back against the couch, and tosses tennis balls for the dogs to chase after and fetch.

“Please don’t hit the glass,” you sigh, sprawled out on your side on the couch, one hand propped up under your head and the other working its way through Brady’s hair, a mirror of Brady’s actions earlier in the day. The salt and peppered strands are soft under your fingers and you can’t resist tugging gently, just to get a reaction out of your boyfriend.

He groans low in the back of his throat, the noise sending a little wave of heat through your body. “I was a quarterback, sweetheart,” Brady grumbles, affectionate teasing laced throughout his tone. “I never miss my target.”

Sully comes bounding back with the tennis ball clamped in his jaw and Brady wrestles it away from the dog with a laugh, sending the tennis ball flying through the air and out through the open French doors. You can see it land with a little bounce in the grass before Sully pounces on it. Reese jumps on his brother and they roll around in the grass for a bit.

“Cocky, former quarterback Brady is my favorite version of you,” you tease, scratching your nails against his scalp.

He laughs and reaches back to rub a hand over the top of your head. You curl up a little, bringing your knees closer to your chest and Brady’s head by default. He shifts, turning to the side so he can look at you and wedge his hand in between your knees, fingers curling around the back of your thigh. Your hand falls from his hair, coming down to rest on his shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the collar of his shirt to brush against warm skin.

Brady’s head tilts to the side, cheek coming to rest on the edge of the couch cushion, trapping your hand. You flutter your fingers against his collarbone, smiling softly. His lips curl up too, lifting his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Whatcha thinking, Mr. Skjei?” You ask quietly. “I can see your gears turning.”

“Nothing really,” he replies, tickling the back of your knee lightly. You squirm and press your knees together, squishing his fingers to try and get him to stop. “Just…been nice to relax with you.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a skeptical smirk on your lips. “Norovirus was relaxing?”

“Well,” he snorts a laugh through his nose, “the last few hours were relaxing anyway.” He presses a kiss against the back of your wrist and brushes his nose against your skin.

A little shiver races down your spine, warm love for Brady flooding your entire body. He keeps his cheek pressed to the back of your hand and taps the back of your knee. “Think I can rejoin you in bed tonight?” He asks, breath warm against your skin.

“I’d really like that,” you grin, having missed his body curled around yours. Decamping to separate bedrooms had been a protective measure over the last few days since every time you heard Brady gag, you’d gone and puked.

The dogs traipse back inside and Brady shifts so he can stand and close the door, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth as he goes. Tomorrow the routine will go back to normal, but when Brady comes back and lifts your legs to sit on the couch next to you, your legs draped over his lap and your ass pressed against the outside of his thigh, you soak up the quiet moment in your little bubble.

#brady skjei #brady skjei x reader #brady skjei fic #brady skjei x you #nhl fic

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nanamissuit · 10 months ago

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Could you please do one with konig/ghost with gf who’s super girly? Like she loves pink and hello kitty and cats.

I was thinking it starts out fluffy like how they meet and then turns into smut later in the relationship. And for the gf to be around 19, short and with pink hair (describing me sorry it’s very indulgent) thank you :>

Pink - König

Pairing: Older!König x Younger!Fem Reader

Warnings: Oral, Slight violence, Age gap ((LEGAL!! We don't do that pred shit around here.)), Fluff

To say people were confused about your relationship was an understatement. I mean just look at you two.

He’s a 6’10 murdering army machine and not to mention extremely intimidating. But he’s usually quiet and reserved, but you? With your colorful hair and skirts with tops that were just the right amount of length to cover you. And your obsession with pink and hello kitty? No way he was into you.

But to everyone's surprise he was. Even with the age gap I mean you were 19 and he was 36? But what did he care, he was charmed by you the moment he saw you.

So that’s what gave him the courage to speak to you at a bar? How’d you sneak into a bar?

“Hm? Thought you were 19..” He snuck up next to you, “AH! Oh I’m sorry you scared me…König right?” You turned to look at him fully while holding out a hand. “And god no, my friend owns the bar and let’s me in.” He took your small hand into his. “I see, but a little young to be drinking, no?” You looked at him playfully rolling your eyes. “A little old to be hitting on me don’t ya think?” He chuckled and took his hand back, “You seem to not be wanting me to walk away so you tell me.”

And that’s how your relationship blossomed. He got your number, you texted all the time. Called when he could. And you loved when he came over to your place. He looked so out of place in your room, pink walls and basically a pink vanity with some white furniture and some hello kitty decor around. And your bed was full of stuffed animals. You actually had to buy a bigger bed to make sure König was comfortable in it.

You were doing your makeup as he laid in your bed adoring you and scrolling through his phone, until he noticed you had something on your mind. “I can tell that pretty heads thinking, wanna share?” You smiled at him and just came over to sit on his lap while holding a red lip gloss. “Sit still I wanna do something I saw online.” And he obliged as you left red lip kiss marks all over his face. “What are you doing, Schatz?” “Shh!! I’m gonna purposely mess up my lip gloss and you just have to wipe it off and look at me okay?” He nodded at you as you held up your phone.

That video you couldn’t post due to his job and the no-show face thing, so you had a better idea. Kiss all over his mask, and then post that one and so you did exactly that.

That video blew up due to the fact he looked at you so lovingly and the fact that people were so curious about your dynamic but you just smiled at the comments.

Further down the line in your relationship you had told him you thought you were ready for…Well he knew. He noticed you had bought lingerie but didn’t wanna make it seem like he was invading your privacy so he didn’t dare make a remark about it and waited till you walked into his bedroom with it on.

He didn’t hesitate at all looking at you for a nod of approval as he scooped you up and threw you onto his bed immediately diving in between your legs. “I’m sorry Meine Liebe…You just look so good in this, I promise I’ll buy you a new one.” You felt confusion until you heard a rip. He ripped your panties off as he didn’t hesitate to lick all over your clit.

I mean he even spelt his own name with his tongue while spelling out each letter for you to ride out your high to. “Don’t finish until the very last letter, Schatz, be a good girl.” You nodded at him as he went over all the letters and finally got to “G” You came directly in his mouth.

But besides all the sex and odd pairings there was one thing König had people call him in public, men you rejected mostly. Your “Sugar daddy” He hated it. Sure he spoiled you but he actually loves you, not those douchebag men. That’s why he punched some random man on the target line.

Even though you guys are an odd pair he loved everything about you, you were the most perfect and beautiful girl to him. He loved you so much he’d KILL for you. His perfect sweet girl.

AU of this incoming I swear...I loved this alot !! <3

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97keanu · 1 year ago

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Premise: Vampire!John Wick has caught your scent, and now there's nothing that will stop him from obtaining what he craves. You on the other hand, are enjoying a night on the town dressed as an angel for Halloween. You don't realize what a mistake you've made walking into a real vampire's path.

Tags/CW: DARK FIC, Vampire!JW, Being hunted, pred/prey, innocent!reader, angel coded!reader, bimbo!reader, dumb!reader, blood drinking, regular alcohol drinking, john is an evil vampire, dub-con, dead dove don't eat, hypnotism/hypnotized!reader, reader has a secret kidnapping!kink, reader has secret dark desires, knife kink in the form of claws, biting, teasing teasing teasing !!!, mind reading, reader who is a secret slut, reader who wants to be sacrificed, major character death mentions/teased, blood doll!reader, readers fate undetermined.

A/N: I've always had a thing for vampires. In this fic, I explore some of my favorite naughty kinks, and give you an extremely long and kinky sex scene between John and reader. Hope y'all like it, be sure to heed the content warnings ʚ♥︎ɞ

He has hunted your scent for miles. That sweet, delicious blood of yours calling to him in even the faintest amount. You poor, pretty little thing, that doesn't even know she's being hunted. You laugh with friends after dark, walking in groups for safety as you enjoy the Halloween festivities. You have no idea that it doesn't matter where you go tonight. That John has already decided your blood will be his, and so it shall be. You look so dolled up too, in your tiny miniskirt and frilly, barely-there white top. On your back, two perfect, tiny fake angel wings float along your figure, a costume halo atop your head. You look pristine, and John can only imagine what all that white will look like when he's done with you. It's as if you decided to serve yourself up on a silver platter for him, unknowingly.

As you walk about the city in wobbly, chunky platforms, you giggle into the night air with friends, the mist of your breath pooling in the sky above you. You don't notice in the sea of people that is New York, that you're being stalked. You don't see the man, moving silently from building to dark alleyway, inhaling your scent as deep as he can. You don't see the fangs, that glint under street lamps as he passes. They've grown so long from desire he can hardly keep them hidden behind his lips. Luckily for John, costumed Halloween goers flood the streets. A perfect time for a creature of the night like him to be so bold in public. Tonight, he will go unnoticed.

You however go into the next club on your bar hopping adventure without a care in the world. You don't see the dark figure slipping in behind you at a speed you can't even comprehend. You walk with an air of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. You gawk at spooky displays and laugh at slasher costumes as you walk by. You know that underneath that scary mask is just some greasy twenty-something who would love to get you in bed. As if.

The lights and music blare, and you are pulled by your friends to the dance floor. You're already feeling the heat of the cocktails you've had tonight in your body, and when you move to the rhythmic music, you feel your legs wobble along lazily. Your friends pass you another drink, you don't know from where, and you consume it happily. It's sweet, bitter aftertaste goes down easily, and you enjoy your night of being young and free.

A few men try to dance with you, but when you size them up, they're so not your type. They're just too young for you, even if they are likely the same age as you. You've always loved a more mature man, someone bigger and wiser than you who can really put you in your place. Half of you fantasizes about a man like that taking you from this hedonist pit of a club, pulling you into his car and driving away. You imagine he would take you back to his house just to tie you up and keep you kidnapped there against your will. The idea has always turned you on, but none of the men in this club tonight could ever give you something like that. You continue to dance with your friends, ignoring any drunkards who try to make a pass at you with an up turned nose.

The night continues on, and more drinks find their way into your hands. You happily take them, not caring how beyond drunk you are. As you're dancing, you slowly realize how seperated you are from your friends. You glance around, looking for them in the crowd, but see no one. Instead you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise. You feel as if you're the one being watched.

When you finally find the pair of eyes on you, you see the face of a handsome, older man in the crowd. You're surprised to see a man like him in a crowd like this. He seems so suave, so opulent, and through your drunken eyes, he also seems expensive, if not rich. You saunter over, slowly dancing through the crowd, until you're close enough to the staring stranger to see how intense his eyes really are. For a moment, fear washes over you, but you shake your head, deciding yourself silly for being afraid.

John can hardly hide his delight that he has caught you, his pretty little prey angel. He hears your thoughts about a man like him taking you away, tying you up, and using you like the hole you are. John has to laugh under his breath. You could never guess how true that sentiment really is. John can imagine doing more than just tying you up, though.

He watches as you walk right over to him, he can sense the fear rising up in you. You have every right to be afraid, but you still come, like the fly to the spider. You know it, in your heart, that John is a predator. Your own senses tell you, but like the silly human you are, you ignore them. Human's have lost all superstitions for creatures like John, it almost makes it too easy to trick you into letting him in.

John pulls you in when you get close enough, he has to hide how sharp his nails are, be gentle with your fragile body, but he still senses how rough he's pulled you in. In your drunkeness, you assume you've just tripped into him.

John feels your warm, tiny body against his, and you move like a siren, obviously not as angelic as you seem. Your body ungulates on his, rubbing your backside straight into John's cock. To your surprise, he's already hard, and you blush thinking it was so easy to do such a thing to him. You don't know that it's not just your body that's turning him on. No, it's what he's imagining doing to you after he's had his fun toying with you like this. It's that sweet blood that pumps in your veins so temptingly.

He let's his hands move up your body, caressing every curve, feeling your hips and gripping them into himself, imagining how he would take you later on. His hands continue up, pressing and playing with your breasts, and for a moment, you reach up for his hands, startled by how forward this strange man is being in public. He relents, his hands moving up to caress that pretty neck of yours. In your intoxicated state, you continue to allow him to play with you.

What you don't notice is John has slowly pulled you from the crowd, isolating you from the rest of the humans having a fun Halloween weekend. You don't even realize it until John is starting to move you through a back door of the club, the night air suddenly chilling you and ruffling the feathers of your wings. You turn to face him, and he smiles so sweetly. As he smiles you notice the sharpness of his teeth, and your mind tries to explain it away as a costume, but they look so real, and so sharp. Your instincts once again tell you to run, but with the way he's looking at you, you feel a pull to him you can't explain.

It's as if everything in your brain is telling you how dangerous this man is, but your body can't get enough of him. Even being so close now, his husky, earthy scent, similar to pine trees and steel, draws you in. You feel your body tingling where he touches you on your waist and back, his finger tips freezing. He reminds you of winter itself, cold and unmoving. But you are moving aren't you? When you notice your surroundings outside his intense, dark eyes, you see you've been drawn to a dark corner of the alleyway.

You look about and notice how quiet it is, how it's as if everyone else has been banished from the area, not even the rustle of wind is making a sound. No, the only sound right now you hear is of your increasingly alarmed breath. You look back to the strange man to see he has bent you backwards, your wings now barely brushing the dirty alley, your hair swept from your neck.

Suddenly, in the moonlight, those glinting fangs don't seem so fake. In fact, they seem so real you're shaking from it. Your rabbit heart thumps relentlessly, and suddenly adrenaline floods your body. You move to run, to jump out of his grip like a frightened doe, but his hands hold you like steel.

"Who--?" You begin to say, trying to muster a scream for help that doesn't come.

"My sweet angel," John speaks for the first time to you tonight, and your entire body goes cold. "You will be so delicious..."

John doesn't care to hide it anymore, the fear has overcome all else inside you, and you know that he is dangerous.

John takes his hands to your throat, turning your head so that he may look into your eyes. You look into them, those two dark orbs, and you feel that fear wash over you again as you realize how red they are getting. You must be imagining things, it must be the lack of light, but no, you're sure of it. This mans eyes are truly, deeply, darkly red. And just when you had mustered enough sense to want to run away, he's hypnotized you. His vampiric powers of manipulation wash over your mind, over your body. You feel a false sense of calm, and your mind tries to scream for your body to run, but you can't. You're stuck there, transfixed and mouth agape, your body wanting John more than anything.

Now that he has you in such a vulnerable state, he simply picks you up, carrying you bridal style to a spot he's already picked out. He takes you to a nearby apartment, abandoned and high up enough no one will hear you scream. He has outfitted the bedroom here as the perfect vampire nest. The windows are boarded from all light, the room is adorned with candles, and he's even brought in some tools to use on you. He will take his time with you, that much was certain. You want to struggle as he sets you down on the bed, but your body doesn't move. You look up at him like a lamb to the slaughter, waiting for him to break your pretty little neck.

"Hands." He says roughly, and before you can think to deny him, you're lifting your hands I front of you, doe eyes looking at him so pitifully full of tears that won't fall.

He ties your hands skillfully together, tight and inescapable. Then he ties your hands to the bedframe above you, and you look up from there, asking for some miracle to save you.

"There will be no miracles tonight. Not for you, angel." You glance at him, wondering how he read your mind. He laughs when he sees the confusion in your eyes, his fangs yellowed by the candle light.

"Don't worry, my sweet. Being able to experience all that you have in that pretty head of yours is just half the fun..." John pets your hair before he begins to undress you.

When it's time to focus on your clothes, he has an easy answer for that. He runs his claw along your body, so sharp that even the slightest bit of pressure would surely slit your delicate skin. You can feel the hypnotism waning, but suspect that he has done this on purpose.

"Yes... I have." John answers your thought. "Now, let's hear those lovely moans of yours."

You try to scream, and it comes out as a soft murmur, something akin to being strangled. You feel tears fall down your cheeks, and gasp as you feel John apply just enough pressure to slice through your mini skirt. He plucks it off of you the way one might pluck a petal from a flower. You watch as he tosses it away, feeling the cold air on your almost nude bottom half.

He works his way back up your body, still allowing his claws to glide against your baby soft skin. He reaches your top, and snaps the straps easily, pulling the top off to reveal your breasts to him. Despite everything, you can't help how easily wet your cunt is getting.

"You may try to deny me," John says, again pulling your feelings straight from your head. "But I know you've always wanted this. That's what drew me to your blood. You have the blood of someone who knows they're prey."

"N-no..." You attempt to say, but the words barely find their way out.

"Don't lie, I can see those dark thoughts at the back of your head. How you used to touch yourself to the thought of being kidnapped. How you wished someone would tie you up, just like this. Even just tonight, you thought of this. Don't start being a brat for me now, angel. Show me how badly you've wanted this." The last sentence is a command you must follow, and when John's hands have reached up to your glossy mouth, you have no choice but to open.

You feel him place two fingers so deeply inside your mouth, your pussy trembles at the thought that he might cut you there. It's as if he's placed a knife in your mouth, so gentle, but so deadly. You close your warm mouth around his cool fingers, sucking lightly. The thoughts you've had about scenarios like this before flash in your mind, no doubt John's influence.

While he keeps you pacified, he runs his free hand down your exposed body, taking care to hold your breast, feeling your beating heart behind it. The smell of your fear and pleasure mixing in your blood has John beyond hard, he doesn't know how much longer he can contain himself before biting or fucking you. He holds back his throbbing fangs, for now.

You watch helplessly as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, moving his body down yours, until his head is lined up with your soaking cunt.

"I can smell how badly you've wanted this from here..." John teases, and you bite your lip, embarrassed of how your body betrays you.

John plays with your white, lacy panties, pulling them so taut that your pussy lips get caught around them. You moan despite yourself as John plays with your panties just so, your engorged clit getting some wanted attention.

"You're so human...denying yourself the ultimate pleasure you've been seeking, I would never dream of such a thing." John muses as you writhe against your restraints, even this slightest touch driving you mad. You think of kicking John away, but your legs just won't work for you. He has you perfectly spread for him, tied up like a present, and unable to resist.

"I'm sure all your fantasies consist of killing young, helpless women. I'm not sure that counts." Your voice whispers in a chiding tone, and by the look of John's dark eyes on you, you wish you'd held your tongue.

John pulls your panties so hard against your tender clit you let out a small scream. He moves his face to meet yours, speaking directly to you as you lay there fearful, mouth open to silent screams.

"Yes, angel. I do kill young, helpless girls. Let's see if you can be a good girl tonight and change my mind." He watches the fear pool in your eyes, breathing in the scent of it with a smirk.

You try to hold his eye contact, try to be the brave girl who fights her attacker. But that's just not you. That's never been you. You've always been soft, easily guided this way or that. You've never been particularly smart, or witty. You've gotten by on your beauty alone for so long, that you made yourself think you were more powerful than you were. Really, you're just a lost little lamb, looking to be herded, but finding the wolf instead.

John can see that, hear that in your thoughts, and he reaches up, cups your face in his hand, and pulls your eyes back to his.

"I think if you expand your mind a bit, little lamb, you may even really enjoy being drained to death..." The way his cold eyes fill with excitement at this statement makes your stomach flop. It takes everything in you to pull your chin away from his hand.

He let's you, pulling back down to your glistening cunt. John pulls your panties up and places a sharp claw under it, the soft side of his claw brushing against your clit. In one fell swoop, he cuts away your panties.

You squirm and try to make your legs close, your whining coming out between sharp breaths as you try to fight this power over you. He slowly brings his face to your quivering cunt, looking up at you with those dangerous onyx eyes.

"The sooner you realize you've always been meant to be someone's plaything, the sooner you'll find yourself loving this..." He whispers, prodding more of those sick fantasies to flash in your head.

John let's his fangs flash in the light before letting his tongue taste you. His tongue is surprisingly cool, making you recoil, but with more movement, you hate that your hips try to buck into his mouth. He's teasing your clit every so carefully, moving perfectly to keep you on edge. Your entire body floods with pleasure that you try to keep at bay.

"You know you want more...ask me..." His voice breathes against your pussy, leaving chills to run up your spin.

You hate how right he is. You want this, you want this man, no, this monster to fuck you senseless. You can't believe how sensitive you're getting even at the idea that he kills you, that you become nothing but a meal for such a powerful creature. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears as you try to ignore him down there, try to will your body not to be so sensitive to his touch, to his tongue lapping at your cunt ever so gently. You should be fighting him, screaming for your life, scheming at least for how to get yourself out of this, how to save your own life.

But when you look into his dark eyes, you know it's no use. Any plan you could come up with, he would hear. Any escape, if you somehow got out of your restraints, was futile. He was stronger, faster than you in every respect. All you could do was lay here, shuddering against the monster that's tempting you to let them make you cum. What were you supposed to do? What would the smart, cunning, witty girl do?

"P-please..." Your voice summons, and John's ears perk up at the sound.

"Please what? What changed your mind?" He looks at you curiously.

"Please...make me cum. I've..." You take a deep breath and hold it as John gives a longer lick. "I've never been the smart one, or the one who was going anywhere big in life. I'm only useful as a hole to fuck. Please fuck me and make my pitiful existence mean something."

"And if I kill you?" John teases your pussy by lightly gliding his claws across it, the feeling similar to that of a cool blade being used.

"Then I would be happy to be of use to you..." You can't believe you've said this, but you can feel John pulling the words from you with his eyes.

You close your eyes after the last word, unable to look into John's eyes any longer. After a moment, when you hear nothing, you peek at him. He looks at you like a cat presented with a shiny new toy. His interest in you is piqued more than even before.

"Maybe you will be more than a temporary plaything..." John raised his eyebrows with a hint of laughter, the sentiment didn't help much to relieve you of your fear.

Seeing you so willing to admit how much a girl like you was meant to be nothing more than fuck meat and a meal made John's cock struggle against his pants. He has grown tired of smart girls who try to escape, it always ended the same anyways. Now you, you who can admit that they are prey, that was much more interesting. The way you sacrifice yourself to him made John feel like a king, no, a God.

He could feel himself throbbing with want, wanting to take you here and now, but he was a man of his word. He would make you cum first.

He returns to your cunt, served up for him perfectly, and begins to devour you much more than before. He licks with purpose, using his tongue to give you so much attention your eyes almost roll back from the intensity. What surprises you more, leaves you gasping is when he sucks your clit into his mouth, his teeth ever so gently applying pressure and new sensitivity. You quiver and your legs seem to not be your own, muscles tensing and squirming under John's touch. You feel John's hand hold your thigh down in place, his claws knicking your skin just slightly. The pain mixed with the pleasure John gives begins to send you over the edge. When you see the small droplets of blood begin to leak from your thigh, you cum for him, moaning into the night air.

As you settle down, your heart rapidly getting away from you, your eyes lazily open and watching John, you see him move his mouth to your thigh, lapping up the blood that's been spilt there.

John licks the wounds, and the close up, but tasting your delicious blood has him unable to hold back anymore. He needs more of it. Now.

John sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, his fangs almost melting into your dainty skin. You cry out, and John bites deeper, his cock leaking from the sound of your despair, his mind reeling from how good you taste. Soon, he pulls his teeth back, sucking deeply of the blood that gushes into his mouth. As he begins to drink from you, an unimaginable wave of pleasure crashes over you.

You can barely contain yourself, your voice not your own, your moans of anguish and want, heedy and full of need. You've never felt such pleasure, not even from how well John made you cum moments before. You greedily relish in it as John drinks deeper, a free hand lifting to pet your sweet cunt, driving you mad with sensation. You feel yourself begin to cum again. Then again. And again as John continues to consume your precious blood.

John can feel your heart slowing, can sense your life force leaving you as he consumes your warmth. He has to force himself to stop, his muscles tightening and attempting to keep his jaw locked on your thigh. You're so high on pleasure you hardly notice how close to dying you really are right now. You feel yourself slipping away, as if falling into darkness and greeting it happily. Maybe he was right, maybe dying this way wasn't so bad...

John pulls his fangs from your thigh with great strength. He laps carefully at the two pinprick wounds, and watches as they slowly close, as if nothing at all had happened. You can barely hold your head up, your breath slow. You lay languidly, lolling about when John moves to get near your face.

He softly pets the side of your face and your eyes flutter open, looking up into his eyes the way Ophelia may have looked at the sky before succumbing to death. You watch, unable to process what's happening, as John slits open his own wrist, letting the blood there drop into your open mouth. The taste is sweet, bitter, and smoky, just like him. You swallow with great effort and John watches as your paleness slowly starts to perk up.

"You're going to be an interesting blood doll indeed..." He whispers as he pets your hair gently. "Now rest..." He commands and your world goes dark.

Taglist: @sunnythebunny7 @smutmaniac @worldsgreatestsinner

#john wick x reader #john wick x f!reader #vampire!john wick x reader #vampire!john wick #my writing #dark fic #dark themes

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sheepwavehdg · 16 days ago

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HDG Story Recs: Sheepwaveiverse

so, fuck it, gonna do a writeup of all my own major fics. if they have a genderswapped version, that has its own link. this isn't actually even all of them, some of my oneshots are not on the list. mid length means under 50k words.

Sweet Poppy (F/f), (M/f edit) [Mid length, Completed] - yandere comedy erotica

Amelia is an independent human, who is dating Poppy, one of the aliens that conquered humanity and is known for taking pets. fortunately, Poppy doesn't want a human as a pet, and Amelia is definitely immune to mind control anyway. Its normal for your girlfriend to give you a necklace that doesn't come off, right? And being played with like a docile, empty doll is just a kink thing... As is the training and conditioning... Right? A comedy yandere erotica story with just a tiny bit of psychological horror.

Good Sensory (F/f), (M/f edit) [Mid length, ongoing] - autism, asexuality, fluff romance, split human/affini pov

A fluffy autism-celebrating kink/romance story about learning to unmask and be loved as the person you actually are, rather than the one you think you're supposed to be. Sally Fable is easily overwhelmed. bad textures, bad sensations, all of it. she also has a lot of experience being made fun of for how passionate she can get. Marsha Lywick is an alien from beyond the stars who wants to break Sally's masking habits and turn her into the cutest little pet imaginable.

Cat and Mouse (F/f) [Long, ongoing, but in an extended epilogue, the plot is complete] - Predprey, dollkink, plurality

Jenny, an extremely clever rebel, fights tooth and tail against her domestication by the Huntress affini Tamai, managing to outsmart the affini several times along the way. an examination of plurality, how hard it is to trust when you've been burned over and over, and the sapphic eroticism of being chased down in the woods. notably features pred/prey and CGL dollkink. Perhaps the sharpest story in the entire setting, do not go in expecting a story without conflict.

Sycanthe Lantana, First Bloom (F/f) [Mid length, Completed] - comedy, romance, affini pov

an extreme youngbloom with a lot of anxiety navigates her savior complex and her role in the affini compact, helped along by her beloved floret. a sweet romcom. This one is fairly lighthearted and sweet.

Sweet Tooth (F/f) [mid length, ongoing] - kidnap intox sweet tooth fixation noncon

Cowritten with PyxxieStyxx! Katherine Stanton has a very rigid, structured life. she likes her plain oatmeal every day, and reading in the park, even though her home assistant AI nags her to stop wearing grey all the time and mix things up. Sirata Saccharum, fifth bloom, thinks Katherine needs an intervening helping vine to inject a little sweetness into her life, and isn't terribly concerned that Katherine disagrees.

Cutting Away (F/f, 2nd person) [oneshot] - horror-erotica, noncon, implantation

A horror-erotica story about implantation, set in the human domestication guide universe, exploring the actual process of the implant integration with a human brain.

Alder's Prize (M/f), Adelira's Prize(F/f) [Mid length, Completed] - Noncon, forcefem, scent kink

A forcefem story about a marine who thinks "he" is an alpha wolf gets adopted by an affini who intends to have the happiest little puppygirl slut as a trophy. cowritten with 4WheelSword.

Surrogate Bloom (pansexual) [Mid length, ongoing] - pregnancy kink, polyamory, independent life

a xenophilic hedonist independent human in her fifties, Hannah, is proposed with an idea: let her girlfriend Reiko and her alien boyfriend grow plant biotech inside her lower abdomen for kink reasons. shes super into it, but the journey involves unpacking a lot of why maternalism is something she thinks she can only ever pretend at.

A Taste of Class-Ω (F/f, 2nd person) [oneshot] - Class-O play, Affini Pov, romantic but also kinda scary

a reader(affini) x floret story where 'you' tease your pet with a simulated class-O experience.

Ache of Maculatum (M/f), Song of Picaria (F/f) [Long, Completed] - romance, transhumanism, trauma processing

one of the most brilliant physicists of the terran accord plants her feet in the ground and refuses to adapt to the Compact. This story is both a very horny transhumanist romance, and also a character study in internalized transmisogny, narcisism, and still deserving love no matter what.

The Captain's Toy (M/m) (M/f) (F/f) [oneshot] - imperialism, posthumanism, mind control kink

A standalone sequel oneshot to Aom/Sop, set 750 years later.

Hope for the Future (F/f, 2nd person) [oneshot] - Noncon, Affini Pov, horror-erotica

a second person Affini POV oneshot about meeting a terran "you" (the reader) just really can't stop thinking about, maybe to the point of obsession... A story as much about kink as it is about complicated feelings about art, parasociality, and being misinterpreted.

HDG, Past//Present//Future [Nonfiction Essay]

a nonfiction critical analysis of the Human Domestication Guide setting, community, and fandom as it exists and may change moving forward, from the perspective of an author who writes it.

Vex and Valda (M/f) (F/f edit) [Short, Completed....maybe?] - edgy noncon erotica

a short but very mean forcefem noncon story about a trillionare being taught the value of sharing.

Pencil (F/f) [oneshot] - comedy-erotica, hypnosis, object fixation

A very chill human pet and her extremely anxious owner engage in some silly hypnotic roleplaying with personality overlays and object fixation.

Your Alien Boyfriend Who Definitely Sees You As His Full Equal (M/f second person), (F/f second person edit) [oneshot] - erotica, sadomasochism, dubcon

A oneshot, written in second person about "your" alien partner that likes to play along with the notion you aren't already thier toy, adores how much of a doll you become in thier arms, and knows how much you like to be hurt- better than you do.

David, the Independent Terran (M/f, Male mc) [oneshot] - slice of life, just a guy, independent life, he fucks trans girls and is a cool dude

David is a cisgendered, heterosexual independent Terran living in the Affini compact. No, seriously. He actually is all of those things. His buddies, of course, are now all queer transfem human pets, and this is a story about what parts of thier dynamic have changed, and what parts have stayed the same.

A Wedding In Crimson (F/f second person) [oneshot] - wedding, romance, surgery

Implantation is very analogous to marriage to the affini. what if they were literally combined into a single ceremony? A oneshot, written in second person about "your" wedding to an affini surgeon.

Kristina_Rushko's Domestication Blog (F/f) [oneshot] - Noncon, Experimental formatting

An absolute Karen starts a blog to vent about how she's going to give the affini a piece of her mind when they arrive. things diverge from her expectations.

#hdg #human domestication guide #Sheepwave Story Recs

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nomstellations · 6 months ago

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masked/"faceless" preds my beloved. there's nothing like the reveal of a hungry mouth from beneath the mask, slowly licking their lips...or suddenly seeing a maw open up before you where there wasn't one before, eager to devour you

#speakin words #v0re #extreme cuddling #vore talk #im in a mood today can you tell.

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youlikefanficdontyousquidward · 1 year ago

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Caught red handed

Miguel x Spider-Reader (gender neutral but AFAB)

Warnings: Period sex, oral, fingering, some pred/prey, stalking?

Summary: Miguel catches your scent and it activates something in him.

I know he's not a vampire but just let me play in the space rn ok?

It was just a precaution. He looked into every spider person that joined. He just had to be sure they weren't going to be a problem down the line. That's the only reason.

"Keep telling your self that Miguel." Lyla chirped over his shoulder. Her smug smile grating on him. She was right of course, which only made him more furious.

Miguel had spent the whole day watching you through the screens. Peaking in on your cannon events at first but it'd slowly moved towards obsession. He had to know everything, see everything. He watched you at home, your civilian life on public transport.

He watched you at your day job, inches away from his screen, dark circles sickly looking under the yellow light. Miguel watched you smile at coworkers whilst gripping the control panel until it cracked. Then you were making excuses to swing off, protecting your world from villains.

A loud buzz snapped him from his focus. An anomaly, an anomaly in your universe! He didn't even consider sending anyone else and was through the portal before he'd even checked what it was.

He arrived in an explosion, pouncing to a near by wall, claws digging into the concrete. It was a green goblin and a rather futuristic one at that. He whizzed above in the night sky, cackling wildly and throwing orange grenades with reckless abandon. Dammit he should've arrived better, he cursed preparing to pounce.

Then there you were, tight body suit and graceful movements, spinning through the air. Webbing shot out, catching each bomb before they went off, gathering them to swing right at the goblin. Miguel was impressed, you were leagues beyond a lot of the other Spiders but that came with your years experience.

"Hey Miguel! Hope you like 'em extra crispy!" You quipped as you swung past him. He groaned, rolling his eyes. Of course you were still a Spider after all, the annoyance came with the territory.

He moved to follow before something stopped him. A scent unlike anything he'd smelt on you before. At first the copper tinge worried him, had you been hurt before he arrived? No there was something under that, a sweet ambrosia that had his head spinning.

"Welp that was easy!" You chirped landing in front of him. Miguel was only vaguely aware of the portal you opened, dropping a bound and swearing goblin through. "Hope none of the Spider-teens are through there right now," You continued but all Miguel could focus on was the buzzing in his claws, his teeth.

"You know cuz of the swearing... hey you okay bud?" Your voice drifted closer, the smell intensifying. Miguel doubled over and you were by his side in an instant.

"Don't" Miguel yelled, your hands freezing before they reached his shoulder. His body shuddered, the scent was all around him. He dug his claws into the building. He could see your feet stuck standing horizontally as you watched him.

"Oh no..." Lyla began before her hologram fizzled away. Sure Miguel had been around other Spider-people when they were on their periods but this was something more.

"Do I need to call someone..." You began, inching forward again. A fresh wave of the scent crashed against Miguel. Any resistance he had was hanging on by a thread.

"You need to run." He strained, finally meeting your masked face. You looked startled, frozen on the spot, a deer in headlights. "NOW!" he roared.

You shot off, the sound of your web shooter firing away from him. It was a mistake, Miguel realized it the moment you moved. He should have got you to walk away, slowly, maintaining eye contact or through the portal. Now you were a rabbit and he a fox

He didn't even know when he moved, just that he chasing you. Claws raking through metal and stone as he tore his way after the scent. He needed it, he needed you. His whole body seemed to ache and the dull throb in his crotch drove his feral pursuit.

For your part you ran well, moving quickly, silently, shifting directions to try and shake him. You couldn't know how stupid that was, no matter where you went he could follow the scent.

You swung silently into an abandoned warehouse, darting quickly past the pungent chemicals. The idea came as you'd ran, in both the dark and quiet it'd be easier to hide. If your theory was correct too, the bleach should mask you.

What was happening? You seen Miguel loose it before, anger blinding him as he tore after a villain but this was different. You'd not been fighting, so why would he be after you? He couldn't want to hurt you.

You were plastered to the wall, chest heaving in... fear? No you'd never been afraid of Miguel. Sure he had those fangs, claws, height but he was kind past his gruff exterior. He had a melancholy about him that made your heart ache. No you weren't scared, you were excited?

"Y/n... I know your in here... come to me Conejita" Miguel purred through the gloom the sound coursing excitement through your veins.

Miguel's eyes worked best in dark like this, he could clearly see the pungent chemical vats. His clever girl, you were hiding where that sense would be diminished. Still he wasn't thrown. If he was closer he'd smell it again he was sure. So he kept his movements were slow, quiet, stalking around the catwalks as he searched.

There was an intensity to him you'd never seen. Shoulders swaying like a panther as he continued his search. You stilled as much as you could, breath held as he passed bellow. Stuck to the ceiling was your best bet you supposed, he had a harder time scaling walls that you did.

Still the excitement bubbled in your stomach, a heat beginning to pool at the thought of being caught. It made you feel guilty, something was wrong wasn't it? You shouldn't be so excited to be caught by your friend, he wasn't in his right mind surely. He passed through a door and you let yourself fall silently to the ground, turning to sneak off again.

"Querida" his voice breathless against your ear. You squeaked, turning to face him. He towered over you, breathing rapid and hot against your mask, eyes zeroed in. Your arm flew up to sling your escape but he caught the wrist. Miguel pulled your arm up over his head as you now dangled inches from his face. No quip came to mind.

His mask was gone, pupils blown as a cheshire grin exposed dripping fangs. In a moment you planted your feet on his chest, his grip loose enough on your wrist to slip out. Springing off, you landed a few meters away but your escape was short lived.

His body slammed into yours, one arm encircling your waist and pinning your arms to your side, the other pulling you even closer to back into him and gripping your thigh. The claws tore at the fabric as he held on tight but didn't graze the skin. He was plastered to your back, hunched over your form, nose pressing against your throat.

"Tesoro, mi tesoro, why do you resist?" He groaned out, his hard member pressing against your rear. You couldn't help but gasp as his hand slid up your body. He paused to massage a breast, earning another sweet noise from you.

Still your feet stumbled, toes scraping for purchase on the ground you'd been plucked from. You were stronger than him, the spider bite made sure of that but in this position it'd be hard to free yourself without hurting him. That and your own resolve was melting away moment by moment.

"I've seen the way you ogle me at HQ, you want me too..." He growled against your suit. It frustrated him, too much between you both. He pulled your mask off first, admiring the flush in your cheeks and messy hair in the reflection of metal container ahead. If you looked this good already he could only imagine how good you'd look when he was through with you.

"You're not thinking straight Miguel" You hissed through teeth as you felt fanged teeth scrape against your throat. They were sharp, nicking a tear into the neck of your suit. Miguel stilled a moment, arms still tight against you.

"I've wanted you since we met." He confessed against your throat before pressing warm lips to the searing skin. "Please...mi amor" He continued, kissing up to your ear. Your breath shuddered out, feeling limp against his loosening hold.

He was giving you an out, enough room to escape if that was what you really wanted. His claws drawn in, head turning into his shoulder.

"Miguel..." You shifted in his hold and for a terrible moment he felt like you would leave. Instead you turned, weight still resting in his arm. Your arms now free you lifted hands to cup his cheeks, each point of skin against skin burning.

He melted into your touch, turning his face to kiss into your palm. His eyes half lidded as he searched your face for an answer. Your eyes were cast down, staring intently where his lips met your skin. He shifted forward, your hands yielding to the movement.

You kept your eyes locked on his, skin tingling and a gnawing need growing stronger. Your eyes darted back to his lips for just a second before he surged forward.

Miguel's kiss was desperate, hungry, making up for lost time. He stepped forward swiftly backing you against the cool metal behind you. You gasped and he used the space to explore further into your mouth. His weight pressed against you pinning you to the vat.

It was intense, overpowering, his fangs gently moving to nip at your lip. He was still in control, holding back from tearing skin but he could still felt that burn in his mouth.

His hands roamed, squeezing and caressing their way to your hip, savoring every sound he swallowed from you. Before he tugged the garment down.

"Wait." You turned your head, breaking his kiss. He stilled, waiting for your rejection. "I...um..I'm on...like Aunt flo..." you were cut off by his sudden laugh. It was light, teasing, an almost cruel chuckle.

"I know." He met your eyes again amused by the way your cheeks flared. "Can I?" he breathed against your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin.

"Yes." you moaned out as Miguel swiped his tongue against the light bruising. His hand dipping down between your folds, gathering the blood before running a thumb over your clit. You moaned his name, head flying back. God if he heard nothing more for the rest of his he'd be a happy man.

Miguel took advantage of the fresh unmarked skin you'd bared and continued his work marking it. He continued dancing his fingers through your heat, circling around your hole before delving a finger in.

You felt like putty in Miguel's hands, molding yourself against him as you arched off the cool metal as his thumb circled. The finger curled and you felt the tension in your stomach rise, the heat in your skin almost unbearable.

Then he withdrew causing you to mewl. He chuckled again his other hand holding your chin to face him. Then he brought the other hand to his lips, tongue lapping the blood from his fingers.

He watched chest swelling at your darkening eyes as he cleaned each digit. As much as he wanted to tease you the scent had done nothing to prepare him for the taste. This cock straining hard against his suit twitching.

"God I need to taste you." he moaned. Suddenly shifting letting your feet touch the ground again. If it wasn't for his vice grip on your hips, you were sure your buckling knees would have failed you.

You went to protest but his mouth was already against you and your words died in another keening whine. His nose pressing against your clit, shifting as he mouthed and drove his tongue inside you. His own groans and growls vibrating against you.

A knot tightened in your abdomen and your hands flew out to drip into his hair. He growled more, his nose brushing again and again against your sensitive bud until you snapped.

Your knees gave, only held up by his face and hands as you came. Waves of pleasure blinding you further in the gloom as he continued to eat you out through your orgasm.

After the last shudder left you he withdrew, hands trailing up your body to keep you upright as he stood again. Half lidded you kept your eyes on his, chest heaving. Your period smeared across his lower jaw, painting his lips. You both leaned together before a buzz startled you.

Both watches blinked to life, a call to return to HQ ASAP. Miguel stepped back, making sure you were secure on his feet before he let go. Whatever interruption this was he was going to kill them. His mask shifted over his face, before he pressed to answer.

You stood dazed as the portal rumbled open, pebbles drifting into the air as Miguel stalked over to his exit. He paused at the last moment, wide chest heaving and illuminated in the neon glow.

"I'll be right back."

#miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #spider man #across the spider verse #my fics #period sex

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