#Naomi x Navel

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter four: the mourning after

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Three |🩸 Chapter Five (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion reels in the wake of his consort's amnesia, and forms a plan to restore her memories.

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“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? With whom can the vampire vent some of the intense sensuality that seems to pervade its breed? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Blood smears over Astarion’s swollen lips, painting his front from neck to navel. He’s already drained two thinking things dry today. The dirt from their graves still lines his nail beds. No matter.

The nobles’ screams will sound just as sweet, whether they see the horror coming or not.

After he laid Naomi in the safety of their shared chambers, and laid Claude and Thessa to rest in the gardens, the other patriars had remained in his study to be dealt with. Claude had the foresight to lock them there. But the door would only hold the conniving fools for so long. 

Astarion would be sure to clean himself of all the gore before waking his darling. And when he wakes her, he’ll wash away the woes of the day with one last compulsion: remember.

His steps thud down the hall. Racing heartbeats slap his ears like boots smacking through puddled streets. So much wet, delectable noise. He swipes his tongue across his teeth in anticipation.

Astarion lurches towards the study door. His hand claws around the knob.

In an instant, he could be rid of the patriars for good. Pour their pride, their hopes, their lives down his throat until only he remains. And he’ll do the same to every footsoldier that comes calling after. Even Duke Ravengard, when he inevitably comes to visit righteousness upon the Crimson Palace. 

Astarion could take everything, in light of what’s been taken from him. He should. It’s only right someone else should suffer. Naomi’s not here to argue any different. 

Her name pangs through his temples. Astarion recoils abruptly from the door, his hand dropping slack at his side as he bites back a pained hiss.

The vampire ascendant sits at the head of the conference table in his study. His fingertips curl and unfurl into fresh grooves worn down in the mahogany. 

At the table’s other end, Naomi surveys him in portrait, her expression guarded and glittering. She’s not alone; they’re seated on separate thrones in the towering canvas, hands delicately clasping each other’s. Both of them are drenched in jewels, clad in finery worth more than any who set their eyes upon it. The gold-leaf frame on its own cost more than most peasants make in a decade.

There’s a more lascivious version in their private chambers, with Naomi seated on his lap. The only finery she wears there is that of her bare figure, with Astarion likewise undressed. It’s lucky he preemptively covered it before she batted her eyes open. Given how she reacted to her own reflection, she may not have taken kindly to her likeness twined so completely with his.

Her reflection is a gift, granted by the greater present of his presence. And yet, his generosity is entirely lost on her now. She's forgotten all of the times he's taken her so tenderly, all the wealth he's lavished over her, all the pains she's been spared as his treasured consort. She's forgotten the love they share, the love that broke through the dirt of those sunless centuries and seated them here: happy, eternal, untouchable.

She can barely stomach his touch at all, now.

“Oh darling,” he utters in the barest whisper, his pounding head dropping into his hands. “What am I to do with you?”

Outside, night falls in a dark curtain across the Gate. The windowed wall overlooking the city fills with little motes of flickering lantern light. From here, they seem small enough for him to reach out and extinguish, one by one, with just a pinch of his fingers.

His jaw clenches. He could’ve been far crueler to this city. He’s been utterly benevolent by comparison. 

And this is how his kindness -- his restraint -- is repaid. This is the thanks he gets.

The empty kind, bleated by sheep who don’t know their own luck. Every one of the patriars muttered their gratitude as they filed from the room without so much as a scratch. Any misgivings they had were soothed with the calming timbre of his Ascendant Authority --  a devilish boone that grants him the ability to bend the perception of even those he doesn’t have direct dominion over. 

It’s time for you all to leave. Everyone expected to attend the meeting was present. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. You definitely didn’t notice any blood.

It isn’t the bludgeon of compulsion. The effect is more subtle, and must operate within the reasonable expectations of whatever captive audience he seeks to manipulate. He cannot command those he hasn’t bitten, but he can curate. Such revision is made all the easier by the blood of his new spawn thrilling through his veins, and the mundane, repetitive song and dance all the nobles come to expect. The cattle long for their routine, and will readily return to it at the sight of a strong hand.

Astarion drums his fingertips restlessly against the pages of an open book. His abilities will stave off immediate inquiry into Thessa Gray’s sudden disappearance. For most, it will be enough not to arouse any suspicion. Unless pressed -- and who would have reason to? -- the other nobles will offer threadbare replies as to the day’s dealings. But such answers could crumble to confusion under scrutiny. 

If someone knew better, they might know a vampire had a hand in muddling their minds.

Wyll knows better. Wyll will know about Astarion’s new spawn soon enough. Time enough for Astarion to sort out this matter of memory.

He skewed the patriars’ recollections easily enough. They had recollections to tamper with. The spell scroll didn’t simply mold Naomi’s memories. It stole them. He can’t curate absence. Evidently, he can’t compel it away, either. 

“By the bloody hells!”

The table rattles with the sudden pound of his fist, but the pain needling his temples barely recedes. It doesn’t flee like it should. The low, guttural growl in the back of his throat doesn’t scare it off, either.

His head hurts. His head shouldn’t hurt. Nothing so mundane as a headache should have a hope of harming him! Astarion grits his teeth, nearly ripping the page from the tome in front of him as he turns to the next. 

It’s the same cruel pain that plagued him when he woke Naomi. After the incident in the throne room, he’d braced for her hostility. He hadn’t accounted for her terror. Or that it would feel like teeth sinking into his skull.

The woman cries in glass; every tear down her cheek has the same lethal sheen. No soothing words or gentle touch could dull the sharpness. And now he bears the unseen scars of it.

His compulsion didn’t work. His consort can’t remember their precious time together. And he, the vampire ascendant, is suffering something so inane as a migraine.

If Naomi feels the pain, too, then at least she’s trancing through it. Their bond requires emotions to be shared. He feels any harm that comes to her as if it were his own, and vice versa. His triumphs are hers, and their joys are joint.

She would not recoil from him so, stranger or not, if she could feel his affections. Astarion’s lip curls. She had no problem seeing the monster of him, turning a blind eye to the care he’d taken in her comfort. Her fear could’ve cut a throat as easily as a dagger. Astarion tried to scrape his way past it, but when her eyes set sight on her own reflection, it climbed into something consuming. It was reflex to send her into trance again. Like shirking away from a fire spitting sparks. 

She can’t trance forever. The back of his throat grows drier, the longer his thoughts linger on his consort. She needs to feed.

And pain is not the same as fear. They are complementary colors, not identical ones. Astarion is intimately acquainted with all the subtle shades in between. The distinction stirs a festering disquiet in his gut.

Can she feel their bond at all? Her memories may have taken the direct hit, but their bond is…strained. Twisted in on itself. So loud and large are her feelings, maybe his are simply quiet in her head. 

Or, maybe, the time for his restraint is over.

It could be a stronger hand that’s needed for her thoughts to open to him again. The seamless telepathy they shared before was something cultivated over time. A conscious choice they each made until it became an unconscious one. Either of them, in theory, could choose to shelter their own thoughts. Feelings would still seep through, and such deprivation didn’t suit a union so harmonious as theirs.

It’s a choice she would never ordinarily make. One he could grow to forgive when this interruption in their eternity is so far in the past, it can be forgotten.

With a long-drawn sigh, Astarion snaps the book shut and tosses it into the piles of others strewn over the floor. In lieu of tearing out the patriars’ throats, he’d torn all the tomes from the shelves. So much for all the coin he’d spent furnishing Emilia’s studies. He’s yet to find anything of use in the rare arcane texts his library boasts of. No cures for his consort’s ailing memory. Only more and more incendiary possibilities of what caused it. 

A charm? Unlikely. Emilia said it herself: by your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours. An enchantment would’ve ended when the caster did. The man turned to literal sand before Astarion’s eyes, and still, Naomi’s amnesia persists. What’s left of the culprit sits in a bronze dish further down the desk, alongside the burnt scraps of the spell scroll. He can’t make sense of such remnants -- it’s in a strange, geometric script he can’t decipher.

  A curse on the other hand… 

The notion nips at his mind like a putrid rat. At first, he bats the idea away. But as night bleeds to dawn, it recurs with a sickening nausea he can’t ignore.

What a specific insult to add to this particular injury; Naomi has been the victim of a curse before, albeit of a very different nature. Only those who knew her during their tadpole days would know that intimate detail. She herself didn’t understand her own plight when they first met. Astarion freed her of those bonds long ago. What lingering effects of her former curse remain, Naomi learned to wield as weapons of her own.

Astarion rubs the fresh creases on his forehead. Only a day ago, Naomi smirked and said: this is my home. I know where all the sharp things are. And now, she cuts her own lips on the fangs she’s unfamiliar with. Her abilities could be further hazards, if she no longer recalls how to use them.

Still, it was no mere wizard who cursed her in the past. All things considered, this is a far simpler predicament than last time. It should follow that the solution is simpler, too. If it is a mundane curse, then a mundane cleric should be able to cure it. Or, another wizard. One more skilled than Emilia was. 

Astarion knew such a man once. A shame that man is no more. Gods never answered Astarion’s prayers in the past, and he’s not about to depend on one, now.

He still knows a skilled cleric. One that might answer the call of his coin purse. After all, where would the Mother Superior and her House of Grief be without his financial sympathies?

But no. His consort won’t need either of them. Astarion stiffens abruptly, a new realization latching into place in his mind. 

It wasn’t Gale or Shadowheart who saved Naomi from her first curse. It was Astarion. It was never clear to him if the act of making her vampire did the trick, or if it only worked because he was the vampire above all others. Either way, Astarion usurped Naomi’s former chains by binding her to him instead.

He lets out a strangled laugh, the only sound for hours in the deathly quiet palace.

It all comes down to blood, really. It’s the way he’s solved all of his problems in the end, one way or another. He needn’t worry himself with magic when the old vampire cure-all could have her in his arms again within hours.

One drop should do. She’ll remain a vampire bride as she was meant to be -- there can be no separation, and no making of a ‘true’ vampire unless a sire wills it. She will sup of him once more, and know him again.

And what bliss that will be. 

A sudden smile wakes on his lips, warming his face with the fresh daylight streaking through the windows. His nose tilts towards the ceiling, and his eyes flutter shut. Naomi’s touch feels far too muted in his mind when it’s only memory he’s drawing from, and not the live current of their flourishing bond. 

It’s a comfort all the same, to imagine her fingers coursing through his curls, her nails scraping against his scalp. Her scent of lavender and lemongrass, sharp and sweet, never fails to make his mouth water. He’d sup of her, too. Take that divine nectar from her neck and take her with her stomach laid flat across this desk, back arched, legs spread wide, his hands hooked around her thighs, his name a fountain from her mouth.

Astarion.

His eyes flash open at once. He gags back a raw whimper in his throat. Pain, not pleasure, flares within his skull. His lustful fantasies dissolve into one piercing recollection: the distress on her face when she woke beside him earlier.

“Do you know my name?” He’d asked his wife.

Astarion, she said. He mulls over the shape of the sound in Naomi’s mouth, the way she said it with such warring confusion and certainty. Even as she answered him without hesitation, he saw the surprise cross her face.

Astarion. To her, he is inextricable. He is instinct.

She isn’t lost to him. She isn’t. She can’t be.

Astarion shoves from his chair so violently, it topples over. He doesn’t bother to right it again before storming from the room like a thundercloud. The corridors echo with his footsteps and the shrill squeak of his heel as he turns down another. Before long, he comes to the closed door he seeks, a faint glow of silver magic glittering around its edges. 

Emilia had the enchantments carved at his behest. They’re a part of the manor itself, and so they still survive without her. None but he and Naomi can see the effect without some manner of arcane detection. None might enter or exit without the spell’s password, known only to him and his consort.

A detail, like so many others, Astarion’s sure she’s forgotten.

Soundlessly, he turns the knob and presses the door open. It’s absurd, the way he tip-toes towards the bed. As if she could wake without him willing it. It’s absurd to be looking in on her at all. Of course, she’s still here. Astarion forces out a long breath. It doesn’t sate the anxious scamper of his heart beating in his throat.

It’s equally ludicrous that he hesitates at his side of the bed, glancing furtively between the empty space beside her body and the empty chair in the corner. Ridiculous, really, that the corner is where he ultimately retreats to. But then, the situation itself is outlandish in every sense. No ill was ever supposed to befall her here, in their home, beneath his protection.

He sits stiff-backed, legs crossed, with his hands clenching the armrests in a rigid grip and his eyes fixed on his trancing bride. Her white hair splays over the silk pillowcase. The lace of her nightgown drapes off her freckled, lilac shoulders. Except for the occasional flutter of her eyelids, she’s utterly still. Astarion is a statue at her bedside.

What memories play behind those closed eyes? He wonders. Perhaps, in her trance, she relives her time in the Underdark, and the temple to Eilistraee that raised her. Naomi still remembers her mortal life, something that fades for most vampires in time. 

Without such mortal memories of his own, for centuries, all Astarion could remember  was Cazador’s cruelty. He learned to substitute reverie with sleep. It gave him a chance, at least, to dream of something different, instead of replaying something agonizing. Some nights, he was luckier than others. Cazador could still turn a dream into a nightmare, after all. 

Astarion has been nothing but lucky since knowing Naomi. And he’d no longer needed to trade reverie for sleep. He hasn’t gotten a wink of either since she’s forgotten him.

It’s nighttime again when he rises from his seat. He latches the door behind him just as quietly as he coaxed it open. His legs move sluggish, as if wading through waist-high water. The cool air of the garden courtyard tickles his collar, rousing him from his daze.

Something clatters nearby. Movement flashes in his periphery. Astarion’s heart lurches in his chest as he pivots and stiffens. With the culprit locked in his sights, he lets out a long, pained groan.

Gods below. It’s only the gardener, skulking as she’s wont to do. Astarion studies the skeletal figure with equal measures of disgust and fascination. She was only a dusty pile of bones when he and Naomi happened upon her in some forgotten closet. No doubt Cazador locked her there years ago and threw away the key without a second thought. Astarion has no idea who she might’ve been.

But the second Naomi sang, the skeleton became whoever his consort wanted her to be. And Naomi wanted a gardener to help her grow all manner of beautiful, exotic things. Astarion’s heartbeat settles, though it aches like a bruise with every pang. He starts off again with a huff.

Floral sweetness cloys in his nose, lush petals framing the stone path to the heart of the courtyard. The gardens are home to every shade of violet ever known. His favorite are the petrea vines, hanging like garland from the trellises. Wistfully, he reached out to cradle a strand. The delicate blooms are so similar to the shade of Naomi’s eyes, when she was still mortal. Water babbles from the enchanted fountain up ahead, mingling with the faintest sound of piano keys. 

Astarion’s eyes grow heavy. If he only closes them, perhaps he can pretend he’s still in the ballroom, that the moonlight bleaching his cheek is the sun, that he never left Naomi alone at all. That she plays for him, still.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Astarion whirls around, seething. “What are you doing?!”

The gardener scuttles on, trowel in hand, without so much as a croak in reply. It’s a relief, really, that the thing can’t talk, even if it is uncanny in its understanding when others do. Naomi thinks his distaste for the gardener is a matter of favoritism, that he simply values his own progeny over her bonier servants. He doesn’t dwell on it long enough for any other reason to come to mind, though his eyes linger on the trowel’s sharp edge until the gardener disappears between the hedges again. 

That Naomi’s servants still function as they should, he supposes, is a good sign. Her magic remains as strong as ever, it seems, even if her memory isn’t.

When at last he comes to the bare patch near the back, strategically shielded from sight by lush hydrangeas, the dirt is already writhing. He watches coldly as the soil shifts and sinks. An arm bursts through, raking madly at the air, and then another. The hands are the color of a faded rose, and tipped in dark, pointed claws. Thessa.

“Finally!” Astarion sighs. “I was beginning to think I killed you for good!”

He reaches forward, grips a flailing hand, and pulls. 

The tiefling bursts from her grave, collapsing at Astarion’s heels. Her clogged scream sends a score of crows into the sky. At least the cacophony drowns out her awful retching. 

Claude still hasn’t stirred. Well, Astarion won’t weep if he fails to. He doesn’t weep over the same ceremony that once started his own existence as a snivelling spawn. With Zylar and Emilia, he took time and pride in molding them, and even mustered a fair amount of pity for their lesser state. The burial was something he prepared them for. Something they saw for the rite of passage it was.

There’s no time for such luxuries now. Astarion’s kindness cost Naomi dearly. Whatever Zylar did or didn’t do in the throne room before Astarion arrived, it led to Naomi’s current state. The wretch will stew and starve in his cell while Astarion sees to his fresher spawn. 

The dirt of Claude’s grave begins to crack. A ragged snarl rips from Thessa’s throat. She’s filthy, streaked in dirt, eyes wide and wild, blood and spit hanging from her chin like some slavering dog. Astarion knows what’s next. He steps back neatly as she lunges, leaving her to thump face-first at his feet.

“You will not allow harm to come to your-- wait!” Astarion holds up a finger, brow furrowing. 

Thessa stares ahead blankly on all fours, an empty canvas awaiting his command.

“No,” he decides. “Not that.”

He taps the same finger against his lower lip, abruptly pensieve. He was about to say: you will not allow harm to come to your sire. But it was that command that caused Emilia to harm Naomi. And Emilia’s inability to conceive of nuance led to her downfall.

If he compels Thessa in the same manner, she’s likely to meet the same fate as the spawn that came before her. She’s not special or smart enough to steer herself towards any other outcome all on her own.

So he settles instead on: “You will not harm your sire or his bride. You will protect them both to the best of your ability.”

He can’t help but feel a small twinge of disappointment at how quickly the compulsion douses Thessa’s fire. His shoulders stung for an hour after her death: a product of the frantic, scorching spells she lashed at him as he drained every drop of blood from her body. Now, she merely lies limp in the dirt, haggard and panting, glaring daggers at her new master.

Claude surfaces shortly after. Astarion heaves him from the hole by the collar, setting him atop solid ground with little ceremony. The gnome echoes Thessa’s sputtering for air he no longer needs, but he refrains from any foolhardy aggression. He quivers as Astarion repeats the same compulsion he bestowed on Thessa. When it’s done, Claude’s wet, pleading eyes fix on Astarion. No longer are they colorless gray, but a gleaming, ruby red.

“H-hungry,” Claude stammers, voice fraught.

“Yes,” Astarion says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come, both of you.”

He leads them to the dining room, where he pulls out the chairs across from where he and his consort typically seat themselves. On grander occasions, the lavish hall hosts all manner of rich and powerful guests. Most days, it seats only two. 

Stiffly, Thessa sits. Claude nearly collapses into his chair, clutching the armrests for dear life. The man is pale, even by vampire standards. He always had a sickly pallor in life. Undeath didn’t relieve him of it.

The nearby hearth bursts to life with a snap of Astarion’s fingers. He crosses the hall to an ornate cabinet. The lock opens at Astarion’s mere touch. He takes a decanter, with velvet red liquid sloshing inside, and a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet before shutting it again and sauntering over to his waiting spawn. The lock re-engages with a faint click.

Claude’s eyes track his every motion. Thessa leans in, hypnotized by Astarion’s fingers toying with the glass stopper. It calls to mind a cat, with pupils blown wide, preparing for the perfect moment to pounce.

He’s not a monster. Well, not entirely. This isn’t an act of kindness. It’s necessary, if he doesn’t want them wilting over like desiccated waifs.

With a thin smile, Astarion twists the stopper free. The scent hits the roof of his mouth at once, rich, ripe, and succulent. He can see the second it reaches his spawn. Their eyes glaze over with raw, overwhelming want. Thessa’s lips twitch towards a snarl. The sound that seeps out instead is nearly obscene. Claude shudders hard enough to shake his chair, too.

“Wait until it’s set in front of you,” Astarion chides, carefully pouring each glass in turn. They recoil only slightly. “And do try to drink like you’re civilized.”

They can’t help but not be. Like meat tossed to starving dogs, reason leaves them, and instinct takes the reins. Between their frantic gulping, glass shatters. In only seconds, they’ve downed their first blood, and shed just as much of their own in the process. With a low growl, Thessa plucks shards from her lower lip. The same broken pieces glint from fresh cuts in Claude’s hands.

Astarion could’ve compelled them into composure, but the demonstration suits him. It’s an important lesson for any spawn of his to see how little control they have, and how much their sire holds.

“Now that you’ve become acquainted with your new nature,” Astarion says pointedly, fully aware their attention flits between him and the decanter he shifts casually between one hand the other, “ let me acquaint you with our current predicament. Your mistress…”

Astarion clears the abrupt thickness from his throat as he contemplates what to say to set his spawn to task. He could lie, say Naomi’s been wounded, or fell ill. But any vague excuse could raise suspicions of a make-believe weakness. And weakness, even if only pretended, is something fresh spawn would be all too hungry to exploit. Such is the way of those lowest in the ranks. There’s no time for needless distractions that could muddle their aims.

No, the truth will have to do. 

“...was the target of a powerful spell. It’s taken a great deal of her memories. You’re going to help me get them back. Your aid in this will be duly rewarded. And let me assure you: there is much I could reward you with, should I choose to.”

As if he snapped his fingers, their focus recenters on him.

“Claude, you will show Thessa to Emilia’s chambers. These are to be her chambers now. And then, you will take her to my study. There, Lady Gray, you shall discern how the caster who so harmed my beloved disintegrated into sand before anyone else could lay a finger on him. Claude will assist you with whatever you require. Neither of you are to leave the palace. And neither of you will speak of Naomi’s ailment to anyone else.”

Thessa’s eyes narrow. “I’m a sorcerer, not a wizard. I’m certainly not a healer or an alchemist.”

“If you’re not useful, you’d best endeavor to change. And quickly.” He offers a humorless smile. “You’re welcome, by the way. You won’t be able to tell by looking in a mirror, of course, but I’ve done wonders for those wrinkles of yours, darling.”

Hesitantly, her fingertips ghost across her own smoothed cheek, tracing upwards to the corners of her eyes. Her hand falls back to her side, gaze dropping to the floor. 

Quietly, she says, “My family will ask after me.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “A secondary problem. One we can solve to your satisfaction, should you first earn mine.”

“Master,” Claude blurts, voice raw and rasping. “Might we have more?”

The gall of it! Anger sparks like waking embers in his gut. Astarion stills the decanter within his grip, holding it close to his chest.

“You might,” he croons, “but neither of you will unless I permit it.”

The gnome’s lip quivers. Perhaps he’s pushed poor Claude too far. No -- this is all heavenly compared to Cazador’s vampire orientation.

Astarion heaves an exasperated sigh. “For your own good, you’ll have to learn restraint. That learning starts now. It will be trying. But we’ve no time to be delicate, I’m afraid. I’m certain you can shoulder the burden.”

Sheepishly, Claude nods.  “Yes, my lord. To your new quarters then, Lady Gray.”

As they leave the hall, Astarion spies another figure stirring at the perimeter. It clacks across the tile, a broom and dustpan in skeletal hand. Ah. The maid. Another one of Naomi’s ‘spawn’.

This one, at least, seems intent on disturbing him as little as possible. The skeleton crouches as it nears the table, carefully collecting the remnants of the shattered wine glasses. Astarion repays its consideration by leaving it to its work.

He eyes the decanter of blood wistfully, but doesn’t hesitate as he replaces the stopper and stows it back inside the cabinet. Though he’s a man of immense appetites, tonight, he doesn’t intend to spoil his supper. Not this time.

He’ll be dining with Naomi, after all.

A/N: Thank you so very much for your patience! I've been battling a recurring sinus/respiratory infection that just won't quit. Between that and the holidays, this chapter took a little longer than I would've liked.

More Naomi and Astarion in the same room together in the next chapter ;) And, as some of you suspected, we’ll be seeing at least one other familiar face soon-ish, too.

HUGE thank you to the amazing, phenomenal, incredible @pinkberrytea for pre-reading this one, and for being a constant source of encouragement and inspiration. Please check out her lovely fic!

And a shout out as well to another dear friend, Garnett Gibson, who recently gifted me an amazing one-shot of non-amnesia Naomi x Astarion engaging in some steamy hunter/prey play. If you enjoy this story, or liked Blood in the Mortar, you'd love Garnett's one-shot. And their other wonderful fics, too!

Thanks for reading! <3

[larkral]

First Line Analysis

Thanks @kiwiana-writes for the tag! Apparently even though I've been back in fandom for two years, that doesn't equate to ten fics. So this includes the opening line from one of my ancient Battlestar Galactica fics. Which, honestly stands up IMO.

RULES: post the first lines of your last 10 fics/chapters posted on AO3 (if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics) and try to draw some conclusions.

Lines

The Co-captain D-men Reveille (™, patent not yet pending) spits out a rapid guitar riff, the CD alarm and selection of Haus mix CDs randomizing their wake-up soundtrack to Infinity Guitars. (Friday Prime - a Check Please Ransom/Holster time loop fic)

The call comes at 3am. (finally (already, always) - a Carry On Snowbaz fic but let's be honest a love story to lesbian mums, still a WIP)

The ocean is a warped mirror, and the sun is glancing into my eyes from its every shifting peak. (Feet Burried in the Sand - a Carry On Snowbaz fic)

If you've never seen a MG in person, you aren't ready for it. (Three Months or 3,000 Miles - a Carry on Snowbaz fic)

It's very hot. (Visible at sea - an In Other Lands / Turn of the Story Sunbrat fic)

The day I became a Sophomore, as our dorms rotated down, my room was suddenly twice its previous size. (A Dangerous Affinity - a Carry On x Naomi Novik's Scolomance Snowbaz epic)

The first thing I noticed about Agatha was the line where her jaw slopes into her neck, the interplay of tendons and skin and bone: the sternocleidomastoid, the hyoids, the styloid process. (scapulae - a smutty femslash offshoot of A Dangerous Affinity, so technically a Carry On fic featuring Agatha/OC)

It’s been ages since I’ve walked in on Snow crying into his pillow. (Good at Something - a Carry On Snowbaz blowjob epic)

We’re leaving the movie theatre when Penny sees the ice cream shop. (Baby, it's cold - a Carry on Snowbaz+Stormchaser fluff-fest)

He wouldn’t say his ears are ringing, but there’s something vibrating just like that, his consciousness modulating on its axis. (An Arranged Meeting - a Battlestar Galactica Starbuck/Apollo sex club fic)

Analysis

Apparently I have two types of opening lines: SNAPPY AS FUCK and heavy with figurative language.

Literally none of these tell you who the POV character is. Apparently I like to keep that information close to my chest.

Most of these seem to be about establishing concrete details that will be relevant to the story. Only 2 and 8 don't do that work.

Looks like I'm into showing not telling. In context all of these lines except for 9 have meaningful emotional weight, but I'm going to make you work for it.

Tags below the cut!

Come join me in navel gazing about your writing! <3

@facewithoutheart @cutestkilla @hushed-chorus @sillyunicorn @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

@ileadacharmedlife @bookish-bogwitch @captain-aralias @petedavidsonscock @artsyunderstudy

@martsonmars @nausikaaa @nightimedreamersghost @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @that-disabled-princess

@shrekgogurt  @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl​ @blackberrysummerblog @wellbelesbian​

@j-nipper-95 @youarenevertooold @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles @talentpiper11 @mooncello

@run-for-chamo-miles @roomwithanopenfire @monbons

[igigix]

Touch My Body

- Billy Russo (The Punisher) x Female Reader/You -

-> 18+ readers only!

-> English is not my native language, so bear with me because there will probably be some grammatical mistakes.

Summary: Billy is trying to distract you from your studies. (Part 2)

A/N: I'm just going to say that I'm obsessed with Billy Russo. Enjoy this smutty scene.

When Billy arrives, you're working on a case for your bar exam at home.

"Still working?" he says, greeting you. He takes your breath away. He hangs his coat in the closet after taking it off. His blue suit reveals every inch of his well-toned body. His slicked-back hair is styled into an undercut. It makes you want to run your fingers through it.

"Yeah, I'm almost done," You reply. He walks towards you until he's only an inch away, his gaze fixed on you. The smell of his cologne surrounds you. You've always thought his scent was hypnotic. He leans down and kisses you. His lips are soft and send shivers down your spine.

You want to freeze this moment. You want to make it last forever. His mouth is demanding against yours, nibbling and sucking your lower lip. You let your body go limp and give in to him. Your hands move from his shoulders onto his chest. Touching him, feeling him. You want more.

He draws away from you, and you immediately crave his warmth. You're aching to feel his lips on yours again. He grabs your hands, leading you to your desk.

"Sit." He gestures to your table. You're puzzled by his demand. You ardently do as he asks, planting yourself on the edge of the desk. He loosens his tie and rolls his sleeve up. He then takes a seat in the chair he has brought over to him. He closes the gap between the two of you and spreads your legs apart.

"Tell me more about your case." He begins to massage your legs. Your body is in a daze. He slightly lifts the top of your pajamas, feeling his lips nuzzle at your navel. 

 "Now?" You're lost for words. His hands feel incredible on you. The tips of his fingers are creating a tingling that spreads all over your body. 

"Yes, now, beautiful." His voice is raspy and thick. His eyes are blazing with desire for you as he slowly lowers your shorts. You grasp for your notes with trembling hands. You take a deep breath and try to regain your composure but find it hard to focus. 

 "Case Winston v. Franklin T-Shirts Inc. Plaintiff Naomi Winston owns a copyright in a photograph of Jim Barrows, a recent political candidate for mayor." You swallow; you try to keep your voice steady. He yanks your shorts down to your ankles and off your feet, and you feel a jolt of fire between your legs. "Defendant Franklin T-Shirts Inc. ("Franklin") used this photograph on T-Shirts during the campaign." You pause to gather your thoughts. His grip on you tightens as your breathing rate rises. You feel his fingers nimble around in your underwear. His teasing is definitely getting to you. 

"Wi – "you trail off. His thumbs brush over the crotch of your fast soaking panties, startling you. 

"Yes? Continue." Your pulse quickens in response to his command. You fumble with your notes and try to pick where you left off. You're turned on. He's well aware of what he's doing to you and enjoys it. You make an effort to keep going. "Winston sued Franklin alleging copyright violation, and Franklin defended itself on the ground of fair use." Through the fabric, he rubs the spot that aches for his touch. You aim to concentrate on your case rather than what he's doing or the overwhelming need that consumes you. 

"The parties agree that absent a finding of fair use; Franklin infringed upon the copyright." Your resolve crumbles; he tugs your panties to the side and hovers his fingers around your entrance before slowly slipping one of them into you. You lose track of your notes totally. Instead, you chose to let go. You savor the sensation of his hands on you. His strokes are soft and gentle as he begins to explore you. You close your eyes and admit defeat. You surrender to the pleasure that is building inside of you. He puts his other hand on your hip, steadying your body. You're entirely at his mercy. The next thing you know, you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. His fingers are moving faster, harder, deeper. 

"I'm sorry, am I distracting you, beautiful?" He asks as he increases the speed; you can feel yourself on the verge of exploding. Your body is filling up with hot waves. Your lungs are taken aback by the new aching pressure in your chest. Your neck is suddenly tense and rigid. An intense longing fills your veins. You can't take it anymore. You toss your papers on the floor and clutch the table with both hands.

"I'm... I'm coming." You get out a quick moan before you go over the edge. Your surroundings become hazy, and a searing pressure sweeps over you. You feel light-headed, and your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. Your heart rate returns to normal within a few seconds, and you relax. 

"I'm not finished." He then uses his mouth to make you come.

───────── ∙ ~εïз~ ∙ ──────────

- Masterlist -

- Taglist -

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Let Them Eat Cake (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Ethan and Naomi have their own private cake tasting

Rating: T/M. Kind of suggestive, but not fully explicit. I really did try to stop myself from going full on NSFW

Word Count: ~3,000 

Tag List: I’ll just use the tag list from my last fic. Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future. @canknot @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @choicesobsessedd @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @sparklinglilac  @cream-ray @perriewinklenerdie @barricades-of-freedom @dr-brianna-casey-valentine

~~/~~

It’s almost midnight when Ethan Ramsey is forced out of his sleep by a sharp knock on his front door. Jenner wakes up as well, barking to get Ethan’s attention. He ignores it for a few seconds, rolling over in bed, but the knocking only gets louder, more insistent.

“What the hell?”

He throws the comforter back and gets out of bed. He wanders out of the room and down the hallway, Jenner hot on his heels, barking loudly. He’s ready to attack any potential intruder. Whoever was knocking on the door is fully banging on it now.

Ethan unlocks the front door and is greeted by four young women, one of whom happens to be his fiancé. The rest are her friends.

“Rookie? What are you doing here?”

His fiancé, Dr. Naomi Valentine smiles brightly upon seeing Ethan. “Ethan! You’re up!”

He can tell by her dilated pupils and extreme lack of balance that she’s drunk. “You’re drunk.” He turns to her friends, who are all staring at him, speechless. He looks down and sees that he’s not wearing anything, except a pair of cotton pajama bottoms. They did not expect Ethan to look like that underneath all of those boring button ups. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

“Turns out, Naomi can’t handle her red wine very well,” Aurora says with a huff.

“Why are you bringing her back here?” Ethan asks. Not that he doesn’t mind having his fiancée at home with him, but it’s Jackie’s birthday, and they were supposed to be having a girls’ weekend. “I thought she was spending the night at her old place with you guys.”

“That was the plan, but she’s been asking for you for the past two hours,” Sienna says. 

“We got tired of her whining. And we aren’t babysitting her drunk ass,” Jackie adds. Kyra elbows her in the side. “Ow! What? It’s the truth.”

Aurora loosens her grip on Naomi and shoves her through the doorway. “There you are, Ethan. We’ve returned her to you, safe and in one piece.”

Ethan grabs Naomi by the waist and pulls her into his side. She instantly turns her body and cuddles him. “Thank you. Are you guys good to leave? Do you need me to call a cab?”

Sienna shakes her head. “I’m the designated driver tonight, so we’re good, but thank you for the offer.”

“Alright then. Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies.”

“Goodnight. And good luck.”

Ethan closes the front door and locks it. He feels Naomi release herself from his grip and when he turns around to see what she’s doing, she’s taking off her heels. When her feet finally touch the carpeted floor, she sighs. “I’m so happy to not have those shoes on anymore.”

He and Naomi have been together for almost two years, but he’s never seen her drunk. A little tipsy? Sure, but never drunk. This is uncharted territory for him. “How did you manage to get so drunk?”

“We went to a wine bar,” Naomi answers. She bends down to scratch Jenner behind the ears. “I told them I rarely drink wine because it hits me hard but Jackie insisted because she’s the birthday girl. Now I’m here.” She fully gave her attention to Jenner, pulling the dog into a hug. “Jenner, I missed you! Did you miss me?” He sniffs Naomi’s hand before nuzzling in closer to her. “Are you the best boy ever? I think you are!” Jenner barks. “Yes you are!”

Ethan smiles at the sight of Naomi interacting with their dog. Even when she’s drunk, the bond between her and Jenner is one that can’t be broken.

Naomi gets up and walks back over to Ethan. She wraps her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. “I missed you.”

“You saw me earlier today, sweetheart,” Ethan points out. He drops a kiss on her forehead.

“That was so long ago,” Naomi murmurs. “I just want to be with you forever.”

“You are going to be with me forever, Rookie. In case you forgot, we’re getting married in a few months.”

“You know what I’m saying,” Naomi slurs, annoyed that he wasn’t picking up what she was putting down. “I want to be with you 24/7.”

So Naomi is a clingy drunk, Ethan concludes.

“In a perfect world, that would be lovely. But we can’t because we have lives, we have jobs.”

“You’re rich,” Naomi deadpans. “You can quit working, and so can I.”

Ethan chuckles. “Money may be no object, but I work because I love medicine. I love helping people, as do you. We can’t quit.”

Naomi pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s why I’m with you, you’re the fun one.”

Naomi pushes herself off of Ethan’s chest, giving herself some space. “I’m tired of being dressed.”

“Okay, why don’t you go change into your pajamas and get into bed,” Ethan suggests.

Naomi ignores Ethan and starts stripping out of her clothes right in the living room. She tugs her jeans down and tosses them over her shoulder, uninterested in wherever they landed. Next is the silver tank top and bra she’s been wearing all night. Ethan watches her in amusement. Even sober, Naomi had the tendency to strip as soon as she made it through the threshold of their condo, so of course tonight was no different.

Leaving her clothes discarded on the floor, she slips off to their bedroom in search of something to wear. After digging through their walk-in closet for a minute, she settles on one of Ethan’s old college sweatshirts, and no pants. Once she’s comfortable with the choice, Naomi heads back into the common area of their condo and sees Ethan has moved from the living room to the kitchen. She joins him, silently watching as he searched for something to make.

“Did you at least have a nice time with your friends today?” Ethan asks.

“I did. Jackie got hit on by a guy at the bar, but he was gross.”

“Why was he gross?”

“Because he had dirty fingernails, he reeked of cheap cologne, and he wore a fake gold pinky ring.”

“That doesn’t make someone gross,” Ethan argues, with a chuckle. “It just makes them tacky.”

“He was gross,” Naomi insists. She opens the refrigerator and zeroes in on a platter of cake. Yesterday, she and Ethan did their cake tasting, and settled on white cake with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting, but they were able to go home with tons of samples. She takes the platter out and removes the protective cling wrap. “I’m so glad the bakery let us go home with all this cake.”

“You’re going to eat that?”

“Yeah.” Naomi hops on top of the kitchen island. “And you’re going to eat some with me.”

“Oh, am I?”

“You are.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“You love it.”

“I love you,” Ethan corrects.

“Even better.” Ethan rummages through the drawer that contains all of their cutlery and grabs two forks. He passes one to Naomi who doesn’t take it. “I don’t need it.”

“How else are you going to eat?” Ethan watches as Naomi uses her fingers to break off a piece of cake and bite into it. “Naomi, take the fork.”

“Nope.”

“I’m going to be the grown up in this scenario and actually use my utensils.”

Naomi grabs another slice with her fingers—almond cake—holds it out for Ethan to grab. “Let me feed you a slice. It’s practice for our actual reception.”

Ethan sighs, but he relents. Arguing with her would be a moot point. He opens his mouth and accepts the bite that she’s holding out for him. “I’m glad we didn’t pick this one.”

“It’s so boring!”

“I was just going to say it was the weakest of all of the cakes we tasted, but sure, it was boring.”

“My turn.” Naomi holds out the platter for Ethan to pick a slice.

Ethan opts for the chocolate cake with salted caramel filling and breaks off a piece for Naomi to eat. He lifts it to her lips and she accepts, but before he can pull his hand away, she catches his wrist. Naomi captures his thumb between her lips and sucks on it greedily, licking off whatever remaining frosting was still on his finger. She lets go of his thumb with a resounding pop. “Delicious.”

In that moment, Ethan is sure he’s lost the ability to form coherent thoughts. 

“Fucking hell.” 

Naomi takes a fingers and swipes a generous amount of icing off of one of the slices of cake—she doesn’t bother checking this time, and she doesn’t care in the slightest—and traces a random pattern onto Ethan’s chest and stomach. This time, she makes a show out of it, locking eyes with Ethan as her tongue follows the trail she left. She’ll never get tired of this, exploring him at her leisure. She can feel just how tense he is, his entire body rigid with restraint. She giggles, mostly to herself and places a soft kiss next to his navel. “You’re so tense. You need to learn how to relax more, Doctor.”

Ethan grabs a fistful of Naomi’s hair and yanks her head back, forcing her to look at him. Naomi winces at the sensation, but her eyes darken and the small smirk on her lips tell Ethan all he needs to know. This woman was a fucking minx. “You’re going to be the absolute death of me, Rookie.”

His voice is hoarse and he all but growls at her, and Naomi knows she has him right where she wants him. “Then you shall die a happy man.”

Ethan takes his own slice of cake and puts some in Naomi’s mouth. Not giving her the chance to eat it, he bends down and kisses her fiercely, tasting the sweet dessert on her lips. He captures her full bottom lip between his teeth. Naomi’s hands fly to his hair, grabbing a handful. She tugs, and Ethan groans into her mouth. “Exquisite.”

“Me or the cake?” Naomi asks, teasing him.

“I didn’t even register what that cake tasted like,” Ethan says honestly. Was it strawberry? Maybe carrot cake? “You. It’s always you.”

He reaches out traces nonsensical patterns on Naomi’s bare thighs until his fingers find their way underneath the oversized shirt she’s wearing, settling on her ribcage. Goosebumps break out all over the skin and Naomi shivers involuntarily. 

Naomi’s eyes flutter shut at his touch. “You’re such a smooth operator.”

“Everything I’m saying is the truth. I love you.”

Naomi smiles brightly. She’ll always love hearing that. “I love you, too.” 

Ethan leans forward and kisses her again, slower this time. Every kiss makes him dizzy, like he’s drunk. His tongue glides against her lips until it finds purchase in her mouth, melding against her own. And he doesn’t want to stop, even though his lungs are burning and constricting, and he really should come up for air, but he doesn’t want to separate. He’s just as addicted to her as she is to him. His hand continues their journey north, settling on her breast. He calloused fingers pull at her erect nipple, pinching the tiny nub between his thumb and index finger. Naomi arches her back trying to get even closer to him.

Naomi’s nails rake down his naked chest, leaving scratch marks in their wake. She stops once she reached the waistband of his pajama pants. Ethan’s breath caught in his throat as her fingers dip beneath the waistband of his pants and boxers, lightly scratching his hip.

She breaks the kiss and moves to his neck and jaw, enjoying the feel of his stubble. Ethan drops his head into the crook of her neck, panting loudly. “I have a question for you, Doctor Ramsey.”

Her fingers slowly make their way to the front of his body and she slowly strokes his hard length in her palm, her thumb just barely grazing the tip. His hips buck forward and his grip on her body tightens. “Anything, Naomi. Ask me anything.”

Naomi stops stroking him, earning a desperate whimper from the usually put together attending. “When are you going to stop this game and take me to bed?” 

Before a moment could pass, Ethan easily lifts Naomi up by the backs of her thighs, making her yelp in surprise. She locks her ankles behind his back as he all but runs down the hall to their bedroom.

As soon as they’re in their room, Ethan fosses Naomi onto the center of the bed. She sighs in content at the soft mattress hitting her back.

Ethan tries to touch and kiss every inch of skin available to him. Her face, her neck, her thighs, everything. But he hears a sound that stops him dead in his tracks. Snoring.

“Rookie?” He looks up and sure enough, Naomi is out like a light. “Naomi? Naomi?”

She doesn’t respond, she only rolls over.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ethan doesn’t know if he wants to laugh at the speed of which his fiancée fell asleep, or if he wants to pull his hair out in extreme frustration. 

He hooks his arms underneath her neck and the backs of her knees, lifting her up so he can actually get her into bed. He places her on her side, and pulls the comforter over her body. Ethan then shuffles into their en-suite, in search of where Naomi keeps her makeup. He finds her makeup wipes tucked in a corner and he grabs a few. Naomi is extremely diligent and rigid when it comes to her bedtime routine and she’d be upset if she woke up and realized she went to bed with a full face on. The least he can do is semi-help.

Walking back to their bed, Ethan takes one of the wipes and runs it across Naomi’s face. He does this a few times, until he’s confident he’s taken off most of her makeup. He also put her hair into a sloppy ponytail using a satin scrunchie—not a hair tie, as she’s told him many times, as those pull out her hair. Naomi can critique him in the morning, but for now he’s proud of how well he’s done.

Ethan crawls into bed next to her, and she instantly curls into him, her head resting on his chest. “Sweet dreams, Rookie.”

~~/~~

The next day, Naomi is pulled out of her sleep, by something wet touching her hand. She opens her eyes to see that it’s just Jenner, licking her. “Jenner, what are you doing?” He just barks in reply.

The second thing that hits her is just how fucking bright their bedroom is. The sunlight pierces through, making Naomi squint. The bright light is doing nothing for her headache.

“Good morning, Rookie!” Naomi looks up and sees Ethan standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk on his lips.

“Why are you so loud?”

“I’m not loud. You’re just sensitive to noise.” Ethan enters the room and hands Naomi a bottle of water and three Advil tablets. 

“And light,” Naomi adds. “We’re investing in some good blackout curtains.”

Ethan sits down next to Naomi and gives her a proper kiss as a greeting. “The floor to ceiling windows and that view cost me a fortune.”

“I don’t care,” Naomi groans. “I want curtains. It shouldn’t be so bright this early in the morning.”

“It’s not morning. It’s 12:30.”

“What?” Naomi checks the alarm clock on her bedside table and sure enough, it’s afternoon. “I slept this late?”

“I couldn’t wake you up if I tried. You were like a log.”

Naomi opens her water, and chugs it. “Last thing I remember is drinking with the girls. How did I get here? I was supposed to spend the night at my old apartment and go to brunch with the gang today.”

“They dropped you off because you got drunk and they didn’t want to watch you. Then you proceeded to get naked in our living room–”

“That sounds pretty on-brand.”

“Then you tried to seduce me.”

“What?”

“You don’t remember eating cake off of me?”

“What, those wedding cake samples?”

Ethan nods. “Oh yeah. You wanted to eat the cake samples, and you wanted me to feed them to you, and it spiraled from there.”

Naomi vaguely remembers what he’s talking about. She gets flashes of them in the kitchen, making out like two restless teenagers. “You said tried, so I can assume my seduction failed? You were able to resist me?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I fully intended on ravishing you, but you passed out as soon as we made it to bed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You were dead to the world as soon as your back hit the mattress. I managed to semi wipe your makeup off and tie up your hair. Sometime in the middle of the night, Jenner got in bed with us, and he stole you away from me.”

“This is why I don’t drink wine. It puts me to sleep.”

“It also makes you quite the temptress. Not that I mind at all.”

Naomi wraps her arms around Ethan’s midsection. “Well, thank you for taking care of me last night. I have the best fiancé in the world.”

“You don’t have to thank me, darling.”

“I do. I appreciate you.”

Naomi gets out of the bed, and stretches her arms and legs until she feels a satisfying ‘pop’ in her joints. “I’m going to take an extremely hot shower.”

“Okay. Are you hungry? Because I can make you a late breakfast.”

“No. Because you’re going to join me.”

“Oh, am I?”

Naomi lifts her shirt over her head and drops it to the floor. “That’s only if you think you can keep up with me.”

Ethan’s eyes darken at the challenge. “Rookie, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into just now.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

Naomi turns around and winks at him. “Well, come out your money where your mouth is, old man.”

Ethan jumps out of bed so fast, Naomi barely has time to register it before he’s hoisting her up in his arms. She laughs as he races off to the bathroom.

She and Ethan don’t leave their bedroom all day. They’ll have to make it up to Jackie by buying her a very expensive birthday gift.

[bardic-inspo]

WIP Whenever

Tagged last week by the lovely @locallegume, @elinorbard, @astarionancuntnin, and @mj-bites 💜💜💜 Thank you so much for thinking of me!!

Tagging you wonderful people back for this week! As well as @carooosa, @marlowethebard , @shinyredgloss , @pinkberrytea , @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate , and @four-leaf-loco if you wanna share something you're working on whenever your heart desires (or not if you don't wanna, no worries!) 💖

Edit: my tags didn't take the first time I'm sorry 🥲

You can give this post over here a like if you'd like me to tag you to participate in future WIP tag games!

A little peek at Midnight Chimes (Astarion x Cursed! Tav), Chapter 8: Creature Comforts:

Naomi swallows, abruptly warm even in such sparse clothing. Astarion’s eyes cut the path the leather does, down between her breasts, to the lacing at her navel. It would only be one step to close the distance between them, yet, that space weighs her ankles; the notion of moving even an inch feels like wading through waist-high water. “Yes, I’m tired of it,” she says, eyes peeling back to the party around them. Wistfully, she watches the sway of the bards, their fingers flitting over flute and fiddle. “No, I’m not sure I deserve any different.” She takes a shallow breath, forehead creased, discordant worry whittling in the back of her mind. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something very important.” “You have, haven’t you?” He says, head tilted. Naomi blinks up at him wordlessly. “Pleasure, sweet thing,” he shakes his head, pitying. “I could feel it when I was lost in your neck, you know. You’re positively starved for it? Aren’t you?”

[bardic-inspo]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the lovely @poetikat. Thank you!!

Sharing two bits of two fics 'cause I'm proud of myself for doing the words 😌 If you want me to tag you to participate in future WIP memes, you can give this post over here a like.

The first bit is from Blood in the Mortar, an Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav smut fic with more plot that I intended. The vibe is they hate everyone except each other. Slightly NSFT here:

Wetness paints her chin, streaming down her neck, dripping down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion.  “Oops,” he says, low and shameless with a smirk to match. Barely any made it to her mouth, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. He leans in to the hollow of her throat, near enough that his 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 near-black on her blue-gray skin, running from her neck to her navel. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s gut. Her thighs shift with it. 

This second preview is from a currently untitled WIP where Vampire Bride Tav is hit with a hefty dose of Modify Memory, setting her memories back to pre-Tadpole. Astarion has to hunt down whoever is responsible while also helping Tav come to terms with vampirism all over again, and re-romancing his own spouse who doesn't know or remember him, but feels some physical echo of the connection they had together.

“Because I’ve never loved anyone and no one’s ever loved me, either,” Naomi says flatly. That’s why you fell for it, Astarion thinks. For me. It was easy. You were easy. It’s the truth. But it won’t turn that look on her face. She’s his scared little squirrel again, after all this time she’s been his dark consort, the fearsome siren. And she looks at him now like he’s a predator, not a protector. Certainly nothing near a lover. “We won’t get anywhere if we lie to each other, darling,” Astarion says, unmoved and unimpressed. “You loved her, before me. Or you would have, if you had the time to. And you and I have all the time in the world.” Naomi’s jaw goes slack. No more quick retorts. Not now that she has to reckon with him knowing things no one would. I know you, little love. It’s more an ache than a thought in Astarion’s head. He didn’t mean for it to slip through the bond, so tenuous now, between their minds. He wouldn’t have minded, if the mere notion didn’t mortify her.

Tagging back if you wanna share any writing on any day you want (no pressure if not!): @dismalzelenka, @holorifle, @thedreamlessnights, @yolo-swaginz, @aevallare, and whoever else would like to!

[magma-queen]

Heyo! Please forgive my sudden question, but I saw that you like Trauma Center! If it's alright, can I ask who you ship in the main games? :3 (Lowkey my OTP is Erhard x Maria, so I just curious on who you ship) Have an amazing day! I love your blog so much!

Hi there! Yeah, I actually ship Maria and Tomoe together. Markus and Valerie, Derek and Angie, and Naomi and Navel!