#ambrosian

[cosmic-noodle]

Gift icon of a friend’s DnD character

[illustratus]

A lock of the hair of Lucrezia Borgia in the Ambrosian Library in Milan, Italy

[hiddens-studio]

The Drowned King - An Ambrosian King AU short story

Descole's final moments of humanity.

Descole couldn't move.

They couldn't breathe either.

Of course they couldn't, They were underwater.

After falling from the mecha, they crashed hard into the Ambrosian sea, the force of their body hitting the water wasn't enough to render them unconscious and save them the pain of drowning, however.

They weren't unconscious, but paralyzed.

Descole did try to hold their breath, but the impact quite literally knocked the wind out of them.

Lungs empty, body unable to move as they sunk down into the water, surrounded by the ruins of the city they worked so hard to raise…

Only for that brother of theirs to go on and make their life's work seem like a joke.

…

Descole, without even a single breath to their name, sank down slowly. Mouth agape, water rushing down their throat to fill their lungs.

They couldn't move.

They couldn't scream.

The only thing they could do was make the smallest chokes and gurgles. It didn't matter anyway, those sounds couldn't possibly make it to the surface.

As Descole's vision began fading, slowly succumbing to their drowning, consciousnesses blurring; they heard something.

Someone.

Someones?

All around them the waters began to sparkle with blue lights, a chorus of whispers filled the Ambrosian waters.

They couldn't quite hear what they said.

But something felt…vaguely comforting about it.

If anything, they knew they wouldn't be dying alone.

…

Everything faded to black. Heart stopping.

Then it started again.

[felinefractious]

🐱 Ragdoll

📸 Veronika Temnykh [Ambrosion Doll]

🎨 Blue Tabby Point Bicolor

[lutiaslayton]

Professor Layton and the Eternal Diva

ＰＡＲＴ　１５

〚ＦＩＲＳＴ〛〚ＰＲＥＶ〛〚ＮＥＸＴ〛

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation for the Japan-exclusive novellisation of the movie Professor Layton and the Eternal Diva. The original novel was written by Aya Matsui under the supervision of Akihiro Hino, and belongs to Level-5.

This translation only aims to be a pleasant read for non-Japanese fans, nothing more: I made a few deliberate changes while translating in order to get the writing style closer to what is usually found in English fanfictions, as the Japanese storytelling can sometimes be different than what we are used to.

☆ Melina Whistler

Yes…

I could remember it clearly.

The unparalleled sense of fear, of entrapment and desolation, when I was sent into the body of someone else…

I looked for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to.

Everything was cold… I could hardly breathe.

I couldn’t stay here! Please, someone let me out!

I screamed desperately, but no one could hear me.

I kept pleading to someone I couldn’t see.

Please, I don’t want to stay here either. But I can’t leave. I have to stay here…

“Melina—Is that you, Melina?”

I had heard a familiar voice.

I could hear… or rather, I could feel it.

I couldn’t see her, but I knew that Janice was close by.

“Janice…?”

“Melina! This is incredible. I can’t believe you are so close to me…”

“I’m sorry, Janice! I shouldn’t be here. I’ll disappear right now… Somehow, I’ll find a way to do that!”

“No, you can’t!”

“Janice!?”

“I’ve just found you again… Do you realise how much I missed you? How much I missed my best friend while you were gone…”

“But, Janice…”

“It’s okay, Melina… I can’t let you go on like this.”

Suddenly, I had felt something shifting.

The sense of fear and desolation disappeared…

“Janice!”

Her voice was moving away.

“This isn’t just for you. This is also for me. Melina, you may not understand, but the grief and suffering of those left behind is so strong…”

I know, Janice…

I had felt Papa’s grief and pain even after I had lost my body…

“You have to understand, Melina. Losing my best friend not once, but twice, would surely break my heart…”

Before I knew it, I was slowly becoming familiar with Janice’s body, as if guided by the waves of the sea.

I had been spoiled by her heartfelt friendship…

At that moment…

The sound of slow clapping brought me back to reality.

It was Descole. The man who had used Papa’s love for me to draw him into his evil ways…

“Excellent. I did not realise that the memory copying had been successful… So congratulations, Whistler, you’ve achieved your goal.”

It was no wonder that you hadn’t noticed, Descole. Someone like you would never understand Janice’s kindness, or the nobility of sacrificing oneself in order to keep others alive.

“Oh, oh my God…”

Poor Papa… He was completely confused.

I looked straight into his eyes. Papa… I needed him to understand my feelings.

“At some point, I started to realise that this was wrong. I can’t live my life at the expense of my friend.”

I told him my honest thoughts.

“It was you who wrote to me, wasn’t it?”

Professor Layton…

I… No, we both wrote that letter. Janice’s voice had become inaudible to me, but our hearts were still communicating.

“It was the right choice to choose you, Professor. I thought you would be able to stop Papa… Just like I wanted him to stop.”

Isn’t that right, Janice?

It was just as you told me before.

“There is no puzzle that Professor Layton can’t solve, Melina.”

“I can’t stay in her body forever… But as long as this device exists, Papa will continue to copy my memories.”

“Melina…”

Papa’s eyes… They were looking at me, not at Janice.

“I had heard a lot about the Professor from Janice. She admired you so much…”

I’m sorry, Janice… I said it.

As soon as you gave me your life, I had realised how much the professor meant to you…

When I first met him on the Crown Petone, I made my most cherished memories. The times when he solved puzzles… That time when we were talking on the beach… That time when we were riding that makeshift helicopter that we had built… I was never alone.

Papa’s voice was trembling.

“Melina, I… This was all for you…”

“Thank you, Papa… I appreciate how you feel. But, please… These horrendous things have to stop now.”

“I just couldn’t accept a life without my beloved daughter… So I…”

At that moment— The whole room was struck by a tremendous quake.

“Professor, the ceiling!”

With a roar, the ceiling above us was split in two, as we all stood under it in stunned shock.

Then Descole took my arm.

“Melina!”

In a flash, Descole ran up the stairs leading to the Detragan and set me down.

A pack of wolves popped out and surrounded everyone. They all let out a terrifying howl then stood menacingly, ready to pounce on anyone at any moment.

“What are you doing, Descole!?”

“I needed Melina’s memories to achieve my true goal,” he replied coldly, standing right next to me.

“Your true goal…?” Papa asked in confusion.

I was with him on this one… I had no idea what this was about either. What could he possibly need my memories for? What could that mean?

Descole twirled his cloak and pointed to the ceiling.

“The resurrection of Ambrosia!”

The ceiling was painted with the Ambrosian crest… The Kingdom of Immortality.

“It all started when I discovered their coat of arms in its entirety…”

Descole turned to the professor and sent him a condescending look.

“Layton, what do you think these symbols mean?”

The coat of arms had a design reminiscent of a king and queen, surrounded by a vast number of lines, dots and jagged patterns…

The professor soon gasped in realisation. “…It’s a music sheet!”

“Correct. A music sheet, written in the Ambrosian way.”

Descole walked over to the Detragan and reached for a sheet music.

“In other words, the coat of arms is inscribed with the first key required to open the door to Ambrosia: a song that could be called ‘A Song of the Stars.’”

“A ‘Song of the Stars’…!?” Luke repeated incredulously.

“The second key is you, Melina.”

I could not believe my ears. “Me… the second key?”

The resurrection of Ambrosia, keys to open a door… I did not understand.

“The first key alone was not enough to revive Ambrosia. This was when I realised that the crest also hinted at the existence of a second key…”

The professor instantly resonated. “The ‘Song of the Sea’!”

Descole slowly took my hand with an icy smile. His grip was just as cold as his face.

“The stars, and the sea. When the two melodies are combined, Ambrosia will be revived.”

“I didn’t realise… that he was after the kingdom itself,” Papa slowly shook his head in shame.

“Alas, by the time the puzzle of the crest had been solved… The only person who had an accurate memory of the second key could no longer sing…”

So that was what this was all about.

The ‘Song of the Sea’… It was the song that the sea around Ambrosia had taught me.

Ever since we had moved to this island so I could recuperate from my illness, I had spent every day gazing out at it. Walking along the beach, or standing on my balcony, with the feeling of the sea breeze embracing me…

It wasn’t long before I had become aware of the melody that the sea was bringing me.

The wind, blowing past the reefs jutting out from the shore, would sing the same song to me every day. The waves breaking onto the shore would add to the music, creating a pleasant harmony, like a small ensemble.

Soon, I had unconsciously began to hum that very beautiful and somewhat nostalgic melody. When the sea and the song were joined together, it had given me a sense of heartfelt sincerity. It was soothing… and it made me happy, as I felt surrounded by a shower of invisible music.

Descole put his hand on one of the Detragan’s levers.

“Even though some memories were left behind… I wanted a perfect copy, more than Whistler did!”

He pulled the lever. Immediately after, the staircase exploded and bright lights flashed on the wall.

The smoke from the explosion blocked my view.

　⇚　　　　　　　⇛

[beanmom-blogs]

FFXIV Write 2024 Prompt#27 : Memory

The Dragonsong war took many things from many people. Noble and commoner alike were not spared the tragedy and trauma of buildings destroyed, of Ishgard’s people killed either on the battlefield or in parts of the city itself. More and more became residents of the Brume just as more and more in the Brume faced starvation or being frozen with their lack of shelter.

And there were some who fought a different sort of fight. Supplies, medics with proper medicines, Knights of Houses, Dragoons, all out on the front lines. Right there, facing the dragons head on for each attack. None of this was the fight that Lord Ambrosian Cathraire had fought during the last few years of that battle.

His House was Nobility, but it was just on the cusp of it. They held titles, lands, connections with other Houses. They stayed as far out of the gossip circles as they could, causing no ripples nor spreading any around. The lone son of House Cathraire was handsome, if quiet. He seemed awkward in the best of times, confused in the worst. Rarely was their safe little boat rocked much by life, let alone scandal.

All of that came to a screeching halt when Ambre, as he preferred to be called, chose not to enter the battlefield and instead tend to his ailing wife. It was enough to start talk of the House, which they’d avoided. Clearly she was his world, else he’d not have been by her side every moment he could be. He’d not have sent repeatedly for, begged even, for a Chirurgeon to help him tend to her and this wasting that her body was doing.

Rumours began that he made her ill so that he might avoid being upon those same battlelines. From there, they sprung into threads of that he had a mistress. That he was not loyal to Ishgard. Each rumour layered on top of another until the cake of gossip was so thick that when she died, his family had difficulty finding another woman with which to marry to him. To make matters worse, he refused. Too stricken by grief, too overwhelmed, those were the kindest observations. Though there were of course those who said it was all a ruse and that now he was able to be with that unknown mistress and was happy with her.

The truth of the matter, the deep ‘dark’ truth, is that his House did not have enough pull to bring even just one medic in to see what could be done for his ailing wife, and she fell to her illness. If anyone doubted that Ambre really loved her, all they need do was follow him on those lone and lonely nights, when he set off on chocoboback into Coerthas. Out to where she was buried. Out where a stone would be kneeled beside by him, that bore the inscription:

“In Loving Memory of

Lady Serendipette Cathraire

by your Loving Husband

Lord Ambrosian.

Our love was unplanned -

though will last through time

immortal.”

[dragonmickie]

AMBROSIANS TLDR

(*= placeholder/tbd/???)

born and named after ambrosia, first sentient being on earth, created by the life goddess, in the image of the planet her mother created. Ambrosia is a deity to the ambrosians, though they are not aware of where she is or if she is alive (she is napping.)

each subtype is extremely varied, but all ambrosians share reincarnation.

there are 3 subtypes : Flora, Fauna, and Gem* type. marine animal ambrosians fall under either fauna, or their own subtype, depending on who you ask. gem types are unique, as flora and fauna have more similarities, such as heat cycles LMFAO*

Flora type Ambrosians have features of plant life. they are quite varied, and while some may have more floral features, some, like Lilia, look mostly like a normal human. there are some features all Flora Type Ambrosians share ; their scent, their biology, and their reincarnation. they smell of the plant life they are, however, in some cases this can be a bad thing, so there are supplements to counter this effect. in terms of biology, when a Flora type Ambrosian gets injured badly enough, petals, branches, or otherwise will pour from the wound, along with regular blood. if one were to overuse magic or tire themselves out, this same thing would happen, but without injuries being present. it's a telltale sign that if they continue on they will die. Flora-types are inclined towards healing and destruction magic.

Flora type Ambrosians reincarnation happens at their death - they have a similar life cycle as the other humanoid races, albiet being longer. once they begin passing away, they start to become the plant life they are ; for example, Lilia's father became a magnolia tree when he passed. Other flora-type ambrosians can tell the difference between a regular tree and one which is a reincarnation.

Fauna type Ambrosians have features of various animal life. they are even more varied than the flora-types. the amount of features fauna-types have varies greatly. someone may simply have the tail of a cat, another may have horns, hooves, ears and a tail. they have fewer features alike, but they all share the ability to transform into the animal they represent. of the flora and fauna subtypes, fauna-types are more likely to experience heat cycles* and have them be more aggressive, but they have invented supplements for this as well. Fauna-type reincarnation is simple : after one dies, they become the animal they represent and then live out a life as that animal. there is a bit of discourse between land and sea fauna-types.*

Gem-type Ambrosians are a bit more unique, and less is known about them. they live alongside dwarves and are rare aboveground*. Gem-types are effectively immortal, but do have a sort of "death" and reincarnation process. Of the three subtypes, they are the least varied, technically. Gem-types have metallic blood, but seemingly no organs. Their blood can be poisonous. they have an outer layer of skin, and it isn't known why*. Their skintones tend to be desaturated and glittery, looking sometimes metallic as well. Gem-types can have a sort of "tattoo" process done - this is actually having their skin shaved and cut to show their crystal insides to create patterns. this is a common practice and has an age requirement. Gem-types are born differently than other Ambrosians, but it's unknown how at this time*. They can be born without limbs similar to other humanoid races, and due to their association with the technologically advanced dwarves, have access to mechanical prosthetics, whereas aboveground prosthetics tend to be on the magic and biological type. Gem-type reincarnation is a different process than the other subtypes. They are immortal, but due to close relations with dwarves, evolved to have a sort of death process. When this happens, the gem-type fully crystallizes, and professional gem-cutters (including both gem-types and dwarves) take pieces of their bodies and refine them, leaving no piece left behind. the pieces are first distibruted throughout the gem's family, and then publicly. while entirely different from other Ambrosian reincarnations, this is extremely important to them. (this is the least worked on subtype btw despite all the extra text. Lol)

[agoodsongeveryday]

Day Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine

Da qual tremore insolito Sento assalir gli spiriti! Dond’escono quei vortici Di foco pien d’orror?

Chi l’anima mi lacera? Chi m’agita le viscere? Che strazio, ohimè, che smania! Che inferno, che terror!

[saturnsexual]

entering my catholicism era tbh

[willow-wyst]

Hi, I'm Willow. I'm the vampire brainrot OC that lives in my creator's head and this is how they're keeping track of the lore they give me.

About me:

Name: Willow Lucille Wysteria.

Species: Pureblood vampiress.

Age: 260 (stopped aging at 25).

Titles: Heiress to the House of Wyst (paternal, third in line), Heiress to the House of Dracul (maternal, first in line, rejected Ladyship).

Likes: Tea, black forest cake, Disney films, vampire films, her siblings and father.

Dislikes: Coffee, horror films, Reapers, Angels, mushrooms, her mother and uncles.

Job: Barista at The Ambrosian Cafe. Side job as a political fixer.

Maternal Family: Lady Dorea Dracul (mother), Second Heiress Marcia Dracul (maternal younger half-sister), Third Heiress Enda Dracul (maternal younger half-sister), Four Heir Dante Dracul (younger half-brother).

Paternal Family: Lord Magnus Wysteria (father), First Heiress Cadence Wysteria (older half-sister), Second Heir Hadrian Wysteria (older half-brother), Fourth Heiren Karae Wysteria (younger half-sibling), Fifth Heiress Sage Wysteria (younger half-sister).

This will be a mix of lore by my creator along with other OCs, crossovers with her wife's OCs and lore, and shit posting.

Enjoy, don't be a dick!

[hiddens-studio]

{Ambrosian King AU}

Descole after falling off the Detrogon {idk how to spell it} crashes into the still semi flooded ruins of the city of harmony where they drown.

But then they're revived with the true bloom of eternal life. "Crowned" as the new king of ambrosia. The resurrection didn't leave them perfectly human again though, they're more of like... A water spirit of sorts. But they're alive. Even if their heart beats slower.

Hershel ends up finding them washed up on the beach.

Their mind is scrambled up, they keep crying and apologizing to someone named "Theo".

People with PL AUs

🎤🎤🎤

Pitch me the idea

[florihye]

( ♡ )⠀𝒏. 𝒓𝒊𝒌𝒊 . . . ℎ𝑒𝑦𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑒 :) .ᐟ

꒷꒦ ❛ hola, ¿cómo está', she said こんにちはこんにちは ❜

⟢ meetcute w/ riki! && n.rk x f!reader . . . when riki is captivated by the way you move ৲ includes mentions of body, money, idk what else silliness !! 834wc

RIKI RUSHED THROUGH the overflowing halls of his high school, filled with sweaty, graceless students all eager to leave the building at once. he internally groaned at all the immature screams that bounced off the walls.

the young boy’s mind was detached, only focused on one thing: the mysterious dancing girl.

or at least, that’s what he called her.

everyday, at around 5:00pm (conveniently just when he would get out of school!) there was this alluring girl who riki could only describe as beautiful, who baltered outside the bustling buildings on 64th street.

she was such a stunning contrast from the smoke of cigars in the gloomy air or the frowning faces of all the passing new yorkers.

riki, being a devoted dancer himself, never wasted a moment when it came to watching your breathtaking show. he ran impressively fast, even under the heat of the merciless summer sun, while ignoring all the weird glances and stares that passersby gave him.

and finally, he found himself facing you, who was messing with your phone as you tried to find the right tune to match your dancing. he noticed the corners of your lips raise up into a satisfying smile, the one that always laced your beautiful face when you found the perfect song.

you put the phone on the ground, making sure the music was turned all the way up before placing your ‘money hat’ right next to it. street dancing was unethically a great way to make money, you learned.

you were just about to start dancing when your eyes lit up like two full bright moons, due the cute boy who had a big gray hoodie on & headphones wrapped around his pretty neck. he was about two feet from you, the same one who always watched with a hope-filled smile every time you performed. it was truly the most precious thing you’ve seen in a long while.

your cheeks flushed a rosy red and a feeling of pride washed over you; you felt the need to dance even better every time this boy showed up, the unconscious sensation making you want to impress him more and more with every single one of your moves.

and so you did just that: your body moved to the music flawlessly, like ocean waves or dandelions floating in the wind. a crowd slowly gathered near you, but your eyes were suddenly unwilling to leave the boy, who watched you with never ending astonishment taking over his features.

your glowing, free aura was truly captivating; anyone with half a brain could tell. the longer you danced, the harder it was for riki to pull his gaze away from you.

his stupor was disturbed though, thanks to a —most likely stupid— idea that ignited his mind. he smiled while watching people drop loose change into the hat you placed next to your phone. giddily pulling out a pen and a slim piece of paper, he wrote his number down in messy writing, signed by small lettering at the bottom that read “call me?”. he pulled out a $20 bill and dropped both slips into your hat, slyly making sure you were watching him.

soon (too soon for riki’s comfort) your performance ended and you took a bow in return to the ovation you received, giggling to yourself when you noticed how the cute guy, who it would be fitting to call your biggest fan now, was evidently clapping the loudest amongst everyone else.

riki grinned childishly after seeing the delicate giggles that left your mouth, feeling his heart swell with joy. that same glistening grin didn’t leave his face, even as he walked home under the setting sun. his mind never once left the ambrosian enigma that was you, and the way your hips moved as easily as a flowing waterfall to the pulsating beat that still resonated throughout his entire chest.

upon reaching his home and swinging open the door, riki bowed to his parents and greeted them kindly before hurriedly pacing upstairs to his bedroom. his brain filled with unending thoughts, the most prominent one being if the pretty dancer had messaged him yet or not.

riki’s hands run through the darkened mess of his tangled hair before he searches his jean pockets for his phone. after pulling it out riki bit on his lip, the excitement he had soon replaced with anxiousness.

realistically, he didn’t even know if you liked him, he just acted upon a hopeful whim, honestly.

all doubts that filled his mind were quickly replaced with shock and utter disbelief.

a small notification lit up riki’s phone screen and he read the simple message that was displayed over and over again, with wide eyes and a smile to match; riki pushed back the urge to squeal like a little girl in a candy shop while gripping his phone even tighter.

— heya, cutie! thx for the 20 :)

𐙚 . . via's entry ❫ wrote this watching natty's sugarcoat mv lol 𓈒ㅤׂ 𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ tysm for reading! 𓂃 read PART2 ! ৎ networks : @a-dream-bookmark ৎ perm tl : @sainns (send an ask to join !)

[hiddens-studio]

So I was working on my AU featuring the guy ever; Descole. But like halfway through I realized it was kinda similar to @teenytinyapprentice 's ghost!Luke au, so I drew him too!

I'm a huge fan of that au (and all of Tyler's Layton art tbh) so why not!

I feel like if Spirit!Descole and Ghost!Luke ever met, it would probably be the most awkward thing ever.

[yangcherie]

play chase

pairing: ascended!astarion / spawn!tav (reader.)

content warnings: female reader, dubcon, briefest references to age gap (c’mon, he’s 200 years old), power imbalance, forced dependency, abuse. cunnilingus. mentions of death. references to cannibalism. abuse. ascended astarion things, except he’s a bit nicer.

sypnosis: astarion has been having an immensely difficult time taming you; his newly-turned bride-to-be. he believes a lesson about obedience is well overdue. so he fucks you before the honeymoon.

author’s note: ugh. this was messy. like immensely messy im so sorry i just lost interest in this fandom but thought id still finish this up. hope you guys enjoy btw tav is feral here like Kinda i guess? ignore the plotholes or i rob ur house angry face emoji here

“Little one.” Astarion carolled, hoping he sounded just genuine enough to coax you out of wherever you’ve tucked yourself into like a feral animal. You’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all. “Sweet thing. Whatever you’re playing at, it’s time to put an end to it.”

He hopes the restlessness doesn’t bleed through his voice; having walked and stalked through what felt like the very entirety of his former master’s palace – now claimed by none other than himself. It only felt right to do so after his ascension, in the same vein he claimed you as his own. The manor is a wretched thing – but so were you. He would come to love it in time; as he had with you.

He felt like a fool right now with the way he was practically just going to rot away waiting for you to either crawl out or hiding spot (which was never) or to hear you slip up, shuffle around or screech just loud enough that he could catch the sound in his fingers and hunt you down.

You’ve fallen into much troublesome, teasing habits, including hiding away from him or viciously teething and ripping at whatever caught your eye — and Astarion doesn’t have the slightest idea on why or how — but he could excuse it. Decades of cruelty have also taught him mercy, despite having lacked it.

All the furniture you would violently break apart into splinters? You must’ve been teething, and this hideous manor desperately needs a renovation, anyway. The troublesome amount of tear and rip and fray of fabric in curtains, clotheswear and sheets alike? You’re simply due for a trimming on your claws, and again, the manor needs a renovation. Your incessant disturbances of racket and noise during the occasions he’d bring nobles over? His poor, needy wife must’ve been feeling neglected – and that alone is a perfect reason for him to usher away any unwanted guests.

(It honestly did him more good than you knew.)

Astarion could not only excuse and enjoy it, all your petty, feral little acts of disobedience – but he’s also dedicated nearly half his time to provide you gratification. You needed teething? Fine, expect to be fed with ambrosian blood; be it by kegs of it at your bedside, or drunkards thrown at your feet, paralyzed with alcohol and terror, all but open for you to forcefully dig and tear out their throats and drink in their dwindling life. He’d even dab at your face with a handkerchief after.

Couldn’t control your claws? He’s provided you toys to rough up and chew into — himself included, of course; if the never-bite marks beneath his collar were anything to go by. And if you were good enough, willing to paw at and prop your chin on his clothed thigh to prettily stare at him with roseate, cherub eyes; he’d take you hunting with the given main course or prey being deers, goats or nobles who couldn’t be swayed to his upcoming reign.

And if his other efforts to be of no avail, he could always do with his last but favorite method of calming you down; exerting his dominance with his own fangs wounding the muted skin of your throat to keep you still as he gives you a good fucking – just hard enough to keep you content from acting out for the next few days.

Astarion had done his utmost to be considerate. You were a fledgling; still adjusting to the intricacies that came with your newly-gifted vampirism. He was all but destructive during his first years as a spawn, as well. He could excuse it, all this disrespect, this ingratitude to his affections. Really! It just had to be a good day.

And to the fucking Nines, today was not a good day.

Right now, he was nothing short of frustrated. Frustrated with his idiotic thralls, with having to deal with posh aristocrat fools to establish his reign over the Gate, with the fabric of his shirt – all of it! And now he has to be frustrated with you, as well? All he yearnt for was to be soothed by none other than you, but even this you would pettily keep out from his reach?

The manor is stretched far and wide, generous; much unlike the fraying thread that is his patience. He licks his teeth, brows furrowing – legs aching just the slightest. You couldn’t behave for just today, could you? Always needing to test him to keep you in line.

You could’ve simply drained and massacred the enthralled nobles in his dungeons, or lay waste to yet another room in the palace and he wouldn’t have given much of a damn, but no, instead, you’ve decided to play hard to get and hide yourself away from him when he needs you most.

“Dearest.” Astarion grits out, an exasperated groan stuck in his throat. The heel of his boots thudding against the cobble is all he’s heard for hours, in his search of you. He might just raze down the entire manor if it meant you’d come out. “I am in no mood to be entertaining your tantrums.”

A wearisome ache begins to swarm his temples, coaxing a sigh from him. He can just envision it, in whatever hole you’ve tucked yourself in lays the ripped ivory tulle fabric of yet another gown alongside the vast amount you’ve already ravaged. It’s all you’ve been tearing at since he’s arranged your bethrothment with him – and his enthralled tailors aren’t very willing to oblige him and sew another.

He swears on the fucking ragdoll he will make out of you once he finds you that this time, you will not go unpunished. He has been lenient, and he was no fool; he could tell instinct and intent apart. Whatever game you were playing at, Astarion would let you know he didn’t like it in the slightest. First, you deny him of your presence and then you deny him of his right to wed you. What a little demon you are.

But it seems even you were getting restless in your own petty little game, he thought so smugly, as a hiss so unmistakably yours laden with offense and the impact of ceramic against the ground bounced off the opulent hallway making him sharply turn his body around to follow the sound. You never quite had the knack to keep quiet as a rogue like himself could, even before the feral inanity that clouds you now. It’s not long before he’s behind yet another bedroom out of hundreds in the palace and twisting the rusted doorknob.

It creaks open, Astarion pursing his lips as he steps inside – just to be hit with the pungent stench of blood and a mess littered that told him you indeed were in the room. A good hint; the hint being a gutted body of what he could only assume was a servant crumpled on the floor, who with no doubt you hurled actoss the room once you had forcefully drained your fill of.

His nose wrinkled at the sight. He ought to teach you something about manners on not playing with your food, after he catches you.

“Little pup?” He stalks through the room, briefly kicking the body aside and glancing at the two puncture holes on its neck. If you were hungry, you simply could’ve asked.

It’s a dreary scene, the room a relic of neglect worth centuries. Moth-eaten curtains spotted with fresh blood, rusted chandeliers rickety with dust. Dreary as it was, he had no doubt this is one of the rooms he’s used to bed many a victim.

He briefly wonders if you even bedded the servant before draining him.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

There’s a subtle shuffle, a little, pathetic bleat of a hiss to his call, just below the old, yellowed canopy bed in the very center of the room. The space between his brows pinch as he approaches the dingy canopy and drops to his knees to peer below, batting at the dust that assaults his senses.

Craning his neck downwards, peering below the bed, he’s fixed with your beady, red stare – and it startles Astarion more than he’d like to admit.

Something weary between a growl and a sigh comes out of him when he wills himself to tear his gaze away from your unnerving eyes and across the entirety of your body; you’re filthy, with flaky remains of gore and scratches, cobwebs stuck to your hair and soot stuck to your skin. He quietly groans, filled with just enough irritation that your beady eyes bat him a blink so innocent and faultless that he’s rather tempted to bend you over his lap and paddle you —

But it was futile to scold you. He knows it, that you wouldn’t understand – had made sure your senses would dwindle, like a honed knife being whittled to dullness. Slowly but surely being to forced to rely on base instincts. He always thought you to be too smart for your own good, and he couldn’t have you thinking you could leave him in the dust, no, no.

(And, well, if you ever did, he doubt the ghouls that follow his word like law would let you through any door out, anyway.)

Futile as it is it to scold you, it’s easier to let his irritation roll over him in waves sear him like boiling water.

“You insolent brat, you.” Astarion hisses, batting his hand in a motion that tells you to get out and up. It’s with an infuriating obedience that you follow, one that casts something bitter to brew in him. Where was that earlier? He roughly wrenches you out by your wrist, dragging you up to your feet to meet his infuriated eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you, you fucking–?”

You hiss at the touch, nose scrunched and teeth bared enough to show gums – your free hand flying out to grip his wrist to dig your untrimmed nails into his skin just as he did with you. He raises a brow, unamused. Perhaps he should have felt offended the way you thought you could just behave like an animal and disrespect him like that. Perhaps he really should go and dig the heel in, let you sink in the fall from pride to humiliation of being paddled.

“You think you’re hilarious, hm? Quit acting like an animal.” Astarion huffs indignantly, disregarding a small part of him wanting to croon at you in the same manner one would with a feral thing. You need discipline and gods damn him if he did not provide that. He wrenches his wrist out of your clawed fingers, glaring. If you were some stranger, he’d feel inclined to spit on you. “Or I’ll drain you like one.”

It’s a lie, a petty one at that, and you seem to know it as it only pulls another one of those sounds out you; one more grating and animalistic than the last, one that makes him bare his own teeth at you. The threat is as petty as it is tragic, a reminder of what you’ve given up to him beyond your blood – your soul, your mortality.

He’s had his fill of you since the night you turned, since he sunk his teeth into the very marrow of your being and drained you for all you were worth. He swallowed you with a hunger that could burn out even the sun itself. You could not believe that on that night, the night he had killed you, the soft, benign hands keeping your head from hitting the hard floor were of the same body with the mouth and teeth that snuffed your light straight out.

(You died being held in his arms; whether it was to keep you still, keep you there unable to jerk away from death or to keep you comforted, you never found out. You didn’t want to.)

When you awoke, it was no longer his teeth that speared through you next but loss and hunger, a mind-numbing, mingling pit in your stomach. You woke up with grief knowing you were no longer who you once were.

Astarion has an intimate relationship with hunger, true and daunting hunger. And no nobles’ blood, no sheep, bear, boar nor lamb can fix it.

It will not leave him, and it will not leave you.

“I’ll have you know you look delectable right now.” He hisses through his teeth, something burning all hot, ugly and hungry in his stomach. It’s the way he says it that has you backing down, meeting his eyes with a glare of your own before tentatively softening; allowing him to touch you. In a time before now, he would have said it teasingly, as your lover, your man. Near a warm fire, pinned to the ground with your hair splayed and a summer solstice grin.

But now, he is more hunger than man.

(You suppose you are too.)

He stares you down, the dip of your collarbones, the slope of your hips, the slightest cinch of your waist, your lips, all doused in some servant’s blood. The scent of it with yours wafts out and beckons to him. Spanning his fingers over the stiffened slopes of your bare shoulders, he finds the knots he’ll have to work and ease over with floral oils later on during bedtime.

In your feral head, it feels as if he’s fondling the meat on your shoulder. Prodding at the softest spots, finding which would taste best.

His fingers leave your shoulder in favor of returning to your wrist, pulling taut at it to lead you out the dryrotting room and into those intricate halls, turning left, right, right, left, straight until you’re stumbling into his personal chambers, his soft canopy bed and sinking into his mattress with enough space between your parted legs that he takes the chance to crawl towards and tuck himself in.

He pushes his lips to yours, kisses you dizzy, tongue fighting a battle with yours. The bed is downy soft beneath you when you melt into it and dig your nails in, heeded by instinct as he pins you against them with ease. The air feels hotter, when he pulls away with silken strands of spit between you two, splitting when he dips back downwards to lay his head on your stomach, circling his arms around your hips to keep you still as he noses around the softness of your stomach.

“Stay still.” He rasps, throaty enough you feel inclined to begrudingly listen and settle down with a growl stuck behind your teeth. “This is just something to make you relax.”

It’s not entirely a lie, he thinks to himself. Nowadays, he only ever beds you if he sees you need to be put into your place or to be sedated. You’re not exactly as smart as you used to be.

He kisses his way down; trails little licks and bites over your stomach, lowering to the jolting of your hips, to the swell of your thighs. Moves a hand to fondle your calves and returning it to join the arms still locked around your hips, using his head to gently nudge your legs a bit wider and teeth to lift up the chiffon dress pillowing around your legs, lingering on your calf; to settle his lips on your clothed mound.

A protestant, breathy noise comes out of you when his mouth ghosts your clothed clit, and he grumbles at it; tugging at the flimsy fabric until it delicately finds its place on the floor.

The cold, dusty, evening air wraps around your clit, the muscles in your legs tightening with the amount of whatever strength you have to use to avoid clamping around his head when he kisses it briefly but so sweetly that an uneasy expression makes home on your face.

A dreadful shiver shoots an arrow straight through your spine then, when that one intimate kiss at your bundle of nerves turns into two, then three, until all that fight and spark in you has been stomped out and worn out into the dirt. Despite that senseless fog that clouds your head, you remain soft and still, legs open and unclamping around his head with the indomitable fear he’d do something less... gratifying than this.

That kiss turns into stripe licked up your clit, a shaky breath forced out of you once again. He gently pulls you closer, just a breathswidth from your fluttering entrance.

You wonder if he feels the way you stiffen under his hands, if he mistakes the way your hips rock as wanting more instead of trying to run away.

“Be good,” he murmurs, breath hot and voice lazy. “and everything else will follow...”

A spawn’s desire to follow their master is something even the likes of you cannot help but submit to, and so with a rough grunt, you finally let loose your tense muscles just enough to let Astarion pull you gently down, to fully ease you on his mouth — so he can really give you that relaxation.

He runs the tip of his tongue over your clit, laving around it and allowing himself a lazy glance up when you abruptly sit up and thread a hand through his hair, chest stuck in a growling air you struggle to take in. Rough as it is, it also sounds lewd – and it’s music pretty enough that he hums and closes his eyes shut, rewarding you with flicks and sucks on the sensitive little thing that only makes you tighten your grip around his perfect curls and dig into his scalp.

A moan can’t be stopped from slithering its way out your mouth, your shoulders working itself lower and the crease between your eyebrows letting up. He wasn’t lying, it feels good, you begrudingly think and huffing in an effort to hide your moan and keep the current of anger from diminishing under pleasure. You find it easy to keep grappling onto it when you feel him crookededly smile against the flesh of you, as if the idea of you adamantly resisting was theatrical and hilarious.

His tongue leaves your clit, delving into your hole and squirming against your walls in a way that has your ears ringing, hand still in his hair. Your eyes shut tight.

You hate him, you think. Hate how he makes you feel this way, makes you feel so alive despite being anything but. And you especially hate yourself for the sharp heat that tugs at your stomach, a thinly-veiled frenzy arching over you.

Ever since the undeath of you, you’ve lacked control; and it’s no easy feat to defy the oncoming slaught of pleasure about to wash over you. Not when his tongue laves around your slick clit in such a way that it makes you throw your head back and dig your heels into his back. So with a moan caged low behind your throat, you convulse, coming in his mouth when you wished for anything but.

“See what being good gets you?” He pulls away and coos at you with his teeth and lips shining, savoring you as if you were just the sweetest pomegranate out there. Your chest heaves as you come down from the high, so weakly throwing him a glare that attests to your damaged pride.

Your eyes flicker around his face and his hands, expecting him to move back and let up, having had his fill of you. But he doesn’t move back, no, he stays smiling at you, lets himself be busied by the frantic pattern of rise and fall by your chest — by the fact you breathe by habit even when you no longer need to.

Your throat bobs; his eyes are quick to narrow and trace the movement.

“You,” you rasp, you speak, the conciousness you fight to grapple on a rope so quickly fraying. Astarion’s smile stretches into a mean, mean grin that makes your skin crawl. “You’re done.”

Your head tricks you into thinking you lack the breath to make the questioning lilt in your words, so it comes out as a demand. One you’re not very sure he takes to kindly.

“Adorable!” He giggles, tapping the tip of your nose. “Silly. No, we aren’t.”

“And you,” Astarion coos again, meaner, reaching out with slick fingers to dig into your cheeks whilst ignoring your flinch and bared teeth. He squeezes your face and patronizingly moves it around as if afflicted with cuteness aggression, like an owner unable to believe his pet wants him to stop giving it pets. “You don’t get to make the demands around here. I–”

He pulls your face closer, his breath fanning your face.

“I do.” He snarls. You give him one back twice as malicious, sharp fingers flying to grip the hand that holds your face captive. “I make the fucking demands around here and you– you listen, and you do what I tell you to do because I—”

He inhales a sharp intake of breath, the fingers on your face digging in just further enough it starts to hurt.

“Honestly, dear.” He laughs like the idea of you having command over him is the funniest thing in the world, but the sound is so taut and forced. A display of theatrics. “If there’s anyone out here worth listening to, it’s me!”

Astarion doesn’t let go much to your dismay, watching you so keenly, drinking in your pain – and you start to hiss when his fingers don’t cease the tightening grip on your face, forcing you back into that instinctive, protective shell. It’s all a blur when you plant your two feet on his chest and kicking him with all your force, knocking him back just a mere distance away, still on the bed but further. He merely scoffs, moreso annoyed than pained, quick to get back on his knees and crawling towards you yet again. His hands grip the comforter, fingertips digging into the softness as he grits his teeth.

“No– no, no, don’t you dare.” Astarion brattily tugs at you, like you’re his favorite toy, until you’re situated beneath him once more, scratching and squirming about. “You will not not run away from me!”

“Not when I’ve been so kind to you,” he spat. It’s between a grit and tease when he says it, and now that he’s between your legs again, he grinds his clothed hips against your cunt. “And I’ve been busy making dresses for you, you know, when really I should be making leashes.”

He offhandedly mentions with a sneer and as if to help visualize the collar, his strong hand goes to wrap around your throat – squeezing just hard enough your breath leaves you all at once. Your mouth gapes open then, floundering to claw at his wrist.

“What do you think?” Astarion laughs, mean, mean, mean. Another hand goes to unbuckle his belt, the leather of his pants sliding off and making brief but chilling contact with your thighs. “Would you prefer it with a chain?”

Black dots around the edges of your vision, with the hand on your throat and the dwindling air in your chest, you cannot muster any disapproving sound to his words – and as if to punish you for your silence, he tightens his grip until you’re sure that the skin would be bruised purple and pretty underneath for days. And he watches you, like you’re some form of entertainment, floundering and wincing about for merciful air, distracted enough you don’t notice the heat of his cockhead pressing against your pulsing opening.

Distracted enough you don’t notice with how you’re squirming about for air, you’re grinding yourself against his cockhead.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

Whilst you’re busy thinking if this is it, this is the fucking end of it all; you’ll be found dead on the master’s bed in the morning, indecent, monstrous even without a stake in your heart but with blue and purple around your neck instead, Astarion’s attention was charmed like a moth to flame with how you don’t seem to notice you’re still so alive despite having sunken his teeth into your neck and given you his blood.

How you don’t seem to notice that in being undead, you do not even need to breathe anymore. How still you look for the air even unneeded.

Entertained, Astarion hums and releases your throat, settling his hands on your knees as he watches you sputter and cough as the air hits you like debris. The pain in your chest as you take in the missing air is pure catharsis.

“Yes...” He whispers moreso to himself than you, nudging his cockhead against your opening – slick with his spit. “Perhaps a chain would look better than jewelry.”

And with that, he pushes into you with a low hiss, moving slowly enough that you feel the veins and the pulsing of him even as you focus on gasping for air, the pit in your stomach dreadful and the crawl up your spine pleasured. When it feels like he’s snug inside your guts all buried inside, he leans forward and catches your lips into a terribly one-sided kiss. It makes his cock nudge further inside and you flinch from the dull, familiar ache of it all.

“Fuck,” Astarion gasps hot against your mouth and pulls away with a string of spit, slowly dragging his hips and pulling back to watch his length move out your cunt. He slams it back in and you want to shriek but you bite your tongue instead, hating how he deep he is inside of you and how slow he is – like he’s trying to get your walls to take his shape. “—I wish you were always this good for me, little mouse.”

Pleasure is so cruel to you, bowing heavy against your spine as it forces you to arch, forces your legs to spread and take in his cock deeper. Something groaning guttural crawls its way out your throat as you clench your eyes tight and twist the sheets in your fist as you’re thrown gracelessly into the ever-tightening jaw of ecstasy. Your legs shake with a tremor to it, feeling his hand ghost over your hip.

He pulls back again; and slams back inside. Over and over and over again until you feel like you’re turning mad yet again, sweat beading at your forehead and sounds not so easily beckoned now tumbling out your mouth.

You once foolishly thought that with being undead comes the death of sensation in your body – the way your body flinches and burns so alive with every strong nudge of his cockhead into you just proves you so wrong. Sparks fly across your body like rocks trying to make fire when with every collision of his hips against yours, the base of his cock grinds so deliciously against your sensitive, reddened clit.

One particularly rough slam of his hips has you keening; the soft curls on his base bumping your bundle of nerves in a way that has you keening into him, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him down, closer and closer until you feel so utterly consumed by him in the same way you did that wretched night.

Another sound, one so feral and from the heart is forced out of you when his hips stutter teasingly, a moan so out of place from a voice unused and locked away when your stomach all but tightens when that thrust forces your hole to slacken and his cock to nudge at something so soft and delicate inside your walls. And you shriek like a murdered woman when he laughs so mean and thrusts even meaner.

He continues to thrust, thrust and thrust like some bully to that one little spongy spot, groaning st your little moan-shrieks. Your mouth stretches into a scowl as your teeth mash together in an effort to sweat through the pure pleasure that swarms your head and makes you see dots, only vaguely aware of the slick foam that runs down your thighs. All purely and humilatingly your arousal.

“A-Astarion,” You raspily grit out, locking your bruised knees around his hips and feeling a pleasant soreness bloom amongst yours when he gives you a response by driving in harder, tracing your throat as you throw your head back. “Astarion.”

Smooth fingers trace your neck before running up your cheek, dragging at the chub of it until your lips are apart and no longer are you scowling nor your teeth gnawing. “What?” Astarion murmurs, slurred and drunkenly kissing away the sweat that’s gathered like freshwater rain on your throat.

You open your eyes, blinking away the sting of tears and sweat mingling – and Astarion looks so godsent, romantic with his own teeth gritted and sweat down his arms as he piledrives into you.

You won’t last – you feel it the way your body is twitching with the exhaustion it takes to build up an orgasm, core burning even with the friction of slick inside. Astarion doesn’t need to be told, so very familiar with your body even in its death; so he dutifully lifts a hand from your hip and gently snakes it towards the in-between, towards your warm pussy until he finds your sensitive little button, circling the pulsing bud immediately and fondly laughing when your legs uncoil around his hips, and you shriek, squirming like you’re about to get murdered a second time. Your mind is fucking melting.

“Astarion,” you choke out, again, this time, more desperately, hand flinging out to grip at his wrist between your legs. His thrusting stutters as your voice breaks and your pretty eyes roll behind your head. “Y-you’re gonna fucking kill me, oh—”

“Don’t be a c-coward, darling.” Astarion is breathless, brows furrowing. He’s close too.

You pant.

You’re about to pop at the seams.

Your tongue lolls with every breath that heaves your chest, the ring of your entrance so tight around his cock as your body trembles with every feverish snap of hips and rub of his fingers against your red, abused bundle of nerves. The sound of slick flesh on flesh so obscene, you feel your body trembling as you throw your head back to the undercurrent of an orgasm — so strong it has white flashing hot behind your eyelids and a final, ragged whimper coming from you.

It only takes a few moments for him to catch up, his hips chasing your clenching as he throbs, pulsing once, twice against your walls until he’s spilling into them with his own warmth, contentedly sighing into the crook of your neck whilst you wince and whine lowly with satisfaction.

You both stay there, unmoving, until the warm semen that runs down your thighs turns cold enough that Astarion feels he should move, slipping out your hole and letting his member hit the cold air as he hisses, sensitive. And apparently, you’re rudely startled awake out of your pliancy with the sound, tensing up like you’re about to run again. He notices before you can and kisses you stupid, lips smacking noisily with yours in a way teasing lovers would do so, before pulling away with a grin and setting you still on the bed with the weight of a blanket on you.

“Oh, no, no, none of that tonight.” You try to wrack a hiss out your scratchy throat – but it comes out as a humiliatingly feeble cough. Astarion, endeared, smiles at it and pecks your forehead, bringing the blanket up to your chin by habit as he once used to when you were sleeping in tents, under nights and by fires. “You’re always running away, you little hellion, you.”

He’s tucking you in.

He’s tucking you in.

He’s an asshole, you think. He must be teasing you. With being undead comes the inability to sleep a wink – only being able to go as far as meditation. And by the gods, you do not want to be stuck thinking of how you just let the man you despise drive his cock and seed into you – and how he’ll do it over and over again if it means you’ll stop acting out for a night or two.

Astarion eyes you, giving you a once-over as if to size up if you’d take your chances and run away. You don’t budge, narrowing your heavy eyes at him and blinking blearily, shifting in the sheets, unwilling to admit to yourself how you like the molten warmth you feel when he looks at you attentively, the warmth that runs down your inner thigh and the warmth of the blankets tucked so nicely around you. He smiles again, smoothing a hand over your hair and lowly murmuring something about cleaning you up later at night where you’re more awake and hopefully, preferably not a bat hanging off the ceiling staring at him with beady eyes.

He hums then – reassured, standing up from the bed with a creak and reaching into the drawer beside his bed for a flimsy pair of thin, reading glasses he wears.

“Be good, and stay here, okay?” He lowly coos, like a husband leaving for war wishing his ill wife goodbye, walking towards the old mahogany door and twisting the knob open. You twist your fingers and clench your eyes shut, enraged and fulfilled all the same. “I’ll see you later, I have work to do, sewing your wedding dress and all.”

The door closes, gently, and you turn to bite the pillow and scream into it.