#biting chewing clawing and did i mention. BITING. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 year ago

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Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

2K notes · View notes

yangcherie · 7 months ago

Text

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.

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 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.

#astarion x reader #bg3 x reader #bg3 smut #astarion smut #bg3 #astarion ancunin x reader #astarion ancunin smut #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #hoo #okay #this was shit

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honestsycrets · 1 year ago

Note

Hey! if your requests are open can you do a drabble where the spider society meets Miguel's and readers baby for the first time? like they show up with her one day where the sitter couldn't make it or something and it's so wild to see Miguel be so soft with her

❛ summary | Miguel doesn't feel secure letting anyone watch his daughter-- not even Peter. or, gwen tries to hold miguel's daughter for the first time.

❛ sy's notes | slightly different than the request above but still in the same vein.

❛ tags | reader and child from starved, family piece, some angst, some sweetness, reference to loss of child, mention of pregnancy.

He just had to do it.

Despite the fact that Miguel knew everything about his body being amped up, he missed how it felt. In his rush to have sex, he didn’t consider the possibility that you could have been ovulating. That the temporary amenorrhea wouldn’t last. It was his miscalculation. A miscalculation resulted in Mireya’s presence in his lab, chewing on his knuckle as some poor substitute for a teething toy.

“Ay chingado, where is that pinche--” he huffed under his breath, rummaging around his cluttered desk for the damn toy. Mireya pinched down on his finger again with those bright brown eyes, twinkling with mischievous curiosity for why her papi was cussing again. His claw popped forth, drawing a fantastic giggle careening from her lips. Miguel retracted them again, shaking his hand out at his side. “Are those fangs or teeth in there, mija, hm?”

“That’s cute.”

In his preoccupation with his daughter, he hadn’t necessarily heard the pitter-patter of feet behind him. Despite what everyone might think, Miguel doesn’t like visitors in his lab. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, realizing that it was Gwen in the lab. Great, he expelled a great puff of air. Wherever Gwen was, Jess or Peter never seemed to be too far behind.

“What is?”

“Mireya,” she bounced forward, hands behind her back, inspecting Mireya with a twinge of a smile. It grew on her lips, just a little. She flicked her index finger, making a point that he really didn’t feel like hearing. “And you too. I mean, even if you cuss a little at her. You’re so soft with her.”

“Enjoy the sight while it lasts.” Miguel bit out, drawing into a little sigh as he cradles his daughter close. “But I’m not cussing at her, I’m looking for her teething chew-- which is not my finger, Mireya.”

She bites down on his palm. Miguel’s face screws up in annoyance, rather than pain, settling a small kiss on the top of her head. Her soft baby curls tickle his lips. He turns back to his panels, inspecting the anomaly he had been tracking all afternoon. She bites him again.

“Wherever that thing went, carajo! Lyla, ¿dónde está?!” He forgot that his daughter had a low tolerance for his outbursts. Unlike Gwen, Peter, or even you, Miguel was usually well aware of his rising volume. Gwen held up her palms.

“No, mi vida, no, I’m sorry,” Mireya’s lower lip quivered, revving up in another sharp cry that Miguel hardly had the patience for. Her cry burst free, causing Miguel to tear away from Gwen, sliding Mireya onto his broad shoulder. He pats her back gently. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“Your wife sent me to help you. I’d… I’d really like to hold her. I mean. If you’re willing.”

"¿Qué?" Miguel hissed, hiding the flash of displeasure that ripped across his face. Of course, you sent a teenage kid to come take a daughter from him! Why wouldn’t you? No way in hell— he took a step away, the sharpest way he could say no. Almost a year old and still Gwen had not held her.

“She shouldn’t have. I don’t need help.”

“She said you’d say that,” Gwen tippy-toed up to Miguel’s shoulder, peeping at Mireya’s big brown eyes. She screwed them shut, burning through another red-hot wail of pain. If Gwen didn't leave him alone--

“What exactly did she say?”

“Mireya’s teething and Miguel has a bad temper.”

A bad temper, she said. Miguel scrunched up his nose.

“Tch. Of course, I never would have guessed.”

He heard another set of feet. Two, actually. He expected to see Peter’s too-happy smile beaming at him like an aggravating ray of morning light. He didn’t, however, expect your eyes to stare right back at him. Your voice cut right through Mireya’s inconsolable cries.

“Miggy, are you giving Gwen a hard time?”

He chewed on his words, using his foot to roll his chair out from his desk. You hopped onto the platform with Peter’s aid, a task on its own with your swollen belly behind a deep blue gown. Mireya’s sharp cries fizzled out into little chirps, somehow pleased with your presence. Miguel, however, was not.

“There’s my girl!” Peter slapped his hands together, rushing forward when you were secure on the platform. Peter couldn’t help himself, even amid a fight. She bounced on Miguel’s shoulder, palms extended, squeezing and releasing. Why did she have to love Peter? “Hi, Mireya!”

“No. You should be resting,” Miguel pointed toward his chair. You didn’t fight him on it, sliding into it with your hand under your belly to support the child that brewed in your stomach. He couldn’t help but feel a string of guilt for the exhaustion that was so easily apparent on your face. It’s why he took her-- in the hope that you would sleep.

“I would if I knew you would take the help.”

Peter swerved around Gwen, peering over Miguel’s shoulder at her squishy little body in double the glee the little girl looked at him with.

“I don’t need help.”

“Lyla says you do,” you tilted back in the chair, folding your arms just under your swollen chest. Miguel threw another curse under his breath. The AI who mysteriously was not listening to any of his commands. “And if Lyla says you do, then you do.”

He could have fought you but as fate would have it, you were close to pushing out another child of his. He glared at the glittering stone of your ring on your finger and relented, his head bobbing into a complacent nod. As per usual, you won.

“Fine, por hoy,” he said with a heavy breath, turning over to face Gwen. She cracked a nervous smile as he leaned in, settling Mireya in her arms. Gwen’s big eyes snapped down to the little girl, insecurity trickling from her person. Miguel picked up on it like blood pouring into a cup of water. “If you hurt her, I’ll—“

“Miguel, no threats.”

He cursed.

“Now that that’s settled,” Peter ran his hands together, swiping up the chew toy that Miguel had been looking for. He obnoxiously slid Mireya out of Gwen’s arms, the only person that Miguel would allow his daughter to be held by without standing threats. “Come to Uncle Peter! We can go get ice cream with Hobie and Pavitr, just you and me and Gwen!"

Hobie and Pavitr? He never--

“Tio Peter,” Gwen corrected, stroking her upper arm nervously.

“Tio Peter."

Miguel couldn’t help but watch the pair slip away-- talking about things like ice cream for toothaches, park dates, and fun as they slipped into a portal. You caught Miguel’s hand, stopping him from jerking to snatch her back up.

“She’s safe with them,” It itched-- it itched all over. The terrible feeling that no, his Mireya was not safe with Peter, or Gwen, or Jess, or anyone else that wasn’t him. If even him. You stood up. “Miguel, Miguel no--”

He snapped to the monitor, drawing forth Gwen and Peter, his hand at his lip. Your stomach pressed into his back. His third-- no second-- child. His hand fell to your arms that intertwined around his muscular midsection. “She’s almost one. We talked about this. You said Peter was the only one you’d trust to watch her.”

“Almost one,” he laughed it off, his hand falling away from his lips. “She could be forty and I would still worry.”

“You don’t trust Peter?”

“I don’t even trust myself.” He threw you back a glance, an undercurrent of sadness flowed through the words.

“I do, mi amorcito,” You held him a little tighter, finding the words came as easily as the movements of the child in your belly against his back. Miguel bit back a small smile at the feeling, following Peter and Gwen choosing ice cream for his little girl. The door jingled with a bell-- Hobie and Pavitr strode in, because of course they did, it couldn't just be a quiet outing. Who was next? Miles? “And I trust Peter too.”

“I know you do.”

Vanilla? Cotton candy? Not the cotton candy. If they only knew. It’s strawberry. Mireya’s favorite is strawberry. Gabriella’s was vanilla. His shoulders relaxed, watching Peter present a small sample of strawberry to his little princesa.

“Bueno,” he slid his hand on top of yours. “I could… go for an empanada. ¿Quieres ir conmigo?”

“Sí,” you beamed. “Let's go. Just you and me.”

It’s a strange feeling— being without his little girl. At least for today, he’s certain she’ll be okay.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara x reader #spider 2099 x reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines #atsv x reader #atsv imagines #atsv x you #atsv imagine #atsv miguel imagine #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara imagine

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kurt-nightcrawler · 2 years ago

Text

Baby Blonde

Paul x Reader

Summary: Paul is a sensitive guy

Warnings: tiny bit of angst, mentions of periods and related period things, implied smut but no actual smut

Word Count: 1.5k

Paul wasn’t one to cry. He was cool. He was sexy. And he spent too much time trying to be goofy or space out to cry.

Or that’s at least what everyone thought.

He was a good, sweet, and somewhat clingy boyfriend. Always wanting a hand on you– a hand in your back pocket or in your hand were the most common– getting you food whenever you wanted it and making sure you were never sad. He was a giant golden ball of sunshine, who killed people and was great with his tongue.

However, Paul was a sensitive little bitch. Deep, deep, deep down. How he got you more stuffed animals than Laddie or gave you posters when they came with his vinyls instead of plastering them all over the cave walls. Or when he got high and ate Marko’s butter statue in the fridge– he felt bad for months– and when he accidentally scratched David’s The Cure album with his claws. The guilt was mostly cause David chewed him out, but that was beside the point.

What could he say? Paul was a man with many layers. But sometimes those layers were so deep they did not mean to see the surface.

–

You were lying down on the old couch in the cave, trying to snuggle under one of the numerous blankets the boys had accumulated over the years. Groaning in discomfort, you turned to the other side, trying to ease your pain.

Water bottles, snacks, and any kind of painkiller imaginable were scattered on the floor around you.

Your period was three days early. Not like it was ever consistent, but it was still miserable. You were burning up, sore all over, covered in three new zits, and anytime you went to the bathroom it looked like a murder scene afterward. You hated it. And while your blood-sucking boyfriend loved it, he tried to sympathize best he could– to treat you like a little baby bird and not like a meal.

But sometimes, sometimes, his blood lust got the better of him.

–

Paul strutted down into the cave, totally not paying attention to his surroundings, until he saw a big lump of blankets on the couch.

“Baby?” he called out.

You grunted in response.

“You okay?” Paul asked, momentarily clueless as to what was going on with you.

And then it hit him.

Your period.

His gaze got slightly hazy, and he immediately pounced onto the couch, wanting to pepper you in kisses, feed you chocolate, and eat you out until you passed out in a blissful slumber.

“Baby I want–”

“Grrrrr…” You shoved him off the couch and curled up into a tighter fetal position than you were already in. “Don’t touch me… not now…” You whined. You were hit with cramps soon as Paul entered the cave, and your pain meds were proving to be useless.

“Oh…” Paul’s cold dead heart was resuscitated momentarily by seeing you, only to be stomped on and shattered by your harsh rejection, bringing it back to death.

“Okay… If you need anything I’ll be in my room…”

Paul walked away into the depths of the cave slowly. Any pep in his step or excitement was sucked out of him. He just wanted to help! Make you feel better– maybe give you a massage, or help cool you down by holding you in his arms while he buried his face into your neck.

Paul knew you were the one. He didn’t miss the daytime because he had you, the sun to his moon– bright and cheerful to compliment his bright and cheerful. Except where he was cold and dead, you were warm and alive. He loved showering with you, sniffing all your fancy soaps, and asking if he could take a bite. He tried to pull a romcom classic and cook for you, which almost burnt your kitchen down… But his big, sad, blue puppy dog eyes got the best of you. He could never thank you enough when you did daytime-esk errands for him, like buying him snacks from stores that closed before sundown or letting him do laundry at your place. Or standing your ground and helping him get some touchy valley girl off his back.

But Paul was still Paul, and he had trouble with being told no by someone other than the boys. He also worried you would eventually get sick of him. Sick of his loud voice, and weed-ridden musk. Sick of how he was sometimes really forgetful, or too spaced out and lost focus easily. He was scared you wouldn’t find him sexy or funny and see he didn’t really have much else going for himself. He had been working on it, trying to be more confident deep down and not cry like a baby when you didn’t want to hang out 24/7, but sometimes it slipped his mind that humans needed personal space and alone time.

You mumbled a groan as you slightly shifted under the covers, attempting to fall asleep.

—

You had awoken, after sleeping for what felt like an eternity. You were sweaty, groggy, and had no sense of what time it was.

“Good morning Sleeping Beauty,” someone teased.

You groaned and shifted from your spot on the couch, rubbing your eyes as you stared at the person who woke you.

“Marko, hey. How long was I asleep?”

“Too long, according to Paul.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes. “He would say that. Where is he anyways? Is he getting food?”

“…”

“Marko…”

Marko bit his thumb and avoided your gaze as he picked up the trash surrounding the couch.

“Marko...”

“He got really upset after you told him to fuck off.”

“What? When did I do that?”

“Um, he said when he came home,” Marko shook a pill bottle, seeing if it was empty. “You were curled up into a ball on the couch and then you pushed him away and told him to leave you alone.”

Your boyfriend was such a drama queen. “I’m on my period.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, well,” You and Marko walked into the kitchen area, trash, snacks, and medicines in hand. “My painkillers didn’t kick in on time. I thought I was dying for a hot second. I didn’t want Paul making it worse.”

Marko smiled, closing the chip bag, “He probably would have taken a bite out of you if you let him.”

You rolled your eyes, “Maybe later.”

One of the pigeons flew towards you both. Staring Marko in the eyes.

“No, I’m not giving you potato chips,” he jokingly scolded his pet. “No, these aren’t for you.”

“I’m gonna see what he’s up to.”

“Okay.”

Marko was still focused on his pigeon. “Yeah, she’s gonna see Paul. She’s gonna see Paulie. You know what they’re gonna do Jasper—“

“Shut up,” You scoffed.

—

You knocked on the “door”— an old surfboard covering the hole in the wall to his little stoner rock cave— of Paul’s room.

“Paul��”

You heard a sniffle from the other side, but nothing else.

“Paul, I know you’re in there…” another moment of silence.

“Or is it Laddie?” You joked.

“It’s me,” Paul quietly replied.

“Can I come in, baby?”

“Sure.”

You pushed the door to the side and stepped inside his room. “Hi, baby.”

He was laying under several blankets in the nest you’d both made together, only his head and lion's mane worth of hair sticking out.

“Hello…” All the usual fun and excitement was sucked out of his voice, leaving it hollow and empty.

“Oh no, I don’t like hello. What’s going on?”

“You… You wouldn’t cuddle with me…”

You slowly sat down next to him, pushing aside a few mixtapes and some dirty clothes, “Baby… baby you know I’m on my period.”

“Yeah, you smell nice— like nicer than usual. And I just, I love you so much—

“I know—“

“And I wanna cuddle”

“—I know—“

“—and eat you out so hard you see stars.”

“My meds just didn’t kick in.”

“Yeah, you were mean.” Paul sniffled. “I didn’t like it.”

“Oh baby come here,” You joined him under the covers, attempting to scoop him into your arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It was not fine.

“Paul… you don’t have to lie to me.”

He shifted his head onto your shoulder, “You just… you scared me.”

You gently scratched his head. “I didn’t mean to, I just needed to be alone.”

“I’m worried I messed up and you don’t wanna be with me anymore… I’ve messed up a lot and I tend to pretend I don’t care if I fuck up, but I do.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that. Even if I tried, David would Professor X my memory.”

Paul laughed a little.

“I just didn’t want you pouncing on me like an animal–”

“–But I am an animal.”

You frowned, “Not the point here.”

“Right, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are we good?”

“Yeah… Just… just don’t– if you– uh, if you need some space don’t act like me when I need blood and I wig out, okay?”

“Will do.”

Paul sat up a little, so he could snuggle into you.“Mmmm… Thank you.”

“Of course baby. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #paul the lost boys #tlb #tlb 1987 #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys imagine #my fic #my writing #lost boys paul #paul lost boys #paul the lost boys x reader #the lost boys paul x reader #the lost boys movie #the lost boys movie 1987 #vampire fic

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entomolog-t · 1 year ago

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Bite Me - Chapter 9

Aedes deals with his 5 senses while June cleans her room.

Some last minute changes made this update brutal- but we made it.

I also incorporated a promptober prompt!! Sunrise

Taglist: @smallsday @ratcatcher0325 @not-a-space-alien @bittykimmy13 @naive-bias

- - - -

Previous Chapter: Chapter 8

Next Chapter: Chapter 10

Word count: 1816

CW: Mentions of blood, Adult language, depiction of sensory overload/Panic

June Murphy blinks- the act in and of itself far more effort than it should be. Her eyes dry and sore from crying- eyelids heavier than should be physically possible, as if some invisible weight hung off them. Face raw from a tear stricken night, she stares at her wall, watching as the first light of day creeps into her room. Even her thoughts feel heavy as she stares blankly ahead.

Had she slept? She wasn’t really sure. It certainly didn’t feel like she had- though… it certainly didn’t feel like she’d been awake either.

Her joints groan in protest as she stands, neck stiff from the awkward position she’d held while slumped beside her bed. June tries in vain to rub the tiredness from her eyes, but all she manages to do is to further irritate the rawness of her tear stained face.

June chews her lip- Memories of the night still fresh in her mind. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel him in her palm- the way he twitched and squirmed under her touch. The thoughts felt dirty now with the context of hindsight. He’d been terrified, and she… she had liked it. Her hands claw through her tangled mess of hair. What the fuck was wrong with her? Who likes that? Why would she ever like that? He was so small, and had been so terrified, how could she-

June pauses.

She had been sure it was real, but now as daylight crept around her room so did doubt creep into her mind. It was all so absurd. A tiny vampire sneaking into her house? It had to have been a dream right? She just had the strangest nightmare imaginable. That was it. Maybe it had been a bit more lucid than her typical dreams. That wasn’t that weird right? It was just abnormally lucid and.. and she just thought she’d been awake.

June swallows the dryness in her mouth- not keen on thinking about what the contents of such a bizarre and emotionally charged dream must say about her psyche.

Her movement is stiff and tired as she drags herself to the washroom, desperately washing her face with cool water, as if temperature could somehow shock her back to fully believing in some version of reality. June winces. The sight of herself in the mirror should have come with a warning. She looked rough. Painfully red eyes stare back at her behind swollen lids- Her skin sallow and dull - looking just as exhausted as she felt.

As her eyes scam her reflection, her breath catches.

Two impossibly small punctures on her neck - nearly imperceptible, if not for the slight redness and bruised halo around them.

She watches her reflection as her lips draw into a tight line.

It… it had happened. It had all really happened.

The reality of the situation felt heavy- oddly enough, it was not the absurdity of the situation, but the implication that the emotions had all been real. The realization that she had gotten off on some twisted sort of psychological torment on a man she had known for what? All of twenty minutes??

June chews her lip, thoughts of his wide eyed expression filling her mind- those hushed pleas uttered between sobs. Her throat tightens.

You’re fucking vile

The echo of his words in her mind seem to tie her stomach in knots. She was, wasn’t she? She was fucking sick to have wanted … that.

God, what was she thinking? She didn’t even know him? Hell, he wasn’t even human. His existence didn’t even seem real- yet the desire that he incited was all too real- and all too potent.

A quiet part of her resents him. The way he’d played along- how he seemed to untangle some deeply knotted part of her- how he let her loose only to choke her with the slack. How could he make her feel that way, only to rip it away from beneath her.

June frowned at the way her logic twisted in her mind.

He’d been splayed out in her palm- restrained by her hand… so why did she feel like she’d been struck at her most vulnerable?

June groans. Her mind far too exhausted to try and decipher the reasons behind weird hypocritical thoughts. There was a heavy weight that seemed to reside in her chest, an impending sense of dread that loomed within her. Aedes was gone.

Aedes was gone because of her.

Because she was sick.

There was nothing left- no way to apologize, no way to make it right... Nothing to do except sit here and fester in her shame. She hated that it wasn’t just guilt gnawing at the edges of her mind. She was still so curious- and she resented it.

The same curiosity that cornered him- that had led to all of this.

And yet… she couldn’t rid herself of her nature.

Her mind begged for answers- Why was he so small? How could vampires exist? Who else knew? Could he turn into a bat? Did they congregate in … flocks? Colonies?

June flops to her bed- desperately wishing for the sleep that evaded her, but the soft morning light and whirring thoughts in her head make dozing off an impossible feat.

There was nothing she could do.

The finality of it was sickening. No apology, no reconciliation, no answers. All she was left with were questions and shame.

June sits up. If there was nothing she could do, she might as well make herself busy. Busy hands make for a quiet mind, or something like that.

----

Aedes leg shakes - irritation plain on his face.

She hadn’t slept.

She hadn’t slept one fucking minute.

An uneasiness crept over him as the room slowly became lit with the light of day. The dark of the night offered discretion- plentiful security within its shadows. The day however, was a different beast entirely.

The woman idles around her room, picking up various discarded items off the floor. He grimaced as she removed more and more of the potential cover leading toward the window. There was no way he’d be able to sneak off unnoticed in broad daylight.

Aedes felt the all too familiar ache of bloodlust rising in his chest. He hadn’t drank nearly enough. With nothing to occupy his hunger other than his thoughts, a familiar clarity rolled over him as his senses sharpened, instinct trying to direct him to the meal he was all too aware of.

Aedes swallows- mouth wet.

The beat of her heart pounds on steadily.

Thud after thud.

Continuous.

Just for one second he needed silence. A moment to think- to gather his thoughts. He bounced his leg, a steady tension mounting within him. Fuck. Each beat seemed to stop his thoughts in their track- drawing his focus away from any meaningful planning and back to her. The steady thrum of her heart a sirens song, begging him to forgo hiding. Beckoning him to dive into her. To drown in her. No. The last thing he wanted was to be anywhere near her again. He’d been hungry before- he could go hungry again.

Aedes grit his teeth.

Thump.

He would wait this out.

Thump.

Come nightfall he would leave.

Thump.

He would absolutely leave-

Thump.

He just needed to-

Thump.

To figure a way out-

Thump.

To get to the window-

Thump.

To feed-

His claws dug into his scalp- his hands desperate to hold himself together as her pulse throbbed in his ears. Loud. Everything was too loud. The steady rumble of her feet on the floor grates at his nerves. She meandered around the room, never staying still for more than a moment or two before moving on to another spot. Every thundering step sends a jolt through him- The world buzzing around him.

Why couldn’t she just fucking stand still?

He took a breath, his inhale shaky, and unfortunately deep. He caught her scent hanging thick in the air, her very essence an overwhelming caress. Like velvet, her scent thick and warm, teasing his desire- whispering promises of indulgence. She smells of sweet cream and soft spice- her skin of milk and honey. Of cardamom and comfort, of passionate glances and carnal desires.

Carnivorous desires.

He remembers how she tasted on his tongue, the allure of her scent paling in comparison to her taste. She was ambrosia on his lips and transcendent on his tongue. She tasted of life- of potential and passion- she tasted of more.

God he wanted more.

Needed more.

Aedes gnashed his teeth. He felt the world around him consuming him. Picking him apart- biting into him. His breaths came quickly- air feeling numb on his lips. Never enough. Never enough air. Never enough of her. The sound around him was chaos. Her blood seemed to roar in his ears. Her heels thundering on wood. Wood that trembled beneath him. It shook- he shook.

He shouldn’t be here.

Every breath was sugared with her. Drowning in her. His stomach twists- hunger gnawing away at his rationality. At his resolve. Her overwhelming presence devouring him from the inside. Mouth open he gasps- though not for air- for her. His mouth drips with desperation. Longing. Need. Aedes bites into the flesh of his hand- his teeth breaking the skin as easily as wading through water. The tang of his blood foul in his mouth. Wrong. Grotesque. An insult to the memory of her on his tongue. His jaw clenches- twitching against his will.

He bit harder. His face slick with blood and drool.

He needed to stop this.

To think-

To breathe.

He needed blood.

Her heart beat in tandem with his own. Calling him- begging him. Each pulse was a promise- of air. Of quiet. Of life.

A siren's song. A sweet harmony crying out between each and every pulse.

He froze.

A voice- both stunning and haunting cut through his senses. All else seems to fade- the rush of her blood, the beating of her heart, even his own desperate thoughts became white noise in the presence of her voice. Silken and opalescent- it carried air to his lungs on its warbling melody.

It beckoned him, yet nothing like the beating of her heart. This compulsion was all his own, not some ancient instinct clawing its way through his consciousness.

Head ducked, Aedes half crawled half walked to the edge of his cover under the dresser.

She sang of crumbling, of breaking down- stolen kisses and stolen glances.

I fall to pieces

Each time I see you again

His breath caught in his throat.

She was …. Beautiful.

Incredible in her immensity- Her entirety more akin to a landscape than a body- her beauty that of a sunset.

Warm.

Vast.

Untouchable.

He stood in the light of her song, feeling as though he was blinded by a second sun.

#MY MANS CANT CATCH A BREAK #the way he describes her makes me feral #Brother is smitten #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t prompts #g/t writing #Entowrites #Bite Me #JuneOc #AedesOC #Tiny vampire #tiny man #macro/micro #Promptober #Probptober2023

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kitchin-gryphin · 2 years ago

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CatBoy Chaos Comparative Anatomy/Traits Post!!

I asked in the endnotes of ch. 3 of CatBoy Chaos if anyone would be interested in my thoughts about the anatomy of catboy! Danny in my fic, as someone studying animal science, and several people said yes- so here they are! Some things I’m going to talk about in this post have been mentioned in the fic already, but I’m going to elaborate more on them.

SO - Cats and Humans? Are very very different!! (shocker I know) Forcing the human body to have cat traits would realistically fuck you up real good! Just ears, a tail, and eyes is (quite literally,) surface level stuff, and imo a little boring! So here is a list with explanations of my version of Cat-Boy Danny’s traits :

1) Advantageous Cat Traits:

Improved Hearing, he can hear softer sounds, and tell directionally where sounds are coming from! (Directional hearing is something humans are really bad at)

Improved Smell! Cats obviously have a much better sense of smell than humans

Improved Night Vision - cat eyes means a “tapetum lucidum” - a layer of reflective cells, and what causes cat’s eyes to “glow” in the dark!

Tolerance for Dehydration and Infrequent Blinking - Domestic cats descend from desert-dwelling wildcats. These traits are a result of that ancestry, and now Danny can win any staring contest!

2) Instincts!!

Discomfort with death - (mentioned in ch.2) - animals typically have an instinctual aversion to death, it’s an important survival instinct! For Half-ghost boy Danny, this makes using his ghost powers uncomfortable, and sets him on edge any time he uses them.

Prey Drive! - Cats are predators, they have a prey drive, this will be very fun for me to include, and potentially very embarrassing for Danny...

Defensive Reactions - will absolutely hiss/bite before really thinking. Think fight or flight made more dramatic.

3) Complete Cat Dentition

Poor boy doesn’t just have the sharp “fang” canines of a cat, he has ALL cat teeth. Cats are carnivores!!! All their teeth are sharp!!

This totally makes eating and chewing more difficult for Danny.

Hooked “sandpaper” tongue! He’s not going to lick himself, that’s gross, but he does have a hooked tongue!

below is low quality drawing I did in class of cat vs human teeth:

4) New Dietary Considerations

Cats are OBLIGATE CARNIVORES!! On their own, cats cannot synthesize taurine - an amino acid that is absolutely vital to the body’s function! Danny’s meta gene removed his ability to synthesize it, he either needs meat in his diet, or to take a special taurine supplement.

Regardless of wether or not he wasn’t before - Danny is ABSOLUTELY lactose intolerant now. Human’s common lactose tolerance into adulthood is unique in the animal kingdom.

Common cat poisons - In chapter 2, Danny gets sick after having a mocha latte - Coffee and Chocolate are two things cats cant have! He’s gotta be careful about what he eats now. Will everything bad for cats make him sick? No, but he doesn’t know what will or won’t.

5) Learned Muscle Control

Humans do have ear muscles, but they’re vestigial. Some people have a little control over them, which is why they can “wiggle their ears”. Suddenly for Danny, these muscles are no longer vestigial.

His tail is an entire appendage that he didn’t have before,

Until he learns control of these muscles, any emotion shown by his tail or ears is involuntary and instinctual!!

6) Incompatible Skeletal Structure

Oh boy - human bipedalism is already such a mess structurally. From an engineering and structural standpoint, human hips and backs are so very messed up, (its why back pain is so very common). Adding a tail to that mix? yikes.... a tail is a continuation of the spine. Realistically, it would ABSOLUTELY cause severe chronic hip/back pain. It’s not something that’s going to to play a role in CatBoy Chaos, but know that i’m thinking about it and imagining how much ouch that would be.

NO RETRACTABLE CLAWS - YIKES EW NO. Retractable claws would BUTCHER human hands… A cat's retractable claws involve the bone that is equivalent to a human fingertip. I’m not doing that to Danny… ick, no, that would be really gross to me -

here’s an image I found of what I’m trying to say - (Image Credit)

Also: some small notes about Danny and cat Stereotypes/Myths

“Cats Always Land on their feet” and landing unharmed from impossible heights - For cats, these are a result of directional awareness in the air, ability to “parachute” to slow descent, and the ability to “cushion” the impact when landing. Of these traits, the only one Danny could really have and still look like a catboy as opposed to a full-on anthro cat, is directional awareness in the air.

“Cats don’t like water” - This comes up in ch. 4, so minor spoiler until I post it this weekend, but ultimately Danny comes to his own conclusion that wet fur is not comfortable, and takes forever to dry.

“Cats & 9-lives” - well... he’s still a halfa...

Finally: Of course he purrs!!!

So There you have it! My thoughts about the anatomy of CatBoy! Danny in my fic CatBoy Chaos!

If there’s any questions about my thoughts, I’d love to hear ‘em!

#catboy danny au #catboy chaos #danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #weird anatomy #comparative anatomy

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midwinterwings · 2 months ago

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Divinemadnesscore (and a small vent. Tw suicide and sh mentions)

Accepting my divinity has always been the hardest for me, as opposed to discovering myself. Having been trained to deal with 'problems' or things that cause 'bad things' like stress or anxiety by shutting it down, that's what I tried to do.

but, this artwork, a self portrait, aka, what it feels and looks like being me, is a physical way of asserting that I'm done doing that. I'm done hurting myself, biting my own heads to force them down, to try to squeeze myself into a box that never would have fit anyway. My divinity is something (and I had to refrain from saying unfortunately) that impacts my mortal life a lot. The more I try to surpress it the more it gets angrier and pushier, demanding to be seen.

I have to admit, a big reason I've finally realized what I have to do is to simply let me be, is because I realized that if I continued down the path of suppressing something so big, I would kill myself. I remember when a member of the system, Lilian, would be violent and want to kill himself if he fronted, because the rest of us ignored him and tried to murder him, seeing that he was a dark stain, the evidence of our past we hated.

But no one really wants to die. To Lilian, it felt like a triumph. Hurting us, and himself, to show he existed. When we accepted him (which was a hard and painful process on its own, due to his distrust in us. I mean we did try to murder him repeatedly I get it) he saw no need to hurt us. Why would he?

In the same way, the way my mortal self bites and chews at my divinity sends a deep pain through both of us. All we do is bite and hurt ourselves and the pain makes us angrier and hate each other more. But I'm done with this.

Its terrifying, letting myself be. I've glimpsed what I am, and it's horrifying, beautiful, eldritch. But that dosent stop me. It'll be awkward, unlearning all the ways I hurt myself to make sure I stay in my lane. I've lived this life hacking and killing so much of me, mentally, physically and spiritually, I dont know what it feels like to not bleed, to just be, to not run and jump onto the altar, lie down and plunge my blade into my stomach before anyone else has a chance to. I'm done pulling out my own flight feathers before they can be clipped. The ones who used to clip my wings forgot I had those. Seeing they didn't like them, I took it to myself to pull them out. So many times I've done this they've forgotten I grew flight feathers. And I forgot I grew flight feathers, seeing plucking at my sore, bloody wings as a daily chore, no more upsetting than doing the laundry. I set inhibitors on my mind, shut my mouth, so that people I knew could live in ignorance, unchallenged, unaware a small child could read them front to back like a book. Their little secrets, hidden insecurities, I blinded myself, I wouldn't let myself see or look or be anything other than normal. I slowed my thoughts, and split off into my mind, creating realms to busy myself, so that I ran at the normal times, so no one could tell. Instead of blurting out things people didn't like to hear, I swallowed honey so that my tongue was sickly sweet.

no longer. If this ends up a mess I'll face them with all of me, my wings healed. My body is scarred and beaten and crippled, my mind tired and soggy, my soul bleeding, filled with holes and claw marks from my own constant assaults on myself. But even as the flight feathers that grow shall be flimsy, sprouting between scar tissue from years of plucking, they are my feathers, my wings, my goddamn life. It won't be the same - of course it won't. The long, sturdy flight feathers that used to sprout now small, easily broken, flimsy. That's OK. Theyre my flimsy feathers.

#hermes says stuff #godkin #deitykin #alterhuman #otherkin #divinekin #nonhuman #alterbeing #alterhumanity #divine madness

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erzherzog-von-edelstein · 7 months ago

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Something short for day 1 of @spaus-week for the Cuddling prompt and the "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway." prompt.

Content Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Religion, very mild hinting at violence

--------------------------------

Austria’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of water splashing. He had fallen asleep waiting for his husband to join him in bed and as he looked around, he realized that the book he had been reading was still sitting open on the bed sheets.

He ran his hand over his face before picking up the book, closing it, and placing it gently aside.

He heard another quiet splash and turned his attention toward the noise. The only light in the room came from a candle that Spain had lit next to the wash basin.

As Austria squinted in his direction, he realized that Spain was scrubbing his hands. Austria said, rubbing his eyes, “Antonio, what are you doing?”

Spain paused, his hands still in the water. He answered, “It’s not important. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Austria didn’t believe him. It was odd behavior at this hour of night, and Austria’s first thought was that he was cleaning a wound. He threw off the blankets and sat up. Spain pulled his hands out of the water and started to shake the moisture off of them. He then grabbed a linen towel and started to dry his hands.

Austria got out of bed and stepped closer, saying gently, “Do you need help?”

As he stepped closer, he saw that Spain was running the corner of the towel methodically under his fingernails. Spain shook his head emphatically, “No, I just…” He trailed off and Austria wondered what was going through his mind. Spain swallowed hard and said, “There’s blood and I need to get it off.”

Austria tutted and stepped forward to take his hands in his own, “Let me see.”

Spain let him take the hands and examine them, which Austria took as a good sign. There was no injury and, as far as he could tell, no blood. He said, confused, “They’re clean, love.”

In the flickering candlelight, he saw Spain chew his inner lip like he was agonizing. There was some heady emotion in his voice as he said, “They are far from clean.”

His right hand convulsed as if he wanted to pick at his own fingernails some more. He seemed to want to claw away something that was not there.

Austria felt like he understood, “You have never told me about it. Al-Andalus or what happened in the Americas.”

The low light cast shadows on even the smallest line on Spain’s face. The lines of worry were appearing between his eyebrows. Spain spoke, his every word colored with emphatic conviction, “I know that God understands. I know that I did what He asked of me. I know He understands.”

Austria supplied the next word, “But?”

Spain was going to make his lip bleed if he kept biting it like that. He answered, “But I don’t know that you will. My prince, my good fortune. And I will not make you sleep in the same bed as a man with such unclean hands.”

Austria brought Spain’s hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. He met Spain’s eyes as he said, “My affections are not so fickle, I promise. Come to bed. Tell me every terrible thing you’ve ever done and let me love you anyway.”

Spain nodded and followed his instructions, letting Austria lead him to the bed. Once Austria had put his head comfortably on Spain’s shoulder, he said again, “Unburden your soul to me, and I promise that I will not shy away from you.”

Spain ran a hand through Austria’s hair and sighed deeply, “I fear you will not sleep tonight once I tell you what I’ve seen, what I’ve done.” Austria replied, closing his eyes and listening to Spain's heartbeat, “I do not care.”

#spausweek #hws spain #hws austria #my bad influence knows who they are and I hope they are happy #I'd love to say that I am going to more of these #but I have a ton of irl commitments this week

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friendlyspidercop · 1 year ago

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AT FIRST GLANCE — 1.5

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER 2?

that night, your mind chooses to relive high school…

“hate to break it to ya, grizz, but staring at the problem isn’t gonna make it go away.”

you groan and look up from your ap calculus textbook in time to see harry osborne set his lunch tray down on the cafeteria table and take the seat next to you. he gives you a sympathetic grin before picking up his fork and taking up a mouthful of mac and cheese.

that’s fine, you think. there’s no one else you’d rather have take it.

you still roll your eyes.

“harry,” you say, straightening your back and turning to him. he looks up at you, still chewing on those noodles. “why do you get lunch from here when you probably have a chef back home?”

he looks like he’s about to laugh at your question, but holds it in to swallow his food. “have you never had the mac and cheese here? delicious. also— a chef? really?”

you grin and shrug, turning back to your textbook and picking up your pencil again. “yeah, really,” you say, flipping the pencil in your fingers before you begin to solve the integral. “are you trying to tell me you don’t have a chef?”

“well—”

“exactly.”

he laughs and lightly pushes your shoulder. “i think you’re just jealous that i don’t leave my homework until the last possible minute so i can eat lunch everyday.”

ok, there might be some truth to that.

you pencil in a 22 to mark the next math problem before you turn to your brunette friend, eyebrows raised as you try to fight back laughter. “sometimes you can be so sassy!”

he grins proudly and takes another bite of his mac and cheese as you continue.

“does peter know about this?” you ask, shaking your head in faux disapproval, as if peter were the mom in the sentence: does your mom know about this?

but maybe peter isn’t the best person to bring up right now.

harry smiles at your jest, but it doesn’t have the same lightheartedness as it did just seconds ago. you wish you hadn’t mentioned the name.

“sorry,” you say quietly.

“it’s okay,” he says. and he means it, you know. but guilt has sunk its claws into your heart and has no interest in letting go.

as you turn back in your seat to let harry eat in peace and continue finishing up your homework, your eyes catch the two empty chairs on the other side of the table. that’s where they sat.

you glance at harry— he’s looking at peter and mj’s chairs too.

you bite your lip and look down at your paper, the numbers starting to blur together as your thoughts race. they’re mostly about peter and mj and what they might be doing right now. but another thought also pushes its way past all of these, triumphant at last: you are not alone. harry osborne and his silly mac and cheese are still here.

“so… which one’s better? the cafeteria mac and cheese or your chef’s mac and cheese?” you looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

surprise flickers in his eyes for a moment before disappearing under the weight of consideration as he chews his mac and cheese thoughtfully. you’re pretty sure the lunch ladies just use velveeta anyway, but you don’t want to ruin the magic for him.

seeming to reach a decision, he swallows his mouthful and smiles. “well, i know what i think, but you’re not gonna like the answer, grizz.”

you roll your eyes playfully— did he really like the school’s that much?

“but how about you come over after class? try the one at my place for yourself?” he asks. you don’t pay too much attention to the way he quickly drums his plastic fork on the rim of his bowl.

“huh…” you consider, nodding to yourself as you finish your last homework problem. you slam the hefty textbook shut. “i will take you up on that offer, harold osborne.”

he nudges you. you laugh, pushing his arm away.

“my name’s not harold.”

“yeah, okay, okay.”

in those days, it felt like it was you and harry osborne against the world. two halves of a whole. you had your differences, sure, but ultimately it all culminated into a friendship you were convinced would last you your lifetime.

is that what makes it so hard for you now?

you’re starting to hate europe for swallowing up your best friend.

#at first glance #harry osborne x reader #if you squint #squint real real hard #then tell me if you see it #ultimately afg is meant to be a peter fic but… y’know :)#sighs #poor harry

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a-v-j · 1 year ago

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He couldnt be THIS happy

Akills and Hryxy

Content warning:

yandere fever, bad puns, emotional conflict(but not as bad like with averse), dick mention, character aware of going OOC, panic attack, emotional outburst, knives, bit of self-harm, character believing they dont deserve a happy ending, hryxy doesnt know what to do but he's trying his best, hurt/comfort, author speaks/side comments, not really a polish fic so format can be a bit wonky

Written by @nyxus-nyx and me

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Akills=Italic

Hryxy=Bold

Previously(suggestive warning)

Akills decided to chill here after his strenuous activity 🚬

Hryxy appears behind Akills and stares down at him. His body was still half morphed beast as his tail dragged on the ground making scrapping sounds.

Akills flicks the cigarette and stomps on it

"not having a good day too, big guy"

He says so from his sitting position

(shiiiit i forgot Hryxy's in yandere-)

"Shit…." He hissed st himself

Hryxy just stared as he crouched down to Akills and tilted his head. His tail swaying more.

"i cant really tell if youre happy to see me or if youre plotting my demise already inside your head"

He deadpanned, staring back into hyrxy, trying to read something behind those eyes

”no.”

He fully sat, as his tail twitched and stopped fully. His eyes fixated on akills.

He cant really read hyrxy right now. Mild confusion etched to akills' face as he raised a brow

"…"

"Then what's in your mind, big guy"

”You..”

His tail began to sway and drag again, his mouth twitches. His claws flex a bit in the sweater pockets. The empty eyesocket continues to stare.

Akills tsk-ed and leans back.

"Well i hope it's not about chewing me. M'not in the mood"

Casually recalling how the thing with lavendar the first time he did it again after a long while. Doesn't mean much to him though, but boy it did left his body a little bit sore

"…"

"Ya gonna keep staring at me or …?"

Hryxy shook his head as he grabbed Akills and pull him onto his lap. His tail wraps around him along with his arms as his bodu warms up. Slowly releasing pain relief and healin magic.

“Tired.”

Akills tensed as he was randomly picked up and squished against Hryxy. He loosened up, feeling the other's healing magic

"Hey- didnt asked for this, just to let you know"

He stated as if he's gonna pull away but made no attempt to

Hryxy chuckled as his body slowly went to normal. He held onto Akills.

“Dont have to ask.. i already know.”

He sighed restin his head on Akills.

"well youre awfully touchy than usual"

He says, pretending to not know hyryxy is having some yandere fever going on

"Is there something you want from me?"

”No.”

He just sighed and held em. He grumbled.

“I know you, you know of this damn.. fever.”

Akills chuckled dryly

"Dont look at me, nobody knows what fixes that crap"

Akills took a long while to realized that this had probably the longest he's being touched that doesn't involve being chewed, pinned or generally in a pain inducing situation and it actually feels…nice? Gosh it's been so long

”Do you.. like dark chocolate?”

He mumbled as he reaches into his own shorts pockets searching for soemthing. He grumbles struggling to find the soemthing.

"heh, i dont really desire food anymore"

Akills says as he's being slightly juggled around in Hryxy's attempt to search something in his pocket

"And i doubt whatever you're finding is even actual chocolate-"

”Surprisingly it is.”

He chuckled as he pulled it out. He pulled infront of them both and opens it.

“Im not a monster without taste.”

"that's a first. I assumed youre gonna pull out some pieces of brains and call it chocolate"

”Haha.. cant blame ya for that..”

He breaks it in half and offers it to Akills. He didnt care if he couldnt feel the need or cant eat. He has his own reasons why hes offering it.

“Its a bit salty sense i was in a rush gettin it.. was trying to get the sweeter one..”

Akills accepts it and takes a bite, a huge one

"Not complaining, it's a nice gesture coming from you, might as well do the same"

”Mm..”

He bites his half almost biting it all off.

“If you dont want the things i give or do.. tell me.”

"heh"

He rolled his eyes, as he gobbled up the last bite of his chocolate

"I'll let you know"

He finished the bite and ate the rest, his arm going back around Akills.

He rested his head back on Akills. He closed his eye sighing contently.

“Your body temperature mixes from cold and hot.. its funny..”

"what can i say, im all bones and no meat"

Akills sighed humorously, getting a bit comfortable being in the others embrace

He chuckled.

“Makes sense, your a skeleton. If so, id have to pick a Bone with you.. would try to eat it.”

He smiles a lil, his teeth hidden by his curved lips.

“Im bad at puns.. its been years..”

"real humerus, bud"

"Really tickled my funny bone"

He genuinely chuckled to himself this time, he internally thought for himself, he's not been joke-y since. It's quite nostalgic to simply humour around

"It's been years for me too"

He nods and his arms wrapped around more. Similar to a bear.

“Tell me soemthin interesting sbout you..”

His voice almost sounded as a purr as he closed his eye.

Akills almost on reflex attempted to friendly tap Hryxy for getting a bit tight there but he just lets him

"Well…besides having an expressive dick and absolutely charming- wait, am i really developing a personality right now?"

He chuckles to himself, with feelings this time. It's funny

"Im feeling funny"

It's like his old self is stirring back to him but he couldn't care, it feels nice. He usually wouldn't be caught dead having his old self back but this one feels like there's none of the bad things, he feels the him who was happy. Happy WITH someone

"Hehe, im feeling really out of character right now"

”Ha. Maybe your being developed..”

He loosens his arms for him more, he twitches a lil as his chest begans to itch.

Akills made Hryxy's arm stay in place

"Dont even think about it, big guy"

””Sorry. Sorry.”

His smile twitches as his body begans to itch. These feelings are weird. But he grins wider.

"hehe, i know right. It's weird and fluffy. It's so gay, haha"

He gives a friendly pat on the other's arm. A vision of just giving hryxy some belly rub crossed his mind but he knows better to think that's one hell of an idea

He laughed as he leaned back some, trying to rub his back on something.

“Makes you think this is a dream..”

Akills twitched as a foul memory flashed before him, setting him to haphazardly pry himself out of Hryxy's arms. Reality is sinking itself and he knows damn well he was in this situation before. What if it IS a dream.

This is too good to be true

He couldn't be THIS happy. Especially with SOMEONE.

What a joke

Akills scurried away from Hryxy. He shook, his hand gripping on his shirt as he tries to get himself back to calm. He looks like he's about to have a panic attack and shoot out his knives out of sheer anger at these…"feelings"

Hryxy just sat there his arms to his sides.

“Do you need to stab somethin.?”

He didnt feel like tackling or makin him more upset.

Akills did not respond but his hands started to shake more and glowed.

After a split second, a sonic boom kind of wave emanated from him and around him was a dangerous amount of knives, more than his magic supply could summon. He heavily breathes thru his mouth as he shakenly shut them tight in a grit. His face pure of hate and anger, his eyelight narrowed as he began throwing all his attacks everywhere where Hryxy isnt.

Dust and debris flew to the air as his attacks penetrated the ground with so much force, the sound almost felt like explosions as it continues to rain knives.

As the dust subsides, there alone akills barely standing. It appears that he cut against himself as well. He was trembling to stay standing.

He has his back still at Hryxy. He slowly turn, face void of any emotions but with almost dried streaks of tears barely visible against the stain on his face.

"… it's fine now.."

He monotoned

He tried to walk back to Hryxy, he barely made it as he collapsed

Hryxy quickly caught him and sighed, he looked down at Akills. His face full of confusion and worry.

“The more ypu do that.. the more im most likely going to tackle you.”

Hryxy huffed and sat Akills back on his lap and started to take off his hoodie.(Not Akills' l o l)

Akills seems to response back in a form of a groan. Being the weakest of autos when it comes to magic, his energy consuming attack earlier completely drained him, and he's unable to heal himself of the multiple cuts he brought upon himself. He's rendered immovable.

Hryxy puts the hoodie on Akills and he goes back to the bear hug and starts to heal him.

“Would be funny if a knife hit me in the face.”

He chuckled

If only akills have some energy left in him, he gladly would without hesitation. But right now, he's helpless, vulnerable, and weak. Might take a while for him to deliver Hryxy's request. Right now he has to heal

”Wanna know something funny. I cant die unless my soul is crushed.”

He stared at the endless abyss of this room. He just kept healing Akills.

“Can’t feel pain unless is afflicted on my soul.”

Hryxy was only met with the sounds of akills' breathing but it gives off a sense that the smaller skeleton is listening, he felt more relaxed now

”I don’t think the fever.. affects me much. Im still me just more.. clingy i should say.”

He shrugged his claws twitch and his chest itched. He only wore a white bloodied tangtop.

“I talk to much..”

It's interesting enough to know hryxy is able to bounce back from the effects of the fever. In fairness, it's only worse at the beginning and in the end, but he seems to do well managing the middle part of the process. Akills' tried to open his socket with little energy he has, he wants the other to know he's listening still

Hryxy leaned back abit, giving Akills some kind of space. Hryxy ruffles his hair and rubbed his temples. Itching at chest now sense has room now.

“God.. fuckin.. damnit.”

A hand quickly but sluggishly placed itself on Hryxy's claws that's scratching his chest, Akills' had his socket closed again but a small frown form itself on his mouth

Hryxy froze his head looked down at Akills hand. His chest began to itch more then ever before. His claw twitches under the others hand.

“What..”

Akills' response was nothing but silence, his mouth twitches as if trying to say something but it feels like he's having sleep paralysis. What will hryxy be doing next?

Hryxy begins to salivate and looks away, he grits his teeth. Scratching helps him not feel this weird things in his body. It keeps him from lashing out almost to what akills does but less cool. He laughed to himself but it turned into a growl.

“Can.. you scratch it.. if i cant..”

"…"

Akills' hand that's trying to stop the claw felt lighter, indicating the small skeleton is letting him do what he must. Remembering how the scratching could only mean that some nasty thing will happen, he just felt a bit… concerned with his own situation. He's very prone to the whatever may result if the bigger guy keeps on scratching

He scratches it but not as rough. His body is aching, but he used more of his magic to heal Akills.

“You remind me of a cat sometimes haha..”

He licks his teeth from the drool.

Akills brows slightly bunched together, seemingly disagreeing to Hryxy's statement. He was able to open his eye slightly and for a split second, one can see his eyelight was looking directly at the halfbreed before closing again

”Cats are cute yet dangerous. Could claw your eyes out.”

He humed as he slowly drifts into past memories. The flowers. The names. Mother..

He twitched clenching his claw into a fist.

“Fun times..”

If there's two things akills hate in the world, it'd be being called cute and being compared to a cat, he hates cats.

"…"

He tried to move his hand that was still somewhere on Hryxy, in an attempt to get the other to relax a bit after sensing some tension from the other from recalling past memories

Hryxy caught Akills hand and kept it there. His body begins to shift and goes into beast mode, his body holding akills like a dragon with its eggs. He grumbled not wanting Akills to leave yet.

It's not like akills can move at the moment anyway.

akills tried to crack his sockets open to let hryxy know he's still damn awake, and he's able to open em a little and and a bit longer.

Hryxy rests his head on Akills lap and sighed and his red eyelight closes. His body warming up more. The hesling magic increases along with pain soothinf magic.

Akills' finger twitched in an attempt to start moving any of his limbs. He was able to sloppily move his hand to be place on top of Hryxy's head but it kinda smacked the other's face on the way, but it made it's way to the place akills want it to be.

Hryxy didnt mind the small hit but he soon leaned into the others touch. His horns and some waht spikey ears bend back a bit. Liking the others touch.

Akills sighed in content, feeling a lot better. He blinks a couple time and looks down at Hryxy on his lap, brushing his thumb on the other's soft furred head. He eventually was able to fully stroke it, his finger softly combs thru the other fur. He wiggled his feet and toes a bit and made a small stretch, glad to finally able to move. He goes back to relaxing and a nap feels like a very good idea right now. He kept stroking Hryxy's head as he slowly closes his sockets.

The End :D

#avj writes #nyx writes #akills #auto_kill #killer!auto #hryxy #horror!nyxy #hryxy halfbreed #lavendar mention

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