#renew blood drive

[emiarainewrites]

Imagine tagging along with Arthur & Grace during the Blood Drive race

(Gif not mine)

Sorry this took so long to put out. I’ve got another one with Jonathan Julian in mind.

Anyone who hasn’t seen this show, please check it out. It’s awesome and terrific, totally unique and was cancelled WAY TOO SOON. It needs more love.

Arthur was the first to spot you at the side of the road. Broken down car, bloody and beat up, limply waving as you clung to the open driver door.

“Grace, stop the car!”

“Why?”

Grace paid no mind to the panic in Arthur’s voice. He was a softie, after all. Which meant an incredible liability in the race. So with Grace determined to win and keep her head in the process, she couldn’t risk always listening to Arthur’s “kind hearted good boy” concerns.

“Up there!” Arthur pointed at the fast approaching vehicle and it’s clearly injured passenger. “Someone’s hurt. We need to help them.”

Grace didn’t take her eyes off the road. “No can do, Barbie. We’re finally ahead of everyone else. No way I’m slowing down now.”

“Grace, we have to do something!”

“No, we don’t,” she frowned, literally putting her foot down on the accelerator.

With the broken down car about to pass them and your body obviously slumping to the ground, Arthur quickly made up his mind.

Within seconds his seatbelt was undone and the car door was open as Arthur threw himself out of Grace’s car.

“Shit!”

Grace slammed on the brakes immediately. The sleek red car skidded and spun to a painful stop as Grace threw forward in her seat. Looking behind her she could see Arthur jump to his feet and rush over to whoever he claimed needed help.

She clenched her jaw and put Sexy Suzy in reverse. “I’m gonna kill him,” she grumbled.

Arthur checked for a pulse and was relieved to discover you were still alive. He tried gently to shake you awake, thankful when your head rose up. You were covered in blood. There had clearly been some kind of a scrap. Stuck out in the desert for god knows how long, your skin was dry and your eyes could barely stay open.

“Hey, listen to me,” Arthur said, putting his hands on your arms. “You’re gonna be alright. I’m gonna help you, okay? Can you stand?”

Despite the delirium you were experiencing and the dehydration seizing your system, you managed to nod, barely been able to make out the face of your saviour.

Arthur guided your arm around his shoulders and swooped his own across your back. Standing up was not an easy task.

Grace’s car screeched to a halt in front of Arthur, the door flying open.

“Get in, Barbie! And don’t ever do that again!”

She seemed to ignore your presence entirely.

“They need help, Grace!”

“Not interested. We don’t have to get fuel yet anyway.”

Arthur, unimpressed and still not comfortable with that notion, limped you over to the car.

“Don’t even think about it,” Grace warned. “We need to get back to the race before anyone else catches up.”

“We can’t leave them here.”

“Yes, we can.”

“Well, I can’t. What if this were you?”

“It wouldn’t be.” After all, Grace wouldn’t let herself get stranded. She was too smart for that.

But she could also see that Arthur wasn’t giving up. And the more time they spent arguing about this, the more time that gave the competition behind them.

Grace sharply rolled her eyes, relenting.

“Fine, put them in the back. But make it quick.”

The briefest smile was all the response Arthur gave her. Might have been nice had it not been for the ‘you did the right thing’ quality he gave off.

Grace huffed as Arthur hauled you into the backseat.

“If they get blood on my car, they’re going in the engine.”

As soon as Arthur was back in, Grace took off, not giving time for him to apply his seatbelt. He turned back around to you, lying across the backseat, barely conscious.

“There should be water at the finish line,” Arthur offered. “You’re gonna be okay.”

His voice and the sudden, violent movement of your surroundings brought some lucidity back to you.

“Wh…where am I?”

“You’re safe,” Arthur assured you.

“Where’s my car?”

“We had to leave it behind. What happened to you? Is that your blood?”

“No. Don’t…don’t think so. Driving. Got…jumped.”

Grace glanced at you through the rear view mirror. Well, that explained the look of you at least.

“I…put them in the engine.” You were beginning to fade. “Ran out of fuel…”

Grace found herself smiling. “My kinda hitcher.”

It was clear you were still breathing, so Arthur turned around.

Great, so…he had saved someone who needed help. But they also turned out to be another lunatic who feed people to their cars. Hopefully you were more civil about it than everyone else he’d seen.

Grace smiled from you to Arthur. She could tell exactly what he was thinking. And, alright, sure. Maybe you weren’t such a bad addition to the race after all.

[vacantvisage]

im trying to make a little book, i printed out all my signatures for the textblock already. a bit of a pain since i messed up the order twice (rip) but i finally got it. i sadly cant sew them together yet, though, since in the middle i need the signatures of a photoset i made. local campus makerspace can print photos but they dont currently have double sided photo paper.... alas....

im also trying to get copperplate - the campus Usually has it but they happen to not have any right now 😭

id like to do that illustration of raphael and haarlep as copperplate and print it, and certainly add it to the book. maybe even do a few other engravings. technically, gustav dore didn't do the etching, he made the drawings and a team of people would etch them. he hated engraving his drawings because it completely changed them. but alas, his engraving are incredible and i want to emulate a couple.

my best friend bought me a beautiful jacquard fabric i can use as a book cover, and hes getting me chip board to make said cover.

i have gold ribbon from an old project to be able to make a book mark, also. and of course gold acrylic, ink, and pigments so i can try and gild the pages.

[hedgehog-moss]

(There is blood pictured at the end of this post) (well, 1 drop) (don't worry it's mine, not some innocent creature's)

I found a dormouse in my kitchen today, just chilling on the ceiling above my head, watching me cook. Maybe even judging my cooking technique like Ratatouille. I only noticed its presence because there's a bunch of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling above the stove and at one point I heard a rustling, then a crunching noise.

It was eating my herbs.

As if they were a little snack I'd placed here for my dormouse friends. None of my other animals can walk on the ceiling, therefore any food that's near the ceiling must be an offering to the dormice. (I admit, that's sound logic.)

A dormouse family has been living in my walls since before I moved here—I should probably call it a dormouse dynasty, by now. Here's the first post I wrote about them, in 2019 ! The cats eat a lot of them (especially Morille, she loves dormice) but apparently not enough to make the key decision makers in this dormouse community decide that living in my house is more trouble than it's worth.

Every year when they hibernate and go quiet for eight months I have the renewed hope that this time the cats got rid of all of them, but the next spring they wake up and start scratching inside my walls in the middle of the night again. (Not only that's creepy, but it's so loud.)

Anyway, this dormouse, let's call him Alfred. I saw immediately which hole between two stones he'd crawled out of and the first thing I did was to stuff a salt shaker in there to block his escape route. Step 2 was to call for backup—I summoned Morille, and she came down from the living-room 2 seconds later (the cats know it's always good news when I call them to the kitchen while cooking.)

Alfred was panicking.

I grabbed a broom and started threatening him with it like an angry old woman in a cartoon. He tried to flee towards the ladder, but Morille was there. He tried to flee towards the door, but Morille was also there. He tried to hide on top of the fridge, and Morille happily lay siege to it, like my fridge was a Gallic oppidum on top of a hill and Morille was Caesar and his entire army.

Morille was having the time of her life.

But my kitchen door was ajar, and Alfred managed a heroic jump from the top of the fridge to the lintel, like a flying squirrel. He scurried out then grabbed hold of the climbing rose right above the door. When I got out and took this photo, he looked fairly stressed and pessimistic.

I didn't want him to climb the wall all the way to the eaves and go right back into my house, so I went back in to get my broom again, either to make him lose his grip and fall straight into Morille's gaping maw (sorry), or make him run away into the woods (inferior solution; they always find their way back, unless you take them very far away.)

(I used to trap dormice humanely then drive them 3km away to release them near the barn of a neighbour I disliked, but this neighbour has since moved. (Not because of my dormouse warfare, I swear.) There's also an abandoned house in the woods where I used to exile my prisoners, but after a while I started feeling silly driving around the countryside with dormice in the backseat, so I stopped trapping them (it really was a hassle) and just let the cats eat them.)

But Alfred is a combative and resourceful rodent. In the half-minute it took me to go back in and grab my broom, he laid a trap for me.

He ran along the stem of my climbing rose in such a way that his weight made it droop jussst enough to be now hanging at face level rather than above the door. So when I ran outside again with my broom, I was slapped in the face by a thorny rose plant. (For a minute I thought I was crying tears of blood, which seemed worrying, but it was just a scratch above my eye.) (I wish it could leave a tiny scar, so people will ask how I got it, and I will tell them about the mighty dormouse wielding a rose sword.)

I sent these pics to my brother hoping to get some sympathy, and he cropped & desaturated the one with the blood teardrop then sent it back with the comment "you look like an Evanescence song"

By this point I decided Alfred had won this battle. (Not the war, because it's almost autumn aka hibernation time so he probably found another gap between two stones and went right back inside. The war continues.) But this humble dormouse set a Saw trap to poke my eyes out the second I stepped outside my house and I respect that. I admire the way he used his environment to his advantage, and teamed up with my climbing rose to level the playing field (since I had teamed up with my cat first.) He has won the right to spend another winter inside my walls, curled up in my cosy wool insulation, dreaming of dried herbs, thwarted cats, and heroic skydiving from fridgetops.

Well played.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC x DP fanfic Idea: Side Hustle

Barry needs more cash.

It's not that he is struggling, but unlike Bruce, he had student loans, a mortgage, and all the medical bills for Iris to consider. Even with his wife working, he knew they needed to keep a tight grip on their spending to ensure they didn't fall from the yellow into the red.

This means that sometimes he had to watch Wally's face fall when he admitted he couldn't afford to give him an allowance or even some money to go to the mall with his friends. It's not that his nephew complains—Wally is a very understanding young man—but it still tears Barry up inside to disappoint him.

Significantly when, their hero work cut so deeply into their funds just to keep their speedster metabolism under control. If he hadn't done his foolish experiment, Wally wouldn't be in danger of starvation for following his example.

Blood or not, Wally is like a son to him, and the idea that he can only provide the bare basics is painful. He has a high-paying job now, but it will take a while to get all his debt from when he was a student under control.

Before he married Iris, he was okay with that. He now had a wife and son who depended on him, and he couldn't wait around, hoping things would pick up after a few years.

He managed to pay off most of Iris' medical bills, and the house was an excellent step up from the cramped two-room apartment they shared when they were engaged. Barry knew that these two things were good, but he could do better.

That's how he applied as a research assistant to a strange family company called Fenton Works. The pay was decent, and it was only a short hour's drive from his home—he speed-ran it in five, but he needed a realistic distance to keep his ID protected. And best of all?

He mostly did office work. Half the time, he was allowed to do remote work documenting research data and organizing the owner's inventions and patents.

There were many funds coming from said patents and inventions. If the Fentons weren't so busy spending the money to fund their ghost research—the power grid they needed for the portal alone was almost as much as Barry's entire mortgage—then they could easily be among the few in Bruce's fancy galas.

Barry will admit that he was surprised to learn that Mr. Fenton had a PhD in engineering, applied physics, and robotics. Mrs. Fenton had a PhD in nuclear physics, functional analysis, and renewable energy. Both were currently working on getting a PhD in some form of biology, and Barry was flabbergasted that they spoke about it the same way people casually decided to start a new hobby.

It was hard, but they had the money to just sign up for classes. He wept into his student loan reminders whenever he thought about it.

They made the perfect team- one thought up the idea, and the other created a physical form while they ensured it worked together.

He knew his bosses were certified geniuses who appeared goofy was one thing, but to be confronted with their degrees stuffed away in a storage box was another thing. He hadn't even meant to find them since he had gone in there with Danny- his boss's kid- to find some paper research Dr. Jack Fenton needed.

It was even more shocking to find that Dr. Jack had sold some of his systematics to Wayne Enterprises and that Bruce had used some of his robotics theories in his Batman gear.

It also seemed that most of the Amity Park were unaware of how intelligent the Fentons were. When he was out and about in the city, he kept getting pitying looks for working for the local freaks. It was honestly shocking.

People talked about Jasmine Fenton's bright future, the only hope among the family, in the same breath as calling Jack Fenton an idiot or Maddie Fenton a washed-up housewife. The things they had to say about Danny Fenton were far more disheartening.

Barry knows a thing or two about troubled youths as the Flash, and no matter what the town told him, Danny Fenton was not one of them.

It seemed to Barry that Danny was suffering from blatant bullying and the pressure of his family's shadow. Adding to the confusion of being in the middle of puberty, it created the perfect recipe for Danny to be spirling. It was a rough patch, and it led to him skipping class, dropping his grades, and ignoring his responsibilities.

He overheard the Fentons talking about Danny. Dr. Fentons was starting to grow worried since Danny had never behaved this way before high school while Jazz attempted to defend her brother and excuse his disappearance.

She seemed very aware of why her brother seemed to change.

On the other hand, Dr. Fenton wasn't and mentioned more than once that she and Danny were very close when he was a kid, but lately, he seemed to be shutting her out. Her husband admitted that he figured Danny had gotten a girlfriend- someone named Sam?- but he started to notice his son kept coming home with what appeared to be injuries.

Barry wasn't sure if they were aware that Danny was getting bullied. He was carefully filing some of the old cabinets when it clicked.

"Jazz?" He called out as the Fentons finally stop talking about Dnany's behavior and moved down to the lab. The teenager poked her head into the file office with a curious smile.

"Yes, Mr. Allen?" No matter how often he told her to call him Barry, she seemed determined to keep that barrier between them. Which was fair. After all, he was only around the house three or four times a week for a few hours.

"I have a question, so please feel free to not answer." He starts carefully to keep his tone light. Her smile turns strained at once, and Barry almost tells her to ignore it, but the thought of Wally being Danny's place makes him push on. "What is your family's stance on gay rights?"

Jazz blinked slowly, tilting her head. "I don't mind, and neither do my parents, I think. Why sir?"

"Just curious," Barry said, but mentally, he wondered if Danny knew that.

Jazz didn't look convinced, but she didn't push the issue as she wandered away with a respectful by-your-leave. He waited until she was upstairs before abandoning his work to find the Fentons.

Carefully, he started by updating them on his work, then casually dropped the mention of taking Wally to Pride so he wouldn't be able to work the following week. Neither Dr. so much as blinked, telling him that it was fine.

Barry felt it safe to keep pushing just a little.

"Yeah, I still remember how nervous Wally was about telling me he liked girls and boys." He chuckles. "As if though I didn't notice the signs."

Dr. Fenton raises a brow, face twisted in confusion as the large man turns to Barry. "What signs?"

"Mostly, he is trying to think of excuses to be with his friends more. He wasn't sleeping a lot, got into a bit of trouble in school when some kids were giving him grief, and oh, the way his eyes followed young men about." Barry said as casually as one could.

Dr. Fenton looks pensive. "Interesting."

Ah, it seemed she had picked up on the possibility of Danny not being as straight as he claimed. She thankfully didn't seem bothered by it.

"Jack, honey, you don't think Danny could be....?" She asked carefully.

Dr. Fenton ran a hand through his hair. "It could be. But why didn't he tell us?"

"Oh geez, I wonder why!" Jazz suddenly yells from the stairway. Barry twists around to find her standing there with a defensive glare. She has obviously been eavesdropping, but for how long? "What did you two expect with the way you talked around the house?!"

Dr. Fenton looked mystified. "Jazzy-pants, what are you talking about?"

His daughter only raises her fist, lowering her voice to mimic her father. "What are we doing today, Maddie? I know; how about we rip the ghost boy molecule by molecule!"

Barry's eyes grow wide. He had been working for the family for about six months and had encountered Phantom more than once. He even fought him off as Flash a few times since the ghost was hell-bent on robbing and property damage but was less dangerous than his rouges.

Dr. Fenton's face went pale as she clutched to the table. "Jazz you mean....Danny and Phantom...."

Jazz looked ready to fight them all as she bit out, "If you try to do anything to Danny, I swear-"

"We would never Jazzy-pants." Jack cut in, looking off Kindle. "To think my son was dating a ghost behind my back and I...I didn't even notice."

"Oh, Jack, we have to apologize," Maddie started. "Who knows if Danny could ever forgive us?"

Barry was thinking Flash also had to apologize. Based on their last encounter, Phantom would likely not be willing to hear him out. He quickly pulls out his phone to see if Wally and his team could get close enough to have him consider speaking to Barry.

None of the adults noticed the way Jazz froze in confusion, nor did they notice the slow horror growing on her face as they came to terms with Phantom and Danny dating.

[lifeonmarz-blog]

The 12 houses explained: short word format

1st: Aries, Mars, Yang, Dragon, Bee, Face, Eyes, Eyebrows, Voice, Accent, First Glance, Passion, Drive, Self Esteem, 3rd Eye, Intuition, Hard on yourself, Mutable, Patience, Leader, Stoic, Muscles, Neck/Head tension, Animals, Intensity, Head scarf, Tender headed, Attracting energy vampires, Hard headed, Red, Purple, Sexual energy, Humor, Introvert/extrovert, Fear of child baring because loss of freedom, Judgement, Lymph nodes, Guitar, Fast talker, Sharp talker, Forward thinking, Warrior, Personality, Spine...

2nd: Taurus, Venus, Yin, Panda, Neck/Throat, Throat chakra, Mouth, Thyroid, Heart, Pink, Blue, Fluid, Security, Resources, Musician, Silent, Introvert, Nose, Scent, Taste, Parent, Singing, Arms, Dancing, Food, Breeze, Partnership, Sharing, Values, Luxury, Pleasure, Easy going, Soft spoken, Naivety, Split decisions, Indecisive, Moon, Father, Sturdy, Poker face, Children, Trustworthy, Grit, Victory, Horses, Trials...

3rd: Gemini, Mercury, Yin/Yang, Jack Rabbit, Hands, Feet, Speech, Tongue, Lungs, Fast pace, Exercise, excitement, Bounce back, Joy, Vigor, Youth, Fidget, Anxiety, Habits, Expressive, Musician, Storyteller, School, Journalist, Moral system, Networking, Group, Siblings, Questioning, Stocks/trading, Choices, Dedication, Picky, Options, Dare Devil, Flirt, Long lasting, Hopes, Trees/Forest, Art, Comedian, Chances, Materials, Time, Loyal, Boundaries, ...

4th: Cancer, Moon, Yin, Owl, Family, Mother, Compassion, Creation, Birth, Life, Regret, Sleep, Nipple, Breast, Anus, Stomach, Womb, Bellybutton, Heart, Sacral, Blue, White, Yellow, Ocean, Cold, Night, Cycle, Fly on the wall, Unspoken secrets, Pores, Suicide, Whispers, Distracted, Outsider, Alchemy, Caregiver, Chef, Guidance, Critical, Teeth, Passage/Gateway, Humming, Drums, Weight on your back, Pressures, Gratefulness, Gratitude, Obedience, Horse, Animals, Words that cut...

5th: Leo, Sun, Yang, Lion, Spine, Heart, Pets, Fun, Youthful, Children, Love affairs, Expression, Dance, Gymnastics, Loud, Bright colors, Short trips, Friends, Aunts/Uncles, Get togethers, Cars, Innovative, Actor, Protection, Magician, Gardening, Gossip, Alchemy, Adulthood, Relaxing, Bonding, Self destruction, Slick words, Hard work, Spotlight, Sharing, Rebuilding, Clothing, Renewed vision, Drawing board, Companionship, Grounding...

6th: Virgo, Mercury, Yin, Ant, Crane, Praying Mantis, Work environment, Routine, Structure, Time, Patience, Health issues, Hygiene, Nervous system, digestive system, Pancreas, Gallbladder, Notebooks, Writing, Movies, Home, Relaxing, Forgiving, Generous, Social Life, Bonding, Practice, Foresight, Letting go, Stable, Helpful, Tense, Pressure, Negative thoughts, Reminisce, Addiction, Sorrow, Indecision, Indigestion, Saving Finances, Strong will, Codependency, Maturing, Realizing, Criticism, Self Honoring...

7th: Libra, Venus, Yin, Dragon Fly, Peacock, Marraige, Partnership, Contracts, Joint endeavors, Kidneys, Bladder, Blood, Caring what others think, Voice, Accent, Culture, Rebuilding, Learning new ways to do, Home decor, Learning gratitude, Giving, Reseveing, Welcome home, Comfort, Jot, Warmth, Spring, Flowers, New thought processes, Building Legacy, Defending yourself, Possessions, Slower living, Connecting to nature, Center of attention...

8th: Scorpio, Pluto, Mars, Yin/Yang, Vulture, Jaguar, Phoenix Death/Rebirth, Fears, Dark, Dreams, Escaping, Running, Hoarding, Lack, Homelessness, Strength, Stamina, Restart, Hard work paying off, Legacy, Against all odds, Elimination system, Pelvis, All the holes in the body, Burgundy, Purple, Black, Sex organs, Releasing worries, Manipulation, Smothering, Misunderstood, Coffee, Over giving, Partnership, Friendship, Sensuality, Secretion, Body odor, Roses, Fruit trees, Chapel, Railroad, Balancing, Power, Unseen forces, Intimidation, Relaxation...

9th: Sagittarius,Jupiter, Yang, Donkey, Whale, Shark, Liver, Legs, Posture, Religion, Long distance, Foreign travel, New ideas, Creative thoughts, Energy, Witty, Nomad, Idealistic, Larger than life, Focused on success, Friendship, Gatherings, Social Life, Relaxing, Luxury, Boundaries, Tired, Mental Illness, Restrictions, Insecurities, Grandparents, Quiet time, Relationships, Sharing, Attention, Harmony, Rebirth, Hard work, Getting over, Time, Late night thoughts, Male role model, Weight on your back, Responsibilities, Greedy, Guarded, Proud, Protection, Unique, Lavender...

10th: Capricorn, Saturn, Yang, Sheep, Alligator Honey Badger, Cactus, Sterile, Marble, White, Grey, Cold, Winter, Snow, Reputation, Social status, Farming, Popularity, Bones, Skin, Nails, Hair, Sharp, Leather, Goat, Structure, Skin conditions, Over explaining, Hard on others/yourself, Violin, Holding onto the past, Hard choices, Seeing others happen, Collecting, Finding purpose, Unique interest, Creative ways to make money, Standing up for yourself, Tunnel vision, Sharing, Networking, Group efforts, Working on love...

11th: Aquarius, Uranus, Yin/Yang, Moose, Mongoose, Snake, Friends, Parties, Organizations, Goals, Hopes, School, Science, mutable, unique style, Different friend groups, Water, Lakes, Rivers, Driving, Circulatory System, Pituitary glands, Changing course, Fear of change, Social media, Learning to stand alone, Trusting intuition, Defending loved ones, nonchalant, Increasing expectations, Std, Dead tree, Sticking it out, Elders, Community, Taking a stand, Protest, Elections, Politics, Numbers, Releasing restrictions...

12th: Pisces, Neptune, Yin, Fish, Birds, Friends, More to go around, Letting go, Releasing Past, Decor, Eye for style, Luxury, Opinionated, Energy field, Subconscious, Mountains, Fog, Spa, Skincare, Hygiene, Safety, Frienemies, Luck, Protection, Unprovided jealously, Foreign, Secret, Being watched, Self expression, Confidence, Talents, Anxiety, Depression, Breath, Dreams, Sleeping, Ufc/boxing, Always wanting more, Magician, Plants, Sunshine, Exotic, Target, Maturity, Completion...

[gallusrostromegalus]

I am constantly procrastinating working on my original fic by writing fanfic. Any advice for how to refocus and finish my novel?

Well. The novel probably needs a nap.

Procrastinating is a symptom that something is preventing you from doing the thing you "should" be doing. Most of the time it's an unrelated, but actually higher priority task like resting after an illness (society is fucking lying about anything else being more important) or filing your taxes (actually this one is pretty important).

...but if you're procrastinating on one creative project with another creative project, you're not procrastinating: something about the novel is off right now, the fanfic is more appealing to you.

Consider the following:

You may be writing fic because it brings you more joy than the novel. If you really want to get back to the novel, figure out what would make working on it more enjoyable. Engagement from a beta-editor? Skipping this really boring scene and coming back to it later? Adding more smut?

You may also be writing fic because it's got a lower spoon coat than the novel and you need to conserve your spoons right now. Any extra stress in your life? Moving? Toothache? Recovering from Covid? Annoying roommate? Sick family member? It's an election year? ANY of those could soak up extra spoons and make your novel too expensive for your spoons budget. Let it take a nap, and come back when you're feeling better.

You may be sharpening your artistic skills on a lower-stakes project before going back to the novel. This is pretty normal- even Michaelangelo took breaks to work on other pieces while sculpting The David, both for a change of pace and so he could try something out without fucking up the big block.

Fortunately, you're writing, so you can always try writing the challenging scene a dozen times in different docs or save the parts that were good but don't not in a spare parts bucket doc.

Or keep working on that fic, it's helping you learn on a subconscious level.

You don't love the novel right now. This is alright. This is usually temporary, and the solution is the same- put it aside and work on something else.

Maybe you are just bored of the novel. That's fine and normal, you just save all the documents to your hard drive and come back later. When the fic inevitably gets boring too, you'll come back to the novel and either go "oh hey this kicks ass!" And return to it with renewed enthusiasm.

...Or you'll come back to it and go "oh. This is actually a piece of shit" And that's okay too, because there's nothing more useless than polishing a turd, but that turd is still valuable as compost. You learned things writing it, and you can still rifle through the novel for good lines or scenes or turns of phrase and put those in your spare parts doc to ferment into The Good Shit in the back of your mind.

HOWEVER:

If you are experiencing a different phenomenon wherein you are actively distressed while writing the fic- either out of misplaced guilt, or the fic isn't actually fun you just feel compelled to do something, or absolutely every creative endeavor is stressing you out, you may be experiencing a serious mental or physical health issue and you should see your GP or a specialist ASAP. Pain is an indicator that something is wrong. Do not ignore your body's warning light.

That sounds really dramatic and hyperbolic but realizing I was not enjoying ANY creative work was the symptom that finally got me to sit down and go "huh. All these random pains, irregular sleep cycle, frequent migraines and weird bouts of vertigo aren't normal either, I should get this looked at." And it turned out I had dangerously low blood oxygen at night from undiagnosed sleep apnea. I have a CPAP machine now and it's AMAZING.

I really hope this is regular artistic shuffle and not a serious health concern, but if you're experiencing creative stress AND a bunch of other shit, it may be serious.

[conceptionsofconciousness]

The Nakshatra Colors

In Astrology, every Nakshatra has a color which it is associated with. The color of the Nakshatra works in two primary ways. Internally and externally. This article piece focused on the Internal.

On an internal level, the color of the Nakshatra has a psychological effect. According to color theory every hue, shade, and tone affects the spirit and consciousness. Every Nakshatra color internally takes on the psychological traits of color, integrating into the consciousness and personality.

The colors of Nakshatras internally are best applied to the Nakshatra placement of the Sun, Moon, Rahu, and Ketu. This is because all 4 of these planets relate directly to the internal consciousness.

The Traits of a Nakshatra Color brings the following traits into the inner self or personality:

Ashwini - Blood Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Bharani - Blood Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Krittika - White

Independence Youth Innocense Completeness Openness Blank Slates Possibilities Creativity Purity Virtue Cleanliness Simplicity Peace Tranquility Cleansing Efficiency Order Soothing Isolating Empty Boredom, Criticism

Rohini - White

Independence Youth Innocense Completeness Openness Blank Slates Possibilities Creativity Purity Virtue Cleanliness Simplicity Peace Tranquility Cleansing Efficiency Order Soothing Isolating Empty Boredom, Criticism

Mrigashira - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Ardra - Green

Going Motion Equilibrium Balance Harmony Health Wellness Nutrition Vitamins Fitness Growth Fertility Prosperity Progress Wealth Freshness Renewal Stress Relief Relaxation, Nature Inexperienced Envy Greed Jealously

Punarvasu - Lead Grey

Intelligence Wisdom Dignity Experience Neutrality Balance Impartiality Clear Thoughts Compromising Faith Truthful Formal Modern Future Advancing Technology Protective Private Reserved Blending in Loner Isolated Background Existence

Pushya - Black Red

Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror Survival

Ashlesha - Black Red

Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Red

Active Excitement Energy Invigoration High Metabolism Fearlessness Intensity Power Passion Fire Love Lust Arousal Affection Aggression Anger Violence Warfare Terror

Survival

Magha - Cream

Openness Seriousness Intense Respected Esteemed Admired Durability Sophistication Refinement Humility Athletic Ambitious Competitive Cautious Held Back Adversarial Sore Loser Antagonistic

Purva Phalguni - Light Brown/Tan

Natural Organic Warmth Comforting Cozy Calm Relaxed Logical Analytical Creative Artistic Security Luxury Elegance Conservative Dull

Uttara Phalguni - Bright Blue

Optimism Enthusiasm Bright Alert Peace Clam Tranquility Relaxed Meditative Zen Recharging Intelligence Concentration Focus Connection Strong Values Integrity Honesty Attractive Connection Helper Assister Rational Capable Composed Competent Precise Responsible Reliable Trustworthy Loyalty Social Cold Sad Down

Hasta - Dark Green

Bold Controlled Steadfast Conservative Edgy Fertility Drive Desire Money Materialism Hunger Indulgence Moody Oversaturated Overwhelming Flooded Overloaded Gluttony Excess Resentment Spite

Chitra - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Letheragy

Swati - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Letheragy

Vishakha - Gold

Optimism Positivity Charisma Passion Wisdom Understanding Enlightenment Success Knowledge Wisdom Great Understanding Triumph Achievement Reputation Wealth Quality Giving Compassionate Loving Selfishness Over-complexity

Anuradha - Reddish Brown/Maroon

Warmth Beauty Primal Emotional Passion Power Strength Determination Confidence Courage Spirited Depth Ambition Force Risk Creative Wise Spiritual Impulsive Anger

Jyestha - Cream

Openness Seriousness Intense Respected Esteemed Admired Durability Sophistication Refinement Humility Athletic Ambitious Competitive Cautious Held Back Adversarial Sore Loser Antagonistic

Mula - Bright Yellow

Happiness Positivity Cheerfulness Inspiring Illuminating Optimism Hope Promising Striking Insightful Wise Humerus Vibrant Stimulated Engaged Overpowering Intense Excessive Warning Caution Deceit Restless

Purva Ashadha - Black

Power Control Protection Elegance Formality Professionalism Standing Out Mystery Dramatic Enigmatic Aggression Anger Fear Anxiety Grief Despair Anxiety Sadness Evil Death Mourning Loneliness Lethargy

Uttara Ashadha - Copper

Down to Earth Warm Homely Wealth Comforting Impassioned Lively Energetic Strong Determined Supportive Genuine Classy Successful Accomplished Egotistical Cheeky Envy Hypocrisy Cynicism

Shravana - Light Blue

Feminine Welcoming Soft Comfortable Safe Calm Gentle Ethereal Peaceful Tranquil Soothing Refined Cultivated Stylish Approachable Concentration Focus Connection Strong Values Integrity Composed Competent Precise Responsible Reliable Trustworthy Superficial Delicate Frail Cold Sad Down

Dhanishta - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Shatabhisha - Cyan/Aqua

Rational Liveliness Nature Healing Therapy Restoring Correcting Mending Remediation Stability Tranquility Clarity of Mind Emotional Balance Serenity Creativity Spirituality Dreams Fantasy Trances

Purva Bhadrapada - Silver Grey

Fluid Sensitive Soothing Calming Restorative Reflection Intuition Clairvoyance Wealth Prestige Quiet Reserved Compromising Blending In Unemotional Indifferent Loner Isolated Depressing

Uttara Bhadrapada - Purple

Power Wisdom Inspiration Creativity Imagination Fantasy Spiritual Devout Philosophical Future Minded Resourceful Selfless Humility Wealthy Luxury Nobility Extravagance Impractical Immature Arrogance Cynicism Melancholy

Revati - Brown

Sensual Sensitive Warm Comfortable Stability Reliable Secure Steadfast Natural Wholesome Dependable Structured Homely Sincere Reassuring Genuine Practical Supportive Dull Mundane Boring Predictable Inexpensive

[sp1cy-t0ss]

Antares

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45534721

The first thing Nightwing hears upon regaining consciousness is ominous chanting. A man’s voice rings out over the rest, ranting about an Eternal King, infinite power, and -- oh boy -- sacrifices. He tunes it out to assess the situation.

He’s in an old warehouse. Robin’s here too, looking even more annoyed than Nightwing feels, and both of them have their hands and ankles bound in rope. His comm is on silent, just as he left it, like an idiot. The ranting man and his followers in matching robes are gathered around a ritual circle in the middle of the floor. Yeah, that tells him all he needs to know. They need to get out, now.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly when the leader finishes his speech and turns to them.

“So,” the man asks with a cruel smile. “Which of you ‘heroes’ will have the honor of bringing our Lord to this plane?” 

“I will.” Robin’s voice is sharp, unyielding. 

The man is obviously surprised to receive an actual answer to his taunt, but obliges. He pulls Robin away without another word.

“What?! No! Robin, you can’t--” Nightwing’s protest is cut off with a punch to the stomach from one of the robed lackeys.

“I have my reasons, Nightwing; it must be me.” Robin’s face reveals nothing, but he gives a subtle hand signal: I have a plan.

Nightwing forces himself to calm down. They’ll get out of this. He just has to trust his Robin. While everyone’s eyes are off him, he quietly works at the amateur knots.

The leader drags Robin into the circle without a fight. He raises a jeweled dagger, intentions clear... 

But Robin is faster. He bites his own wrist, hard, and spits his blood into the circle. The runes light up in terrible Lazarus green, and Robin pushes himself upright with a malicious grin.

The lead cultist scrambles back from the circle and into a deep bow. The chanting stops as his minions follow suit. Robin continues to look far too smug for his situation. Nightwing feels a headache coming on somewhere under his renewed panic.

This is his plan?! 

There’s a blinding flash of light. When the spots clear from Nightwing’s vision, the Eternal King is floating in the circle, mere feet from the bound Robin.

The Eternal King isn’t quite the grotesque horror he expected. Their body is a glittering black void, a sleek humanoid shadow with misty white hair and bright, bright eyes of toxic green. A cold fog rolls off of their body in waves.

“Antares,” the shadow rumbles, and Nightwing feels static thrum in his bones with the sound. The room is painfully cold, but the King doesn’t seem aggressive yet. Maybe they really can bargain their way out of this mess.

Robin doesn’t flinch. He looks the Eternal King right in the eyes, utterly fearless, and smirks. “Hello, Beloved.”

What?

The King stares silently, floating closer. For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks.

“My lord, does the sacrifice please you?” The ringleader cuts in, standing up with a greedy gleam in his eyes. 

Something in the air changes as the King turns toward the man. Something cold, electric, heavy under the skin. Nightwing suppresses a shiver as he works through the last of the rope.

“You d̵̢̛a̵̼̽ṙ̴͎e̵͙̐.”

The leader pales and falls to his knees. “My Lord, if this offering is insufficient, we have another--”

The King s̴̱̖̺̺̓͊̕̕ć̵͇͇͔̈r̴̥͐e̸̥̬͌̂̌̊a̴̭̔̓̀̔͘m̵̯͑̋͌͠s̵̗̤̻̭̍̿, a furious howl that blurs Nightwing’s vision and claws his ears. The sound is everywhere, driving him to his knees. Growing shadows seem to absorb his little brother just as Nightwing realizes he’s blacking out. 

They’re falling, they’re falling someone help they’re screaming he’s screaming make it stop dead on impact blood and bones make it stop make it STOP--

When he comes back to himself, it’s quiet. Nightwing blinks tears from his eyes, gasping for frigid air that pierces his lungs like knives. The floor outside the circle is covered in blood splatter. The cultists have all been struck down, and many aren’t moving. 

But he’s not looking at them.

Because the monster is coiled around Robin like a snake, eyes burning as it surveys the room. Robin seems unharmed for now, but he has to get his baby brother away from that thing.

He steps forward, and those endless green eyes lock onto him. It snarls at his approach, revealing multiple rows of teeth. Claws subtly tighten on Robin’s shoulders. Nightwing sinks into a combat stance, and the creature braces itself to leap.

Pure, animal instinct screams that Nightwing won’t survive this fight.. It doesn’t matter. He’ll give his all like he always has, and Robin can escape. The others will find a way to take it down. He just has to buy time.

“Dove, it’s alright.”

To Nightwing’s amazement, the creature freezes. It turns to look at Robin, warbling in apparent confusion before turning back to Nightwing with a hiss.

Robin grabs its face in both hands and forces it to look at him. “No. That’s Nightwing, remember? He will not harm us. I am safe. We are safe.” His voice is steady, soothing as he gently presses their foreheads together. A spark of awareness slowly returns to ‘Dove’s’ eyes.

“Come back to me.”

The monster sags in Robin’s grip, slowly folding in on itself until a nearly-human teen with snowy white hair is left floating gently in its place.

Robin smiles, gentle and shockingly warm. “There you are.”

‘Dove’ is shaking. Their eyes are locked on Robin, as though he’s the only thing in their universe. “Antares,” they breathe, before wrapping Robin in a tight hug.

Robin briefly looks to Dick, gesturing toward the cultists. He then returns his attention to the distraught being, resting his chin on their head and both hands on their back. The obvious dismissal makes Nightwing uneasy, but the kid has a point. They'll just have to check him for hypnosis or mind control back at the Cave.

Now that Nightwing is actually looking at the cultists, their injuries are horrific. Deep lacerations, stab wounds, frostbite, severed limbs...none of them seem likely to die with medical treatment, but every last one is maimed. 

The ringleader is worst of all. His eyes are gouged out, and his hands ripped off and cauterized by the same unearthly frost that burns scattered marks into his skin. An unfamiliar symbol has been clawed into his chest. 

Nightwing looks back to the circle, where Dove is quietly sobbing. Their face is tucked securely into Robin’s neck, and Nightwing hears whispers of I was scared and can’t lose you too.  

This is the same person?

By the time the cultists are all secured and the police have been called, Dove seems to have calmed down. Time to play the diplomat. Again. 

Damn, maybe Steph has a point about Eldest Daughter Syndrome.

“I, uh, hate to interrupt, but we should probably get out of here, yeah? GCPD will be here in a couple minutes,” he proposes with a friendly smile.

Dove wipes their eyes. “Right.” Then they look around the room and wince. “Uhm, sorry you? Had to see that? I...panicked. You’re okay though, right? Not hurt or anything?” The question is disarmingly earnest, and there’s nothing but concern in their eyes. Hm.

“Nah, not a scratch,” Nightwing dismisses. Then he remembers he’s apparently talking to a king. “Thank you for saving Robin, Your Highness,” he adds with a bow of his head. 

“Nuh-uh, no titles. Gross.” The King makes a face, then smiles with renewed cheer. “Call me Phantom. He/him, ghost, and general pain in the ass, at your service!” He floats higher and punctuates his announcement with a midair flip. “You might as well know, since we’re gonna be seeing each other a lot now.”

Crap. “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Nightwing ventures.

‘Phantom’ exchanges a meaningful look with Robin. Nightwing barely has time to register the mischief on both their faces before Robin pulls the being down into a kiss. 

A deep kiss now. Really deep. Yeah, they’ve definitely forgotten he’s here.

When they finally separate, Robin looks quite satisfied. Phantom, however, sticks out a forked tongue and scrunches his face. “Blech, blood. What did you...” His eyes land on Robin’s still-bloody wrist, then the droplets still in the circle. 

“You didn’t.” A grin creeps across his face. “You have me on soul speed dial and you still hijacked a whole-ass summoning!”

“Tt. I was making a point.” Robin crosses his arms.

Phantom cackles. “You are literally the most dramatic person I’ve ever met!” he crows.

Robin raises an eyebrow and gestures to the warehouse full of mangled cultists. Phantom opens his mouth to retort, but it’s at this point that Nightwing finally manages to pull his jaw off the floor and speak. 

“Robin,” he says with deliberate calm. “What the fuck.”

And then they hear police sirens. Fantastic.

“Crap. Don’t worry, I got it!” Phantom declares as he rips a green hole in existence. Robin is unfazed, which is rapidly getting less and less surprising.

A woman in the corner stirs. Phantom makes a ‘one moment’ gesture before he stalks over and yanks her forward with a growl. “You’ve kept your tongue for a reason. Spread the word: Robin is mine.” (Robin stands taller, obviously pleased by that extremely concerning statement.)  The woman nods frantically, and Phantom drops her to the ground. 

Without further preamble, Phantom zips back over and shoves both vigilantes through the rip.

Just like that, they’re all in Damian’s bedroom. The two boys immediately sit together on the edge of the bed, while Dick remains standing. Dick doesn’t even know where to begin, so he can only give a helpless ‘why’ sort of gesture. Thankfully, Damian seems to take pity on him.

“Richard, this insufferable fool is my Beloved. His name is Danny, and he is seventeen.” Then he smirks. “You may refer to him as High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms; The Tyrant’s Bane, True Balance, Son Of Stars, Pride of Time, Death’s Chosen--”

The ghost groans dramatically, flopping across Damian’s lap like a wet noodle. “Oh my gawd, Dames, why would you tell him that?”

"It is very important that Richard recognizes your position and authority.” Damian says, not even trying to sound convincing.

Danny reaches up and pushes at Damian’s face. It brings to mind a pair of cats, especially with Damian doing his best to look annoyed instead of fond. “Betrayal! I want a divorce!”

That’s the last straw. Dick chokes on his own spit and has to thump his chest a few times to breathe right again. With monumental effort, he manages to wheeze out a strangled “Are you MaRriEd?!”

Danny tries to sputter out a reply, but Dick is distracted by Damian laughing. It’s a low, light sound, with no attempt made to disguise it. 

“Of course not,” Damian says. He cards a hand through Danny’s hair, the other boy sighing contently and looking up at him with adoring neon eyes. “We've only courted for seven months now. It will be another three years before we wed.” 

Dick is just. Gonna ignore that last bit. For his own sanity. “Wait, how did you keep a whole boyfriend secret for seven months? In this family?” 

“Bribery.” “Threats.”

Yeah, that sounds about right. Babs and Duke probably know then.

“Cool, good to know. One more question.” Well, more like a billion, but he may as well start with an icebreaker before the inevitable interrogation. Besides, it’s a big brother's duty to embarrass his siblings. “Why Dove?”

Damian says nothing, but his deep blush is almost audible.

“Because I’m cute and fluffy!” Danny chirps.

“Hardly,” Damian scoffs. “It’s because you are raucously annoying and constantly crash into windows.”

Literally everything about this situation is baffling, but Danny looks so offended that Dick can’t help but laugh.

“You lying asshole!” Danny screeches.

Damian turns to Dick. “He attempted to use a grapple three times and broke eleven windows; four of them with his face. I have videos.” Danny gasps, the two start bickering, and Dick is left to his thoughts once more. 

Even as the pair separate to point fingers and trade increasingly creative insults, their body language is completely relaxed. As much as Dick is panicking about a powerful undead monarch around their family, Damian is happy. He has been for months, now that Dick thinks about it. He’s been loosening up a little, leaving the manor more, and even mentioning a few new friends (though he refuses to use the word.)

Whoever or whatever Danny is, he’s been good for him.

“Well,” Dick cuts in, interrupting an inventive declaration about overripe cheese. “We’ll obviously need to talk about this. But for what it’s worth,” he smiles. “I’m happy for you, Baby Bat.” 

With that said, Dick walks out of the bedroom. Danny gives him a grateful smile, and a quiet thank you, Richard can be heard as he closes the door behind him.

Dick walks away at a leisurely pace until he reaches the end of the hallway, where he promptly breaks into a sprint toward the Cave. Checking the Batcomputer to make sure Damian hasn’t noticed the planted bug yet, he turns on his comms. Unsurprisingly, the entire family is yelling and demanding answers.

Well, at least he won’t be the only one having a heart attack tonight.

[itsgreti]

BENEATH THE MASK

pairing. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

summary. (Y/N), Task Force 141's medic, saw Ghost's face for the first time while patching up his injuries.

warning. descriptions of gunfire, explosions, scenes depicting injuries, medical treatments, and blood (typical cod theme)

word count. 2.3k

a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!

The desert wind howled across the rocky terrain as the Task Force 141 team moved swiftly through the night. (Y/N), their medic, felt the weight of her gear as she kept pace with Captain Price, Soap, Gaz, and the mysterious Ghost. She had been with the elite unit for a few months, but Ghost remained an enigma to her, a silent, masked figure whose presence was always felt but never fully seen.

Their mission that night was simple in concept: infiltrate a heavily guarded compound and extract crucial intel regarding a new shipment of chemical weapons. But as they approached the compound under darkness, their plan quickly unravelled. A patrol they hadn't anticipated stumbled upon them, leading to a chaotic firefight.

Bullets whizzed through the air, accompanied by the sharp cracks of rifles and the distant thunder of explosions. (Y/N) took cover behind a crumbling wall, her mind racing as she assessed the wounded. Soap and Gaz held their ground nearby, providing cover fire as Captain Price barked orders over the radio.

Suddenly, Ghost appeared beside her, his presence as silent as ever. He motioned towards Soap, whose shoulder was grazed by a bullet. Without a word, (Y/N) nodded and hurried to assist.

The firefight continued for what felt like an eternity, but the team managed to eliminate the immediate threat. With the area momentarily secure, they regrouped in a small, dimly lit room within the compound. Captain Price leaned over the map spread out on a makeshift table, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"We need that intel," Price said grimly, his voice low yet commanding. "Ghost, find it. (Y/N), patch up whoever needs it and be ready to move out."

(Y/N) nodded, her focus shifting to Soap and Gaz as she pulled out her medical kit. Soap winced as she began to clean and dress his wound, but Gaz remained alert, scanning their surroundings.

As (Y/N) worked, she stole glances at Ghost, who was hunched over a computer terminal in the corner of the room. His movements were precise and deliberate, his gloved hands flying over the keys as he accessed the encrypted files.

The tension in the room was palpable, broken only by the occasional click of Ghost's keystrokes and the muted sounds of the ongoing battle outside. (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder about the man behind the mask—his past, his motivations. But such thoughts had to wait. Right now, their survival depended on securing the intel and getting out safely.

Just as Ghost seemed to make progress, an explosion rocked the building, sending debris flying and knocking everyone off balance. (Y/N) stumbled, but Ghost was quick to steady her, his gloved hand gripping her arm firmly. For a brief moment, she felt the weight of his presence, his strength beneath the mask.

"Ghost!" Captain Price called out, his voice urgent. "We're running out of time. Can you get that intel or not?"

Ghost nodded, his masked face unreadable. With renewed determination, he returned to the terminal, his fingers moving faster now.

Outside, the gunfire intensified, drawing nearer by the second. Soap and Gaz exchanged worried glances, their weapons at the ready. They knew they couldn't hold out much longer.

"Almost there," Ghost muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Suddenly, the screen flickered and then displayed a map with a blinking marker. Ghost's gloved hand hovered over the keyboard as he extracted the data onto a portable drive.

"We've got it," Ghost announced, his voice calm yet triumphant.

Captain Price wasted no time. "Good. (Y/N), pack up. We're moving out–"

Before Price could finish his sentence, a barrage of gunfire erupted from outside the room. Bullets tore through the walls, sending chunks of debris flying. (Y/N) ducked instinctively, shielding her head with her arms.

In the chaos, Ghost acted decisively. He grabbed (Y/N)'s arm and pulled her towards him, shielding her with his own body as they sought cover behind a thick concrete pillar. His masked face was just inches from hers, his eyes intense behind the tinted lenses.

"Stay down," Ghost ordered, his voice low yet urgent.

(Y/N) nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, his presence a comforting shield amidst the chaos. For the first time, she found herself grateful for his silent strength.

Captain Price and the others returned fire, their shots echoing through the room. The enemy was relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. But Task Force 141 was relentless too, fighting tooth and nail to hold their ground.

As the firefight raged on, (Y/N) couldn't help but steal glances at Ghost. His mask remained firmly in place, betraying nothing of the man beneath. But now, with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she found herself drawn to him in a way she hadn't before.

"We need to move," Captain Price shouted over the din of gunfire. "Ghost, (Y/N), cover us. Soap, Gaz, with me!"

Without hesitation, Ghost and (Y/N) provided covering fire as Price and the others dashed towards the exit. Bullets whizzed past them, impacting the walls with deadly precision.

"Go!" Ghost called out, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle.

(Y/N) nodded and followed Ghost as they made their way towards the exit, their backs pressed against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder, their lungs burning with each breath.

Just as they reached the exit, a stray grenade sailed through the air and landed at their feet. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in horror as she realized they were trapped. Without thinking, Ghost pushed her behind him and shielded her with his body once more.

The grenade exploded with a deafening roar, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. (Y/N) felt the force of the blast against her back, but Ghost absorbed the brunt of it, his body tensing with the impact. She could hear him grunt in pain, but he didn't falter.

"Ghost!" (Y/N) screamed.

"(Y/N)..." Ghost's voice was strained. He was conscious but clearly in pain.

"Ghost is down!" she shouted into her comms, her voice filled with urgency.

There was a brief crackle of static before Price's voice came through, sharp and focused. "Gaz, Soap, fall back to Ghost's position! (Y/N), get to him now!"

As the smoke cleared, (Y/N) peered around Ghost to assess the damage. His mask was scorched and cracked, revealing a glimpse of his face beneath. Blood trickled down his neck from a gash caused by a piece of shrapnel.

"We need to get him out!" she called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

A few moments later the team managed to get to the position of (Y/N) and Ghost. Soap and Gaz provided cover as Price helped lift Ghost. They moved quickly, bullets whizzing past them, the sounds of battle all around. Outside, the night air was cool against (Y/N)'s skin as they regrouped with the extraction team and jumped into the helicopter that was waiting for them. As everyone was situated, (Y/N) immediately went to work, her focus solely on saving Ghost.

Captain Price and the others scanned the area around the helicopter, holding off the enemy as they flew off. (Y/N) didn't hesitate, knelt beside him. Ignoring his initial resistance, she gently pushed aside his damaged skull mask, and her hands went to his fabric mask that was under the other one.

"I need to see the wound," she said, her voice steady despite the panic rising within her.

Ghost caught her wrist instinctively, his gaze locking with hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"It's alright, I need to patch you up," (Y/N) said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Ghost hesitated, his grip on her wrist loosening ever so slightly. He gave a barely noticeable nod, allowing her to proceed. (Y/N) peeled back the mask, revealing his face for the first time. His face was a canvas of battle-hardened features, each scar telling a story of survival and sacrifice. A deep, fresh gash ran from his cheek down to his neck, the wound raw and bleeding, but the older scars drew her gaze – the jagged line across his left eyebrow, the faded burn mark along his jawline, and the small, puckered scar near his temple. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, contrasting sharply with the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. But it was his eyes that caught her attention – dark brown, filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

Carefully, (Y/N) cleaned the wound on his neck and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. Ghost felt a strange mix of emotions. He was not used to being exposed, his face a closely guarded secret. The sensation of her hands, gentle yet firm, was foreign but strangely comforting. Despite the pain, there was a sense of relief, a small crack in the armour he had built around himself.

Even though the severity of the situation, she remained calm, her training guiding her every move. Ghost winced, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he watched her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"There," (Y/N) said gently, securing a bandage around his neck. "That should hold for now."

Ghost's eyes met hers, a mixture of pain and gratitude in their depths. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice strained.

"I've got you," she replied firmly. "Just hang on."

As (Y/N) finished, Captain Price stepped over the duo, his expression a mix of concern and relief. "How is he?" he asked, his eyes on Ghost.

(Y/N) looked up, exhaustion evident in her features. "He'll be okay. The wound was serious, but he's stable now."

Price nodded, his respect for (Y/N) clear in his eyes. "Good work. You saved his life."

(Y/N) offered a tired smile. "Just fulfilling my duty."

Price clapped a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of affection. The helicopter blades whipped through the night, and (Y/N) stayed beside Ghost, her hands steady as she pressed the bandage on his wound. The field dressings had been held, but the ride was rough, so she kept a close watch to ensure he stayed stable. Despite the dire situation, Ghost’s eyes remained sharp, and focused, a silent testament to his resilience. (Y/N) looked at the others and Ghost knew that she wanted to check on them. He nodded and without another word, he moved (Y/N)’s hand from his gash and pushed her to go to the other injured comrades.

Once she agreed, (Y/N) turned her attention to Soap. She barely took care of his shoulder which took a hit during the firefight, and although he didn’t say anything, she knew he must be in pain.

“Soap,” she called, her voice cutting through the hum of the helicopter. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Soap glanced at her, his usual bravado dimmed by exhaustion. “It’s just a scratch, doc,” he muttered, but he didn’t resist as she moved closer.

(Y/N) carefully peeled back the torn fabric of his sleeve, revealing the graze. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving a raw, bloody scar. She winced at the sight but quickly set to work, cleaning the wound with practised efficiency.

“You need to take it easy,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “This might not be serious now, but it could get worse if you don’t let it heal.”

Soap grinned, a flicker of his usual humour returning. “Don’t worry about me, lass. I’m tougher than I look.”

(Y/N) smiled back, shaking her head. “Maybe, but even tough guys need to let their medics take care of them.”

As she bandaged his shoulder, Soap’s grin softened into something sincere. “Thanks, doc. We’re lucky to have you.”

She finished securing the bandage and patted his good shoulder. “Just doing my job, Soap. Now sit tight, we’ll be back at base soon.”

She glanced around the helicopter, checking on the rest of the team. Gaz was alert, his eyes scanning the horizon, and Captain Price was deep in thought, already planning their next move. Despite the weariness and the injuries, there was a deep sense of unity among them. They had faced the fire together and come out stronger on the other side.

As the helicopter touched down at the base, the team began to disembark, their movements slow and weary. (Y/N) remained beside Ghost, her presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His mask was back in place, hiding his features once more. But now, she knew the man behind the mask – a warrior with a haunted past, driven by a sense of duty and honour. She held his hand gently, ensuring he felt her support. Even through the pain and exhaustion, Ghost’s eyes flickered with a rare vulnerability, acknowledging her silent strength.

As the other medics arrived and began to transfer him onto a stretcher, Ghost’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. “You don’t have to stay,” he muttered, his voice strained but sincere.

(Y/N) smiled softly, squeezing his hand in return. “I want to. You’re my patient and my friend. I’m not leaving you now.”

Ghost’s eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features. “Not used to... this kind of care.”

She chuckled lightly, adjusting the blanket around him. “Well, get used to it. You’re stuck with me.”

There was a brief silence as the medics prepared to move him, the sounds of the bustling base fading into the background. Ghost looked at her, his expression serious. “Thanks, (Y/N). For everything.”

(Y/N) leaned closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Just focus on getting better, Ghost. We need you.”

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth behind the fabric mask. “I’ll do my best.”

“You better do,” she said, walking alongside the stretcher as they moved him towards the infirmary.

[seriiousgiirl]

𝓞𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁ 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈𝓉!𝒶𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓍 𝓋𝒶𝓂𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇!𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

❛ Who are you? Demon to some. Angel to others. ❜

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. On the run from death after an unsuccessful night's hunting, you seek refuge in a small church deep in the forest. The priest, Astarion, takes you in, promising to take care of you.

Little do you know that despite his angelic face, he has devil thoughts.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. kind of enemies to lovers, smut with plot, age gap, somnophilia, taboo kink, dominance and submission, bondage, sensual education, forced proximity, tender worship, rough sex, corruption kink, oral sex, fangs and more...

Despite the angst, this has a good ending. I promise.

➜ ┊: oneshot ⋅ 17K words. A lot is happening. ➜ ┊ a/n: there's been a hype about Astarion as a priest on twitter (thanks to Neil's role) so that's inspired me, nothing offensive is intentional. Just enjoy!

Blood seeped from your wounds, each drop marking your path through the dense, oppressive forest. Every muscle screamed in agony, and your senses were on high alert. Vision blurred, the moon overhead glowed a sinister red, as if mockingly reflecting the blood you were losing. The woods appeared to extend indefinitely, comprising a maze of shadows and gnarled branches that seemed to reach out and entrap you. 

You were a hunter, trained to track and kill the very creatures that now pursued you. The irony was not lost on you; tonight, the roles were reversed. You weren't used to being the prey, but tonight, everything had changed. 

The ambush had been swift and brutal. The vampire had pounced on you with a speed and ferocity that left you breathless. Its fangs had sunk into your flesh before you could react, and though you had fought, the creature had overpowered you, leaving you broken and bleeding in the dirt.

The pain was a constant, throbbing reminder of your vulnerability. Each step was a struggle, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you pressed a trembling hand to your side, trying to stem the flow of blood. Your thoughts were a chaotic whirl, a mix of survival instinct and despair. You couldn't afford to stop. Not here. Not now. The forest was unforgiving, and every heartbeat echoed with the fear of what might be lurking in the darkness.

As your strength waned, you scanned the forest desperately for any sign of shelter. Just when despair began to creep in, you saw it: a church. Its silhouette emerged from the shadows, an ancient structure that stood in stark contrast to the wild, untamed forest around it. The stained glass windows glowed softly, illuminated by flickering candles within. The sight was almost surreal, like a beacon of hope in the endless night.

With a renewed sense of determination, you staggered toward the church. Each step felt like an eternity, your legs threatening to give out beneath you. The candles inside seemed to beckon you, their warm light a promise of safety in the darkness.

Finally, you reached the steps of the church. 

You stumbled, nearly falling as your strength gave out, but you managed to catch yourself against the stone. As desperation clawed at your senses, you knocked frantically on the door, hoping against hope that someone inside would hear your plea and grant you safety. A church was a holy ground where no vampire dared to tread, for fear of the searing pain it would bring. 

But as each moment passed without a response, the whispers of the night grew louder.

"Please," you begged, your voice raw with desperation. "Open the door! I'm in danger!"

The urgency in your tone carried the weight of your peril, the fear that gripped your heart driving you to implore for sanctuary within the sacred walls of the church. "I beg of you," you continued, your voice cracking with emotion, "I don't have much time. Please, you have to help me!" 

But as the moments ticked by without a response, the gnawing sense of dread only grew stronger. You could feel the presence of your pursuer drawing nearer, its malevolent intent palpable in the air. Panic threatened to overwhelm you as you realised that time was running out, and the safety of the church remained out of reach.

With one final, desperate plea, you pressed your forehead against the door, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please," you whispered, the words barely more than a prayer, "don't let me die out here. Please, open the door."

Just when you feared all hope was lost, the door finally creaked open, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness like a lifeline. With a surge of relief, you stumbled inside, your heart racing with the knowledge that you had narrowly escaped the clutches of your predator.

As the door finally creaked open, a wave of relief washed over you, and you crawled inside, your body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Strong, muscular arms lifted you gently from the cold ground, cradling you in his embrace as you staggered into the warmth of the church. Your head fell back onto the broad chest that held you up, and you let out a shaky sigh.

Your breathing was ragged, your heart pounding, and your mind still reeling from the terrifying encounter. A voice, smooth as silk and seductive, washed over you like a siren's song. "My dear, what happened to you?"

You clung to the figure's robe, your grip tight as you struggled to find the strength to speak. "I... I was attacked," you managed to gasp out, the words coming in a hoarse whisper. "By... a vampire."

A shiver ran down your spine as his hands gently, but firmly, began to examine your wounds with gentle, intimate strokes. The contrast between the cruelty of the vampire's attack and the tender care he was showing you was overwhelming. You could feel his fingers gently tracing over your skin, sending electric shocks of sensation throughout your body.

As you tried to look up at him, your vision blurred and swimming with tears, sweat and blood but you caught a glimpse of his face. Even through the haze of pain and exhaustion, you could see how devilishly handsome he was, with his silver curls framing his strong jaw, and his ruby-like eyes glinting with concern.

Then, the charming priest's expression twisted with regret, and his hand brushed against your cheek, the gentle caress sending shivers to your core. "I'm so sorry, my dear," he murmured, "I should have been here sooner. But you're safe now. Let me take care of you."

His words were a balm to your battered soul, offering comfort in the midst of chaos. You nodded weakly, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over you like a warm tide. Despite the pain that still throbbed in every fibre of your being, you felt a flicker of peace begin to stir within you.

As your head rested against his broad chest, you could feel the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat, a soothing lullaby that eased your racing mind. His voice, a deep rumble that resonated through his body, washed over you like a comforting wave. His voice, deep and resounding, carried the power of wisdom and experience. 

"My child, you have been through a harrowing ordeal. Your wounds are deep, and the path to recovery will be long. But here, within the sanctity of my church, you will be safe and nurtured."

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude as you asked, "I’m sorry… Am I... a burden to you?" The vulnerability in your voice was palpable. You hesitated, unsure if you were deserving of such grace, but his smile, gentle and understanding, promised everything you needed at that moment. 

"Quite the opposite, my dear. Your presence is a blessing. I'll do everything in my power to see to your recovery. I will tend to your wounds with the love and compassion that only a servant of God can offer."

Your heart swelled with gratitude, the weight of your tribulations lightening with each syllable of his holy promise. "Thank you, Father," you whispered, your voice a soft caress against his chest. "I trust in your care." His words, paired with the sincere look in his eyes, left you feeling both reassured and oddly drawn to him. You agreed, surrendering to the temptation of his promise, and allowed yourself to settle further into his embrace.

As the priest cradled you in his arms, holding you close like a cherished treasure, the world around you seemed to blur. Your vision wavered, and you clung to him, trusting in the strength of his arms to guide you.

The holy man eased you onto the bed, his strong hands supporting your weight as your legs buckled beneath you. The room was dim, decorated sparingly with candles, books and a desk. You could feel his eyes on you, and when they met yours, they were filled with a devotion that was both comforting and unnerving.

"Lie down, my angel," he instructed gently, his voice a hypnotic purr as he helped you onto the bed. The mattress was soft, enveloping you in its embrace as you settled onto it. Slowly, he began to undress you, his gaze never leaving yours. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, a soothing dance that contrasted with the rhythm of your heartbeat as you could feel his feather-light touch over your skin.

In a vain effort, you tried to stop him. "N-no," you stuttered, trying to cover yourself with your arms.

The coolness of the room against your heated skin sent shivers down your spine, the sensation electrifying under his watchful gaze. "Don't be afraid, I’ll be gentle," he whispered, his voice a promise of safety. "You are in my care, and I will ensure that you heal."

Seeing your reluctance, he added, "Listen to me," he said softly. "I am only doing this to tend to your wounds and help you heal. You have nothing to fear from me."

Despite your best intentions, you found yourself unable to resist the comfort his words offered. Your defences crumbled, and you allowed him to continue uncovering your body. He unlaced the back of your bra, his fingers grazing your sensitive skin, and gently slid it from your body. The tenderness in his touch sent a flutter through your chest, a sensation that was both foreign and enticing.

Once vulnerable, your nipples hardened in response to his gaze, sensitive buds aching for attention. Your body quivered under his watchful eyes, the heat between your legs growing as you succumbed to the temptation of his nearness. The priest's voice, a melodic rumble, continued to soothe you, his words a balm to your restless spirit.

"This might sting a bit," he warned as he applied a salve to your wounds. The cool, wet sensation was a shock against the warmth of your body, the sting a reminder of your ordeal.

You bit your lip, the pain a small price to pay for the healing touch of this mysterious man. "Thank you," you breathed, your voice a soft exhalation.

With great care, he examined your injuries, his eyes narrowing with concern as he located the worst of them. He murmured prayers under his breath, his voice a soothing lullaby as he tended to your wounds, applying healing salves with a practised hand.

As the priest meticulously cleaned the blood from your body, his fingers gentle yet firm, you could swear you heard the sound of his ragged, heavy breaths. The low, appreciative groan that echoed in the room was indistinct, your mind hazy and dizzied by your injuries.

You clung to the reassuring rhythm of his voice as he continued to soothe you, his words a balm to your aching soul. The priest tended to your wounds with a deft, almost sensual touch but you couldn't tell if it was real or a figment of your imagination, the line between dream and reality blurred.

"You're doing well," he praised, his voice thick. The priest's gaze lingered on your flushed skin, his fingers trailing gently over your body as he worked. "You'll be healed in no time," he said, a low growl that seemed to vibrate through your very core.

You moaned softly as the cool liquid touched your wounds, the sensation both painful and soothing. He placed a gentle hand on your forehead, his touch comforting as he whispered, "Sleep now. Trust in me, and I will make you whole once more. I promise."

His words, his touch, his very presence, enveloped you in a feeling of warmth and safety. You closed your eyes, drifting into the welcoming arms of slumber, your heartbeat slowing as you entrusted your body and soul to the care of the man who had become your saviour, your protector, your guardian.

"Rest now, my sweet Y/n," he said, his voice thick with longing. "I will be here, watching over you, ensuring your safety and your recovery."

In the dim light of the room, the flickering candles casting dancing shadows on the walls, the priest stood over you, his ruby gaze never leaving your form. He whispered more prayers, the soft murmurs a lullaby for your weary spirit as you finally allowed yourself to succumb to sleep. 

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

In the hazy realm of your dreams, the pleasure of his touch lingered. As you slept, you could feel a familiar pain in your neck, the sensation of fangs sinking into your skin. But this time, unlike the violent encounter that had brought you to this point, the bite was pleasurable, a sweet agony that coursed through your veins. 

A low moan escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively into the sensation. Your dreams were of lust and desire. The charming priest who saved you was there. He was a predator, a creature of the night, his eyes burning with an insatiable hunger. 

But it was an alluring craving, one that invited you to indulge in your deepest, most primal urges.

 It felt like the devil kissed your neck, but it felt like heaven. His tongue traced the path of his fangs, eliciting a shuddering sigh from your lips, the air thick with the scent of sweat and lust. Your limbs twisted, your body responding to the touch of your saviour, his hands roaming over your skin with a deft expertise. 

His fingers found your breasts, squeezing and teasing your nipples, the sensation a symphony of sensations that echoed through your body. You arched against him, your hips grinding against the hardness that pressed against your thigh. The dream was a carnal feast, his body enveloping yours, a fusion of flesh and desire. 

You could feel the weight of his body pressing against yours, the intoxicating scent of his musk filling your senses. His hands roamed your body, achingly slow, each touch a promise of pleasure that lingered like the echoes of a distant song. Your moans grew louder, punctuating the rhythm of the dream, your body trembling as the pleasure built within you. The line between the dream and reality blurred, the boundaries of consciousness dissolving in the face of the overwhelming sensations…

You jolted awake, your heart pounding in your chest as you found yourself bathed in sweat. The haze of your dreams dissipated, leaving you acutely and painfully aware of your surroundings. Your vision was no longer blurred, and as you blinked, your sensations alighted shamefully on the wetness between your legs.

The feeling startled you, the outrageous state of arousal you found yourself in starkly at odds with the holy ground you now resided in. You couldn't help the flush that crept up your neck, a delicate blush colouring your skin. As your mind raced to comprehend the situation, you noticed the bandages that covered various parts of your body. The night gown you wore was soft, clinging to your skin. It was embroidered with intricate patterns and smelled faintly of fresh flowers, indicating that it has recently been washed. 

Your gaze landed on the priest, who sat at a study, his back to you. The sight of him brought a flurry of questions to the forefront of your mind. "Excuse me?" you called, your voice shaky with uncertainty. "Did you... change my clothes?" Your memory was foggy, the details of the night blurred and indistinct. The vivid dreams of lust and desire, the taste of blood on your lips, and the sensation of pleasure that still lingered in the pit of your stomach left you unsure of what was real and what was not.

The priest turned, his wine gaze meeting yours with a steady, unblinking intensity. "I did," he confirmed, his voice a soothing rumble that seemed to calm the chaos in your mind. "You were in no state to do so yourself, I had to wash your blood and tend your wounds — I wanted to ensure that you were comfortable."

His words were simple, yet they carried with them a weight of authority that left you feeling oddly reassured. Your heart continues to race, the sensation of being so exposed, both physically and emotionally, leaving you vulnerable, yet oddly at ease.

"I... I can't remember much of what happened last night." you said, your voice small as you recalled the shivers of pleasure that had coursed through you at his touch. A vivid image of his long fingers brushing against your skin flashed in her mind, the memory both tempting and terrifying.

As you slowly regained consciousness, you noticed the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was modest, yet warm and inviting, filled with the scent of burning candles and aged wood. You realised you were most likely in his personal quarters, assuming that such a small church wouldn't have many rooms. The bed you lay on was simple but comfortable, covered with a soft, worn quilt that smelled faintly of lavender.

Your shyness crept back into your demeanour as you asked, "Father, where did you... stay for the night? Where did you sleep?" Your voice held a curious inflection, a hint of fluster in your tone.

The enigmatic priest, sensing your discomfort, couldn't resist teasing you with a sly smile. "A good priest never sleeps when there's a soul in need," he replied, his voice a silky rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "I stayed awake the whole night, ensuring that you didn't experience any pain," he confessed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your well-being was… my top priority."

As you settled back into the bed, the priest moved closer, kneeling at your side. "I realise I haven't properly introduced myself," he said with a slight bow of his head. "My name is Astarion."

You nodded weakly, offering a faint smile despite the pain that still throbbed through your body. "I'm Y/n," you replied, your voice soft but steady.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/n, despite the circumstances," Astarion said, his tone gentle.

As you spoke, a sharp, faint pain in your neck caused you to wince. Instinctively, you raised your hand to the spot, fingers brushing over the tender skin. You felt the unmistakable indentation of bite marks and a shiver of unease ran down your spine. You didn't remember the vampire biting you there yesterday. The memory of the attack was vivid—how you had fought back, the searing pain of its fangs in your side—but the neck was new.

Astarion noticed your discomfort immediately. "What is it?" he asked, concern flashing in his crimson eyes.

"There are... bite marks on my neck," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "I don't remember the vampire biting me there."

Astarion's gaze softened with empathy, and he placed a reassuring hand on your cheek. "The vampire that attacked you was relentless. In your weakened state, it is possible that it struck more than once, leaving marks you weren't aware of at the time."

His explanation made sense, yet something about it left you uneasy. The way he spoke, the intensity of his gaze—it all seemed so personal, so intimate—seductive. But as you looked into his eyes, you found a strange comfort, a sense of safety that you hadn't felt since the attack, it felt nice.

"Try not to worry," Astarion continued, his voice soothing. "You're safe now. The wounds will heal with time, and I will ensure you are well cared for."

You nodded, trying to relax despite the lingering fear. "Thank you, Astarion. I don't know what I would have done without your help."

Astarion's smile was warm, almost tender. "It's my duty, Y/n. Now, rest. You need to regain your strength."

Astarion’s soothing voice continued to fill the room, a gentle murmur that seemed to lull the very air around you. “Rest now, Y/n,” he whispered again, his tone carrying a warmth that seeped into your bones. “You’re safe here. Let your body heal.”

His hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your forehead before trailing down to caress your hair. Each gentle stroke seemed to ease the tension in your muscles, coaxing you further into the embrace of sleep. “You’ve been through so much,” Astarion continued, his voice a melodic hum that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket. “But you’re strong. You’ve survived, and now it’s time to rest again, angel.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, the steady rhythm of his voice and the gentle touch of his hand lulling you. The pain and fear began to melt away, replaced by a profound sense of peace. 

“Let go of your worries,” he whispered, his fingers continuing their soothing path through your hair. “I’ll be here, watching over you.”

The last thing you felt before sleep claimed you entirely was the warmth of his hand, the tender way he cared for you, and the deep, calming presence of his voice. In that moment, as consciousness slipped away, you knew that whatever questions and fears still lingered, you could face them later. For now, in the sanctuary of the church and the comfort of Astarion’s care, you allowed yourself to finally rest.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Days had passed since that harrowing night, and you had been secluded in the church, healing under Astarion's watchful care. Your strength has gradually returned, allowing you to move around more freely. This morning, as the sun filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the stone floor, Astarion invited you to take your breakfast outside.

The church's cloister, a serene, partially shaded courtyard, became your dining area. While you basked in the sunlight, feeling its warmth seep into your skin, Astarion, however, always remained in the shadows, moving with an uncanny grace that kept him perpetually out of the sun’s reach.

As you savoured the simple breakfast, your mind began to piece together the puzzle that had been forming since your arrival. It was easy for a good vampire hunter to notice the signs. The fangs that sometimes glinted in Astarion's mouth when he spoke and smirked, the way he meticulously avoided sunlight, and the fact that you had never seen him eat. It all pointed to one unmistakable truth: Astarion was a vampire.

Your heart pounded as the realisation settled in, mingling with the fresh morning air. You glanced at him, standing elegantly in the shadow of the cloister, his hand behind his back. His red eyes watched you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Yet, despite the fear gnawing at your insides, you knew one thing for certain: you were trapped. Your injuries, though healing, still left you weak. 

There was no way you could fight or escape him in your current state.

Astarion's voice broke through your thoughts, smooth and soothing as always. "How are you feeling today, Y/n?" he asked, a genuine concern in his tone that made your situation all the more confusing.

"I'm feeling better," you replied, forcing a small smile. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

He inclined his head gracefully. "It's my duty to ensure your recovery. I'm glad to see you improving."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "You never join me for breakfast," you said, your voice casual despite the tension coiling within you. "Aren't you hungry?"

Astarion's lips curved into a faint, charming smile. "I have my own ways of sustaining myself. Your well-being is my priority." There was something unnerving about his answer, the implication that his nourishment differed from the conventional. The way he focused on you, though endearing, you knew bordered on possessiveness.

You shifted slightly in your seat, the movement causing a dull ache to flare up in your side. Astarion noticed and stepped closer, still within the shadows, his expression one of concern.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, his voice softening.

"A little," you admitted. "But I'll manage."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. As you sat there, the sunlight warming your skin while Astarion remain cloaked in shadow, you couldn't shake the feeling that Astarion, with his devilish good looks and soothing voice, was both your caretaker and your captor.

For now, you had to play along, especially as Astarion continued to care for you, providing you with food and shelter. He was attentive, almost doting, ensuring that you were comfortable and your needs were met. Each day, he brought you meals, fresh linens, and soothing herbal teas.

Despite your growing suspicions, you couldn’t deny the care he provided. Every bandage was changed with meticulous precision, every meal prepared with consideration for your weakened state. And so, you allowed Astarion’s gentle care to soothe your wounds, both physical and emotional, all the while preparing for the inevitable moment when you would have to face him for what he truly was.

Astarion's eyes softened as he regarded you, his voice a velvety whisper. "You must let me know if the pain worsens, angel. I cannot bear to see you suffer." He whispered, the endearment—now quite familiar, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. The contact was brief but electrifying, igniting a desire within you that you couldn't quite comprehend or control.

Your heartbeat quickened as he withdrew his hand, stepping back into the shadows, a wicked glint in his eye. 

"Now, eat up. You need your strength for later." The coded suggestion in his tone left you breathless, your mind racing with possibilities as to what 'later' could entail. The way Astarion spoke, his voice dripping with innuendo, only served to heighten the growing tension between you. It was all so forbidden. 

You hesitated, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers traced along your jawline. The subtle flirting, combined with his intimate care, blurred the lines between priest and enemy, leaving you both vulnerable and enticed. "I... I don't want to trouble you," you stammered, though your body betrayed your words, craving his touch and the comfort he offered.

Astarion smiled, his hand still resting on your cheek, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. "It's no trouble at all, Y/n. You needn't worry about anything but your recovery."

You wanted to believe Astarion wasn't a danger, even less a vampire. His gentle hands and soothing words made you feel safe. Every interaction with him felt like a contradiction, a dissonance between what you knew and what you wanted to believe.

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

As the days turned into weeks, your strength gradually returned. The deep wounds had healed to a dull ache, and the fog of pain that once clouded your mind began to lift. You and Astarion fell into a comfortable routine, each day a mirror of the last. You would wake up each morning to the soft sounds of quill on parchment, finding Astarion at his study desk, deep in thought as he wrote.

“Good morning,” he would greet you, his voice smooth and pleasant, as he set aside his work. 

The deep wounds might have healed, however, the bite marks on your neck remained stubbornly fresh. Alongside these wounds, vivid and intense dreams continued to plague your nights. Dreams filled with lust and desire, so real that you could almost feel the touch of hands on your skin, the press of lips against yours. Each morning you awoke feeling drained, a sore feeling between your legs, and a throbbing ache where the bite marks were. But you kept that all to yourself, far too embarrassed. 

He would then prepare breakfast, guiding you to the garden where you could bask in the sunlight. Astarion would remain in the shadows, his elegant form always just out of reach of the sunlight. He would watch over you as you ate, his presence a silent reassurance. After breakfast, he would excuse himself, his voice tinged with the same gentle concern as always. 

“I have some matters to attend to,” he would say, disappearing into the depths of the church. You assumed he went to sleep, retreating to whatever secret place he kept from the daylight.

Left to your own devices, you found solace in the books that lined the shelves. Despite the church's modest library, you read about heroes and history, getting lost in the words. On days when reading felt too isolating, you tidied the church, arranged flowers, and dusted pews, even though no one ever came to attend his services.

Lunch was a simple affair that you prepared for only you — the act of cooking gave you a sense of purpose, a small way to contribute to the strange sanctuary you now called home.

Astarion would return in the late afternoon. You would eat dinner in the kitchen, the soft light of the candles casting long shadows on the stone walls as he watched over you. Conversation flowed easily, your guardedness slowly eroding as the days passed. He would listen intently to your thoughts, his eyes never straying from yours, making you feel seen and heard in a way that was both comforting and unsettling.

As the night closed in, you'd meet him in the bathroom, where Astarion would await, his eyes fixed on you with a hint of intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He would offer you a small stool to sit on, allowing you the space to undress in his presence. At first, the act of exposing your body to him, an unfamiliar stranger only a short while ago, left you bashful and flushed. Your fingers fumbled with buttons and laces, your gaze darting to the ground, averted from his unwavering gaze.

Astarion, however, seemed unfazed by your hesitation, his attention solely focused on you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your exposed skin. The feeling of being so intimately observed, of your vulnerability laid bare, was both forbidden and intimate, a tug-of-war between modesty and desire.

The first time you squirmed under Astarion's touch, he chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "You'll have to stand still, Y/n," he teased, his voice low and husky. "You're making it difficult for me to tend to your wounds." Your cheeks flushed at his teasing. He looked at you with a hot gaze as he leaned closer, his breath washing over your skin, whispering, "If you're concerned about my touch, I can show you what happens when you're more willing to submit."

You were left breathless, and he seemed content with your reaction based on his prideful smirk. You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your ears. "No-No I’m okay... I do trust you, Astarion," you stammered, your voice barely audible.

Astarion smiled, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "Then stand still, my angel," he coaxed, the pet name laced with tenderness. "Let me take care of you as you deserve."

As the days passed, though, the discomfort ebbed away. Astarion's gentle demeanour and the necessity of your healing fostered a sense of genuine trust between the two of you. Astarion's methodical approach to cleaning your body was as deliberate as it was unhurried. He would begin by wetting a soft cloth with warm water, the liquid shimmering as it caught the light. The scent of herbs and flowers wafted from the basin.

With the cloth in hand, Astarion would then gently wipe away the grime and sweat from your body. His fingers traced the contours of your form, the arch of your waist, the curve of your breast, the slope of your hip, and the dip of your lower back. He moved with a tender dexterity, each stroke a promise of care, an unspoken vow to protect and heal.

As he worked, the fabric slid over your skin, leaving a trail of dampness that soon dried under the influence of the air. The sensation of being washed, of being cleansed by Astarion's skilled hands, was both intimate and comforting, the touch of his fingers electrifying your body.

Astarion's fingers lingered so subtly on your nipples, brushing them gently. "So sensitive, aren't we?" he mused, his gaze flicking to your face. He trailed the cloth down to your inner thigh, the tip brushing against your most intimate parts. "Such a delightful creature you are, my angel," he remarked, his voice laced with desire. 

"I relish in the privilege of tending to you." He looked up at you through his lashes, his voice low and teasing.

Your heart would race as his hands lingered on sensitive spots, the tips of his fingers brushing against your nipples or the inner folds of your thighs—just enough to be appropriate, but still exciting. The moments of intimate contact were fleeting, yet they stirred a hunger deep within you.

The way he examined your wounds, the way his eyes lingered on your flushed skin, painted a picture of a man who was devoted to the healing of your body and the nurturing of your spirit. It was a dance of necessity and desire, leaving you in a dangerous but exciting situation.

As the evening sun cast long shadows across the kitchen as you and Astarion sat down to dinner, it was another one of those days. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the clinking of utensils and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Astarion watched you intently, his red eyes shimmering in the dim light.

As you took a bite of food, he spoke, his voice low and contemplative. "Y/n, may I ask you something?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze with a slight nod. "Of course, Astarion. What is it?"

"Why did you become a vampire hunter?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

You paused, your fork halfway to your mouth, as memories of the past flooded your mind. "It's because of my family," you began, your voice tinged with sadness. "They were killed by a vampire when I was young. I was left with nothing, no home, no family. I had to fend for myself."

Astarion's expression softened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss," he murmured.

You nodded, a bitter taste lingering in your mouth. "At first, I became a vampire hunter out of necessity. I needed to survive, to seek revenge for what happened to my family. But as time went on, it became more than that. It became a way for me to protect others, to prevent anyone else from suffering the same fate."

Astarion listened quietly as you spoke, his gaze never leaving yours. "It's a difficult path you've chosen," he remarked, his voice soft. "To carry such a burden, to face danger at every turn."

You nodded, the weight of your past pressing down on you like a leaden shroud. "It hasn't been easy," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I couldn't do anything else. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing." A silence settled over the kitchen, heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. 

"I understand," he said finally, his voice filled with quiet sincerity. "You've endured so much, my angel." Then Astarion's eyes narrowed, his mind wandering as he mused. "Vampires are often seen as monsters, creatures of the night that feed on the blood of the innocent," he began, his voice laced with a hint of bitterness. "But are they truly any different from those who hunt them? They do what they must to survive, to maintain their existence. They are not inherently evil, merely misunderstood."

He met your gaze, his expression earnest. "In their quest for sustenance, there are some who stray, who forget the cost of their actions. But all beings are capable of good or evil, it's a choice we make, not a preordained path.” Astarion shifted, leaning back in his chair. "You, my dear, have chosen a path of justice, fueled by loss and a desire to protect. Your heart is in the right place, and that is something to be admired."

Astarion reached out, his fingers brushing against yours, sending shivers down your spine. "Do not be so quick to judge, to condemn those you do not understand," he urged, drawing closer. "For in doing so, you may miss the beauty of the beast, the soul that lies beneath the surface."

He put his hand on the table covering yours as his thumb caressed your knuckles. The simple touch showed he could seduce you so easily. It was a devilish whisper that made you question your beliefs. 

After a brief silence, Astarion's eyes glimmered with a mischievous light as he reached for a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Would you care for some wine, Y/n? I find it has a way of easing troubled thoughts."

As Astarion stood, he moved gracefully towards the wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. With a skillful flick of his wrist, he opened the door and withdrew a decanter filled with a deep, ruby-red liquid. "Allow me to offer you a glass of wine," he said, his voice a low, sultry rumble.

He approached you with the decanter, his eyes locked on yours. "A little something that's sure to help you unwind after your ordeal," he suggested, his words laced with a flirtatious undertone.

As he poured the crimson liquid into two crystal glasses, the light from the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the walls, Astarion's charm seemed to weave a spell around you. The room grew warmer, more intimate, the soft flicker of the flames a testament to the growing intimacy between the two of you.

You nodded, grateful for the distraction. As he sat back down, he moved closer to you. He handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. "To new friends and shared stories," he toasted, his smile warm and inviting.

"To new friends," you echoed, clinking your glass against his and taking a sip. The wine was rich and smooth, its warmth spreading through you.

As he leaned back, he couldn't help but brush his arm against yours, the spark of arousal igniting between you. "Strength, resilience, and determination are traits to be admired," he said, his voice a sultry, velvet-coated whisper. "And they become all the more enticing when wrapped in a package as enchanting as yours, Y/n."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, the blush a testament to his words. "Thank you, Astarion. It's been an arduous journey, but I suppose it's made me who I am today."

His gaze never wavered, and he leaned in closer, the firelight casting shadows that danced on his chiselled features. "And that, my dear Y/n, is a woman I would gladly be drawn to. You possess a radiance that's as alluring as it is dangerous."

You felt your heart race at his words, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult to think clearly. "You have a way with words, Astarion. It’s quite... disarming."

He chuckled softly, his smile widening. "I've been told that before. But enough about me flattering you. Tell me, Y/n, how did you come here? Were you hunting a specific vampire?"

You nodded, taking another sip of wine to steady yourself. "Yes, I had heard rumours of a powerful vampire terrorising the nearby villages. I thought I might be able to do some good here, to put my skills to use."

Astarion's eyes flickered with interest. "And instead, you found yourself in need of sanctuary."

"Yes," you said, the memories of that night still fresh in your mind. "But I suppose fate had other plans."

He smiled, a hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface. "Indeed, fate can be quite unpredictable."

You shifted in your seat, your curiosity piqued. "Astarion, you’ve been so kind to me, but I realise I know very little about you. Why did you become a priest?" The question hung heavy in the air, the weight of its implications a daunting shadow in the room.

Astarion's eyes darkened, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "A priest," he mused, his voice laced with a heavy sense of regret. A shadow crossed his face, his smile fading slightly. "Ah, that's a story for another time," he said, his tone vague. "It's a lonely path, one fraught with self-imposed torment. It's a form of penance, a never-ending punishment for sins long committed."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Punishment? For what?"

He waved a hand dismissively, the charming smile returning to his lips. "We all have our sins to atone for, don't we? Some of us more than others." He placed his hand back on yours, his touch was soothing.

After a moment, Astarion's gaze grew distant. "To partially answer your question, Y/n, one must first understand the nature of a priest's vow. Chastity, piety, and dedication to a higher power. It is a life of self-denial, of sacrificing one's personal desires for a greater cause," he began, his voice heavy with the weight of his past.

"In my case, my path to the priesthood was not driven by divine inspiration, but by a profound need to purge the darkness within me. The sins I've committed run deep, and the road to redemption is a long and arduous one."

His smile, when it returned, was tinged with sadness, a bittersweet acknowledgment of the life he once led. "In essence, I chose this path as my penance, as a way to atone for the transgressions of my past. The harsh discipline and chastity I adhere to are a constant reminder of the price I must pay for the sins I've committed."

The intensity of the moment weighed heavily on the air as you digested his words. The sincerity in his confession was palpable, a testament to the internal struggle that plagued him. "I'm sorry, Astarion, for your suffering," you offered, your fingers intertwining with his, to offer a reassuring touch. "But perhaps, in your service and devotion, you have already found some measure of redemption."

The fire crackled, its dance casting shadows on the walls as Astarion's eyes darkened, the intensity in his gaze growing. "But, I must admit my angel, that since your arrival, I've found it increasingly difficult to keep my distance, to not succumb to the forbidden desires that once consumed me," he admitted, his voice thick..

You felt a shiver run down your spine, a mixture of fear and anticipation. Trying to maintain your composure, you played innocent, your voice trembling slightly. "I don't understand what you're implying, Father."

He chuckled softly, a dark, knowing smile spreading across his lips. "Oh, but you do, my dear. How can you pretend to judge what is good and bad when you've lived such a sheltered life? How can you truly know grace if you’ve never tasted sin?" His words hung heavy in the air, laden with implication. 

You tried to deny the accusation, shaking your head. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Astarion’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as he leaned even closer, his breath brushing against your skin. "Your soul is too pure, too untouched by the world to understand. You’ve spent your life fighting monsters, but you’ve never truly faced the darkness within yourself."

Your heart raced, his proximity and intensity making it hard to breathe. "What are you saying?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Astarion reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sending a jolt of electricity through you. "I’m saying, Y/n, that you’ve been living in a world of black and white, of good and evil. But life is far more complex than that, and you’re so young... To truly understand grace, you must also understand sin."

His fingers moved to your neck, brushing over the bite marks he had left, a reminder of his power over you. "I saw it in your actions," he continued, his voice a soft, seductive whisper. "When I was cleaning you, taking care of you, I saw how innocent you were, how… untouched."

You shivered under his touch, the mixture of fear and something darker swirling within you. "How can you pretend to judge what is good and bad, what is pure and tainted, when you yourself have never truly tasted the depths of desire and temptation?" He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "You must experience the temptations that pull at your soul, the desires that make you human," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Only then can you truly understand what it means to be alive, to be whole."

You tried to pull away, but his grip on you tightened, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "You cannot know true grace without first experiencing sin," he whispered, his voice a hypnotic cadence that drew you in despite your fear. 

"You cannot know the light without first embracing the darkness."

Astarion's words wrapped around you like a silken web, his touch igniting a fire within you that you had never felt before. You hated yourself for the way your body responded, for the way your heart raced and your breath quickened at his proximity. "How can you understand the beauty of purity if you’ve never been tainted?" he asked, his voice a seductive purr. 

"How can you know the strength of virtue if you’ve never faced the allure of vice?"

You swallowed hard, your mind reeling from his words. "And you think you can show me this… complexity?"

“If you trust me,” Astarion's smile was both predator and enticing. "Yes, I know I can. Let me guide you, angel. Let me show you what it means to embrace both the light and the darkness."

His words were a dangerous lure, pulling you towards an abyss you had never dared to explore before and with anyone else. Despite your instincts screaming at you to resist, a part of you was undeniably drawn to him, to the promise of forbidden knowledge and the thrill of the unknown.

"I…" you hesitated, your voice faltering.

Astarion’s hand slipped from your jaw to the back of your neck, his touch firm yet gentle. "Trust me," he murmured, his voice a silken whisper that seemed to wrap around your very soul. "Let me show you what it means to truly live." And in that moment, as Astarion’s eyes held yours, you realised that the lines between good and evil, grace and sin, were not as clear as you had once believed.

He had the face of an angel. 

But devil thoughts. 

Astarion's gaze softened, though the intensity in his eyes remained. He took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. Your breath caught as he gently tugged you to your feet. The touch of his hand was both comforting and electrifying, as he led you through the dimly lit church. 

You followed Astarion down a narrow, spiralling staircase that led to the church's basement— you never dared to wander there before, it was all so new and overwhelming. The air grew cooler, and the faint scent of incense and aged wood filled your nostrils. At the bottom of the staircase, Astarion paused before a heavy wooden door.

He glanced at you, a devilish smile playing on his lips. "What you are about to see is a sanctuary, a place hidden from the world. It is where I find solace and where you might begin to understand the complexities of grace and sin." He pushed the door open, revealing a hidden sanctuary. 

The room was illuminated by soft, golden light from numerous candles placed strategically around the space. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with ancient tomes and artefacts. In the centre of the room was an ornate altar, adorned with intricate carvings and symbols that seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly glow.

Astarion led you inside, his hand never leaving yours. He guided you to the altar, his movements graceful and deliberate. "This," he said, his voice a hushed whisper, "is where I seek redemption, where I grapple with the darkness within me and strive to find the light."

Astarion's fingers intertwined with yours, his touch a comforting anchor in the swirling uncertainty. "Come, my angel," he said gently, guiding you towards the heart of the chamber.

You looked around, taking in the sacredness of the space. It was unlike any church you had ever seen—and for the time, you wondered if he was a real priest. "It's... beautiful," you whispered, your voice filled with awe.

Astarion smirked, his eyes lingering on the curve of your lips as you spoke. He stepped closer, his body pressing against yours, forcing you to lean back against the cold, hard surface of the altar. You could feel his arousal, a throbbing, insistent pressure against your thigh. "Grace," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "It's not just a matter of beauty, my angel. True grace is about balance, control, and submission. It's about becoming one with the divine, surrendering to the sacredness of all that is."

As he spoke, his hand slid up your thigh, his fingers teasingly close to the hem of your nightgown. You felt your breath catch in your throat, your nipples hardening under the weight of his gaze. "Let me teach you," he whispered, his voice now tinged with desire. "Let me show you the beauty and power of true grace."

With that, he hooked his fingers beneath the hem of the fabric, tugging it up your legs. The cold air of the sanctuary brushed against your sensitive, exposed flesh. You couldn't help but squirm, your thighs parting instinctively, aching for him to fill the emptiness between them.

Astarion's fingers trailed along the curve of your hip, then lower, over the tender skin of your inner thigh. They danced closer to the dampness between your folds, your hips arching to meet his touch. He smirked, his eyes darkened with lust. "You crave it, don't you?" he whispered, his voice a growl. 

"You crave knowledge and pleasure?" You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. Astarion chuckled softly, a wicked, predatory sound. "Then let us begin your education, my angel."

Astarion's lips trailed down your throat, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses, his tongue flicking across the sensitive skin. His hands roamed over your body, cupping your breasts, weighing them in his palms.

You gasped as his teeth nipped at your tender neck, his tongue teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Slowly, he unbuttoned the garment, letting it fall to the floor, throwing it aside to unveil your swollen, erect nipples. He leaned in, his hot breath making you shiver, before taking one of your nipples into his mouth. His eager tongue flicked over and around it, his lips sucking gently. 

You arched your back, your fingers twisting in his silver hair, tugging him closer.

Astarion's hand slipped over your thigh and up to your damp panties. He pushed them aside, letting his fingers graze over your clit, making you moan. His mouth latched onto your other nipple, the dual sensations sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

He lifted you, and Astarion's eyes were dark, hungry, as he stared at the glistening wetness between your legs.

"You are exquisite," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You are the embodiment of grace and beauty, and I am honoured to worship you." He laid you down on the cold, hard surface of the altar, your breath hitching at the suddenness of the move. Astarion's gaze never left you as he positioned himself between your thighs.

Lowering his head, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took in your arousal. He ran his tongue along the seam of your folds, making you arch off the altar. He continued to tease and taste you, flicking his tongue against your clit, eliciting a choked moan from you.

"Oh, gods," you panted, your fingers now gripping the cloth of the altar. 

“There are no gods here,” Astarion smiled against your wetness, his fingers teasingly circling your entrance. "But you taste divine," he purred, his voice muffled by your folds. He dipped a finger inside you, curling it to find your sensitive spot. You cried out as the sensation overwhelmed you, your hips bucking against his hand.

Astarion continued to lavish attention on you, his tongue and fingers working in unison to bring you to the edge of ecstasy. You writhed beneath him, your body a mass of trembling desire.

You moaned, the sensation of Astarion's mouth and fingers driving you wild. "This, this is forbidden," you whimpered, your voice hoarse.

Astarion's eyes gleamed, his mouth a wicked grin as he continued his ministrations. "The forbidden is where the true pleasure lies," he whispered, his fingers flicking against your clit in just the right spot. 

Astarion's skilled mouth and fingers worked in perfect unison, his lips and tongue worshipping you, coaxing you to the precipice before pulling you back, over and over. His grip on your hips tightened, leaving a red mark behind, his sharp teeth nipping at your inner thigh, driving you to the edge of madness.

And then, with a final, fervent thrust of his fingers and fierce suction on your clit, he sent you careening over the edge, your body shuddering, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Astarion licked the last of your juices from his lips, his eyes gleaming with victory and desire.

"You've embraced the first lesson, angel. Now let's move on to the next one." He pulled you towards him, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising, possessive kiss, his tongue seeking entry. As you fought for breath, Astarion's hands found their way to the buttons of his trousers, releasing his throbbing, erect cock.

"You'll learn to worship me, just like I worship you — to take me into your mouth and guide me deep within your sweet, tight cunt," he breathed against your lips. "You'll learn to obey, to serve, and to find joy in the power you give and receive." With a forceful tug, he pulled you to your knees, staring down at you with a mixture of lust and expectation. You gazed up at him, meeting his lustful gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. 

You looked down at Astarion's erect cock, unsure of what to do. "I-I've never... done this before," you confessed, your voice small and hesitant.

Astarion's lips curved into a wicked smile. "You'll learn, angel," he said softly, his hand cupping the back of your head, guiding you forward. "Just as you've learned to embrace the divine, you'll learn to embrace the carnal."

You tentatively reached out, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. The heat radiated from his shaft, the veins pulsing beneath your touch. You hesitated, your eyes flicking up to his, seeking guidance. Astarion placed his hand on the back of your head, gently guiding you closer, your lips brushing against the head of his cock. He gave you a nod, urging you to take him into your mouth.

Gingerly, you parted your lips, sliding your mouth over the head of his cock. A salty, musky taste filled your mouth, and you hesitated, your eyes widening.

"Don't be afraid," Astarion cooed, his voice low and soothing. "Savour it. Worship it."

With a deep breath, you took him deeper, your tongue flicking over the sensitive underside. You felt Astarion's hand tighten in your hair, his breath catching. He guided you, his fingers gently urging you to move in a rhythm that felt natural, your mouth swallowing and releasing his cock, your tongue exploring every inch. Astarion's eyes closed, his head falling back, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips.

Your hands slid up his thighs, squeezing and kneading the muscles as you continued to worship him with your mouth. Astarion's hips began to move in time with your motions, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

He was your teacher, your guide, showing you the art of submission and worship. You embraced it, your body eager to learn, to follow the path that Astarion laid before you. As you continued to pleasure him with your mouth, Astarion's grip in your hair tightened, the sound of his ragged breaths growing louder. You knew you were bringing him closer to release—and it felt… satisfying.

And with a low, guttural moan, Astarion came, his hot seed filling your mouth. Your eyes widened, unsure of how to handle it, but Astarion's hand cupped the back of your head, gently encouraging you to swallow, to accept the gift he offered you. You did as he commanded, your body learning this new form of submission, this new kind of divine pleasure. 

Astarion's eyes met yours, his face flushed with pleasure. "A beautiful first time, angel," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pulled you to your feet, his cock still glistening with your saliva. Astarion's hands gently cupped your face, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and concern. "Tonight, you've learned much," he said softly, his voice a low rumble. "It's time to rest, to let your wounded body heal and regain its strength."

He pulled you into his arms, the warmth enveloping you, his solid form a comforting presence. "We'll continue our lessons tomorrow," he promised, his lips brushing against your temple in a tender kiss as he pulled your nightgown back over your body and put his clothes back on with one hand. 

Astarion guided you from the altar, his strength evident as he carried you up the stairs to the bedroom. He laid you down gently on the soft bed, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. He adjusted the covers, tucking them around you, making sure you were comfortable. Once you were settled, Astarion straightened, his ruby eyes meeting yours. "Sleep well, Y/n," he said, his voice a seductive purr.

You couldn't help but shiver at the sound of his voice. "Thank you, Astarion," you murmured, your eyes heavy with fatigue.

He brushed a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "You are safe here," he assured you, his touch both soothing and electrifying. "Tomorrow, we will continue our journey."

Your heart fluttered at his words, the promise of more to come both thrilling and daunting. "Astarion," you said softly, catching his hand as he moved to turn away. "Why are you doing all this for me?"

He paused, his eyes darkening with a mixture of emotions. "Because, angel, you have a light within you that is rare. It is something worth protecting, worth nurturing." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. 

Your grip on his hand tightened, a sense of trust and connection forming between you. "I hope you're right," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "I am," he said confidently. "Now rest. You need your strength."

You nodded, releasing his hand reluctantly. As Astarion turned away, you couldn't help but feel a pang of longing, a desire to keep him close. "Goodnight, Astarion," you said, your voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and yearning.

He glanced back at you, his smile softening. "Goodnight, Y/n," he replied, his tone gentle. With a final lingering look, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving you alone in the darkness.

You closed your eyes, your body exhausted but content. The events of the night played over in your mind, the promise of Astarion's guidance and protection a comforting thought. As you drifted off to sleep, your dreams were filled with images of the sanctuary, of Astarion's intense gaze and his soothing touch. 

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

The morning light filtered through the small window of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the room. You stirred, the ache in your neck pulling you from sleep. As you shifted under the covers, a sharp pain shot through your neck, causing you to wince. The memories of the previous night flooded back, and the sensations that had seemed so intoxicating now felt like poison seeping through your veins.

You reached up, gingerly touching the bite marks on your neck. They were tender, the skin around them inflamed and sore. A sense of unease settled over you as you realised they weren’t healing as they should. The implications hit you like a cold wave, and a chill ran down your spine.

Unable to deny the truth any longer, you understood why: Astarion was using you. He was feeding on you, causing your strength to fade away each night, slowly but surely leading you towards death.

You forced yourself out of bed, every movement a painful reminder of what had transpired. You made your way to the small mirror hanging on the wall, examining the bite marks with a critical eye. 

Your mind raced as you tried to come to terms with the revelation. How could you have been so blind? The signs had been there all along, but you had ignored them, lulled by his charm and the sense of safety he provided. You felt a mix of anger and despair, the reality of your situation crashing down on you.

Determined not to fall into despair, you knew you had to confront Astarion. You couldn’t continue to let him feed on you, to let him drain your life away. Gathering your courage, and with a heavy heart, you made your way to the kitchen. The weight of the knife in your hand felt foreign, its cool metal sending a shiver down your spine. You hesitated for a moment, the blade glinting in the soft light of the room.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for what was to come. Gripping the knife tightly, you hid it behind your back as you made your way back to the garden. You found Astarion in the garden, standing in the shadows of the cloister as usual, reading his book. He looked up as you approached, a smile playing on his lips. "Good morning, Y/n," he greeted, his voice as smooth as ever. 

"Did you sleep well?"

You didn’t return his smile, your expression serious. "Astarion, we need to talk."

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "Oh? About what?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "About this," you said, pointing to the bite marks on your neck. "About what you’ve been doing to me."

His smile faded, replaced by a look of mild concern. "Y/n, you’re still recovering. Those wounds will heal in time."

"No, they won’t," you countered, your voice trembling with anger. "They’re not healing because you’re feeding on me. You’re draining my life away."

Astarion sighed, a hint of resignation in his eyes. "I suppose the truth was bound to come out eventually."

You felt a surge of anger. "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

He looked at you, his expression a mixture of regret and something darker. "Because I need to survive, Y/n. And you... you were convenient."

“Convenient?!” His words cut deep, a mixture of betrayal and heartbreak washing over you. "I trusted you," you whispered, your voice breaking, tears threatening to fall. "I thought you were helping me."

Astarion's gaze softened slightly, a hint of remorse in his eyes. "I am helping you, Y/n. In my own way. You’ve learned a lot, haven’t you? About the world, about yourself."

"At what cost?" you demanded, your voice rising. "My life? My humanity?" With a swift motion, you brought the knife out from behind your back, the blade catching the light as it gleamed in the dim garden. "If I have to," you said, your voice trembling with anger and resolve, "I'll use this to protect myself."

Astarion's smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of surprise. But then, to your dismay, it transformed into a knowing grin. "Ah, I see," he said, his tone mocking. "So it's come to this, has it? My, my, you really are full of surprises, my angel."

You held the knife out in front of you, your hand steady despite the turmoil raging within you. "Don't test me, Astarion," you warned, your voice firm. "I won't hesitate to use this if I have to."

He tilted his head to the side, studying you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "And what do you intend to accomplish with that little toy?" he said, his tone taunting. "Do you honestly think you can threaten me with such a thing?"

You felt a surge of frustration at his dismissive attitude, but you refused to let it shake your resolve. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect myself," you repeated, your voice growing more determined with each word.

Astarion stepped closer, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Oh, come now, Y/n," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Are you flirting with me?"

You recoiled, taken aback by his cavalier response. "This is not a joke, Astarion," you said, your grip on the knife tightening. "You’ve been using me, draining me of my life force."

He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and something darker. "And what if I have?" he said, his tone teasing. "What if I told you that you were simply a means to an end? A pawn?” He then chuckled, the sound sending a chill down your spine. 

“But… What if I told you, that along the lines, I fell in love with you?”

“You would lie, again.” you replied harshly, despite your heart pounding at the idea he could feel more for you. 

After a moment, he said, "Oh, Y/n," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into."

With a sudden movement, he lunged towards you, his hands reaching out to grab the knife. Instinct took over, and you reacted without thinking. With a swift motion, you brought the knife down, the blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.

But instead of fear or pain, Astarion only smirked, his eyes alight with amusement— you had missed him. "Well, well," he said, his voice filled with mock surprise, his grasp on your wrist thought and commanding. 

"Looks like we’ve reached an impasse."

You stared at him, the realisation sinking in. He had known all along, had anticipated your every move. You were no match for him, not when he held all the cards.

Astarion stepped back, his smirk widening into a devilish grin. "What will you do now, Y/n?" he said, his voice dripping with challenge. "Will you run? In fact, running doesn’t matter, I’ll hunt you down if I had to.”

“Because I crave you, angel.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, a mixture of fear and confusion swirling within you. Despite the pain and betrayal you felt, there was something unnerving about the way Astarion spoke, something primal and alluring that drew you in despite your better judgement.

You took a step back, the weight of the knife still heavy in your hand. "I won't let you do this to me," you said, your voice trembling with defiance. "I won't let you drain me until there's nothing left."

Astarion's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh, but my dear," he purred, taking a slow step forward, "you misunderstand. I don't intend to drain you until there's nothing left. I intend to keep you alive, to keep you by my side for eternity."

Astarion's devilish grin sent a jolt of desire through you, despite your best efforts to resist it. The primal urge to submit to his will, to give yourself over to his control, tugged at your very core. His words, laced with carnal intent, only served to stoke the flames of your deepest, darkest desires.

Your grip tightened on the knife, your heart racing as you took a step back. "I won't let you destroy me," you hissed, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. "I refuse to be nothing more than your plaything."

Astarion's eyes glinted with a wicked light as he closed the gap between you. "Oh, but my angel," he purred, his voice seductive, "you're already mine. And you'll find that there's no greater pleasure than being my plaything."

Your bodies were mere inches apart now, and you could feel the heat radiating off Astarion. The intensity of his gaze washed over you, as he reached out, gently cupping your cheek. His thumb traced the outline of your lips, causing you to shiver. "I'll make you crave it," Astarion whispered, the promise in his voice leaving no room for doubt, "the pleasure, the pain, the ecstasy. I will push you to your limits and beyond…”

“And you'll love every moment of it."

Your breath caught in your throat, the conflict between your desire to run, to resist, and your ever-growing need to surrender to his will warring within you. Astarion's fingers brushed against your neck, the heat from his touch sending a flood of sensations coursing through your body.

You could feel your resolve slipping, the knife in your hand wavering as you stared into his captivating eyes. The line between pleasure and pain blurred, and you found yourself swaying closer, your body betraying your mind, surrendering to the enchantment of the man before you.

Astarion's lips met yours in a searing kiss, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you against him. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you locked in a passionate embrace, your defences crumbling, your body responding to his with a hunger it couldn't suppress.

The knife fell from your grasp, forgotten on the ground as you explored each other's mouths, your tongues entwining, your lips clashing, a symphony of desire and submission unfolding between you.

Astarion broke the passionate kiss, his lips lingering for a moment on yours before he pulled back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as you complained about the lack of contact, your lips chasing his. "Oh, you've been very, very bad," he purred, his voice thick with wicked intent. 

"And punishment is necessary when you stray from the path of grace."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mixture of fear and desire coiling in the pit of your stomach. You couldn't deny the power he wielded, the allure of his dominance provoking an arousal that heightened your senses. As you lay there, defenceless and exposed, Astarion held you in his arms, putting you back to bed. With practised ease, he bound your hands to the headboard, the restraints tight to restrict your movements.

"You're my captive now," he declared, his deep voice a promise of both pleasure and pain. "And I'll do with you as I please." The vulnerability you felt, the loss of control, only served to amplify your arousal. Astarion's gaze raked over your body, his eyes lingering on your heaving chest, the rapid rise and fall of your breasts betraying your excitement.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Are you ready to submit to your master? Because I'm not going to stop until you're mine, body and soul."

Deep down, you knew there was no escape, and as much as the thought terrified you, a wicked and exhilarating thrill coursed through your veins. You cursed yourself for that, for the way your body betrayed you, responding to his touch despite the danger he represented. Because in truth, Astarion had already claimed you, body and soul, and now, you were his to mould, to break, to pleasure, and to torment.

You had fallen for the kind you hated, a vampire. 

The very creatures you had sworn to hunt and destroy. And Astarion had played you perfectly, manipulating your mind, making you believe that some vampires were good, that they could be trusted.

The memories of the past weeks flooded back, each touch, each word, all calculated to worm his way into your heart. You thought back to the days and nights you spent together, the gentle caresses, the tender words that seemed to reach into your very soul. All of it had been a part of his plan.

Astarion smirked as he admired you, a devious glint in his eyes. He leaned down, his lips pressing against yours in a possessive kiss, his tongue pushing against your lips, demanding entrance. And yet, you still opened it for him willingly, the taste of his saliva invading your mouth.

He pulled away, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making you shudder. His fangs elongated as he prepared to feed, the tip of one piercing your flesh. You gasped, the sharp sting of his bite quickly dissipating as your blood flowed into his greedy mouth.

"No," you whimpered, trying to deny the pleasure as Astarion's fangs elongated, the sharp points poised to pierce your flesh. "I... I don't want this." Your body bucked against the headboard, your hands straining against the silk restraints as he began to feed. The pleasure coursed through your veins, your core aching with each draw of his lips. "Astarion..." you moaned, your voice tinged with a mix of pleasure and desperation.

"You want this," he purred, his voice thick with satisfaction as he continued to feed. The room spun around you, the pleasure reaching an almost unbearable crescendo. "You crave it, just like I knew you would."

You tried to resist, your voice trembling as you replied, "I... I shouldn't enjoy this. It's wrong."

The pleasure that enveloped you as his mouth sucked your blood was indescribable, your body arching towards him, an animalistic moan escaping your lips, “Oh, yes gods.” You cried out. He sucked greedily, your blood a sweet ambrosia to his thirsty lips. The more he drank, the more intensely you felt the pleasure, the orgasmic waves crashing over you, leaving you trembling.

Then, Astarion's hands moved to his own trousers, his fingers fumbling with the button, unzipping them to reveal the thick erection straining against the fabric of his underwear. His eyes never left yours as he pulled out his cock, the head glistening with pre-cum, the veins pulsating with desire.

"Every night, I've fed on you. But, I've also found other ways to amuse myself while you slept," he confessed with a smirk, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking it with slow deliberate motions. "I've watched you, so beautiful and vulnerable in your slumber, the way your breath hitches, the way your nipples harden, the way you squirm in your sleep, all signs that even while unconscious, your body craves me."

His strokes grew more fervent, his hips bucking in small motions, the slick sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft filling the room. "And I've touched myself, imagining myself burying my cock in your tight, wet cunt, fucking you until you screamed my name."

As he stroked himself, the sounds of his hand moving up and down, slapping against his shaft, filled the room. You blushed, the realisation of how much he lusted after you, the intimate invasion of your privacy, making your pussy dampen, your desire for him growing more insatiable.

Astarion's eyes bore into yours, the hunger and lust in his gaze undeniable as he continued his lewd confession. "I've come so many times, my release tasting of you, a tangible reminder of this unending obsession I have for you. And now, angel, I want to take you, to finally—finally fill you with my cock and claim you as mine."

Astarion's voice grew thick with lust, his hunger for you apparent as he declared his intentions. "Let me see your submission, let me see how badly you need me." As you gazed up at him, he reached forward, his hand cupping your chin, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "Open for me," he demanded, and you did, your lips parting to reveal the wet, inviting depths of your mouth. 

“Good girl.” He purred with a low appreciative growl. 

Without hesitation, Astarion guided his cock to your lips, the head brushing against them before he thrust forward, burying himself in your mouth. You gasped, the taste of him, the feel of his thickness. Astarion urged you on, his grip tightening on your head as he demanded more. "Suck me, use your saliva to lube my cock."

You did as he bid, working your saliva along his length, the slick substance coating his cock as you took him deeper in your mouth. The taste, the sound, the feeling of him, heightened your arousal, your body quivering with need. Suddenly, he stopped you, pulling out of your mouth with a low growl. You gasped, your lips parting to reveal the absence of his cock. He then positioned himself between your spread thighs, his eyes locked on yours, the lust and desire burning brightly.

"No preparation," he growled, his hand guiding his cock to your entrance. "This is your punishment, remember, and I want to feel every inch of you, raw and unbridled."

His rigid member pressed insistently against your swollen, slick folds. Before you could even gasp, he thrust forward, burying himself inside you, the sudden invasion making you cry out in both pain and pleasure.

He began to fuck you relentlessly, his thrusts deep and powerful, filling you completely with each stroke. Your breasts bounced with each impact, your nipples brushing against the rough fabric of his robe, sending jolts of pleasure through your body as he stretched you.

Astarion's hands gripped your hips harder, his thrusts becoming more frenzied as his anger boiled over. "Never, Y/n. You will never be free from me," he snarled, his voice deep and guttural. "I could give you the entire world, everything you could ever desire, and you still refuse to submit to me." he hissed.

You felt the veins on his cock pulse with each thrust, the intensity of his anger amplifying the pleasure coursing through your body. Your pussy clenched around him, your body betraying your resistance as he pounded into you with a force that bordered on violence. The room was filled with the sounds of your bodies colliding, the wet smacks of skin on skin punctuating his threats.

"You may think you want freedom, but what you truly crave is my control, my dominance," Astarion growled, his words heavy with conviction. "You can't resist me, and I won't let you go, Y/n."

He leaned down, nipping at your earlobe, the sharp pain mingling with the pleasure of his cock stretching you open. It was almost as if he was branding you, claiming you, as he continued his relentless assault on your body.

Your resistance crumbled beneath the onslaught of his passion, your arousal growing with every harsh word. Your body shook, your pussy clenching around him in desperation, and you whimpered, not able to form a coherent thought or sentence. 

His vampire's kisses became more urgent, his tongue duelling with yours as his hips moved at a frenzied pace. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, each vein rubbing against your inner walls, causing sparks of pleasure to radiate through your core. "Fuck, you're so tight, angel. I'm going to fill you with my cum," he growled, his hands gripping your hips tightly, pulling you closer with each thrust.

The base of his cock rubbed against your clit, each impact bringing you closer to the edge. Your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him with every spasm. The room filled with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, wet and primal, as you fucked with a desperation born of need and lust.

You could no longer deny the truth in his words. You arched your back, your hips meeting his thrusts, your body begging for more. "Fuck, yes, Astarion. Don't ever stop," you gasped, your voice shaking with need.

"That's it, Y/n. Take it. Take my cock, your body was made for it," he growled.

Astarion leaned down, nipping at your neck, leaving tiny marks in his wake. His fangs grazed your skin, the mixture of pleasure and pain making your orgasm crest, crashing over you in waves.  Astarion's movements might be more violent, his body a tempest of raw, carnal desire as he fucked you. But the contrast between his tender kisses and the aggressive force with which he took you was arousing, a betrayal of his tender nature.

His lips left yours, a trail of wet, hot kisses making their way down your neck, the sharp points of his fangs grazing your skin as he growled, "You make me lose control, Y/n. Every time I touch you, I'm reminded of the beast I am."

You cried out, the pleasure building to a fever pitch within you. "Astarion," you pleaded, your voice shaking. "Don't stop, please... Please don't stop." At your words, his thrusts became more erratic, the violence of his movements a stark contrast to the tender, loving kisses you'd received only moments before. 

The combination of his conflicting emotions and the relentless assault on your body left you breathless, your orgasm overtaking you. The tenderness of his kisses, the violence of his thrusts, and the desperation in his voice all converged, creating a whirlwind of sensations that left you at his mercy.

The sensation of your pussy convulsing around his cock was too much for Astarion, and he roared, his cock pulsating inside you as he unleashed his hot, sticky cum deep within your quivering depths. Your bodies heaved, entwined, as the aftershocks of your orgasms continued to reverberate through you both.

Slowly, Astarion pulled out of you, his cock leaving behind a trail of cum and your fluids. He fell back, his breathing as ragged as yours, and gazed at you with an expression that was both lustful and tender—prideful, as if he could never get enough of you.

As Astarion pulled out, your body felt empty, the void left by his departure a stark reminder of the loss. Your legs trembled, and you sagged against the bed, the weight of your arousal now replaced by an aching, throbbing sensation that echoed through your body.

Your eyes observed your own form, taking note of the red marks that adorned your hips, the bruises on your wrists from the restraints, and the trickle of blood from the bite on your neck making its way down your collarbones. You looked at Astarion, this man who had brought you to such heights of pleasure, however, you saw him as a monster, a creature who revealed in the act of inflicting pain while claiming to love you.

Tears began to stream down your face, the realisation dawning that your pleasure and his desire for violence were intrinsically linked. The more he hurt you, the more he pleased you, a twisted, tortuous dance that left you aching and unsatisfied. "Why?" you managed between sniffs, your voice fraught with hurt and confusion. 

"Why do you do this to me?"

Astarion's expression softened, and he reached out to you, his hand cupping your chin as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. "Because you're mine, Y/n," he said, his voice low and filled with an unshakeable conviction. "Because you bring out the best and the worst in me, and I can't help but be drawn to the darkness you unleash within me. It's not something I can control, Y/n. I love you, and I hurt you because I can't help it."

"This is not love— You're a monster," you whispered, the tears falling faster as the full weight of your situation settled upon you. Despite the blissful orgasm, you couldn't escape the truth.

Astarion flinched at your words, a flash of hurt crossing his face. He let out a shuddering breath, his grip on your chin tightening slightly before he released you. "I know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know what I am, and I know what I've done to you. But it's because I can't lose you. Not now, not ever."

You looked at his pain expression, your heart heavy with a mixture of sorrow and fear. "I can't stay here, Astarion," you said, your voice trembling. "I can't live like this, constantly torn between love and pain." 

For a moment, you saw the conflict in his eyes, the battle between the man he wanted to be and the monster he used to be. "Y/n," he began, his voice breaking, "Please. I need you."

You shook your head, fresh tears streaming down your cheeks. "I can't," you repeated, your voice firmer this time. 

"Y/n, I... I didn't mean to hurt you. I lose myself sometimes, and you bring out a side of me that's... feral, wild, and I can't control it."

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your heart. You felt a mixture of fear and confusion, your desire for him warring with the pain he had unintentionally caused.

Astarion's hand gently brushed against your cheek, his touch tender now, his tone filled with remorse. "Please forgive me. I don't want to hurt you, Y/n. I promise, I'll find a way to control myself."

Tears streamed down your face as the realisation of your situation sank in. "I… I don't want to stay," you whispered, your voice fraught with hurt and confusion. The weight of your decision pressed heavily on your heart, but you knew it was the right choice for your own sanity and well-being.

Astarion's face contorted with a mixture of pain and resignation. His hand lingered for a moment, trembling slightly, before he reluctantly reached for the knot that restrained your wrist. With careful precision, he untied it, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As the restraint fell away, you rubbed your wrist, feeling a sense of freedom mingled with an aching sense of loss. Astarion's eyes met yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them. "If you truly wish to leave," he said, his voice low and heavy with regret, "then I won't stop you. But let me take care of you one last night. Allow me to tend to your wounds, and ensure you're well enough to go."

You hesitated, the conflict within you raging. Despite everything, a part of you still longed for his touch, for the care he had shown amidst the darkness. Finally, you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Alright. One last night."

Astarion's shoulders relaxed slightly, a flicker of relief in his wine eyes. He guided you gently to the bed, his touch tender and careful. He helped you lie down, adjusting the covers around you with a practised ease. The silk sheets felt cool against your heated skin, a soothing contrast to the turmoil within.

He brushed a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek before he turned away to gather the supplies needed to tend to your bite wounds. You watched him, your heart heavy with a mixture of sorrow and longing. Despite the pain he had caused, there was a part of you that couldn't help but care for him.

You felt a pang of sadness, an ache that went beyond the physical pain of your wounds. 

You had spent so much time with Astarion, sharing moments that were as mundane as they were precious—reading together, talking late into the night, tending to the garden. The thought of leaving him, of abandoning him back to his loneliness, was almost unbearable.

He moved with grace, his touch gentle and precise as he cleaned and dressed the marks on your neck. Each movement seemed filled with an unspoken apology, a silent plea for forgiveness. When he finished, he looked down at you, his eyes softening. "Sleep well, angel," he murmured, his voice a seductive purr. 

"I'll be here if you need anything."

As he turned to leave, a sudden wave of loneliness washed over you. You reached out, your voice trembling. 

"Astarion, wait."

He paused, turning back to face you, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Yes?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Will you stay with me? Just for tonight?"

Astarion's eyes widened slightly, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "After everything... are you sure you want me to stay?"

You nodded, your eyes filled with unshed tears. "I don't want to leave you alone," you said softly. "Not tonight."

For a moment, Astarion seemed at a loss for words. Then he moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. He reached out, taking your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You don't know what this means to me."

He looked deeply into your eyes, his gaze softening. Without a word, he gently moved closer, sliding his arms around you with a tenderness that belied his strength. Slowly, he drew you into his embrace, his touch warm and reassuring. You felt his chest rise and fall with each breath, a steady rhythm that began to calm your racing heart. His nose pressed against your hair, and you felt the soft caress of his breath as he exhaled. 

"Shhh," he whispered, his voice a soothing murmur. "It's alright. Just relax. I'm here."

You nestled into his arms, the tension in your body gradually dissipating. Astarion's presence enveloped. His hand gently stroked your back in slow, comforting circles, and you felt the weight of his chin resting lightly on top of your head. "Close your eyes," he whispered, his voice a lullaby in the quiet room. 

"Let go of your worries, just for tonight."

You obeyed, your eyelids growing heavy. The scent of him, a mix of bergamot and something uniquely him, filled your senses, and you found yourself drifting closer to sleep. His other hand came up to cradle your head, his fingers threading through your hair in a gentle, repetitive motion.

"I'll be right here when you wake up," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I promise."

His words, filled with a sincerity that you had rarely heard from him, wrapped around your heart. You felt the last of your resistance melting away as sleep began to take hold. In his arms, you felt a sense of safety and warmth that you hadn't known you needed until you met him.

As you drifted into slumber, Astarion continued to hold you close, his presence a comforting anchor in the night. His nose remained pressed against your hair, and his steady breaths lulled you deeper into sleep. 

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

I'll be right here when you wake up.

I promise.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the cold emptiness beside you. The space where Astarion had been was now vacant, the bed's sheets cool to the touch. It was another lie, another illusion of safety and care shattered by the harsh reality of his absence. You sighed, a mixture of sadness and resignation settling over you. Part of you had hoped that perhaps he would be there, making a desperate attempt to change your mind, to convince you to stay. But the room was silent, and Astarion was nowhere to be seen.

You gathered your things slowly, your movements heavy with the weight of disappointment. Each item you packed felt like a small piece of your heart being torn away. You wandered through the church, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The place felt even more desolate than before, the shadows longer and the silence deeper. You searched for him, a flicker of hope driving you to check every corner, every hidden space.

But Astarion was gone. There was no trace of him, no sign that he had ever been there.

Days passed in a blur of longing and despair. You found yourself lingering, unable to leave the place that had become a twisted sanctuary. Each day you waited, hoping against hope that he would return, that he would explain, that he would ask you to stay. But the days turned into nights, and Astarion never came back.

You stayed a couple of days, the church becoming a prison of your own making. You tended to the garden, read the books on the shelves, and kept the place as tidy as you could, as if maintaining it would somehow bring him back. But each sunset brought only more loneliness, and each sunrise reminded you of his absence.

Finally, with a heavy heart, you came to the painful realisation that you would never see him again. Astarion had vanished, leaving behind only memories and unanswered questions. The love you had shared, however twisted and complex, was now just a ghost haunting the empty church.

With a final, sorrowful glance around the place that had been your refuge, you gathered the last of your belongings and walked out into the night. And as you took your first steps away from the church, you carried with you the bittersweet memory of a love that could never be, and the knowledge that because of him you had survived, even if it meant leaving a part of yourself behind.

As you stepped out into the night, a sense of unease washed over you, prickling at the back of your mind like a warning. Your hunter instincts surged to life, urging you to pay attention, to be alert. The forest seemed to whisper to you, a cacophony of voices urging you to act, to help.

Astarion. 

Without a moment's hesitation, you raced through the darkened woods, your heart pounding in your chest. The urgency of the situation fueled your movements, driving you forward with a singular purpose. Images of worst-case scenarios flashed through your mind, each more horrifying than the last.

As you drew closer, the putrid scent of death and blood assaulted your senses, causing your stomach to churn with nausea. Your steps faltered for a moment, dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. But you pushed forward, steeling yourself for whatever lay ahead.

And then, you saw him.

Astarion lay on the ground, his body battered and bloody, surrounded by the lifeless corpses of other vampires. The sight made your heart ache with a mixture of fear and sorrow. Despite everything, despite the pain and betrayal, you couldn't bear to see him like this.

Without a second thought, you rushed to his side, dropping to your knees beside him. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale and clammy to the touch. You gently cradled his head in your arms, your fingers trembling as you assessed his injuries. "Astarion," you whispered, your voice filled with concern. 

"Can you hear me? What happened?"

He stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was pain and confusion in his gaze, but also a glimmer of relief at seeing you there.

"Y/n, my sweet angel" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I didn't think... you'd come."

You shook your head, your heart breaking at the vulnerability in his voice. "Sorry it took me a while, but I heard you," you said softly. 

A weak chuckle escaped Astarion's lips, his voice strained with pain. "Before you leave," he said, a hint of humour lacing his words, "I thought I should take care of those pesky vampires that were threatening the village. Wouldn't want you to leave thinking I'm not capable of protecting you, now would we?"

His attempt at levity brought tears to your eyes, and you blinked them away, your vision blurred with emotion. In that moment, you realised the truth—that he had done all of this for you. Despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal, he had risked his life to keep you safe.

The realisation hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you reeling with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. How could you have been so blind, so quick to judge him without understanding the depth of his feelings?

As you looked into his eyes, you saw the truth reflected back at you—a love that transcends boundaries and defied logic. In that moment, you knew that you couldn't just walk away, not when there was still so much left unsaid between you. "I'm proud of you, Astarion," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. 

"I always have been."

He smiled weakly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thank you, Y/n," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

“Don’t thank me yet,” Taking a deep breath, you helped Astarion to his feet, one arm around his waist for support, the other cradling his head. You could feel the heat emanating from his body, the sharp sting of pain etched across his features.

Despite his weakened state, he leaned on you, allowing you to guide him back toward the church. The sun was setting, painting the sky with hues of orange and gold, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that enveloped the village. His steps were slow and uncertain, each breath laboured, yet he pressed onward, driven by a will that was as unyielding as the love he bore for you. You couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for the man who, despite his flaws, never faltered in his devotion to you.

The journey back to the church felt like an eternity, each step a struggle against the darkness that threatened to engulf you both. But you refused to falter, refused to let Astarion succumb to his injuries.

Finally, you reached the safety of the church, its walls a sanctuary against the horrors of the night. With careful hands, you guided Astarion to the very same bed he had welcomed you a while ago. 

Now layed down, Astarion watched you with a mixture of gratitude and awe. "I never imagined the day when I would be at the mercy of a human," he admitted, his voice tinged with irony. But you didn’t laugh. 

With trembling hands, you gingerly began to tend to Astarion's wounds. Each movement was a delicate dance between fear and compassion, the weight of his suffering pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. The sight of him in pain pierced your heart like a dagger, and you fought to keep your composure, to stave off the overwhelming tide of despair threatening to consume you.

As you worked, your mind raced with a cacophony of emotions—grief, anger, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. How could you, a mere mortal, hope to heal the wounds of a creature as ancient and powerful as Astarion? Yet, despite the odds stacked against you, you couldn't bear to stand idly by while he suffered. 

Astarion watched you with a mixture of gratitude and concern, his wine eyes filled with unspoken words. He reached out to you, his touch gentle against your skin, a silent reassurance in the midst of chaos. "Shh, Y/n," he murmured, his voice smooth and soothing like velvet. "It's all right. You’re doing great angel."

His words offered little comfort, but you appreciated the gesture nonetheless. With a deep breath, you focused on the task at hand, pushing aside your own emotions as you worked to ease his pain. Each touch, each bandage applied with painstaking care, was a silent prayer for his recovery, a desperate plea to whatever gods might be listening to spare him from further suffering.

Astarion watched you, his eyes filled with anguish and concern. Feeling your turmoil, he reached out to take your hand, his voice a soothing murmur as he spoke. "Y/n, listen to me. I haven't been truly honest with you. When I spoke of my sins, the sins of the flesh, that's what I meant."

His words hit you like a hammer, and for a moment, you couldn't find your voice. Astarion continued, his confession laced with pain and regret. "Most of my life, I was used. A pawn in a game, my body a tool to lure others into a trap. My master, the one who made me into what I am, he used me for his own wicked purposes. And when he died, I came here, to take penance."

He looked up at the ceiling, the pain etched in every line of his face. "Every day, the holy ground is a punishment for me, a constant reminder of my past. But being here, it's my way of making amends. And you... you showed me something I never thought I'd find. I know I'm not perfect, Y/n. I've made mistakes, many of them, and my past is one I can't escape. But I want to be better for you. I want to start anew."

You listened to Astarion's confession in stunned silence, the weight of his words sinking deep into your heart. Anger flared within you, a fiery inferno that threatened to consume you from the inside out. How could anyone be so callous, so cruel as to use another person in such a way? The thought of Astarion's past filled you with a righteous fury, a burning desire for justice that pulsed through your veins like wildfire.

But as he continued to speak, his voice tinged with regret and remorse, you felt the anger give way to something else—a sense of empathy, of understanding. Astarion had never known affection, had never experienced the simple joys of human connection. His life had been one of pain and isolation, a constant battle against the darkness that threatened to consume him.

"When you came here," he confessed, his voice soft and vulnerable, "I didn't know what to make of it. I had never felt anything like it before—the warmth, the kindness, the affection. It was overwhelming, and at some point, I think I fell in love."

His words hung in the air like a heavy fog, the weight of their meaning pressing down on you like a burden too heavy to bear. You had never imagined that your presence could have such an effect on him, that your simple acts of kindness could inspire such profound emotions.

"But I didn't know how to express it," Astarion continued, his voice filled with regret. "I was so caught up in my own pain, my own anger, that when you threatened to leave, it... it turned into something else. Something ugly.  I lashed out at the only thing I could control—you."

Tears welled up in your eyes, the conflicting emotions warring within you like a stormy sea. On one hand, you felt a deep sense of sadness for the pain that Astarion had endured, for the loneliness that had plagued him for so long. But on the other hand, you couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal, of hurt and anger at the thought that he had lashed out at you in his moment of weakness.

"I'm sorry, Y/n," Astarion whispered, his voice filled with remorse. "I know I've hurt you, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But please... please understand that I never meant to cause you pain. I love you, Y/n, and I would do anything to make things right between us."

Tears cascaded down your cheeks in a torrent, a floodgate of emotions unleashed by Astarion's heartfelt confession. His words were a symphony of pain and longing, each syllable carrying the weight of his regrets and the depth of his love. You couldn't help but be moved by the raw vulnerability he laid bare before you, his soul laid bare like an open book, pleading for understanding and forgiveness.

As his voice trembled with emotion, you felt your own resolve waver, the walls you had erected around your heart crumbling in the face of his sincerity. "I love you too, Astarion," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, yet weighted with a lifetime of unspoken truths. "I don't want you to suffer for something that wasn't your fault. You deserve happiness, just like anyone else."

Silently, Astarion's hand, weakened by his wounds, reached for your cheek, his touch gentle and tender against your skin. With a soft sigh, he guided you towards him, you felt the gentle pressure of his lips against yours, a tender caress that said more than words ever could. His kiss was a balm for your wounded soul, and you knew he felt the same about yours. 

"You have to make me a vampire," you whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and resolve. "We'll leave this church, and we'll build a new life together. We'll find a place where we can be happy."

Astarion's eyes, clouded with a mixture of relief and love, met yours. His lips curved into a weak smile that was both tender and heart-wrenching. It seemed as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and in its place, there was a joy that shone forth from the depths of his very being.

"Yes, my love, I would love that," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. As his lips lingered on yours, you felt a sense of belonging wash over you, a sense of fulfilment that you had longed for all your life. For that brief, fleeting moment, you were no longer alone - you were one, united by a love that defied all logic and reason.

As you surrendered to the bliss of his kiss, you knew that in the embrace of his love, you had found your home, your sanctuary. 

Your salvation.

❛ masterlist ⋅ ao3 ❜

[storiesoflilies]

18+ // explicit smut // MDNI

gladiator!toji fought with all the wrath of the gods in the arena to ensure his victory, because victory meant he would live for the night and return to his home, his heart.

“shh, my love,” toji groaned lowly, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, his veined forearm across her breasts. “the others will hear us.”

she gasped loudly, and he shoved two of his fingers into her mouth to silence her moans. toji bent his legs, bucking his muscled thighs to drive his cock deeper into her plush wetness, eliciting sweet, muffled whines from her. she arched her back into his broad chest, reaching a hand behind to grasp his midnight locks between her fingers, the strands still caked with the blood of his enemies.

her slick trickled down his heavy balls as they slapped against her, as she lay atop his body – a body that was art, a tanned marble statue crafted by the gods themselves. he fondled her nipple, teasing with featherlight pinches around the hardened bud, and she drooled against his fingers.

“i kill for you,” toji huffed into the curve of her ear, gripping and squeezing her breast. “everyday i kill for you, for this. so i can come back to this tight, sweet pussy of yours every night.”

in these moments, they were fueled only by fire and lust, driven to chase their pleasure from each other. she whined again, sloppily sucking on his fingers, and toji growled, pounding into her with renewed vigor. he reached down to rub quick circles on her clit, feeling her clench and pulse around his thick cock.

toji moaned, his breaths hot and heavy against her neck. “let go for me. give me what i fought for, my prize.”

and let go she did, her head tipped back in pure white ecstasy as her legs and pussy shook from the sheer force of her orgasm. her juices squirted and splashed messily against his calves and dirtied mattress, and she couldn’t help the moans escaping her lips. toji continued to thrust into her, both his calloused hands on her hips as his balls tightened.

“cum, my gladiator,” she purred, pussy squelching lewdly as she licked his strong jawline.

toji groaned again, his hips stuttering as he shoved himself as far into her as he could go, thick, hot ropes of his cum filling her up. he’d plant a piece of himself deep inside her, where he could stay for a while in the sanctuary that was her body and soul.

until the next night came.

©storiesoflilies 2024, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Kinktober Day 2 - Caning

Cardinal Primo x GN!Reader

Cardinal Primo is always far too hard on himself, but sometimes he needs a break. Sometimes he needs you to be hard on him, too.

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 4.5k.

Reading Time: 18 min.

Warnings: blood, caning, dom/sub dynamic, flagellation, impact play, masturbation, praise kink, self-flagellation,

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

Recommended listening: Take Me Back To Eden - Sleep Token

The first sound to greet you as you stepped into the dimly lit chapel was a series of grunts, echoing off the cold stone walls and reverberating deep within your ears. The heavy breaths that followed were punctuated by sharp intakes, each noise tinged with an unmistakable pain that clawed at your heart.

Curiosity propelled you forward, your head peeking around the corner. The sight that met your gaze was both haunting and mesmerising. Cardinal Primo knelt on the unforgiving stone floor, his torso bare and glistening with sweat. His left hand propped him up, trembling under the weight of his self-imposed penance. Blood trickled from open welts marring his back, testament to the punishment inflicted by the cane clutched tightly in his right hand—a stark symbol of self-flagellation.

Sweat beaded on his brow, cascading down his face in rivulets that blurred the lines of his paints, giving the impression of black tears streaking down his skin. Each mark on his back spoke volumes of his struggle; you could easily believe he had shed real tears at some point, the rawness of his wounds suggesting a depth of suffering that went beyond the physical.

Primo had always been relentlessly hard on himself, a man who believed he must bear the weight of his mistakes alone. The Ministry, a construct of mercy rather than judgment, had never mandated such punishments. Yet, remnants of a past steeped in the shadows of the False God lingered, twisting the beliefs of those who still sought redemption through pain. For Primo, these rituals had become a cruel necessity, a ritual of remorse that broke your heart each time you bore witness.

He straightened his posture, exhaling a shaky breath as he swung the cane with renewed vigour, allowing it to strike his body with brutal force. Another grunt escaped him, the impact driving him forward into that same three-pointed stance, a position of both agony and resolve. It was a strange paradox—the desperate sounds he made stirred something within you, igniting a heat that spread through your core, awakening desires you never knew existed. The sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, mingled with the crimson droplets of blood, created a visceral tableau that left you breathless and yearning.

You couldn’t help but sigh, the sound cutting through the air like a whisper of acknowledgment. His gaze snapped to you, wide and startled. “I… didn’t hear you… come in,” he panted, his breaths labored, each word a testament to the toll of his actions.

“I’m not surprised,” you replied, trying to keep your tone lighthearted, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere. You stepped closer and took a seat in the pew just behind him, granting yourself a front-row seat to his torment. “With all that noise you were making, I can hardly believe I’m the only one who dared to step inside to witness this.”

As you settled into the pew, the air grew heavy with tension, each breath you took charged with an unspoken electricity. Cardinal Primo steadied himself, the grip on his cane tightening as he drew a deep breath, a moment of silence hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Then, with a swift, deliberate motion, he swung the cane again, the sound of wood connecting with skin echoing through the chapel. The sharp crack resonated like a thunderclap, followed by a low grunt that escaped his lips, the force of the impact causing him to falter forward once more. The sight was visceral, his body wracked with the effort, and your heart raced at the rawness of it all.

Each strike seemed to peel back layers of his stoicism, revealing a deeper pain that resonated within you. You watched as the blood welled up from the new wound, trickling down his back in crimson rivulets, contrasting starkly against his pale skin. The visceral act stirred something primal within you, a mix of empathy and an inexplicable desire that made your breath hitch.

He straightened again, sweat glistening on his brow, and for a moment, your eyes locked. In that fleeting connection, you sensed the weight of his struggles, the burden he bore not just for himself but for the ideals he represented. You wanted to reach out, to pull him from this cycle of self-destruction, but the intensity of the moment held you captive.

Primo inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed sea. It was then you realized that each swing of the cane wasn’t merely a punishment; it was a desperate plea for absolution, a yearning for a release that seemed perpetually out of reach. And yet, watching him, you felt a strange awakening, an urge to understand the depths of his suffering, to explore the fine line between pain and redemption that he walked so precariously.

“Why do you do this?” you finally dared to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as though breaking the silence would shatter the fragile spell that had ensnared you both.

Primo had spent the morning in the council chambers of the Ministry, where heated debates raged over the direction the faith should take. He had been tasked with mediating discussions between factions that were increasingly at odds, each side clinging fiercely to their interpretations of doctrine. The weight of the responsibility bore heavily on him, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon his shoulders.

That day, in the midst of the arguments, a slip of his tongue had ignited a fierce backlash. He had misquoted a sacred text, an error that had caused an uproar among the devout. Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire, and he felt the gaze of his peers turn cold, their judgment piercing through him. The feeling of failure washed over him, drowning out the voices of support that tried to remind him of his worth.

The aftermath of the meeting lingered in his mind like a dark cloud. He replayed the moment over and over, consumed by shame. To him, the only way to atone for his perceived failure was to seek redemption through pain. It was a twisted form of penance, one he believed would appease the higher powers he sought to serve, including the vengeful shadows of his own fears and doubts.

In his mind, he thought of Satan as a force of truth, a harsh but necessary guide. To stand before such a power without scars seemed unfathomable. So, in a desperate attempt to cleanse himself of the perceived sin of incompetence, he turned to self-flagellation, believing that suffering would somehow restore his honor and reaffirm his commitment to the faith.

As you watched him now, each strike of the cane was both a physical act and a spiritual one—a ritual designed to wash away the stain of his mistake and prove his worthiness, even if it meant courting the darkness he feared. In that moment, you understood that his desire for redemption was not just for the sake of the Ministry but for his own fractured spirit, striving to reclaim a sense of purpose in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

You nodded in understanding as he recounted the events that had pushed him to this desperate act of penance. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and you felt the tension crackle between you. The next swing of the cane sliced through the silence, the sharp crack reverberating against the stone walls, followed by a grunt that echoed with both pain and resolve.

Your thighs tightened.

You seized the moment to speak, your voice steady yet soft, cutting through the haze of his suffering. “The Dark Lord is more merciful than this,” you said, letting your words sink in. “Suffering is for the followers of the light, the children of the False God. And, He’d want you to feel the pleasure in the pain, at least.”

Primo paused, the cane hanging limply at his side, his breath hitching as he absorbed your words. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, battling with the internal struggle that raged within him. The idea seemed foreign, almost blasphemous, yet a part of him hesitated, yearning for a glimmer of relief from the relentless cycle of pain he had subjected himself to.

“Pleasure?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with doubt. “How can I indulge in anything but punishment when I’ve failed?”

You leaned forward slightly, your eyes locking onto his, willing him to see the truth in your perspective. “Redemption doesn’t solely lie in pain, Primo. It’s in the balance, in embracing both light and dark. The Dark Lord doesn’t seek to break you; He seeks to mold you. Embracing pleasure doesn’t diminish your devotion—it enhances it, allowing you to rise stronger from your trials.”

As the words left your lips, you noticed a subtle shift in his posture. The rigidness began to melt away, if only slightly, as the weight of his self-imposed burden wavered under the promise of something more. In that moment, you saw the flicker of hope ignite in his eyes, a yearning to reclaim not just his honour, but the joy of living, even amidst the shadows.

Almost quietly, and with a small smile, he responded, “I should have known you’d come for your pound of flesh.” His gaze lingered on you, a mixture of challenge and vulnerability in his eyes. The statement hung in the air, charged with a tension that sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his gaze, a slow smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Perhaps I have,” you replied, your voice low and sultry, deliberately teasing the edge of his discomfort. You stood and walked over to him, hooking your index finger below his chin. His eyes were wide, pupils blown out. He looked somehow innocent in all of this. “Perhaps I’ve been sent here to do His bidding.”

“It would be a great pleasure to be punished by you.”

He placed the cane in both of his hands and held it up to you, like a knight offering a sword to his queen. The cane trembled slightly in his hands as he offered it to you, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of reverence and desire. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no words came—only the quiet, charged silence between you. Trust radiated from him, unspoken yet undeniable, but instead of taking the cane, you chose a different path.

Slowly, deliberately, you sank to your knees before him, the movement commanding his attention. His breath hitched as he watched, every inch of you now level with the vulnerability he tried so hard to suppress. The tension between you was electric, a palpable pulse of need and anticipation. You let your hand slide behind his neck, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips sending a jolt through you both.

Without breaking eye contact, you pulled him toward you, and the kiss that followed was anything but gentle. It was desperate, hungry, and raw—a collision of longing and pent-up emotion that neither of you could hold back any longer. His lips crashed against yours, warm and insistent, as if he were trying to lose himself in the intensity of the moment, seeking solace in the heat of your touch.

A soft groan escaped him as your mouths moved together, your fingers tangling in his damp hair. His hands, once so steady, gripped your arms with a fervor that matched the wild beat of his heart. You could feel the tension in his body, every muscle taut as though he were on the verge of breaking. His kiss was filled with everything he had been holding back—months, perhaps years, of isolation, of denying himself any comfort beyond the sting of his cane.

You deepened the kiss, the passion between you intensifying as you pressed closer. His breath came in ragged gasps between kisses, each one more desperate than the last, as if he were afraid to let go, afraid that the moment would slip through his fingers if he didn’t cling to it. To you.

Your bodies moved in sync, lips parting, tongues intertwining, with the Cardinal fully submitting to you with nary a fight left in him. The taste of him—sweat, salt, and something deeper, more primal—ignited a fire in you, your desire burning hotter with every passing second. He kissed you like you were his salvation, his escape from the torment he inflicted upon himself.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, your foreheads pressed together as the intensity of what had just passed settled between you. His chest rose and fell heavily, and his eyes, dark with need, searched yours, pleading for something more than what his punishment could offer. “Let me make you feel good,” you panted, resting your forehead against his. “Let me help you.”

“Y-yes,” Primo stammered. The feelings in his chest were threatening to overwhelm him if he didn’t keep himself in check.

You locked your lips to his again, allowing the kiss to return to the same heat it was before. As your tongue entered his mouth, you travelled your hand down from his neck, across the sweaty expanse of his hairy chest and soft stomach, and onto his clothed crotch, earning a gasp from his lips as you made contact. Gently, you began to stroke over him, his limp cock beginning to stand to attention at your touch. You were like a magician with the way you touched him, playing with the right spots to make it feel so fucking good so early on. He was wrapped around your little finger, his body answered only your call. Tonight, you were going to help him in more ways than one.

Flagellation had never felt like this before, neither had pleasure, if Primo was being honest. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but the dull humming of pain on his back mixed with your hand on his core had given him a whole new religious experience. Satan’s wrath at his back, His mercy at his front - and it felt incredible. He never wanted it to stop.

You broke the kiss once more, making him whine in response. “Do you still want me to cane you?”

“Sathanas - please. Please.”

Primo’s begging was delicious. You let your fingers trail along the waistband of his trousers, teasing the skin beneath, but you didn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet. “You’ll get your punishment,” you promised, your voice dark with promise. “But tonight, Primo, it’s going to feel like a blessing.”

His breath caught, his body trembling at the weight of your words, and you could see it in his eyes—he was ready to be yours, to give in to the dark, twisted pleasure that only you could provide.

Slowly, you trailed your hand down from his waistband, brushing your fingers over the growing hardness between his legs. He gasped, his hips bucking slightly into your touch, but you kept your movements slow and deliberate, keeping him teetering on the edge of pleasure without giving him the release he so desperately craved.

“Tell me, Primo,” you murmured, your fingers ghosting over his cock in featherlight strokes. “Do you want more pain? Or more pleasure?” You kissed the edge of his jaw as you spoke, your breath hot against his skin, every word a temptation he couldn’t resist.

His eyes fluttered shut as a low moan escaped him, the mix of pain from his earlier flagellation and the pleasure of your touch driving him to the brink. “Both,” he finally breathed, his voice trembling. “I need both.”

You smiled against his skin, satisfied with his answer. “Good,” you whispered, before pulling back slightly, your eyes locking onto his. “Then let’s begin.”

You reached for the cane, still gripped in his trembling hands, and pried it from his grasp, your fingers brushing his as you took it from him. His eyes followed your movements, wide and filled with anticipation, as you stood before him, the wooden cane held firmly in your hand.

“Remove your trousers,” you commanded, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Primo obliged immediately, scrambling off the floor to obey you as quickly as possible. He was fully hard now, cock red and aching, and pleading to be touched once more. The sight of it made your mouth water.

“Touch yourself,” you continued, “slowly.”

Primo spat in his hand and wrapped it around his head, softy and slowly twisting as he began to fuck himself in front of you. He was needy. Desperate. Wanting.

You raised the cane slightly and brought it down in a swift, sharp strike against his thigh—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him gasp. The combination of the pain and his touch made his entire body tremble, the contrast pushing him into a deeper submission.

His moan was low, guttural, and you could tell that he was already starting to lose himself in the mix of pleasure and pain. “Do you like that?” you asked, your voice teasing, as you leaned down to brush your lips against his.

“Yes,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and breathless. “More… please…”

You smiled against his mouth and delivered another, harder strike, this time to his other thigh. His reaction was immediate, his back arching as he let out a strangled cry, the cane in your hand and the desire in your touch working together to pull him deeper into submission.

“Good boy,” you purred, pressing your palm harder against his now throbbing cock as a reward. “You’re doing so well.”

His entire body seemed to melt at your words, his mind surrendering completely to your control. The pain, the pleasure—it all blurred together for him now, each sensation heightened by the other, until he was nothing but a trembling mess beneath you.

“Where do you want the pain now, Primo?”

“B-back. My back.”

You grinned at his trembling voice, watching as he begged for more, his body a quivering mass of need and submission. His cock was slick with his own spit, his hand slowly twisting and stroking, but the desperation in his eyes told you he was aching for something more—something only you could give him.

With a teasing hum, you moved behind him, the cane still firmly gripped in your hand. His back was already marked with the remnants of his self-inflicted punishment, the red welts standing out against his pale skin, but you knew he craved your touch—the combination of pain and pleasure only you could deliver.

“You want the pain on your back, do you?” you purred, running the tip of the cane lightly over his shoulders. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, his body quivering with anticipation. “Are you sure, Primo? I can make it hurt so good, but you have to ask for it.”

“Please,” he gasped, his voice ragged. “P-please, punish me.”

The sound of him begging for it, so willing, so eager, made your heart race. You raised the cane, hesitating for just a moment to let him feel the anticipation, before bringing it down sharply across his shoulders. His body jolted, a guttural moan escaping his lips as the pain radiated through him, but you could tell by the way he arched into the blow that he wanted—no, needed—more.

Without giving him a chance to recover, you brought the cane down again, striking a bit harder this time, the sound of the impact echoing in the chapel. His back arched once more, his hand faltering for just a moment on his cock as the pain overwhelmed him.

“You take it so well,” you cooed, stepping closer to press your body against his. You let your free hand trail over his heated skin, feeling the way his muscles quivered beneath your fingertips. “Do you want more, Primo?”

“Yes,” he groaned, his voice shaking. “More… please…”

You delivered another strike, the force sending a tremor through his entire body. His back was now a canvas of red, each mark a testament to his submission, and yet he still begged for more.

“Keep touching yourself,” you ordered, your voice firm but seductive. “Don’t stop. Go faster.”

He obeyed, his hand moving over his cock in quick, desperate strokes as you continued to bring the cane down on his back, each blow making him cry out in a perfect blend of pain and pleasure. His moans grew louder, more frantic, and you could see that he was close, his body trembling on the edge of release.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You can come, Primo, but only when I tell you. Understand?”

“Yes,” he gasped, his voice strained. “Please… let me come…”

You smiled wickedly, your hand ghosting over the welts on his back before delivering one final, hard strike. His entire body jolted forward, hips now doing most of the work as continued to fuck his hand as hard as he needed, a choked cry escaping him when he tried to hold back, his cock throbbing in his hand.

“Not yet,” you teased, your voice dripping with control. “Not until I say.”

He whimpered beneath you, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, but he obeyed, desperate for your approval, desperate for the release only you could grant.

“You were doing this for the Dark Lord’s forgiveness, weren’t you, Cardinal?” You taunted from behind as you landed another painful blow. You watched as the blood bloomed from the fresh wound.

“Y-yes!”

“Keep fucking that hand, Cardinal, but beg for His forgiveness. Beg Satan and He might grand you pleasure.”

Primo gasped, the sting of the blow igniting a fire within him. “Satan,” he cried out, his voice trembling with desperation. “I—I beg for Your f-forgiveness! I’ve sinned - fuck! And I seek Your mercy. Please… gra-ant me pleasure in my suffering!”

Each word spilled from his lips with a fervour that only deepened his submission, the mix of pain and longing pushing him further into the depths of his desire. “I’ll do any… anything for Your grace,” he continued, his hand moving faster against his cock. “Mmmm… fucking Hell! Please, please, please, let me f-feel Your love through this pain!”

His voice grew more frantic with each plea, the raw vulnerability of his words sending shivers through him. He was completely lost, teetering on the edge, surrendering himself to the dark power he both feared and craved.

You felt a tingling in your body, all over it, in fact. You could feel a breath shoot down your spine from your ear, as if someone had just whispered into it. The smell of sulfur filled your nostrils and left you convinced. You leaned down again, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “He has granted you his mercy. come for us, Primo,” you whispered, your voice a soft command, then a final blow to his back.

With a guttural moan, Primo finally let go, his body convulsing with the intensity of his orgasm as he spilled onto the stone floor, pooling just in front of his knees, his back arching beneath the weight of the pleasure and pain you had given him. He gasped for air, his entire body shaking as he rode the wave of his release, his mind and body completely yours.

You smiled down at him, watching as he collapsed to the floor, spent and trembling, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice soothing now as you knelt beside him, running your fingers gently over his sweat-slicked hair. “You did so well.”

Primo’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he looked at you with something close to reverence. He had given himself over to you completely, and you had taken him to the edge and back again. Now, he was yours—body and soul.

As you helped Primo to his feet, he leaned against you, his body still trembling from the intensity of what had just transpired. You helped him back into his trousers - not before using the pant leg to clean up his mess, which earned you a weakened chuckle from him. The chapel, with its cold stone walls, faded from your mind as you guided him outside, the night air wrapping around you both like a comforting embrace, swirling around his wounds and making him hiss and tense in response.

Once you reached your place, you settled him gently onto the soft bed, the contrast of the plush sheets against his still-sensitized skin making him shiver. You took a moment to admire him—his body marked with red welts, a testament to his surrender and bravery. “You did so well tonight, Cardinal,” you said softly, your voice filled with warmth. “You were incredible.”

Primo looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability, and you could see how much your praise meant to him. You moved to gather some supplies—a damp cloth, antiseptic, and a soothing ointment—to care for his wounds. As you returned, you knelt beside the bed, taking a moment to let your fingers gently trace the marks on his back.

“Every scar tells a story,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “And tonight, you showed just how strong you are. I’m proud of you for getting His forgiveness, but I don’t want you to do this again, please. Not as a punishment. I’ll draw blood from you if you want but nothing justifies this as a genuine punishment.”

He sighed softly, the tension in his body beginning to ease as you cleaned the wounds with gentle, careful movements. Each brush of your fingers against his skin elicited soft gasps from him, and you could see the way he surrendered to your touch, allowing you to take care of him.

“Such a good boy,” you praised again, applying the ointment with tenderness.

Primo’s cheeks flushed at your words, and you couldn’t help but smile. He seemed to glow under your attention, his vulnerabilities transforming into strengths. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” you added, leaning closer to press a soft kiss on his shoulder. “Inside and out.”

As you finished tending to his wounds, you took a moment to let your hands linger on his skin, relishing the connection between you. “You deserve to feel safe, to be cared for,” you whispered, your gaze steady on his. “And I’ll always be here to take care of you, Primo.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. “Thank you,” he breathed, his voice a soft whisper filled with emotion. “For everything.”

You smiled at him, feeling a swell of warmth in your chest. “No need to thank me. It’s my pleasure to care for you. You’ve given me so much already, and I want to give you the same in return.”

As you settled in beside him, the atmosphere shifted—filled with tenderness and a deep sense of understanding. In that moment, you knew you would protect him, nurture him, and help him explore the delicate balance between pain and pleasure, both in and out of the shadows.

Prev./Next

[bzurk]

frozen to the core

simon x johnny x reader, 3.1k, sfw

cw: drowning, freezing, kidnapping

Thud, thud, thud.

Your boots were relentless against the frozen ground, crushing leaves and soil beneath you as you ran, kicking up the white powder and leaving an all-too-visible trail. The biting cold of the winter air seared your lungs with every gasping breath, the icy tendrils of fear wrapping themselves around your heart like a vice. Snow-laden branches clawed at your face as you raced through the dense forest, the thudding of your boots on the frozen ground echoing like a death toll in the oppressive silence.

Behind you, the relentless pursuit of the stranger fuelled your desperation, his heavy footsteps crunching through the snow as he closed in with terrifying speed. His shadow danced between the trees, a menacing silhouette against the stark white landscape, his breath ragged and laboured as he chased you with unwavering determination.

You risked a glance over your shoulder, your heart lurching in your chest as you saw him gaining ground, his weapons glinting ominously in the muted light of the moon as it pierced through the trees. Panic surged through your veins like wildfire, driving you forward with renewed urgency.

With each stride, the snow grew deeper and more treacherous, threatening to consume you whole as you struggled to maintain your footing on the slippery terrain. Ahead, there was a break in the trees - a fatal opening if you continued straight into it. He had a gun; you'd be an easy target without the cover of trees and boulders. So instead, you took a sharp left turn. You heard him slip and stumble behind you before his footsteps and ragged breathing resumed - now dangerously close.

Running parallel to the clearing, you could make out a long stretch of ice, its shimmering surface a deceptive promise of escape, but you knew that crossing it would be a deadly gamble. Your snow boots hadn’t failed you yet, unlike your pursuer’s.

You pressed on, ignoring the voice of reason that screamed in your mind. You latched one palm around a passing tree, yanking yourself ninety degrees to the right and into the clearing, the pounding of your heart drowning out all other sounds as you raced towards the frozen expanse. The ice crackled ominously beneath your feet as you dashed across its surface, each step a delicate dance between life and death. A gamble.

A gunshot rang out, the sound reverberating through the silent forest like a thunderclap, and you felt the searing heat of your blood pour down your leg. The ice groaned beneath you, its frozen surface fracturing with a sickening snap as your foot plunged through into the icy depths below. The bullet had skimmed your leg, lodging itself in the ice.

Panic surged through you as you fought to steady yourself, dropping to one knee, the freezing water clawing at your leg like icy fingers as you struggled to pull yourself free. The stranger drew closer, his evil laughter echoing through the frozen air as he closed in for the kill.

With gritted teeth, you dragged yourself forward despite the sharp, biting pain that shot through your numb limbs. Your frozen calf screamed in protest as you kicked out with all your might, shattering the ice around your leg to pull it free. The frigid water seeped into your bones, causing your muscles to spasm and shake uncontrollably.

Desperation had blessed you with numbness, the ability to ignore your frantic shaking and shivering, ignoring the way your legs scrambled on the ice like a newborn foal, ignoring the blood that stained your hands and clothes and the ice beneath you.

You pushed on, the stranger's laughter ringing in your ears like a haunting melody, driving you forward as the fear and desperation coursing through your veins propelled you. Your heart was a furnace within your chest, driving you ever onward as you desperately sought to outpace the man after your life. The sheer force of your willpower and adrenaline was all that kept you going.

You stumbled and fell, your body skidding prone across the ice with a sickening thud. The pain shot through you like lightning, jolting every nerve in your body back to life as you gasped for breath, the bitter cold seeping into your bones like a relentless tide. The stranger loomed over you, silhouetted by the moonlight and casting an eldritch shadow across the glimmering ice, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile as he raised his knife.

You scrambled to regain your footing, but it was no use. Your muscles refused to obey, frozen stiff by the icy embrace of the lake. On the ground, stripped of your momentum, you had no power left in your body.

He drew closer, his features twisted into a cruel sneer as he reached out to grab hold of you, his fingers closing in like the jaws of a predator, dark and all-consuming and cold. Icy fingers wrapped around your ankle and you struggled to break free but it was useless. The ice had taken hold of your body, petrifying you into submission. Your heart pounded in your chest, the frantic rhythm a contrast to the stillness that enveloped the forest.

As the stranger reached out to pull you closer, the ice beneath him gave way with a deafening crack, sending him plummeting into the freezing depths below. For a moment, you were frozen in shock, watching as he disappeared beneath the icy surface, his mocking laughter silenced by the frigid waters.

You felt the icy grip of his fingers around your ankle tighten, dragging you down with him into the darkness below.

Your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you fought against the icy grip of the lake. It felt like being thrust into the heart of winter's embrace, the shock of the icy water stealing your breath away in an instant. The cold seeped into your bones, sending a jolt of agony through your body as the freezing water swallowed you whole. Your lungs seized, your heart paused, your nerves tingled and backfired. It felt like a thousand needles piercing your skin, each drop of water a dagger of ice against your flesh. It was a jarring sensation, a visceral assault on your senses as the freezing cold seeped through your clothes, penetrating deep into your bones with an unforgiving chill.

With a surge of strength born from desperation, you kicked and thrashed, clawing your way to freedom as you felt the stranger’s hold loosen. With one final kick, you broke free from his grasp, your body propelled upwards by the sheer force of it, your hands scrambling for purchase against the ice.

Your numb fingers clung to the jagged edge of the fractured sheet, your nails digging in as you pulled yourself out of the icy depths, gasping for air.

The forest spun above you, the inky blackness of the night swirling around you like a vortex, pulling you back into its unrelenting grasp. The cold, so unbearably cold, had seeped into your very soul, stealing the warmth from your bones and turning your blood to ice water. Your heart pounded in your chest, the only sound in the stillness of the night, the only evidence that you were still alive.

You stumbled to your feet, each step an agony, your sodden clothes clinging to your shivering form, weighing you down like lead. The night air bit into your soaked body, the chill of the wind a thousand lashes as it found its way through your wet clothes and chilled you to the bone. The trees stretched around you like sentinels, their branches reaching out for you like icy fingers, beckoning you to join them in their wintry embrace.

It didn’t take long for you to collapse once you hit solid ground.

-

You wake with a start, your breath coming in panicked gasps as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings and the weight across your body. The air is thick with the scent of musty fabric and stale sweat, assaulting your nostrils with every inhale. Your skin prickles with the remnants of cold, a ghostly echo of the icy waters.

As you blink away the remnants of sleep, your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light filtering through the curtains, casting the room in muted shades of greys and warm yellows. Shapes materialise out of the darkness at the edges of your vision, the unfamiliarity of the space burning at the back of your mind, trying to urge your body into a panic. Your ears ring with the silence, broken only by the frantic rhythm of your own heartbeat and the shallow breaths that escape between chattering teeth.

With trembling fingers, you reach out to explore your surroundings, the rough texture of the sheets beneath your touch providing a small measure of comfort. You could feel the sweat pooling against your skin, seeping into the blankets underneath you. You turned your palm up, fisting the heavy blankets, grasping through layers.

The simple movements of your arm were enough to exhaust you back into a haze, your bones heavy in your skin and your muscles aching under their weight. You were hot, you were sweaty, you should be panicking but it was all just so tiring. To remove the blankets was to remove the weight, to expose yourself to whatever was beyond the unfamiliar sheets.

Just a few more minutes, you chimed to yourself. A few more minutes to wake up…

The weight shifted around your middle, a soft caress against the bare skin of your stomach. A forceful brush of air against the back of your head.

You were certainly awake now.

Turning your head slowly, you find yourself face to face with a stranger, their chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own. The heat of their body radiates against your skin, a stark contrast to the lingering chill that refuses to dissipate. You are held in place by an iron grip, their arm wrapped securely around your waist, leaving you feeling trapped and burning against his skin.

The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, a frantic drumbeat that echoes in the silence of the room. With each thud, a wave of adrenaline courses through your veins, heightening your senses and sharpening your awareness.

You try to manoeuvre your body, seeking any opportunity for escape. Your eyes dart around the darkened space, searching for any clue or glimmer of light that might lead you out of this nightmare. But in the oppressive darkness, no such signs reveal themselves. You feel the stranger's breath tickle the side of your face, the back of your neck, the warmth of their body growing more stifling with each passing second.

As your heart races with fear and confusion, the stranger's voice breaks the silence of the room.

“You’re awake,” he states the obvious, his voice heavy with sleep and raspy, rumbling against your back.

You instinctively tugged at his arms again, to no avail. He hissed when you dug your nails in, clawing at his skin as your head spun with the need to escape. You were boiling, burning, trapped and held down.

“Stop that.” His hands snapped over yours, enveloping your fingers entirely with his bearish palms and squeezing in a warning. “Calm down. You’re okay.” His voice was soft and smooth, underlined with urgency as you stopped to consider his words, the noise distorted in your frenzy.

When the fog of panic receded, shame took its place. This wasn’t the man from the forest, not the knife-wielding maniac pulling you through the ice. His voice was different, lilted with an accent, Scottish maybe, low and rumbly and warm. He was warm.

A squeak lodged in your throat when his hands shifted back over your stomach.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about this, lass. God, what a fright, huh?” He rubbed small circles into your skin with his thumbs, a deep hum rumbling in his chest. “Had ta' warm you up. Was the best way. Didn’t do anythin’ else, I promise.”

You were frozen in place, your body trembling with a mix of fear and confusion. His touch seemed to both comfort and terrify you, a paradox that left you unsure of how to respond. You had never felt such a powerful mix of emotions all at once. And he was right, you were okay, at least physically. There was a persistent ache in your bones and a weariness in your muscles and your lungs felt ready to pop, but nothing seriously debilitating. Maybe it was the adrenaline.

And yet, the darkness still loomed around you, casting a heavy shadow over the room. You had no idea where you were or who this stranger was, and the thought of being so vulnerable terrified you to the bone. Your brain flooded with questions, the walls of your skull battered by a tsunami.

Who are you? Why are we topless? What happened? What about the man from the lake? What about my cabin?

“Where are we?” You managed to croak out, mind blurting out whichever question popped into mind next, your voice barely audible amidst the din of your own thoughts. Why am I not in a hospital, or dead? Why did you help me?

His hands stilled, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your face. “We heard the shots and panicked, so Simon went out to see what was happening. Said he found you all beaten up and half frozen to death on the lake.” You swallowed hard, feeling his breath ghost across the back of your neck.

His fingers trace a path along your clammy skin, causing you to shiver involuntarily beneath his touch. The warmth of his body was a comforting cocoon, but the fear still clung to you like a shadow, making you claustrophobic in his embrace. He was so warm, soothing, your saviour perhaps, but he was still a stranger. He let out a low hum, observing the reaction that he's managed to draw from you. The silence that falls is uncomfortably thick, a near-solid void stretching between the both of you. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know this man, nor how he’d react.

“Thank you,” you whispered, hands flexing against the man’s arms again. They were strong and defined, marred by the occasional dip beneath your fingers. You slowly uncurled yourself, legs stretching under the blankets and tugging at his hold again, contorting your neck and torso to see their face. “Thank you, really. I could have- would have, died.”

His handsome features are marred by a ruggedness that only adds to his allure. His blue eyes seem to hold a world of secrets, and you can't help but feel drawn to him despite the fear that courses through your veins. His brown hair falls messily across his forehead, framed by a buzz on each side, contrasting with the hard lines of his strong jaw which is covered in stubble and a long scar that runs down his chin.

You try to steady your breathing, pushing through the pain and tension in your chest as you ask, "Do you have a phone I could use? I should let somebody know I’m okay- how long have I been asleep?"

His breath catches in his chest, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His arms wrap tightly around your middle, higher now, trapping your arms against your chest. His piercing blue eyes flicker between yours before dropping with guilt.

"Lass..." He starts slowly, his voice heavy with despair. You tense up immediately, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. Nothing good comes from that tone. "He'll kill you if you try to leave."

"The man from the lake?" You whisper, your tone wavering as your vision blurs.

Deep down, you know you're wrong. That man had drowned under the ice and there was no doubt about it. You watched him sink. You shouldn’t even be alive, and you were semi-submerged. There was no way that the knife-wielding maniac had made it out.

The man at your back shakes his head disapprovingly, his lips curling into a deep frown that digs lines into his forehead.

"No," he says firmly. "Simon said there was no saving him. But..." He trails off with a sigh and shakes his head again, ducking his chin to his chest and tightening his grip around you, as if you’d fly away untethered. "He won't let you leave now. Not when you've seen the place, seen us."

Hot tears stream down your cheeks, pooling under your temples as an ugly sob escapes your throat. The weight of your situation crashes down on you like a ton of bricks.

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t even know who you are, or where I am,” you croaked. “Who could I tell? What would I say? You saved me, right?”

Silence elongates the room, bending and warping the darkness around you. The air grows heavy with your shared silence, punctuated only by your ragged breathing and choking and the slow metronome of his heartbeat against your back. His grip loosens slightly, a question in his touch. A plea for understanding, perhaps, or forgiveness, sympathy. All that answers him is a soft sob that wracks your body, sliding down your throat like broken glass.

"Please," you whimper out, pulling at his arms around you, struggling against the weight of him. "I won't tell anyone about this place, or about you. Just let me go. You saved me, I’m all better, see?" You croak out with another strong tug, voice roughened by fear and the icy tendrils of despair that wrap tightly around your heart. “I don’t know your name, or- or where we are, or why you’re hiding away or why you helped me, you could just drop me by the nearest road and let me go! Or, or just point me in the direction and I’ll go through the woods, yeah?” You were very obviously rambling now, devolved from wet pleas to desperation. "Why- why won't you let me leave?"

“If I let you go,” he squeezes you again, for his sake more than yours. “He’ll hunt you down. He’ll kill you. Cops will look for the body in the lake if you tell them about it, it'll bring them straight here. Can’t afford anyone knowing who we are or where we are, lass. We’re in the middle of nowhere for a reason.” He sounds hesitant, guilty, reluctant. “I can’t let him hurt someone like you. Not because of me.”

“Because of you?” You choke out.

“Aye,” he shimmies out his left hand from underneath you and rests it above the blankets. Resting snugly over scarred, calloused fingers is a simple silver band on his ring finger. “I can’t leave either, love.”

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chatter continued to engulf the hall as guests feasted during the coronation celebrations. The clinking of goblets and the hum of conversation blended with the soft melodies played by the musicians, creating a warm, festive atmosphere. Laughter rang out from various corners of the room as people indulged in the bountiful spread of food laid out on the tables, from roasted meats and fresh bread to exotic fruits and sweet pastries.

Aemond stood tall and regal at the head of the hall, his presence commanding attention even amid the lively scene. His voice carried with authority as he expressed words of gratitude to those gathered and delivered spurring words to encourage their efforts to win the ongoing war. His speech ignited a sense of hope among the attendees, the joy in the air a testament to the promise of a new beginning under his reign.

When Criston Cole rose to speak, addressing the room in his capacity as Hand of the King, the hall quieted, the guests hanging on his every word. Maera, however, felt a familiar dampness on her chest and knew it was probably time to feed Aemara again. As she discreetly stood to leave, intending to slip away unnoticed, the entirety of the room stood with her, all eyes upon her. The sudden attention took her by surprise. It seemed being Queen was inescapable, even for a moment.

Aemond turned to look at her, concern evident in his violet eye. Maera bid him a soft smile, a reassurance that all was well. Leaning down, her breath fanned across the side of his face as she quietly stated, “Jorrāelagon kisittan naejos zȳhon nyke.” I need to feed her. Aemond glanced down briefly at her swollen chest, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of longing in his eye. Then, his gaze returned to hers, and he nodded in understanding.

With a final reassuring glance, Maera left her chair, feeling the collective gaze of the room following her as she made her way to the nursemaids who held the tiny Princess. The realization that her every movement was now a subject of public attention weighed heavily on her. The room remained standing, a silent acknowledgment of her status, until she finally settled into a comfy chair in a designated corner of the hall. The chair was draped in rich fabrics, providing both comfort and a semblance of privacy.

Once seated, the nursemaids quickly surrounded Maera, shielding her from prying eyes as she unlaced the front of her gown in preparation for feeding her daughter. Despite needing to attend to her motherly duties, Maera chose to remain in the hall, wanting to stay connected to the ongoing celebrations and not miss a moment of the festivities.

One of the maids gently handed Aemara to her, the infant’s tiny fingers curling around Maera’s own. As she cradled her daughter, Maera heard the scraping of chairs as the guests finally sat down, and Ser Criston Cole continued his speech about justice and a righteous future. The room buzzed with a renewed sense of purpose and hope as his words echoed through the grand hall.

As Aemara latched onto her breast, Maera peeked out from the gap between the nursemaids, her curiosity driving her to stay engaged with the proceedings. She could see Cole, his stern face lit by the flickering candlelight, announcing that Maesters from the Citadel would be arriving within a day or two. The anticipation in the room was palpable as he mentioned that once a Grand Maester was chosen for the Council, the names of the other lords serving would also be revealed.

Maera listened diligently, her green eyes wandering around the room. She observed the lords and ladies, noting their reactions to Cole’s words. Every so often, her gaze caught a lord staring at her as she fed her child. Some looked on with disgust, their disapproval evident in their curled lips and furrowed brows. Others, however, had a much more sinister look in their eyes, a look Maera recognized all too well—the predatory gaze that made her feel incredibly uncomfortable.

She wasn’t the only one who seemed to notice these unsavory looks. Glancing towards the head of the table, Maera saw Aemond’s face darkening with fury. His eye, cold and hard as dragon glass, fixed onto every man who dared look in her direction with anything less than respect. The intensity of his gaze was unmistakable. It was almost amusing to see the men turn away, only to meet Aemond’s one-eyed glare and quickly avoid it, their discomfort palpable.

Once Aemara was fed, the nursemaids quickly whisked the baby away to Maera’s chambers, allowing the Queen to remain at the celebrations for a few more hours to entertain the guests. Maera took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her gown and adjusting her crown, before rejoining the throng of nobles and dignitaries.

She caught up with Luthor, who had a broad smile on his face as they exchanged warm greetings. Faran, meanwhile, was indulging himself with copious amounts of wine, much to their shared amusement. Luthor described how Jaehaera was thriving at Storm’s End. Although initially quiet, the four-year-old had grown to enjoy the coastal walks with Luthor and his wife, her laughter blending with the crashing waves as they strolled along the shoreline. Maera was gladdened to hear her niece was doing so well, but there was a slight pain in her heart that dear little Maelor did not get the chance to meet or spend time with her family.

After sharing a few more laughs with Luthor, Maera approached Lord Bryndemere, his demeanor softened by the festivities. She thanked him for his presence and continued support, recalling how the last time she saw him was on her wedding day. He had not been pleased when she inherited the fleet of Morne, but now, with Aemond as King and a Princess born to secure their alliance, his spirits seemed considerably brighter.

As the evening progressed, the music shifted to a livelier tempo, and Maera took to dancing with the attending Lords and Ladies. The dances were intricate and graceful, a blend of old and new steps that wove together in perfect harmony. Maera felt a sense of liberation in the movements, her gown swirling around her as she spun and twirled. She had missed this—the lightness, fun and joy, a brief escape from the burdens of her royal duties.

Every so often, as she danced, she would glance up and catch Aemond staring at her. His violet eye following her every move with an intensity that was softened by a barely noticeable smile. It was a small yet genuine smile, a rare sight in a public setting, but a welcome one. The connection between them, despite the complexities of their relationship, seemed to be rekindling. Maybe, despite all that had passed between them, brighter days were ahead.

After a few more hours of mingling, Maera noticed a nursemaid discreetly approaching her. The maid whispered that Princess Aemara needed her feed again. Maera nodded and quietly slipped away from the hall, hoping to avoid drawing attention. Once the doors closed behind her, she immediately removed the heavy Valyrian steel crown from her head, holding it haphazardly in her hand as she strolled back to her rooms.

Upon reaching her chambers, Maera sighed with relief. She shed her regal gown with the help of her maids, the cumbersome garment falling away to reveal her more comfortable shift. Her hair, a wavy blend of brown and silver, tumbled freely down her back, having been released from its intricate bindings. For now, she could just be a mother to her daughter, away from the prying eyes and relentless duties of the court.

However, Aemara seemed intent on making the night difficult. After feeding, she refused to be put down, squealing and writhing in her blankets. The wailing even disturbed Sȳndor, the small black dragon, who promptly hopped out of her spot in the cradle and decided to lay on Maera’s bed, seeking to avoid the flailing hands and feet of the tiny princess.

Maera rocked Aemara for a long while, pacing the room with determined steps, but nothing seemed to soothe her. The child’s little face was bright red, her tiny lungs expelling all their air in relentless screaming. The cries echoed off the stone walls, each one feeling like a thousand tiny cuts to Maera’s skin, wearing down her patience and resolve.

Her frustration grew with every minute, the ceaseless noise fraying her nerves. She tried every trick she knew, humming lullabies, gentle bouncing, even swaddling tighter, but nothing worked. The weight of the day’s events, combined with the exhaustion of being a new mother, bore down on her heavily. The sounds of her daughter’s cries were relentless, filling the room with a cacophony that felt unbearable.

As Maera struggled to calm her daughter, the door behind her opened suddenly. She whipped around, her posture rigid and heart pounding with stress. Her body automatically relaxed when she saw her husband enter. Aemond’s concern was evident on his face, but it softened as his eye fell on Maera and Aemara.

“Gods, you can hear her from down the hall,” he said with a jesting tone. Maera looked up at him, taking in the sight of her husband in his regal attire. His half-braided silver hair framed his face, and the crown balanced perfectly upon his head. He looked every inch a king, as flawless as he had that morning. In comparison, Maera felt disheveled and exhausted, her nightdress crumpled after feeding their child, and her hair a wild cascade down her back.

Still rocking and shushing the baby, Maera nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can’t get her to settle,” she explained, her voice trembling with frustration and exhaustion. Aemond hummed in understanding, plucking his crown from his brow and setting the metal down beside Maera’s own crown. He stepped forward and gently took Aemara from her mother’s arms, holding the tiny princess against his shoulder. He began to bounce her lightly and pat her back, trying to soothe her with a gentle rhythm.

As lovely as it was to have Aemond there, Maera couldn’t help but voice her concern. “Should you not be with your subjects?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Aemond, now pacing the room with Aemara on his shoulder, looked at her firmly. “I can spare a short while to be with my wife and child,” he stated with conviction. A small smile crossed Maera’s face. She was sure her own father would never have done that for her, and she was certain that Aemond’s father wouldn’t have done it for him either.

Maera watched her husband, her king, pacing up and down the room as Aemara slowly began to settle. Aemond hummed and sang quietly to her in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue flowing softly from his lips. It struck Maera as odd, knowing that Alicent had likely never sung such lullabies to him. She wondered if he had learned them specifically for their daughter, a thought that undeniably caused her heart to flutter.

Suddenly, a loud burp echoed around the room, followed by Aemond quickly pulling Aemara away from his body, a look of disgust crossing his face as he noticed the vomited milk dripping down the front of his robes. Maera couldn’t help but giggle quietly, quickly grabbing a damp cloth before approaching her husband. She took the babe from his arms and began wiping down his clothing.

With a sarcastic tone, she commented, “You have seen the blood and gore of war, yet a bit of baby vomit turns your stomach?” Aemond rolled his eye, standing still as Maera continued to wipe the fabric and mock him. “Be thankful you were not at the birth.” The memory of the birth, the pain, the mess, and the relief of finally holding Aemara in her arms, flashed briefly in her mind.

He hummed softly with a small smile as he watched his wife place the child in her cradle. Maera settled into a chair beside the crib, gently rocking back and forth while softly singing a lullaby in High Valyrian. The room was bathed in a warm glow from the flickering fire, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Baby Aemara, fussy just moments ago, eventually succumbed to sleep. Her tiny eyelids drooped, then closed completely, her breathing becoming slower and more peaceful with each passing moment. Maera continued to rock the cot gently, her voice a soothing melody that seemed to lull not only Aemara but the entire room into tranquility.

The Queen glanced towards her bed, where Sȳndor stood at the edge. In an instant, the dragon pounced playfully, flapping its tiny wings with bumbling inexperience before landing on the edge of the crib. The beast emitted a low purr as it peered into the cot, its eyes fixed on Aemara. With a deliberate motion, Sȳndor slinked her way into the crib, curling up at the foot of the babe.

“Finally,” Maera sighed with relief, the quietness of the room now enveloping her surroundings. The only sounds were the gentle snores of her sleeping daughter and the occasional crackling of the fire in the hearth. She looked up from the crib to see Aemond, who had pulled up a chair opposite her, intensely staring at her with an expression that conveyed both admiration and affection.

In that shared silence, amidst the warmth and peace of their chambers, Maera felt a profound sense of contentment as she took in her surroundings. Yet, as the minutes wore on, she laid her forest green eyes on her husband once more as she tilted her head and furrowed her brow. Since Aemara had been born, they had certainly spent more time together, but it was for the sake of their daughter, and very rarely were they alone. She was unsure how she felt in that moment, a mix of curiosity and unease settling in her chest.

Aemond broke the silence, his voice steady and clear. “The Small Council members will be announced in a few days.” Maera nodded slowly at his words, confused as to why he was repeating what she already knew. Her mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning behind his statement.

Before she could ask, Aemond sat forward slightly, his expression serious. “And whilst I cannot give you a formal title, I would like you seated on the council as an advisor. As Queen Alysanne was to King Jaehaerys.”

Maera was stunned. She had always considered Aemond to be quite a traditionalist, especially if he ever ascended the throne. And now, due to many unfortunate circumstances, he had indeed become King. There were more than enough Lords to guide him, yet he had asked her to join him. Her thoughts swirled with a mix of disbelief and intrigue. Aemond's request was unexpected, a deviation from the path she had imagined for his reign, one in which he would sit the throne and chart the path for the realm, and whereby she would remain in the background, providing him with heirs.

“Only if you wish to,” her husband offered, seemingly sensing her hesitation.

Her mind flashed back to the countless moments they had shared, the trials they had faced together. Aemond, despite his often stern exterior, had always been a complex figure in her life, one she could never fully predict, even as young children growing up together. And now, this offer, this invitation to stand beside him in matters of the realm, felt like a profound shift in their relationship.

Maera's green eyes searched his face for any hint of insincerity, but all she found was earnestness and perhaps a touch of vulnerability. This was not just a gesture of political strategy; it was a genuine desire for her counsel, her partnership. The quiet crackle of the fire and the gentle snores of Aemara filled the room as Maera processed this revelation. Her thoughts began to settle, the initial shock giving way to a burgeoning sense of purpose. She nodded, slowly at first, then with more conviction.

Upon her acceptance, Aemond visibly relaxed. He slumped slightly back against his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing, and a deep exhale escaping his lips. Silence enveloped the room once again, but this time there was no discomfort. Only peace and hope, a serene moment shared between them amidst the flickering firelight.

“Have you thought about who you wish your councillors to be?” she asked, her voice gentle but curious.

Aemond nodded, standing from his seat. He crossed the room with purposeful strides, retrieving a parchment, quill, and ink before returning to his chair. “I have,” he replied, settling back down and unfurling the parchment. He dipped the quill into the ink, the tip glistening with black. “Cole will remain Hand,” he began, the quill scratching across the paper as he wrote the name with deliberate precision. “And Lord Larys will continue as Master of Whispers.”

Maera couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the mention of Lord Strong. The man was slimy, cunning, and conniving, but undeniably useful. She had to admit, his presence in the council was a necessary evil. Aemond noticed her reaction and gave a small, understanding nod but continued without pause.

“Ser Alfred Broome, though new to our cause, commanded Rhaenyra’s host well enough. I shall make him the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Aemond said, dipping the quill into the ink again and writing down the name with a firm stroke. He glanced up, his violet eye meeting Maera’s gaze. “He will be present to swear in your brother in a few days once the council members have been announced.”

Maera nodded thoughtfully, excitement in her veins at the thought of one of her brothers being apart of her daily life once again. What also surprised her is that her husband actually agreed to have Faran as part of his Seven. She recalled when the first met that the men had an instant dislike for one another, and the old Aemond would certainly have held a grudge over that. It was a welcome change.

The King tapped his quill nonchalantly against the page, considering his next words. “There are a few more positions to fill: Master of Laws, Master of Coin, and Master of Ships,” he declared.

Silence filled the room as Maera looked at him, her curiosity piqued. She was ready for him to reveal his choices, but Aemond said nothing. He simply stared at her, his violet eye gleaming with interest. When the corners of his lips lifted slightly and he raised an eyebrow, the purpose of the silence became clear: he wanted to know what she thought. Maera felt a flutter of surprise and a sense of responsibility settle over her. She took a deep breath, considering the weight of his question.

Maera rose from her chair, her steps light and measured to avoid waking Aemara, who remained quietly snoring in her crib. She began pacing the room, her hands fidgeting as she considered the possibilities. The weight of the decision pressed down on her, and she struggled not to succumb to the pressure of making the wrong choice.

As she paced, she spoke quietly. "We need your kin here, people whom you can trust implicitly due to shared blood." Aemond nodded slightly, indicating she should continue. "What do you know of your cousin, Lord Lyonel?" she asked, stopping in her tracks and turning to face him.

Aemond shrugged. “He has been in battle with Lord Ormund, but his strengths, I’m told, lie within managing House Hightower’s affairs. He is quite methodical,” he stated. “Correspondence with the iron bank, monitoring local taxes, the gold runs…”

She nodded at her husband’s words, drawing parallels between Lyonel Hightower’s qualities and how they could best serve the realm. “He may be young,” Maera began. “But his skills would prove useful as Master of Coin, do you not agree?”

Aemond's eye narrowed in thought, but then he nodded, accepting her suggestion. He dipped his quill into the ink once more and scribbled Lyonel's name onto the parchment. Maera felt a small sense of relief at his acceptance, but the task was far from complete. She continued to pace, her mind racing with the other positions that needed filling. The silence in the room was now a shared contemplation, a partnership in the making.

The couple talked for a while, bouncing ideas off each other as the noise from the celebrations outside began to quieten, signalling the approaching end of the festivities. The atmosphere in the room grew more intimate, the fire's crackle and the soft breaths of their child adding a soothing backdrop to their discussion.

Aemond suggested the elder Lords Butterwell and Vance for key positions, but Maera fervently disagreed. She had sat with these men on the council of Harrenhal and had formed a strong impression of them. They were men who acted first and thought later, a trait that, when combined with her husband’s own headstrong and fierce nature, could lead to disastrous outcomes. She explained her concerns with conviction, her voice steady and sure.

Her husband listened, his expression thoughtful as he considered her words. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the validity of her perspective. In the end, he agreed with her assessment, and she knew the Realm would be better for it.

“What about Lord Unwin?” She suggested, a smile playing on her lips as she recalled his loyalty at Harrenhal. During her most difficult time, when Alys ran amuck and Aemond turned a blind eye to the control she wielded, the older Lord had remained a steadfast subject, and she trusted his judgment impeccably. Her green eyes sparkled with the memory of his unwavering support.

Aemond rolled his eye, his expression a mixture of skepticism and amusement. “The man obviously does not like me,” he stated, his voice tinged with frustration. “He does not always agree with my choices, and is very vocal about it, especially during meetings.”

Maera bit her bottom lip and raised her brow at her husband, her silent reminder of all the things Lord Unwin had witnessed thanks to Aemond’s impulsiveness clear in her gaze. Aemond, seemingly understanding her unspoken point, pouted slightly and admitted in a mumble, “Granted, some of those choices have been foolish.”

Her expression softened at the acknowledgment. “Which is precisely why you need someone like that on your council,” she urged, her voice calm and steady. She leaned against the table, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of her crown as it slid across the polished wood. “A good King heeds the advice of his council. He requires all opinions to make informed decisions, or else why even bother to have one?”

The King’s posture stiffened as he processed her words, his brow furrowing in thought. His half-braided silver hair glinted in the firelight, and his violet eye flickered with contemplation. Maera could see the mental work going on inside his head, how he was methodically weighing up her opinion and matching them with his own agenda.

He finally looked up at Maera, his gaze intense but softened with newfound understanding. He gave a slow nod, signaling his acceptance of her argument. Maera, sensing the shift, began to stroll towards him, her footsteps light yet purposeful on the polished stone floor. She knew her husband well, his strengths and what he lacked, and if she was going to succeed, this all powerful King needed what he had been denied his whole life; validation.

“Lord Unwin may indeed be openly opposed to your future decisions,” she uttered softly as she approached, a crackle of tension filling the space between them, more potent than the warmth from the lit hearth. Aemond’s eye remained fixed on her, his silver hair framing his face with its usual precision. Maera stopped directly in front of him, their proximity charged with an unspoken connection.

“But he is respectful, fair and just,” the Queen proclaimed. Leaning in closer, Maera could have sworn she heard his breath hitch, and she noticed his knuckles whitening as his hand tightened around the quill he held. The physical reaction was almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes of his internal struggle.

Without hesitation, Maera reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she snatched the quill and parchment from his grasp. She turned her back to him, the swift motion a deliberate act of finality. Her hand moved confidently, writing down Lord Unwin Peake’s name with the title ‘Master of Laws’ beside it. The ink flowed smoothly onto the parchment, each stroke a testament to her conviction.

The King’s reaction was a low, amused breath, a brief chuckle escaping him as he watched her assert her decision. Maera placed the parchment and quill back down in front of him, her movements deliberate and purposeful. She folded her arms, her stance radiating a sense of finality.

Aemond’s jaw tensed slightly as he regarded her with a smirk. His gaze softened as he processed her decisive action, and after a moment’s contemplation, he nodded in agreement. The tension between them dissipated, replaced by a shared acknowledgment of their mutual respect and understanding.

“And your Master of Ships?”

Aemond grabbed the parchment from the table in front of him, dipping the quill in ink before writing again. “Lord Bryndemere of House Tarth,” he revealed, his quill scratching the name onto the parchment with deliberate strokes.

He then looked up at his wife, his violet eye meeting her gaze. “His location on the Sapphire Isle means he can monitor the fleet of Morne effectively,” Aemond explained. “And his extensive knowledge of the Narrow Sea is invaluable.”

Maera’s lips curved into a surprised smile. “A wise decision,” she nodded, genuinely impressed by the choice.

The matter appeared settled. The council members were selected, bar the future Grand Maester, and Maera felt a sense of hopefulness. However, that feeling wavered when Aemond muttered, “it will soften the blow.”

Maera frowned, her brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern.

She watched as the King glanced at the cradle across the room, where their daughter lay peacefully. He then turned his gaze back to her, his expression a mixture of resolve and reluctance. “Aemara is not just a Princess now,” he stated, his tone solemn. “She is the daughter of the King. She could have a more advantageous marriage pact than one with a minor House.”

Maera’s heart tightened at his words. She looked down, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. The pact between them and House Tarth had been made on their wedding day by Maera, as a way to secure their Lords’ acceptance of her, a woman and an outsider, securing the fleet of Morne. Tarth was small, but a proud House, and their loyalty was necessary to prevent the fracturing of the Stormlands.

Frustration began to bubble within Maera. Her jaw tightened as she sternly reminded Aemond, “Do you forget you married a Lady from a minor House?” Her voice carried an edge of defiance. Aemond shrugged nonchalantly, his expression hardening. “Circumstances have changed,” he stated coldly.

Maera absorbed his words, her mind racing. Yes, things certainly had changed. But were they to break their oaths simply because their positions had changed? She gestured to the skies out of the window, the stars twinkling in the vast darkness. “Aemond, we recently won two dragon riders to our side because Rhaenyra broke her oaths to them,” she urged, her voice fervent. “If we do the same, it will only encourage others to flit to her aid.”

The King huffed, staring up at her, his jaw clenched. “We both ride the largest dragons in the world. Our subjects will fall in line, regardless of my decisions,” he replied, his tone exuding confidence and a touch of arrogance.

Maera rolled her eyes, exasperation clear on her face. This was the Aemond she knew all too well—acting with force, leading with fear, and disregarding the long-term consequences. It was infuriating, she thought. She could feel the tension coiling in her muscles, her body rigid with the effort of holding back her anger. Aemond’s confidence, his arrogance, grated on her, making her want to shake some sense into him.

But the time of passionate arguments was long behind them, especially with Aemara resting peacefully in the corner of the same room. Maera needed to employ a different strategy. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she walked towards her husband once more, attempting to appear calmer.

“You have spoke of Jaehaerys the Conciliator this night,” she said, her voice soft and firm. “And as a lover of the histories, you must recall that our great-grandfather was not known for brute force and instilling fear in order to make his rule a successful one.”

Aemond tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he considered her words. Maera continued, her eyes locking onto his. “Jaehaerys rode Vermithor, and his wife Alysanne rode Silverwing, yet their dragons did not define their reign. It was the old King’s wise governance, diplomacy, and personal integrity that earned him the title of greatest King in Westeros.”

Her husband leaned back slightly, tapping the quill against his chin as he reasoned, “Jaehaerys was also known for his many children and their strategic marriage alliances to powerful Houses.” His single eye searched Maera’s, a flicker of frustration and contemplation in his gaze. “Aemara’s marriage into House Tarth would not achieve that.” Maera felt a pang of frustration, but she knew he was right.

“You should not have pledged our daughter to House Tarth.” His voice carried a weight of finality that made Maera sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She knew they might not be in this mess if she hadn’t made the decision on their wedding day.

Looking down at him, she said, “I know I made a mistake. I was only thinking in the short term.” Her voice wavered slightly as she urged, “Learn from my error and think of the future, Aemond. Think of how you want your reign to be perceived.” She tilted her head, her eyes pleading with him. “Do you wish to be known as an oath-breaker as well as a kinslayer?”

Aemond drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, his gaze fixed on the flames of the open hearth. The firelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his features. Maera stood beside him, her eyes also drawn to the dancing flames. She uttered quietly, “I will do my duty to you as promised. We will have more children in the future. And through them, your reign will be strengthened.”

Aemond turned his head, looking up at his wife. She looked defeated, her shoulders slumped as she stared into the fire. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her hand, and although she did not look at him, she did not shy away from his touch. “I do not ask for you to make a decision tonight,”she offered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Think about it over the next few days.”

Her husband’s gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained guarded. He sighed, placing the quill down and running a hand through his half-braided silver hair. “Fine.”

Maera nodded, squeezing his hand gently, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering tension. She watched as he rose from his seat, the parchment tucked neatly under his arm. Aemond released her hand and strolled quietly to the crib on the other side of the room. He looked down at their daughter, a small smile softening his usually stern features, before he pressed a gentle kiss to the babe’s head. The tenderness of the moment made Maera’s heart swell.

The King then made his way to the door, but a glint of a red gemstone caught Maera’s eye. “Wait,” she called, quickly making her way to the wooden table. She picked up the Conqueror’s crown and rushed toward her husband. Stopping before him, she looked up, taking in his sharp features, the scar running down his face, his leather eyepatch, and his single violet eye that seemed to pierce through her. She felt the weight of the Valyrian crown in her hands, and saw Aemond reach out to take it from her.

Instead, Maera stood on her tiptoes, lifting the crown up and placing it firmly on his head. She couldn’t help but admit to herself how well the crown fit him, how beautiful he looked with it. Despite being the second son, the crown seemed made for him. She saw the regal bearing that came so naturally to him, the strength and determination that marked him as a true ruler.

Her touch lingered on his head, her fingers brushing against his scalp before making their way down his face. His scarred skin was warm under her fingertips. She touched his eyepatch briefly, her heart beating fast as she wished to see more of him, to feel closer to him as they had been a year ago, as if all the horrible things that had passed between them had not come to be. Aemond’s single eye watched her intently, a mix of curiosity and something deeper flickering within its depths.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the crackling fire the only sound in the room. Her fingers traced the familiar contours of his face, a silent yearning for the connection they once shared. Realizing what she was doing, Maera quickly withdrew her hand as if he was burning her, looking down at the ground in shame. She felt her walls coming down for a mere moment, exposing the rawness of her emotions.

And yet, the next words left her mouth before she could stop them. “It looks better on you than it ever did him,” she said softly, her eyes flicking up and shimmering with a mix of pride and admiration. Aemond’s expression softened, a rare warmth in his gaze as he looked down at her. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

What she did not expect was him leaning down, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead, his breath warm against her skin. She gasped quietly, her whole body tensing as the brief but intense sensation of his lips against her skin sent an unexpected flush of heat across her face and neck.

His breath, warm and steady, fanned against her forehead. She could feel the faintest brush of his sharp nose against her hairline, the subtle movement almost reverent. She heard him inhale deeply, as if he were breathing in her scent, the gesture tender and intimate.

Maera’s emotions surged, a potent mix of longing and regret swirling inside her. The barriers she’d meticulously maintained between them began to crumble under the weight of his closeness. She was on the verge of giving in, willing to cast aside the anger and hurt of their past. The proximity, the warmth of his breath, and the gentle press of his kiss were intoxicating, blurring her rational thoughts and igniting a fierce, unspoken desire.

But before she could act on her impulse, Aemond straightened, his eye meeting hers briefly with an unreadable expression. He turned and left the room, the weight of the Conqueror’s crown balanced imperceptibly upon his head. The door closed softly behind him, the faint sound of its latch echoing in the silent room. Maera stood alone, the space where he had stood felt colder and emptier, a stark contrast to the intense, intimate moment they had just shared. She stared at the closed door, her breath uneven, her heart heavy with the unspoken words and unresolved feelings that now lay in the silent space he had vacated.

Notes: sooooo had to split this one into two. Glad we got some politics and family time in here, as well as some good old-fashioned sexual tension 🖤

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[thelandboundseawitch]

🍎Fruit Correspondences🍎

Apples:

Red Apples- Love, prosperity, lust, knowledge, sex, romance and passion, fruit of the dead, immortality, happiness, good physical health, curses

Green Apples- Money, prosperity, luck, success

Yellow Apples- Curses for money loss, greed, envy

Apricot- Love, longevity, good health, healing(physically and emotionally), sweetening things, glamour, beauty Banana- Travel, sex, fertility, potency, prosperity, comfort, pain relief, sleep, dreams; infidelity curses, impotence Blackberry- Healing, love, protection, natural beauty, lust, cursing, binding Blueberry- Healing, protection, calm, focus, communication Cantaloupe- Protection, energy, motivation Cherry- Dreams, love, divination, beauty, substitute for blood/meat/organs, happiness, emotional healing, friendship, repel negativity, relationships Coconut- Chastity, innocence, protection, purification, beauty Cranberry- Romance, cleansing, severing negative ties, ambition Date- Love, psychic abilities, friendships and repairing them, quick energy Elderberry- Protection (psychic and emotional attacks), protection from psychic vampirism, fidelity, spirit work, wisdom, cleansing, dexterity, balance (usually of body and mind), celebrations; can be used as a substitute for blood despite not being red, good for ink making Fig- Abundance, divination, energy, fertility, good luck, health, love, money, peace, power, strength

Grapes:

Green- Money and prosperity, business, grounding, creativity

Purple- Psychic abilities, divination, spirit work

Red- Strength, lust, fertility, encouragement

Grapefruit- Cleansing, confidence, cooperation, healing, inner strength, mental clarity, purification, curses

Honeydew Melon- Sweetness, refresh, renewal, energy, subtly, kindness, relationship Kiwi- Secrets, looking for answers, happiness, sex and physical longings, good luck Lemon- Love, purification, beauty, friendship, longevity, inspiration, cursing Lime- Command and dictation, emotional healing, protection, energizing, purification, protects from negativity, curses(envy, jealousy, money troubles, bond severing) Mango- Love, protection, harvest, business and legal matters, happiness, friendship and family Nectarine- Love Orange- Awareness, prosperity, love, friendship, divination, creativity, inspiration, dream work, opportunity, harvest, money luck Papaya- Love, protection, brings happiness, kindness, strength in hardship, overcoming challenges Peach- Happiness, love, protection, exorcism, wishes, femininity, female fertility, knowledge, motivation, bliss Pear- Love, lust, wealth Persimmon- Happiness, healing, luck, lust, sex, wisdom Pineapple- Relieves stress and anxiety, imagination, relieves art block, luck, prosperity, happiness Plum- Luxury, sex, lust, love, wealth, and sleep Pomegranate- Beauty, protection, lust, the forbidden, death, wisdom, blood substitute and organ substitute Raspberry- Fun, love, courage, blood substitute Strawberry- Love, curses(losing love, cheating or lost of sexual drive) Tangerine- Protection of a home or space, happiness, friendship and cheerfulness Watermelon- Purity, luck, happiness, renewal, rebirth

[melodiclune]

It starts eerily calm.

And he craves revenge, more than anything. It's too late to search for allies, friends- people. Only redemption for himself exists now.

Tango falls, and he feels satiated, however briefly. He goes around, person by person- trusting no one, yet communicating and trading with everyone. As is his job, of course, as an honest Trader Scars' owner.

Skizz is next. He lets him go, even though the bloodlust is there. He lets Joel take it- he's gotten a good fill of his betrayal for now.

("Scar sends his regards.")

A fond farewell, to perhaps the only place he ever called his own- Trader Scars' may be destroyed, but it lives on in him.

Bigb takes so, so many hits. It's so tempting to get him. But he lets it go- he has some cowards hiding up in the tower to deal with.

("He sounds like a wounded wild animal- I feel so bad! Let's put him out of his misery.")

Etho goes down. It's like the apocalypse all over again- this time it's permanent. The villainous behaviour once forced down his throat, now devouring him as he lets it consume all his goodwill.

Bigb falls- it's just as quick as every other death so far. Cleo is trapped- it's so easy, really, to drive the sword through her back as he watches her bleed out. ("Goodbye!")

They fall, fall, fall... and Scar is always there at the sight of the bloodshed.

(Except for the Watcher- he dies, completely away from any place Scar could influence. How odd.)

And then, it's down to two sides. Scar wonders briefly, about how he has worked with both. But he sticks with the side he's on already- after all, switching now would be too much work. There's better numbers on this side anyway.

("Who cares- we all die anyway. It's all nothing.")

Bdubs and Joel fall- all he can do is stare as they do, a small attempt at saving them not going any farther than their attempts at befriending him.

Shooting Impulse off feels good, like killing everyone else did. The bloodlust remains strong.

Pearl helps him damage Scott a hefty amount- and later Gem comes to them, tears in her eyes and blood on her hands. He knows what has happened. She looks renewed, but broken.

He drives the sword through Gem, and then there were two.

Of course, there was never a true alliance to begin with. He's too tired of everyone's half hearted promises to him anyway. Pearl falls- he barely notices, the zombie capturing his attention.

("Pearl- where are you?")

(The Watcher speaks from beyond the veil. "She's dead, Scar. You've won.")

"Well, that can't be right. How did the guy with no friends win?"

He laughs, a bitter one. The zombie is attacking him- he feels himself succumb to it, but the numb feeling is overpowering.

Out of muscle memory, he trudges his way to the beginning of it all. The end of it all. The secret keeper hands him health, like it always does. Does he need it anymore?

("Win Secret Life.")

Well. He's completed his task. Time to move on.

But he sits there, by the Secret Keeper. The sun is bright in the sky, the blood on his hands drying.

It ends, eerily calm.