#sanguine trust

[herenya-writes]

Soooo Sanguine Trust?

tehe, thanks for the ask!

Sanguine Trust is a short little piece about an unnamed knight and his lord experimenting with knife/blood play, because there is something incredibly sexy about a knight turning the blade he so often uses to protect onto the skin of the one he would kill and die for. So far, it has only been read by my dear @ahahahayk but I may one day toss it onto tumblr. Here's an excerpt:

Knight feared himself. The way he held the knife like it was a viper told him as much, and it made something ache in Lord’s chest so strongly he had to reach out and cup Knight’s face in his hand. Knight remained still, neither leaning into the gesture nor away, but Lord felt a tiny bit of the tension in his jaw fade. “We don’t have to do this. I trust you, but if you aren’t ready--” “No.” Knight cut him off, taking a decisive breath. “I...I can do this for you.” The ache in Lord’s chest intensified, and he smiled sadly. “I know you can.” He had realized long ago that Knight would do anything he asked, headless of the consequences. That realization had terrified him, and he had sworn to be a worthy keeper of his Knight’s heart and soul. He hadn’t always succeeded.

[naffeclipse]

Instead of a raging insomniac, what about Sun and Moon handling a Y/N who is a furious narcoleptic? It would involve Sun coaxing Y/N to stay awake because yikes, even Moon agrees that it's a problem to sit down for one second at the security desk and immediately slump over into a dead sleep.

[hongluboobs]

new egos killed me dead btw. im so excited but also projmoon Why

[theshittiesttriangle]

decided to do some sketches of my elden ring omen oc!

[blondreapr]

⸻ ❝ Grim Reapers must remain neutral between God and humans. they are strictly forbidden from intervening in or influencing human affairs. Their principal job is to check each dying soul's Cinematic Record, or kaleidoscope of memories, one by one, to determine whether they deserve to die. ❞

↳ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 is portraying &. writing as 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐃 from the KUROSHITSUJI ( black butler ) franchise. this character is an original concept. this blog supports multi-fandom, multi-verse &. au writing.

navigation links ~ ! ⸻ * about . * rules . * ask memes . * carrd .

⸻ ❝ 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 .

𝐈 . any transphobia will result in a block. this includes racism, homophobia, antisemitism, and any sort of other discrimination against minorities. be a generally courteous person, not an ignorant loudly proclaiming prejudice.

𝐈𝐈 . activity is sparse. real life comes first. with that in mind, be aware my silence is due from external means. tumblr writing is not my obligation, it is a side project and/or hobby.

𝐈𝐈𝐈 . i openly ship. if i have an idea for romantic chemistry, i may reference it. however, i will not push it upon another, nor would i appreciate others pushing their characters onto me.

𝐈𝐕 . no, you are not spamming my inbox. always send prompts or memes. i wholeheartedly welcome it. so long as there is no anonymous hate sent, my inbox is open to all.

𝐕 . i am an adult. i presume most of my followers are. please act your age; any drama, vague-posting, will result in an instantaneous block. this isn't twitter, you're not a vigilante seeking justice. resolve your issues privately.

[ikkaku-of-heart]

@drheartxstealer asked: Alright then- Killer, Blackleg-ya, Shanks Ask my muse “Wed, Bed, Behead” (Still Accepting!)

"Wed Sanji because you know he'd be a doting husband. Bed Killer because what sane woman wouldn't jump at the chance?"

A few beads of sweat ran down Ikkaku's neck. "And I'd behead Shanks. Not out of malice, but because it's a hell of a lot kinder than what my Gramps would do to him if I chose either of the other options."

[adeoluwahub]

Components of Harmony

What could you let go of, for the sake of harmony? Fear, that is if the fear is invalid. Happy New Week, Wonderbeau people ✨️ I hope we can all learn something that will help us do better. Yesterday we talked about favourite music genre. And today we are talking about harmony. What makes music is harmony, even if you’re singing alone. For music to come from a person, the strings have to be…

[misaamoure]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭:

𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐭!!

⋅ ˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬:

“You must be out of your damn mind if you think that’s gonna fit in me.”

Sylus looked almost offended as you pointed down at his obnoxiously large appendage.

“I’m sorry, I thought you said you liked big dicks?”

You and Sylus had finally gotten in the mood to go all the way… until he pulled his pants and boxers down.

The pure shock on your face was an ego booster for him.

Then he developed his own look of pure shock upon you proclaiming that the sex was off.

And upon asking why, your reasoning was, “it won’t fit. Are you stupid?”

Which he immediately responded with, “I’ll make it fit, sweetie. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

This only serves to piss you off more.

However… you couldn’t deny the fact that you were extremely curious.

How would it feel? How deep would it go? Could you actually take it?

All this pondering led to you begrudgingly taking him up on his offer.

“Sylus, please, enough! Just fuck me… already…!”

It felt like he had been eating you out for hours.

Sucking on your clit, sticking his tongue into you, and occasionally slipping a finger in.

“You think you’re ready for my cock?” He fixed his sanguine gaze right onto your beautiful face.

You nodded vigorously.

“Alright,” He gave your clit on more kiss before sitting up, palming himself a bit for some kind of relief. “Can you turn over for me, kitten?”

Doing exactly as he asked, you didn’t miss a beat. You were more than eager for it at this point.

You felt Sylus’s warm, hard, heavy body embrace yours, as you two were in the prone bone position.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay, Y/N?” You felt him kiss your shoulder tenderly.

“Yes sir.”

“You promise?”

Oh here he goes. You could sense Sylus’s bullshit from a mile away.

“Yes I promise.”

“You sure?”

“Get the fuck on with it already!”

“I’m gonna count down from three.” You felt him run his tip up and down, paying extra attention to your sensitive clit.

“Nnngh… whatever!” He chuckled at your increasing frustration. You were just so cute like this.

“One…”

You felt Sylus thrust his entire cock in at once, making you gasp as tears welled up in your eyes.

“Sylus what the fuck?!” You looked back at him over your shoulder in disbelief.

“It’s better like this, trust me.”

If you were in a state to argue with him, you would. But right now in this moment, you were in no state to tell him off.

You felt so fucking full. It felt like he was in your guts. Big. So big.

And oddly enough… you loved it.

It felt so warm and intimate. Made you wonder what a creampie could be like.

The sensation of Sylus beginning to move inside of you knocked you out of your thoughts.

He was going so incredibly slow… you could feel every single inch, vein, and curve as he slowly pulled half of himself out and thrusted all of it back in.

“Oh my god, it’s so good,” You said breathlessly, barely able to register the feeling of anything but being stuffed to the brim. “It’s so good… what do I do?”

You heard Sylus groan deeply before a dark chuckle escaped his throat.

“Sit back and enjoy, kitten. That’s all you need to do.”

𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞:

“No Zayne, it’s not gonna fit, I’m serious!”

“We haven’t even tried yet, Y/N. Relax, please.”

While Zayne’s calm demeanor was often grounding, right now you found it nothing short of annoying.

Your little heart was about to beat right out of your chest… you were sure he could practically hear your heartbeats right now. No stethoscope needed!

It was your first time together… neither of you two had seen each other naked before.

So imagine your surprise when Zayne casually pulls his boxers down to reveal the absolute weapon in his pants.

It wasn’t just big length wise… it was thick. Very thick.

And so so pretty. His dick was so incredibly pretty.

A gorgeous pink tip that faded in color towards the base. Like it was made just for you.

You always caught glimpses of his bulge through his slacks, but you didn’t expect it to be so… huge?

A jaw dropping reveal.

Knowing you like the back of his hand, Zayne obviously felt your concerned gaze on him.

And he promised to get you ready for him properly.

Fingering you for a good hour… making you cum multiple times and stretching you out like the good man he was.

“Do you think you’re ready now?” He was between your legs in missionary, staring down at you.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” You sighed.

“I’ll go slow, I promise.” Zayne kissed you lovingly on the cheek.

You nodded, skin brushing against his as he pulled away.

Gasping as you felt his tip rub up and down your folds, you felt him experimentally push into you to see how much force it would take to enter you.

“Zayne…”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

His soothing words did nothing but assure you. Zayne had every bit of your trust, and he had earned it all.

He entered you slowly, using exact force to get just the tip in.

The sensation of that alone made you toss and turn.

He kept pulling out, and pushing in… and pulling out and pushing in… each time inching a bit more of his cock inside you.

“So big… Zayne it’s so big…” You whined out, eyes shut as you weakly pressed as his pelvis with your palm.

“If you’re saying it’s big when I’ve just managed to fit half of my cock inside you,” Zayne struggled to muffle his own sounds between words. “You’re in for a much harder time than you think.”

He continued his method from before… slowly inching more and more of his cock in a he fucked in and out of you slowly.

The pain was undeniable. But something else was also undeniable.

You felt so incredibly full inside. It felt amazing. The fullness mixed with the invigorating friction of each thrust was intensifying by the minute.

“So good… I think… it’s so good… more please…!”

Zayne chuckled at your admission.

“How about this?” Zayne leaned forward to lean on his forearms above you, grinding his thick cock into you with each stroke. “Does that feel good?”

“Yessss… yeah! Feels so good… Zayne!” You’re pretty sure you were babbling like an idiot, but you just couldn’t help it.

Dipping down, he caught your lips with his for a deep kiss.

Pulling away, his eyes bore deep into yours. So deep that you could see yourself reflected in them.

“Do you want me to go faster now?”

“Yes… please… Zayne…!”

[sanguinesky-if]

Sanguine Sky

DEMO [Public] [Updated 07/12/2024] genres: romance, modern-fantasy, supernatural, mystery, dark-fantasy.

Sanguine Sky is a work-in-progress modern dark-fantasy interactive novel. The story is heavily focused on romance, characters, and relationships.

The story rated 18+, contains mature and distressing content that may be triggering to certain individuals. It is recommend to check the full list of warnings before you proceed to the story. Please exercise caution and take care of yourself.

Total word count: 197k words [excl. code] | 227k words [incl. code].

You are a detective, tasked with investigating mysterious murders that have taken place in your normally quiet and peaceful hometown, Fallenmor. 

With two victims confirmed already, the initial one being your former mentor, Detective Bergmann, the situation couldn't seem more dire. Or so you thought until you received the news of another body, a possible third victim, discovered at the police station. In your very own office. 

An accident, a mere coincidence, a straightforward warning, a looming threat, or something entirely else… Whatever is happening, you feel it affecting you, awakening something both significantly familiar and distinctly foreign inside of you.

If only you knew that this was just the beginning… Things could have been different. 

But back then, in your ignorance, your singular concern lay with a pressing question: if you failed to find the murderer, who would become the next victim?

➤ Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay, or bisexual.

➤ Customize your appearance and shape your personality.

➤ Take on the role of a detective, immerse yourself in the work of the police station.

➤ Embrace the mystery of your existence, or reject that inner sight of you.

➤ Seven romance options to choose from. Select their gender, be shy or bold, or focus on your goal without pursuing anyone.

All ROs are player-sexual and gender-selectable [M/F].

Kyle / Keira Moreno

Your colleague, a police inspector, and one of the rudest people you have ever met. Sharp and stern, K is surprisingly perceptive, and they use it to really see you. The good, the bad. Everything. Appearance: icy blue eyes, dark red hair, very pale skin.

Alexis 'Lex / Lexie' Conlan

Your best friend, and also your former partner from times when you were just a patrol officer. With a heart of gold and an approachable attitude, L always chooses you over the others. Appearance: forest green eyes, copper hair, beige freckled skin.

Morgan Schoivell

Your other colleague, a highly-skilled lab technician. M is rather reserved when it comes to emotions, and after almost a year of working together, M is still a walking mystery for you. Appearance: dark brown eyes, ash blond hair, light skin.

Roderick / Rebecca Reyes

The commanding agent of the Criminal Investigative Division (CID) team sent to catch the killer. Overbearing and ruthless, R has their own way of getting things done. Appearance: gray eyes, blond hair, pale skin.

Theodore 'Theo' / Theresa 'Tess' Vazquez

Another member of the CID team. With a cocky smile, T is full of flirts and sneering comments, regardless of the occasion. T has no doubts about what they want and isn't afraid to vocalize it. Appearance: dark green eyes, black curly hair, rich brown skin.

Isaac / Iris Brailsford

I looks the most mature and approachable of CID's fellow agents. Looks can be deceiving, though. Working behind the scene and watching from afar, I carries all the scars within. Appearance: hazel eyes, dark brown hair, olive skin.

Sebastian / Selena Goldstein

Someone new and temporary, S has a velvety voice and a perfect smile that doesn't reach their eyes. You're not sure if your paths will cross in the future, but something tells you S can't be trusted. Appearance: black eyes, long black wavy hair, bronze skin.

Other notable characters:

Your twin-sister: Your sweet, kind, caring, and gentle twin sister. She always tries to be there for you, and show how much she appreciates you, no matter what. Chief of Police, Kendrick Nash: Your boss, who is not handling his job so well after the recent death of his husband, Klemens Bergmann. Detective Klemens Bergmann: Police chief's husband, who happened to be a senior detective and your mentor. He was the first victim, murdered under mysterious circumstances.

A full list of warnings is available in the demo before beginning of the story. I recommend to check it before you proceed to reading.

Links: DEMO | CoG Forum | Q&A | Romance | Tags & Links | Patreon | Ko-Fi | Error Reports |

Thank you for your interest ♥

[justanerdy-gal]

"Do You Resent Me?" (Astarion x Tav)

-> pairing: Astarion x Tav -> content: fluff/angst -> summary: In which Tav wonders whether Astarion resents her for convincing him to choose to reject the Black Mass ritual and not Ascend. Full of angsty fluff.

-> notes: The finished version of the WIP I posted yesterday. Astarion & Tav draws all the angst and cheesy fluff out of me 🥹

——————

“Do you resent me?”

Astarion looks up, wearily, from the corner of the Elfsong Tavern room that they had been staying in for some time now.

“Darling….what would I have to resent you for…?”

You slowly walk over to his corner of the room, and sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You observe him as he turns his gaze over to the hands in his lap.

“It…just feels like…you may have made your choice because of…me.”

Astarion turns his head to look back at you, betraying nothing in those crimson eyes at the moment, but listening.

“If I wasn’t around….you would have been free to make the choice you always wanted,” you continued, your eyes glassing over as you ponder the thoughts that have been plaguing you since the moment Astarion made his choice in the Szarr palace.

“The freedom that you always craved… did I take that away from you?”

Astarion’s eyes widened as you made your declaration.

“You… think it wasn’t the right choice?”

“Not that,” you tried to clarify. “Maybe… maybe I don’t know what the right choice is. But what mattered is… your choice.”

“You trusted me. You trusted me with a choice that, in the end, goes back centuries…” your voice starts to shake. “A choice with consequences you must live with for…eternity.” You look up at him as tears finally threaten to pour from your eyes. “What right did I have, to ask you to sacrifice yourself to the shadows?”

Astarion stares at you as he ponders your statement. He looks away from you as he stares at the cracked, drying paint on the wall of the old room.

“I think about it every minute, every moment.” Astarion speaks slowly, softly. “I think about the colours of the city. The warmth of the rays at dawn, beckoning me towards the next day. I think about the sanguine hunger I have suffered for over 200 years, and how I could be free from that pain. Free from all limitations. And how that will never be now… once the parasite is destroyed.”

You look up at him in despair as your body threatens to let out a sob.

“And I think about… how it would never be enough.”

It was your turn for your eyes to widen. His gaze had softened as his fingers move to entwine in your own.

“I see the colours through your eyes, through the stories that you tell me of your adventures. I feel the warmth through your skin as you lay beside me every night.”

“And your blood can sate me better than any power can.” You giggle as he smirks, softly wiping the tears from your eyes.

“Before you, before this nautiloid fiasco … I had no reason to want anything else but freedom and power. I only lived to escape what I was. I had everything to gain. And nothing to lose. So ofcourse, this Ascension seemed like an obvious choice.”

“But everything changed,” Astarion said breathily. “From the moment you wormed your way into my heart…you became a complication that I never expected. Suddenly, I had everything to lose.”

“I would have stayed,” you say thickly.

“I know you would,” Astarion says sadly, “but would you have been happy?”

“I probably would have been happy…happier than I was, for sure.” Astarion stares distantly at the wall as he speaks. “But where would that happiness end? What would sate me, if my happiness was dependent on power? I would have to take more, control more, be more…it is surely the fate that befell Cazador, that befalls all with power…more power than they know what to do with.” Astarion winces as he utters his late master’s name. “The need for power, for control, can never be sated. It would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.”

“But you, with me, here? That is enough. You are enough. We are enough.”

You pause as you ponder his words for a moment.

“Am I?” you whisper weakly as you stare at your entwined hands.

You feel the chill of his hands as they move up to hold your face tightly, and tilts your head up to look at him. The intensity in his eyes at that moment was like nothing you’ve ever seen on him before.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, staring fiercely into your eyes, as if he was speaking through to your soul. “There is nothing in the world that I wouldn’t sacrifice to remain here by your side. You are my eternity. My mad love. Besides,” Astarion smiles as he stares into your eyes. “I still think it was the right choice, regardless. If I could go back and do it all over again, I’d make the same choice. Every time.”

Astarion’s words cause the tears that you were holding back to creep up to the surface, as your body begins to wrack with heavy sobs, as you let out the doubt and fear that you have been holding since you both learned that the Ascension was a thing – since you have contemplated that potential decision every minute of every day, since the moment Astarion asked you to help him, and you convinced him to give away that power, to save those souls, to save himself. Astarion pulls your head to his chest and holds you tightly as you shake against him.

“My darling, why do you weep? Don’t sell yourself so short. No one else has a heart like you. You’re the only one,” Astarion whispers into your ear.

“I love you,” you declare into his shirt, tears still staining the soft, white material.

“I love you too,” Astarion says, leaning backward, pulling you down with him until he was laying on his back, with your head resting on his chest, hands softly caressing your hair. “I can’t imagine another way I would want to spend the rest of my days, my love. I’m not afraid – not anymore. And especially not of our future.”

And that is how you both fell asleep, with the two of you in eachother’s arms and your dreams of the future in eachother’s hearts.

——————

My AO3 and Twitter 🙂

MASTERLIST

[clare-875]

Intangible Sadness (Luffy x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Luffy x Reader Summary: You're feeling unjustifiably sad and Luffy tries to help Warnings: angst to fluff, comfort [One Piece Masterlist] _____

Lately, you haven't been feeling like yourself, and you honestly didn't know why. When you would usually have lost yourself in laughter looking at the antics of your crewmembers as they play comical games and share lighthearted banter, you now find yourself choking on your breath, as though on the brink of tears. Your upturned lips have started to falter and you find it harder to want to move, to talk, to get through another day. You try nonetheless, you try to push away at whatever heavy emotions gnaw at your mind and at the empty hole in your chest. You try to force out the laughter that seems held back and try to keep the contentment on your face, for the crew; for Luffy. But deep down you couldn't shake it, it made you find quiet corners of the ship just to control whatever pent-up agony weighed you down. It frustrated you, this unusual demeanour; your sudden sadness.

You had hoped he didn't notice. Because this was Luffy; he was oblivious, carefree, pure, optimistic. But you also failed to notice that this was Luffy; your boyfriend, your closest friend, his nakama. Despite himself, he wasn't stupid. Yes, he might've needed some prompting from Nami who observed your unusually timid nature with concern, but he was also the first to witness the change in your eyes. It was Luffy's favourite thing about you. The glimmer that captivated them, it reflected his own desires; adventure, wonder, joy, your love. So the moment he watched as you laugh at a story he spoke to you rapidly about, and that familiar sheen of joy didn't capture them, he knew. The moment he noticed your swift absences from his side at dinner as they faced away downturned, he knew. The moment he captured one look on your face, vulnerable to his stare, and he saw a foreign emotion within them - sorrow - he knew.

Something was wrong.

But Luffy was also one who hoped that his crew members would come to him if there was something wrong. He wouldn't interfere with another's battle, knowing the pride that came along with it, unless explicitly asked; unless in need of saving. You were strong. One of the strongest people he ever met, it was one of the reasons why he had asked you to join his crew. But that was just at your first meeting, then he knew more of you. You were witty and kind and patient. You would listen to his stories and to his dreams. You would spark curiosity within him with stories of your own adventures, of your bravery, of your strength. You were so level-headed and yet so remarkably like him in your sense of ambition and purpose. You pulled laughter from the crew like it was nothing, comforted like it was second nature, and were the embodiment of sanguinity at every barrier you faced.

That's why he waited.

He trusted that if something had happened you would seek him out like he often did to you when he needed the quiet. It was unusual but even he couldn't escape the clutches of grief or misery from time to time. He didn't know that you hadn't seen it that way. You were afraid to seek help because you were strong. You were capable. And you were drowning in a sadness you saw no sense in. Why did you feel so helpless, when you were aboard a beautiful ship, surrounded by a wonderful crew, amid a daring adventure you would have done anything to be a part of just years ago? That's why you hoped the feeling would go away. You hoped if you moved on with your day, the heavy weight against your chest would dissipate. You had hoped, but the feeling never left. That's why you now find yourself atop your bed trying to breathe through the pain that threatens to break free. But you feel it, the tears that threaten to pour from your eyes.

Your breath shudders as you hold a hand to your mouth trying to control your emotions. Your other hand grips the bed sheets tightly as your hold strains against your skin and you stifle another sob. Your head pounds and your chest constricts. It's forceful and harsh the way you try to halt your despondency and you don't know how long you can, but you never find out as the door suddenly smacks open. You freeze, your eyes looking up and gaze wide, only to find Luffy looking confusedly at your rigid form atop your bed. "Oh [y/n], here you are! Sanji said dinners ready, c'mon we gotta hurry!" You swallow harshly trying to collect yourself quickly before taking in a shaky breath. "R-right, I'll be right there Luffy, you go ahead." You stand swiftly from your bed, avoiding his gaze as you go to walk somewhere, anywhere, to try and compose yourself. But you're too late. You’re not quick enough and Luffy sees the gimmer of sadness in your irises again.

"Hey, [y/n]." His voice is more quiet now with the serious undertone you only hear him using in battle or when his precious nakama is on the line. You freeze, bracing yourself for his next words, but instead, it causes the fall of your facade. "Is something wrong?" Those simple words are all it takes; you finally let them fall. The tears that had been on the brink of pouring come out all at once as you feel one cascade down your face followed by another. You can't stop them, they just continue sinking onto the curve of your cheeks, dripping to the floor as your breath shakes at the sudden release of it all. Luffy can no longer see your face, but he sees the shudder of your shoulders, the shaking of your form, and his eyes widen at the sight; it was foreign to him. He reaches out, touching your shoulder lightly before making you turn. "[y/n] what's wro-" When he finally sees your face, drowning within your own tears, your lips tugging downwards and eyes low he feels the tugging of his own heart against his chest. He almost panics, almost feels the guilt of not having done anything earlier, but it is his natural instinct to protect that comes first.

"[y/n], what's wrong? Who did this?" Luffy's mind races; did an enemy threaten you? Hurt you? His nakama meant everything to him, but you were his world, the one he wanted by his side when he became King of the Pirates. He feels restless, angry at the prospect that someone could've hurt you; that someone could've taken your smile away from him. You finally look up through your tears at the sight of him. He looks so uncharacteristically sober of his childish charm and his eyes bore into yours with determination. Your heart warms briefly at the sight of his concern, and you take in a few breaths trying to calm down before you speak. "N-Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry, I just feel sad, I don't know why." You feel yourself flush with embarrassment, as Luffy lets himself relax slightly at your words, glad at least to know you hadn't been harmed. He tilts his head then, eyes still full of confusion but still in the same seriousness.

"You're just sad?" He asks lightly and you feel the warmth in your cheeks as you look down still frowning and nod. You feel slightly stupid for causing a scene in front of him, now debating whether you should've tried to hide your tears from him. Your mind races with doubt so much so, you barely notice how Luffy had now moved closer to you, and has you now wrapped in his arms several times over. "Why didn't you just say so? Robin told me hugs can help with that. And meat! Meat always helps!" You freeze in surprise. Luffy's embrace is tight and familiar, warm and comforting. There is no judgment, no berating of unjust emotions, merely his simple words and actions and acceptance, so pure in thought; so Luffy. You feel yourself ease into it, squeezing your eyes shut and putting your head against his chest, relishing the heat of his body against yours. You feel the relief of letting your final tears fall from your eyes and the solace of being embraced by the one you loved. The pain finally seems to subside and you find yourself finally able to genuinely laugh at Luffy's words.

Luffy's heart pounds at the sound and he looks down to you grinning. "Shi shi shi, did it work?" You look up, still buried in his arms and shyly nod as you look up adoringly at him. Luffy finally feels the relief of seeing your eyes shine as they usually did, still lingering with unshed tears but full of the lustre of life they should always be filled with. His smile grows impossibly wider at your nod as he then releases you of his hold and grabs you by his hand. "Good! Now let's go eat! I'll even give you some of my meat if you want-" He's pulling you out of the room quicker than you can respond, too enthralled by the fact that you would be beside him once more; he had missed you. You sigh and shake your head slightly, but you find yourself smiling a little. You had missed him too, and you would forever be grateful for him and his warm hugs, bringing you out of your intangible sadness.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

I Am Here Now

And we are back with more hurt/comfort!

Thank you to all those posts about this particularly heartbreaking scene from The Last Unicorn and that one post about how it would fit Astarion and that one comic that made it come to life with pictures. Here's my contribution to it with words.

Summary: Even though the two of you push each other away, you always find a way to come back to one another.

He’d thought you had left him alone to die. Even after all the sweet things he’s said, about how he trusts you, how he knows you will be there for him, he still doubted you when it counted. Captured by vampire hunters, he’d been held in a cage for so long that he’d lost count, or perhaps it was the torture his captors had decided to inflict upon him that had made him lose count. At some point, he had lost all hope of you coming to rescue him, believing himself to be unworthy of the effort needed.

And then you had shown up in all your bloody glory, howling with rage and cutting down any hunter who had stood in your way. He had never been happier to see you again, and never been angrier.

“Where have you been?” He chokes, collapsing into your arms the moment he is free of the accursed cage. You silently hold him tight, gaze downcast. Rage rekindles within you when you see how broken the hunters have made the one you love, and you wish you could bring the hunters back just to make them suffer over and over again.

“I am here now,” you whisper, hoping to comfort him. You should have searched harder, hunted fiercer, found him faster, prevented the whole kidnapping in the first place. It was your naivety that had landed him in this situation, it was all your fault.

“And what good is it to me that you’re here now?” Astarion hates that you’re seeing him with his walls shattered, his broken heart laid bare before you. Self-hatred overtakes him, spewing venom meant for himself at you. The words tear him apart and pierce your heart, shattering it but you still hold onto him. You’ve finally found him after such a long and anxious search, you’re not letting him go any time soon.

“Where were you twenty years ago? Ten years ago? Hells, a hundred years ago?” He cries, clawed fingertips digging into your skin. The fabric of your top crumples beneath his fingers, tears dampening the cloth. His voice breaks, words dissolving into sobs as he buries his face into your chest, wanting nothing more than to disappear, dissolve, be anywhere but here. Yet you hold him close, wrapping him in your warm embrace despite the daggers that have embedded themselves in your heart courtesy of him. You let him vent it all out, giving him the space he never had even though each sob rips at your heart further.

“How dare you,” he whimpers once his tears have sapped him of all his energy, “how dare you come to me now, when I am this?” He hadn’t been the best person back when he was alive, corruption ran deep in the city he was magistrate of perpetuated by his truly, but at least he had been as normal as any elf could be. Now he was a vampire spawn, weaker than true vampires but with the same weaknesses. He had fallen so far down, a slave to both sanguine hunger and Cazador, a creature sealed in darkness lest he be dissolved by the sun, a monster despised by all.

All but you.

You let him weakly hit you, the punches lacking malice as they lightly connect with your skin and sobs continue to wrack his body. Running your fingers through his hair, you pull him as close as you possibly can and rest his head on your shoulder.

“I wish you had never come.” The words leave his lips in a whisper. The words he never meant, the words he wished he could take back the moment he spoke them, the words that hurt the most. You flinch at the words but tell yourself that he doesn’t mean it, that the words just slipped out on accident, that it was the self-loathing and trauma that spun these words, right?

“Why did you come now?”

You feel him go limp in your arms, slipping into unconciousness as exhaustion takes hold of him. As Halsin moves to carry him back to camp, you reach up and touch something wet on your face. Tears. Something catches in your throat and you tell your companions to head back to camp first, you’ll catch up with them later. Despite the looks of concern, they do as you say at Jaheira’s behest, the older woman knowing that you needed some space.

You mindlessly walk in the opposite direction of the camp, the warmth of the sun a distant feeling despite it blazing high in the sky. Numbness envelopes your body, sending chills down your spine but nothing can overpower the pain in your heart. His words have cut deep, even if you try to convince yourself otherwise and the freshness of the air that you usually enjoy does nothing to alleviate the hurt.

With a sigh, you collapse against a tree trunk, sucking in a deep breath at the twinge of pain that shoots up your side. Shit. Blood has soaked through your tunic on your left side and lifting up the cloth reveals a nasty gash courtesy of a rogue’s dagger. You let out a ragged breath, chest heaving as you rip your tunic off and press the cloth against the wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding before you die of blood loss. White hot pain shoots through you the moment the cloth makes contact and you bite your lip to suppress the yelp, willing yourself to remain strong until you can stagger back to camp and get the wound healed. Knocking back the last healing potion in your pack, you force yourself to stand once more, limping in the direction of camp and past the concerned stares of your companions straight into your tent where you collapse once more, this time unable to bite back a cry of pain when the action tears at your wound. You down more healing potions, a groan of relief escaping your lips as you feel the wound stitching itself together, your body feeling lighter with each mouthful.

Shadowheart peers into your tent but you wave her away, muttering something about wanting some space and she obliges, but leaves a few more healing potions behind just in case. You tuck yourself into your bed roll, something you haven’t done in quite a while now ever since Astarion took it upon himself to be the one to make you comfortable, and the thought sends another twang of sadness through your heart.

Did he want you back? You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t, it was your fault after all that he got kidnapped. You had been the childish one, yelling at him to get out of your sight after he had been trying to get you to take a break, going as far as to push him out of your tent physically and slamming the tent flap shut, completely missing the flash of hurt in his eyes. The next time you had left your tent, wanting to apologise, Wyll informed you that Astarion left the camp some time ago and had yet to return, panic setting in when Gale pointed out Astarion had disappeared for half a day. You were the one who had driven him away first, it was only fair that he returned the favour.

Pulling the blanket over your head, you bury yourself in the darkness, tears pricking the edges of your eyes again. You had hurt him, perhaps more than he had hurt you, made worse by your prior promise to never hurt him. He didn’t deserve you, he deserved someone who could perfectly love him, cherish him, give him everything he needed and more.

“Y/N?” A quiet voice calls out but you remain still. You recognise the voice, why was he here?

“I know you’re there, darling. You can’t hide from me that easily.” His voice is louder now, coming from next to your bedroll but you stubbornly remain where you are. You hear a shuffling sound and something impacts the ground — he probably seated himself on the ground.

“I…I wanted to say that I’m…I’m sorry.” The words feel like thorns in his throat but he forces them out anyways. He knows he has to, Karlach had encouraged him to in all her usual enthusiasm and had filled him in on what he had missed while unconscious. His immediate reaction was to check up on you from a distance, but Karlach had pushed him towards your tent, giving him a thumbs up which pressured him into going in.

You keep silent, mind struggling to form a sentence as he pours everything out to you once more, carefully lowering his walls to let you in again.

“I know I said things that hurt you, and I should not have said any of it. You rescued me, even though I thought you would never come for me and I pushed you away instead of thanking you.” He pauses, taking a deep breath he doesn’t need. “You deserve better.”

“You’re the one who deserves better.”

Astarion blinks, sitting up straight as you shift, getting out of the bed roll.

“You’re the one who deserves better,” you repeat, unable to meet his ruby gaze. “I was the reason you were kidnapped in the first place, if I hadn’t snapped at you, shouted at you, driven you away, you would never have left the camp, the hunters would never have found you and —”

“It’s not your fault.” He places a finger on your lips, eyebrows furrowed.

“But it is!” You push his finger away. “I hurt you just as much, no, more than you words ever hurt me because I promised to never hurt you! Yet I did!”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“It doesn’t excuse anything! Stop taking everything just because you don’t want to lose this relationship!”

“But I don’t!” He yells back. “I don’t want to lose this! I don’t want to lose whatever we have!”

“I don’t want to lose you.” His voice cracks as he stumbles over the words that shut you up. “If…if you don’t want me anymore I will —”

“When did I ever say that. You’re my entire world, why would I not want you?” You cut him off. He raises an eyebrow at you, searching for hints of deception but all he sees is genuineness, a fierce love for him burning within you and above all, a deep yearning for him and nothing else.

You move closer to him, cautiously reaching out with a hand that he clasps in his cold undead ones and you can’t help but smile. This brought back memories — the first time you ever hugged him, the first time he ever felt a physical touch that wasn’t sex or abuse. He puts an uncertain arm around your waist, waiting for you to do something and you lean into his touch, putting your own arms around his waist, hand holding long forgotten in place of hugging him. He pulls you in, nuzzling you and lets out a small sigh of relief.

He didn’t lose you. You’re still here. You still want him.

As much as you are his light in the darkness, he is your guiding beacon. He is the reason you continue pushing on each and every day, and you want him to know that. Tilting your head up, you meet his lips with your own, a sweet gesture that never grows old and conveys everything in your heart. He kisses back, fingers tangling in your hair and revels in the moment, wishing it would never end but alas, you need to breathe.

“I love you.” It’s the first time you’ve said those words to him.

“I love you too.” It’s not the last time he’ll say those words back.

[swordgrace]

Okay I know you've already written "vampire eating out reader who's 'on the rag'" (to quote Paul) BUT... Can we have one with Astarion? 😩

𖣊 pairing — astarion x fem!human!reader.

FORMAT: drabble — requested.

WORD COUNT: 3.5K.

WARNINGS: SMUT! (mdni), period sex, bloodplay, blood drinking, oral sex (f!receiving), cunnilingus, praise kink, hair pulling, fingering (f!receiving), dirty talk, semi-public sex, risk of getting caught, unspoken feelings, astarion gives mad head (I don’t make the rules)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Well, here we are, back to my vampire obsession. I’m so addicted to Baldur’s Gate right now that it’s insane. I had so much fun writing this! This is also my first time writing for Astarion, so feedback is definitely appreciated! I’m hoping to write so much more of him! Thank you all for the support! ❤️

A distant, whistling breeze swept across the tall strands of sungrass, rustling against the threadbare canvas of your tent. It was shoddy lodging at best — certainly not a paradise. Gale and Astarion could afford such luxurious accommodations, but you were left to your own devices. You even envied Lae’zel’s tent, and it wasn’t much better than yours.

Crackling waves of dulled pain continued to ripple throughout the pit of your stomach, a familiar tightening and seizing of muscles that left you restless. Sometimes, humanity could be a horrible thing — you were a slave to your own basic bodily functions.

Shadowheart had bluntly broached the subject of menstruation with you earlier in the day — offered you rags to keep yourself clean. It was embarrassing, admittedly — you wanted to try and keep it all discreet.

Being underprepared for this scenario left you flustered and embarrassed, but you were thankful for her assistance, wariness aside.

Your newfound band of parasite-toting compatriots were becoming the closest thing to family that you had, but there were some you trusted more than others. You often regarded Shadowheart with a healthy dose of skepticism, but she’d been helpful enough.

Glittering rays of silvery moonlight struck through the worn spots on your tent, pooling across your form as you tossed yet again, hands folding together atop your stomach. The dying embers of the campfire dissipated out of existence — the world was dormant.

Sleep eluded you, replaced by the toils of your monthly blood moon that frustrated you to no end.

Halsin was generous enough to concoct an herbal poultice that was supposed to help, but one swig of the earthen liquid, and you were spitting it right back out into the dirt. Much to your dismay, you would be left to endure your cycle in its raw state, no remedies.

The gentle ambiance of swaying grass and the buzz of nature at dusk served as your atmosphere, accompanied by your deep breaths and occasional stifled groans. You rolled over, form awkwardly contorted on your side in an attempt to find some relief.

Your evening clothes were made of thistledown and spidersilk, far more comfortable than the linen-sewn rags you’d been trekking in for the last few weeks. It was all courtesy of a fashionable Drow you’d met in a village in the Underdark.

Your gaze fixated on the low, dimmed glow of a flickering lantern situated in your quarters, sitting soundly alongside your backpack. Orange light danced within the colorful glass, producing minuscule refractions that became a worthwhile distraction.

A fluttering of cloth tore your attention away from the luminous object, and you directed your gaze toward the agape flap of your tent.

Two glittering rubies peered down at you, sanguine hues dancing with a peculiar sheen amongst a canvas of smooth, marblesque flesh. The black ties of his silken nightshirt were left unkept, sleeves pulled toward the crooks of his pale elbows.

Astarion’s vampirism was something you’d become intimately acquainted with.

Perhaps it wasn’t your brightest move, letting him feed from you — but you had no qualms or regrets. Beneath the facade of allure and arrogance, Astarion wasn’t all bad. In the many moments you’d shared of allowing him to drink, you’d learned more, little by little.

“Astarion,” You exhaled, wondering why he’d come to you at this particular hour. He’d fed not long ago — from a nearby stag, and not you. He was ethereal beneath the moonlight, all lean and akin to a statue, living perfection as he lingered within the entryway of your tent. “Is everything alright?”

A sardonic huff escaped him, followed by a familiar tilt of his head, ivory curls swaying with his movements. “I could ask you the very same, darling.” He mused. “It seems that you cannot sleep.”

You swallowed the lump within your throat, sitting up enough within your bedroll to face him fully. “No,” You didn’t want to shower Astarion with the grisly details of your womanly cycle. It was of little importance. “Halsin’s awful concoction left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Astarion hummed, senses attuned to you — truthfully, he could smell you from across the camp.

That familiar siren’s song of blood echoed his name — your blood, above all. He wasn’t above lecherous thoughts, especially when it came to the likes of you. His solution to your little problem was unorthodox — Astarion wondered if you would be open to it.

“Was it that mess of an elixir that left you restless, or perhaps something else?” The pale Elf inquired, noticing the little flickers of realization settling into your features. “I have quite the keen sense of smell, you know. Your predicament is rather obvious.”

As your lips fell apart, Astarion chuckled — it was a rich sound, deep from within the confines of his chest. Embarrassment rippled through you, spreading like a wildfire throughout your body. Tendrils of heat crept along the back of your neck.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” You mumbled, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “Is it bothering you?” You hadn’t considered that your blood might’ve had an adverse effect on the vampire spawn, but he dismissed your concerns with a simple wave.

Astarion stepped inside, dropping the burlap flap as it fluttered back into place. His flesh was a beautiful shade, encapsulated by the flickering glow of lantern light as he stood before you. “No,” He clicked his tongue. “I do have a solution to your predicament — with my own assistance, of course.”

Confusion settled into your countenance — Astarion wasn’t necessarily shocked by this, either. You were a delicate little human, a sweet, pious creature that he intended to ravish when opportunity presented itself — such as now.

He drank in your innocence, feeding from your piety as if it were your lifeblood. It was easy to charm you, let you slip into his intricately-spun web of seduction, but in reality, he found himself becoming soft on you.

What a horrid thing — soft on you.

Yet, Astarion couldn’t help himself. Your presence was soothing, providing a warmth that even enveloped his own icy heart. You never asked him for anything — you never used him. He wanted you all the more for it, desired to keep you for himself.

“How could you help me with this?” You questioned, assuming that he had some remedy for you that countered Halsin’s. Anything would do — you were becoming desperate for a solution.

Something shifted in Astarion’s eyes — his gaze became hooded, glazed with some indiscernible notion that caused your stomach to swirl with uncertainty. Your breath hitched within your throat when his cold digits swept across your cheek.

“In a way that I know best,” He crooned, thumb gingerly sweeping along the curve of your jawline. “You would lay back and let me taste you.” Astarion’s suggestion struck you as unorthodox and crude — and you nearly gasped at the insinuation of his words.

“You don’t mean it.” You countered, shivering beneath the icy bite of his embrace. Your flesh felt like scorched earth, blistering with a fever that you couldn’t sweat out — and your remedy, your cure — he stood before you like an ethereal god.

Astarion chuckled, head canting to one side. “I do, darling,” He uttered, voice dropping to a delicious octave that seemed to curl around you like a vice, spreading to parts of you that you never thought possible. “It would be mutually beneficial, I assure you.”

A guttural whimper of sheer want coalesced within the depths of your throat, goosebumps dancing across your spine as you contemplated. It felt so intimate — if you were to go through with it, the lines of your relationship with Astarion would be blurred completely.

The desire for relief and for him outweighed logic, and you exhaled, eyes silently pleading with him for his touch. Astarion was enticed — admittedly, he wanted to taste you, bloodied or not.

“If you are worried about the mess, you needn’t trouble yourself, my sweet.” Astarion mused, pearlescent fangs glinting in the low light. “I will take care of you.” Something about his tone made you shudder, wanting nothing more than to give yourself to him — every fiber, every piece.

His growing fondness for you was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. He hungered for your blood and he yearned for you — a naive human that he initially cared little for. Now, he was enthralled, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“I’ll let you,” You whispered, voice barely above a shrewd whisper as you watched his expression blossom into one of sheer desire. Those crimson hues raked over you, devouring you without action, leaving you a mess, surrendering to him willingly. “Please.”

“How kind of you,” Astarion hummed, sinking onto his knees as his palm spread across the swell of your hip. “I wonder if you taste just as sweet as you look.” His honeyed purr dripped with a warm reassurance, all wrought with want as he eased you down onto your back.

A fire burned within your belly, demanding to be extinguished as you settled down onto the many layers of a tough leather bedroll and feathered blanket. Astarion loomed like a hungering predator as he slipped between your legs, throat hoarse with the sting of thirst.

His cold hands pried at your silken nightshirt, gingerly lifting the fabric towards your chest as it bunched up just beneath your breasts. A wave of cool, brusque night air licked across your stomach, but the sudden presence of Astarion’s lips made you tense up.

He made sure to touch you — caress your supple frame wherever he could. Despite his one-track mind, Astarion wanted to make you feel good. Those practiced digits of his slipped across your ribcage, dragging down toward your abdomen.

“I’ve dreamed of this, coveted this,” He murmured into your flesh, kissing his way toward your weeping cunt. Nimble digits caressed their way to the waistband of your undergarments, tugging them down and away from your body. “Your sweet flesh, your body beneath mine, crying my name from your lips.”

None of this felt real — your head was spinning, mind deliriously dizzy with a newfound desire. You couldn’t discern if his confession was genuine or simply a ploy to subdue you. Truthfully, you didn’t care either way.

Astarion hummed again, nose brushing along the supple skin of your thigh. “Astarion,” You mewled, unable to keep from saying his name. “I—I …” You babbled, savoring the sensation of his mouth on your skin.

You felt his body quiver with a gentle chuckle as he inhaled a gust of your intoxicating scent. It was your distinct perfume intermingled with that of blood — the twang of coppery menses that he intended on consuming.

Even when prone between your thighs, Astarion exuded a rather domineering aura, icy lips peppering a string of kisses against your inner thigh. He wanted nothing more than to bite — indulge himself in your sanguine ichor. The scent between your legs invited him in, instead.

As crimson wept from your core, the vampiric Elf moved forward, skilled tongue languidly dragging across your aching cunt. He shivered when your cruor fell upon his mouth, a taste of your blood that he so desired.

His palms settled themselves atop your plush hips, hooking underneath your legs. He pressed into your flesh, gripping you tightly as he held you firmly in-place. Astarion could feel the visceral, unrestrained way in which your body reacted to him, twitching and shuddering, thighs flexing.

“How delicious,” Astarion purred, voice dropping to a sultry octave. It stroked every recess of your mind, setting your nerves ablaze, making your stomach churn with a wave of butterflies. “My sweetest pet.” He uttered, licking at any drop of scarlet.

Flushed and flustered, arousal pooled between your legs, intermingled with that of your menses. One of your hands haplessly fisted the feather blanket, the other roaming towards that crown of ivory curls. A low, bemused growl tore past his throat when you gripped his tresses.

If anything, it simply encouraged Astarion, whose greed knew no boundaries. He eagerly lapped at your cunt, tongue tracing across your slit. You felt the little twang of relief that he offered, and you were beyond grateful. You felt the desire to reciprocate — if he let you.

It became increasingly difficult to stifle your pleasured mewls and moans, back beginning to arch slightly off of your bedroll. His continued string of lascivious praise and salacious comments made your flesh turn hot, begging for a release of any kind.

The dull burn within his throat was quelled, soothed by your cruor. Astarion was eager, delighting in your pretty noises and the way your body gave into him. He greedily lapped at the sticky menses trickling from your core, lips twitching into a smirk.

His crown of ivory curls felt like Githyanki silk beneath your fingertips, and for a moment, you peered down — you needed to sate your curiosity.

The mere sight of Astarion, coiled and poised like a lithe predator, wedged between your thighs sent you reeling. He could detect your beseeching gaze, and without pause, those vermilion hues flickered to hold your stare.

Instinctively, your body shivered, goosebumps cascading down the length of your spine. You watched in silent reverence as the broad flat of Astarion’s tongue lapped at your cunt, showering your clit in newfound affection. A stray curl fell across his temples — he was beautiful.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and you fell flat once more, fingers seizing up within his tresses. Astarion’s form rumbled with subtle laughter as he keened forward, mouth suckling on that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your reaction was well worth it.

“Astarion,” You cried, thighs rattling like leaves upon a swaying tree. You wanted to thank him over and over again for this — the tight waves of aching pain had subsided. “Gods, I — Feels so good.” A pleasured moan tore past your lips once more.

A sliver of you feared waking the others, potentially alerting the camp to your nightly accolades. You didn’t want to allow your worry to fester, hips rocking forward when his tongue embraced your cunt once more.

One hand traveled from the curve of your hip to the apex of your thighs, two fingers stroking over your weeping entrance. You gasped, soothed by Astarion’s soft laughter as he lifted his head slightly. “So sensitive.” He purred, lips stained in a glistening layer of crimson. He kissed the inside of your knee.

Heat rolled through you in pleasant waves as pangs of ecstasy gripped you. Seeing Astarion’s bloodied mouth made you shiver, only wanting him to continue, bring you to climax. He sank two digits into your cunt, tongue dutifully returning to lap at your clit.

If you were to perish now, you’d die happy and within the throes of your own ecstasy — with a pale, Elvish deity between your thighs.

You’d wanted him for some time, and to finally drown yourself in his affections — it almost didn’t feel real. The practiced, needy lap of his tongue brought you back to reality, making your hips lurch forward once more. Those digits of his gently pistoned in and out of your cunt, ensuring a level of softness.

Rivulets of your menses coated his fingers, much to his delight. Astarion was relentless, driven in his quest to simultaneously feed and soothe your blood moon pains. His perfectly-timed movements of his fingers worked in-tandem with his mouth, tongue flicking from your clit to your weeping core.

A white-hot pleasure blistered through you, beginning to mount into your encroaching release. Your climax was close, stomach swirling with molten heat, body feeling as if it could simply float away.

“A—Astarion,” You whimpered, desperate to get rid of your nightshirt. The coolness of dusk could not alleviate the pure heat you felt now. A shrill cry left your lips when he withdrew his fingers, simply exchanging them for his tongue as he dragged you closer. “Astarion!”

His name felt like an incantation upon your tongue — it was a sultry, desperate plea for him. The Elf thoroughly reveled in your innocuous cries, wanting to hear you chant his name like a prayer. It felt so genuine, affection intermingled with desire.

Astarion’s gaze lingered on you, chest heaving, flesh glistening with a sheen of perspiration, countenance contorted into sheer ecstasy. There was something rapturous in his eyes — you couldn’t see it, but it was certainly present.

A low hum of approval escaped him when you absentmindedly tugged on his curls again, and he rewarded you with a barrage of his tongue. It was a greedy assault on your cunt as the vampire spawn drank from the source, inhaling a gust of your scent.

“Such a pretty voice, darling,” Astarion uttered, and you soared underneath his reverent praise. You were prepared to burst, body tensing, like a blossom unfurling within the sunlight. “You taste delightful.” He knew what it would do to you — he reveled in it.

You shivered, feeling his nose brush along your thigh as he kissed at the skin there, teeth teasing and grazing along your sensitive flesh. He returned to your core once more, lapping at your oozing cunt with glee — and that seemed to be enough for you.

Everything seemed to spin in circles, head fuzzy and body sinking into sheer bliss. Pleasure washed over you in hot, visceral waves as you were brought to your climax, hips tilting upward as you came.

The coil within your stomach snapped, muscles relaxed — the uncomfortable pain had subsided. Even if the relief would be fleeting, you were beyond grateful to Astarion for assisting you. You came to, flushed and flustered, sitting up enough to see Astarion finishing up.

He emerged from between your legs, tongue languidly lashing across his pearlescent fangs and lips. Speckles of crimson were splattered across his chin, but you nearly collapsed at the sight of him sucking on his fingers.

Whatever mess you made, Astarion had cleaned it all away — he never spilled a drop. “That, ah …” What did you say? “Thank you for doing this, Astarion. I don’t know what else to say.” You confessed.

Astarion chuckled, head canting to one side. “Speechless, are we? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve left someone in such a state.” He crooned, and before he could move to stand, you reached for his arm, coaxing him back.

“Don’t ever feel obligated to do this,” You mumbled, somewhat embarrassed at the sight of your cruor on his chin. Sheepishly, you swiped it away with your thumb — but he caught it. “I feel like I didn’t do anything in return.”

Instead, the pale Elf held your wrist, ruby hues drinking you in, picking you apart. Astarion remained hushed for a moment as he considered his words, lips quirking into an abnormally tender smirk. “You did return the favor, darling. Your blood is tribute enough.”

Your breath hitched within your throat, but you didn’t protest, gaze subtly absorbing his porcelain features. He was gorgeous — you often felt inferior in his presence, shadowed by his timeless beauty. You smiled at him, fingers reaching to squeeze at his hand. The gesture was unexpected for him, but he made no comment.

“Thank you. I do feel better,” You cleared your throat, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “Did you mean what you said, about coveting me and dreaming about this?” For your own peace of mind, you wanted to know where you stood with Astarion.

He should’ve known that you’d ask.

Astarion hummed, neglecting to disclose the truth about how he felt towards you. Part of him was fearful of the implications, of what it could mean — he felt unworthy of you and your piety. “Of course,” He uttered, voice dropping into a more alluring octave. “I would not mind indulging in this again.”

Part of you deflated — intimacy wasn’t the only thing you wanted from Astarion. You wanted his heart. It gave you something to think on, but for now, you were simply content to enjoy his company, lewd or otherwise.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You murmured, visibly sheepish as you glanced back towards your bedroll. “I should try and sleep, I think.” You nearly asked if he wanted to stay with you, but fear and insecurity gripped you in that moment.

“I should hope that your rest is much more productive.” Astarion smirked, pressing a feather-light kiss against your knuckles before rising to his feet. Sharing your bed didn’t seem prudent — for him, it would only make his feelings for you worse.

A soft laugh bubbled forth from your lips before you pulled your clothes back into place, descending onto the feathered blanket. “Goodnight, Astarion.” You exhaled, watching him as he slipped towards the burlap flap of your shoddy tent.

“Rest well, my sweet.” Astarion hummed, and like a shadow, he disappeared into the star-speckled gloom of the night.

[yukimiyaz]

TABLE ETIQUETTE

chigiri hyouma x gn!reader

includes: vampire chigiri. count chigiri. blood/drinking blood. kind of objective talk of humans as food/meals. heavily suggestive. reader is wearing a corset & suit.

notes: well. i’m back. and unwell lol. not proofread we die like men.

Chigiri Hyouma is a man of etiquette.

Doors held open. Announcements when entering a room. Eye contact while listening. Faint touches–when appropriate–during polite conversation. A bow of his head as he takes his leave. Taps of a napkin to corners of mouths. Over coats over rain puddles. Pristine hair in perfectly threaded plaits.

Polite. Charming. Charismatic. Poised. Elegant.

Even now, as his chilled palm presses to the warm bend in your lumbar, it’s proper. Not too low, not too high; just the right height as he leads you around the ballroom by the lining of your corset. A true gentleman, on full display.

“Chigiri.”

“Barou,” he greets, tipping his head in acknowledgement. A dashing grin pulls the edges of his mouth in a curve so delicious you have to glance away. “Good evening. I trust you are well.”

Barou hums. You smile.

“Shoei,” and you hold out your hand. He takes it–barely–and cants his head down to feign a kiss. His pale lips never quite press to the sanguine of your knuckles just like his eyes never quite catch yours. A display, an endearment.

A show of respect to the count on your flank.

“Evening,” he grunts, because he should, because he wants to. Only to you, only for your partner, but still. The thought is sweet. 

You giggle as you retract your hand and lace it with your other in front of your abdomen. Manners, etiquette. This man was not meant for a world like this and yet you think that's actually what makes it so becoming of him. Strong features and even stronger build. Waistcoats fit him well, even if he tugs at his color far more than a man of his rank should.

Chigiri never tugs at his collar in such a way.

Of course he doesn’t, because Hyouma, as you know him, is a man of class. He knows the footwork to every ballroom dance and the order of every dining room utensil. His lips glossed with a cherry tint and his cheeks to match, showing dignity. Head held up high but not haughty, chin raised but no look thrown down the nose.

Classy–in every right. Yes, Chigiri Hyouma is a man of class, a man of the utmost class. His fang catches on the corner of his lip, his hand presses more firmly to the base of your back.

“And the hors d'oeuvres?” 

You hadn’t noticed it until he asked, but at the collar of Barou’s shirt, hidden between the ruffles he keeps tugging at, is the tiniest speck of burgundy. Wine, perhaps. A dribble from a little too sloppy of a sip, one would think. Just something a little careless from a bulk of a man grappling for any sense of inebriation to deal with the stuffiness of the night’s events.

Chigiri reaches forward, slender fingers pinching the cloth between perfectly manicured claws. He inspects it, and you nearly miss it. 

There’s a slight twinge in his brow, a hitch in the bob of his throat as he combs over the drop with his eyes. Deducing, conspiring. It’s disdain, in the faintest form. Something out of order, something not quite right. Chigiri isn’t a freak about these things, but he isn’t a practitioner of them either.

A single wave of his hand as he pulls away and a service hand is gliding over a second later. Just as polite as ever, Hyouma greets him.

“Would you care to take my guest to find another blouse?”

“Of course, sir,” he nods, and gestures for Barou to follow him. The latter does, albeit begrudgingly and while mumbling muffled curses under his breath, but he does nonetheless.

“How kind of you,” you commend, half-taunting half-sincere, as you flash him a grin.

“I am nothing if not hospitable,” he counters, without missing a beat and with his full attention on you. 

Keen roseate irises tracing the outline of your own, your cheeks, your lips. You swallow. Chigiri’s hand slips to your elbow. 

“That you are,” you agree, because it’s true. Chigiri is oh so charmingly hospitable. Extravagant dinners, affectionate displays, endearing escapades. All of each so well thought out; all in celebration of you. Even this gala, right now, is thrown in your favor. For what occasion, you do not remember. But for you, it is, regardless–always. “Must be some tasty hors d'oeuvres.”

He laughs lightly as you take a sly sip of your wine–just wine. Grape only, for your taste. Or strawberry, or muscadine. You hear Chigiri’s selection is exquisite, but your stomach is not so.. inclined to your partner’s diet. Not so well acclimated. 

You nearly gag just thinking about taking a swig from his collection. 

“Yes,” he adheres. “I permitted Isagi to partake in the rumination of this lot. His choice of selections certainly tend to be more…” he pauses, catches a fang on the edge of his grin as he trails his fingertips down the length of your forearm, “Favorable, among the crowds. I thought it best he settle my indecisive debacle, since I do not indulge.” 

A chill claws its way up the slim crevice between your spine and bodice. A sharp inhale, a glance away. You feel the heat on the back of your neck before the swirl in your stomach.

“How hospitable indeed,” you circle back, daring a glance through your lashes. 

Of course he doesn’t indulge–how uncouth of an implication. Chigiri Hyouma, the count of such high esteem, does not need–no, does not want such privy finger foods. He reserves himself for better things, richer things; full of flavor things. Delectable and pristine and exclusive.

Chigiri Hyouma’s reserve means nothing to him because he reserves himself to you and you alone. After all, it is not proper etiquette to share one’s plate. 

And he is a man of proper etiquette. 

“My dear,” he addresses, and you cling. To his fingers that find their way to yours. To the sweet saccharine words that drip from his love laced lips. To his hypnotizing gaze that draws you a millimeter–two, three–closer. You cling and adhere and, oh.

Something about a rich man devoted to you makes you hot inside.

“Mhm?”

“I would also like to enjoy tasty hors d'oeuvres.” 

And he says it in a way that is so courteous. With a kiss to your knuckles and a thumb to chase it. A stare so intent it’s enticing. A grip so sure it’s unfair. He says it politely, gently–not pushy, never pushy. 

“If you would be so inclined to join me?”

Like such a fucking gentleman.

“Mhm,” agreeing before you can even think it over properly, before you can even chew it over. But it wouldn’t matter, would it? Because when have you ever, how could you ever, say no to him? Turn down such manners? Decline such a kind offer? So respectful. Well behaved. Well bred. 

Well trained.

“How hospitable.” 

It’s him, this time, saying this to you. Commending you for your acceptance of his invitation, for his outreach of privy. There's a bubbling in your gut, a giddiness biting back at the confines of your corset. He holds out his arm and you take it; lace yours through and allow him to lead. Skirting through petticoats and performers, acquaintances and aristocrats, towards the edge of the ballroom. The heel of your shoes click in a dazed symphony and Chigiri places his gloved palm over your arm.

A sense of security, an implication of trust. A courtesy–through and through. 

As you reach the doors they are pushed open by the two men standing guard at them. It isn’t until then do you hear them–the hors d'oeuvres. Faint whines and weak moans mingling with dancing viola and sonorous cello. You catch a glimpse as you pass the door; Isagi, mouth latched to a pretty brunette by the jugular, and Rin, tugging at dark wrist. 

You swallow, throat thick, and turn away. Tasty, you’ve heard. Delicious, it’s been countered.

Your eyes trail up to the man walking beside you. He’s already staring back.

“Delectable,” he supplies, as if he could read your mind; like he’s plucked the thread of your thoughts right out of the seams of your mind. “You are purely so.”

And, oh. You are far more than an hors d'oeuvre. 

A break away, a sidestep. You find yourself nearly shying away now, even though a comeback is on the tip of your tongue. Another chill, a deeper flush to your cheeks. You clear your throat and hope the great observer is not too mindful of you now.

(You know he is).

“That’s inappropriate,” you condemn, finally, as the bat unhooks its fangs from your cotton tethered tongue. “We are still in public, you know.”

The halls are empty, save for a few stragglers stumbling from back rooms and servers on their way to discard empty rimmed glasses. A weak attempt to stave off your embarrassment, but an attempt nonetheless.

You are simply lucky the count chooses to indulge you.

“You’re right,” he atones, grasps your hand again to place yet another kiss there. But this one lingers; a second too long to be considered chaste, a breath too chilling to be completely genteel. “Forgive me, my love. I do not wish to tarnish your compelling image. Will you?”

You nod, because what else could one possibly do when rose petals are staring heartfelt daggers into your soul. You nod and you sigh, contented.

A vicious slice of a grin cuts through you. “Wonderful,” Chigiri adheres as he pulls from you slightly to push open a heavy door. “After you.”

And there it is, the charm. He puts you first and places you second and loops you to third as is. He circles you, in everything, and keeps his priorities straight. Like a proper man–a count–should. You listen and step into the room. Pressing a palm to your stomach, you urge yourself to settle. 

You suppose you do, in a sense, at the familiarity of it all. The plush cushions of the couch, kissed by the curtains as they dance lightly in the breeze from the window. Cool night air tickles your warm cheeks as you make your way over to it, positioning yourself fittingly just shy of the middle. And you watch.

Chigiri is a man of etiquette. He does things just so and in the way they should be done. He closes the door behind him gently with not so much as a muted thud. He glides over to the vanity on the wall and stands in front of it, and the routine begins.

Sheer glove of his left hand tugged loose from thumb index, middle, ring, pinky, then off in one swift thring, only to be placed neatly on the hardwood. Then the right hand, the same way, until it finds its mate on the tabletop. Next, the cufflinks. Undone and refastened on themselves before being placed with a pair of clinks into their glass case. Then, the overcoat; shrugged out of and folded over once before being draped across the florals of the vanity bench. 

It is now, and only now, does he turn to you.

“How are you finding this evening, my dear?” he questions as his fingers find their way to the buttons on the front of his vest, undoing the first one.

You try to swallow again. “I’m finding it well.”

“And the dancing?” The vest is off now, placed on the cushion next to you.

“Tiring.”

“Ah, I imagine so. You must be approaching exhaustion,” he sighs as he steps in front of you. Fingertips to shirt collars–he still does not tug. No, he gently unknots the furrow of his tie and moves along smoothly to the pearls. One slips out, then two. 

“Yes,” you mutter, and find yourself gripping the hem of the cushion ever so slightly.

Chigiri kneels, now. Left knee down, then right to follow suit onto the plush of the woven rug in front of you. The buttons of his shirt are unfastened all the way down to the middle of his abdomen. Stone carved ridges peaking through, collarbones cutting out of the loose linen window. He reaches for his sleeves, now, and begins to roll. Neatly, of course. One fold over the other.

“Fraternizing can be so draining,” he contends through heavy lashes, deepened irises and laden lids. He’s wrapping up the last sleeve, tucked to his elbow, outlining the muscles of his forearm deliciously. “I, for one, am simply famished.”

“Y-Yeah?” You ask, and curse your voice for coming out so shaky. Like you’re nervous, like you’re scared. 

“Yes,” Chigiri says; you aren’t sure to correct your improper verbage or to agree, either way it has you sinking in the cushions, just a bit. Just enough that your knee grazes his shoulder. Just enough to be an invitation.

And yet, despite that, Hyouma is still such a gentleman.

“May I?”

You nod, because you’re too busy getting ready to bite your tongue to even attempt to use it for words. A cool hand skims by your ankle, then your calf. It trails its way along the inside of your knee, fingertips dancing in the moonlight seeping in from behind you. You peer through the candlelight, admire how Chigiri’s pretty face appears softer, here.

Once his hand raises above your knee, a shudder escapes you. Chigiri grins, you bite the corner of your lip, and he pushes your legs further apart, slots himself in between. And he looks at you, as he presses in with more fervor, now, snakes his way up to the corset that conceals the waistband of your trousers. His hand drifts back, past your hip and is met by the other as he leans in, reaches behind you to the ribbon laced there.

And now, only now, does he tug.

He does so just enough to loosen the knot of the bow, pull it until it’s undone–until you’re undone. He’s so close, his face inches from yours, his chest melding in, his torso to your thighs. He start to loosen the torque of your binding, little by little, bit by bit, until your breath starts to seep back into you. Until you are, finally, able to swallow down an inhale.

Your hot exhale fans across his cheeks and he grins at you. Sweet and soft and in a way that is so posh it makes you want to scream. But you fight it; the urge.

To lean forward, to reach out, to grapple. You fight and you wait and you sit still and pretty just like you’ve practiced so well to do. You do this because that is polite, after all. That is proper etiquette.

Your back is guided to the cushion behind you before you can even realize you had been leaning forward wantonly this whole time. You’d blush if you held more shame in your bones, but you long since gave that up. No need to tip toe when you can galavant.

You leave the tip toeing to Hyouma, after all.

Once it is loose enough, Chigiri slides his hands underneath the binding of your corset. He lingers there, on the plump of your abdomen, before he finds his end goal. He takes the fasten between his fingers and undoes it tantalizingly slow. You think you’re going mad. You feel this isn’t very courteous at all. 

“I thought you said you were famished.”

It comes out before there’s a chance of stopping it. Where you suddenly found the gall, you aren’t sure, but oh, does it ignite something. A gleam, a glimmer. Nearly enough to miss there’s a sheen that glosses over Hyouma’s eyes as he settles deeper on his knees before you.

A button pops loose out from the seam of your trousers.

“You’re far more chatty than Isagi’s hors d'oeuvres,” he notes with a sharp wrench of the waistband that has it settling at your hips, “My dear.”

A chuckle escapes you–from bewilderment, anxiety–you’re not quite sure the origins matter when there’s such a powerful man knelt before you. 

“Tastier, too,” you counter, fix him with a slow blink of your own. 

And that, oh that gets to him. 

“Tastier,” he agrees, pulls at your pants until they’re past your hips, thighs, calves. On the floor, tossed to the side, discarded as if they did cost an arm and a leg. (And you would know, you’ve seen the price of those). “More delectable.”

He leans in, presses an open mouthed kiss to the inside of your left knee. He slips his hand under it, while he’s at it, and hooks it over his shoulder.

“Piquant.”

Another kiss a little higher, this time paired with a nip of his teeth. Ever so faint, ever so light. A breathy gasp is snatched from you. Your fingers dig deeper into the cushion. Cool release, slick lips have you nearly quivering. Enticing, taunting. He’s so pretty.

“Delectable.”

He’s nearing the crease of your hip and thigh now. At the inner part where the few strands of hair that have slipped out of his braid tickle you just enough to make you restless. Though, if you are truthful, everything about this man makes you so. He nips at your flesh again, with a little more intent this time, a little more pressure. A tease, a taunt.

A warning, to be polite.

“My darling, you are just divine.”

And Chigiri digs in like a man starved. As he takes his first bite into the meat of your thigh, piercing fangs embedding themselves and staking claim. You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the initial scream that rips its way out of the confines of your throat. You breathe hard–rapid and heavy for the first few seconds as your vision burns white hot.

And then, as cool tongue lavs over twin indents, it begins to settle. A slow burn, a duller sort of pain. It’s more of a throb in your muscles as Chigiri grasps at your hips. He tugs you to him, mouth still latched, and sucks. 

It's deep and hard and writhing; you can’t help it. Your hand finds the back of his head and you tug at the hair there, knocking more out of the plait as your other attempts to ground yourself to the sofa. 

And Hyouma is feasting.

He is a man of honor and class and elegance; but when he is here, on his knees before you and drinking from your supply like it is the manna from heaven, that is all gone. His table etiquette goes out the window and suddenly he is all smeared lips and matted hair and raunchy sacrilege in the name of dinner time.

And to think, he was so concerned with a speck of blood on Barou’s collar.

“Hyou-Hyouma,” you whine, fighting to keep your consciousness intact as every minute passes. 

A gulp is your answer, and another. And another. You tighten your grip in his hair, peer through batting lashes at the hair getting stuck to crimson coated cheeks. He pushes himself in, like he wishes he could bury himself here, between your thighs. You feel hot; and willing, and wanting, and oh.

You might just pass out. 

“Hyou..” It’s weaker, this time, your whine. 

And for a moment you think it falls on deaf ears. Chigiri gets in a trance sometimes, after all. Drinks a little too much a little too fast and gets himself a little too blood drunk on the high of it all. But after another few seconds the gulps turn to sips and the sips turn to sucks, until there’s only kisses being placed to your freshly made punctures. A salve over it, like a blood smeared band aid. 

Chigiri presses his cheek to your other thigh–slick and blood stained–and gazes up at you. He’s all dopey grins and lazy smiles as his thumb traces circles into your hip bone.

“My dear,” he adheres, affection dripping off of his tongue right along with your bodily fluids.

You gaze at him, glassy eyed and lethargic. Patting his hair down, a weak chuckle weasels its way out of you at the sight. How can someone so proper simply be so ravenous? Someone so posh be so besmirched?

“You’re going to need a new blouse,” you taunt, hand dropping to rest on his shoulder, where his once pristinely white shirt now drapes over his angular frame, now dyed a deep seeded scarlet. 

He laughs at that; hearty and kind and loving. He gives your hip another squeeze, closes his eyes in content.

“Yes, my beloved. And thank you,” a sloppy kiss pressed to you, “For this bountiful meal.”

liked & reblogs appreciated :)

[eldritch-spouse]

*kneels down at the bagel alter in the basement

“Pinnie… I can no longer keep this secret… I admit that I read your works before going to Church, think about your ocs during service, and make up scenarios in my head after communion…” 😔

What's this? Catholic guilt? In my blog? Oh, I have just the monster for you then...

Say hello to Caius!

See, in some slightly more remote or just particularly religious parts of the world, monsters were sometimes still part of certain religious practices adopted by humans. Believe it or not, there have been monsters in churches, yes. Key words are "have been", for they were quickly shunned.

One such old practice affirmed that sinners could be purified in a different way. People believed that, the more you sinned, the more your blood would grow "corrupt", and sickness would follow as punishment for your ill deeds. And thus, someone should extract that corrupt blood, so you can be pure again. That someone would be a monster, because only those with some level of siadar descent could perform the purifying ritual and not succumb under the supposed filth of the blood they ingest. Nowadays, in the few sections of the world that still practice this, it is not known why the person that performs this has to be a certain type of monster, but it is taken as an unspoken rule.

Naturally, all kinds of vampiric monsters flock to these positions.

What is Caius?

A leech. Figuratively and literally.

This kind of blood-leech monster is considered to be one of the oldest vampiric monsters to ever pop up. And, curiously, although many of his kind are easily abhorred by the wider populous as no more than ghastly sanguine thieves- He comes from a lineage that lucked out, sporting long-lasting ties to several churches that perform the aforementioned practice.

In the eyes of many catholics, he's seen as a holy figure, not to be questioned and to be addressed with the proper respect. It doesn't help that he falls into the role perfectly, dramatizing his existence as some kind of martyr, consuming the corruption of others at his own detriment- Oh, but it's a weight he will carry in his soul! For the good of the community! To make sure everyone is freed of vices and the taint of malice!

He's totally not just super glad he can gorge himself day and night... Trust him.

Much like his adopted name suggests, Caius Draug is a joyous drinker, often getting drunk on the blood of the sinners that come to him for purification, and becoming a rather jolly figure.

Until he's denied something he wants. Like a particular human of little faith. Oh, then things get a bit messy, yes. But fret not, if there's one thing a predator that relies on charm has, it's patience.

You'll come around, he knows. The church will love you.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Shadow and Sin: Chapter 7

Elijah Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Having just recently moved to New Orleans, you get intimately acquainted with both Mikaelson brothers, but don't find out who they truly are until it's too late.

This Chapter: Elijah comes to your rescue after you and your brother get attacked.

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Compulsion, Brushes With Death, Blood Drinking, Kissing, Loving Touches, More Phantom of the Opera References

Word Count: 2.1k+

Read the rest of the story HERE

“Drink.” Elijah orders you, cradling the back of your head as he presses his open wrist against your lips. The hot viscous fluid pours around your mouth as your weakened body slumps against the alleyway, barely able to register what he’s saying, let alone what he’s trying to do.

You manage to squint up at him in response, feeling your heart beating so fast that it nearly rattles your ribcage.

“Please drink, little Lotte, it’ll heal you.” His words are laced with an unmistakable urgency as his breath becomes more erratic, his concern for you more evident than ever. He tilts your head forward again and practically forces your mouth to open against his skin, the salty metallic liquid flooding your taste buds until you have no other choice but to swallow it. “That’s it, take a little bit more.”

Allowing it to fill your mouth completely, you begrudgingly down another bitter gulp as the rest of it spills down onto your chin and chest, mixing with the coagulated blood from the bite on your neck. His morbid cure oozes down your esophagus and settles into the pit of your stomach, allowing his features to slowly come more into focus; his eyes wet with sorrow as he waits for the sanguine solution to work its magic on you. Once a pillar of self control, now a nervous wreck riddled with regret as he strokes your hair, his jaw clenching in anticipation.

The blood he gave you suddenly steadies the deafening sound of your rapid heart rate, the panic quaking its way through your nervous system eventually following suit. It quiets the alarm bells in your head, gradually easing the sharp yet throbbing pain in your neck and the crippling fear that widens your eyes.

Holy shit, he was right. It healed you, somehow. HE healed you.

“Look at me.” He whispers, taking his wrist away before grabbing onto your chin, inspecting your wound as it miraculously seals itself up. “I need to get you off the street, somewhere safe.”

“Is Austin okay?” You try to turn your head to look over at your brother, but Elijah’s grip on your face forces you to keep your eyes only on him.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. Your brother’s going to be just fine, trust me.” He stares into your eyes, stroking your chin with his thumb as he instills that truth into your psyche. “Now let’s get you home.”

“Alright, but...” You keep staring at him, still too shocked to ask him any more specific questions that race through your mind as your body recovers from the attack. “Shouldn’t you be taking me to the hospital? Or the police station? Somewhere, anywhere else?”

He swallows hard and picks you up off the ground without a word, tucking his elbow beneath your knees to carry you like a bride across the threshold. The hot Louisiana air rushes past you in a soothing breeze as you cling to his neck and shoulders, taking in that dark scent of his as it mixes in with the blood splattered across his suit. He continues to carry you through the quarter at lightning speed, blurring past some of your favorite spots until you practically float up the stairs and reach your apartment’s doorstep much quicker than you thought humanly possible.

Only you know now that he’s not human, no matter what he may look like on the outside.

“There’s no need for a hospital.” He turns his head toward you, his lips grazing over your cheek as he lowers your feet onto the ground. “My blood should have healed you completely.”

“Your blood,” you repeat back to him, not stepping away from his embrace as you try to accept the gruesome truth that stains his pristine white shirt a deep burgundy. “Thank you for saving me, but umm…” You look down at his ruined sleeve. “What about you? Your wrist, it was bleeding, wasn’t it? At least, I could have sworn it was.”

“I’ll be fine,” he smiles, almost amused by your concern for his well being. “I promise. One of the perks of being a vampire is that I heal almost instantly, which is why my blood could heal you. Now, let’s get you inside.”

“Right,” you nod, hoping that if you repeat what he said to you in your head a thousand times or so, it might make it easier for you to accept.

You turn and pull your keychain out of your pocket, fumbling through them until you finally find your house key, noticing that your hands and arms are still caked in blood. Trying to compartmentalize the issue, you focus solely on sliding the key into the slot, shakily turning the handle before opening the door to your home away from the monsters that had attacked you. Still holding onto his hand, you attempt to bring him inside until you feel him forcefully tug backward, stopping as if there were some sort of invisible barrier between him and your doorway.

“You have to invite me in.” He states solemnly, as if it’s some piece of common knowledge that you just haven’t been privy to until now.

Right. Blood, healing, vampires, invitations. This is all becoming a little too real, no matter how excited your inner thirteen year-old self is right now.

“Please come in, Elijah,” you say out loud.

And just like that, the invisible barrier between you disappears as he walks into your apartment, still holding onto your hand.

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

“So who were those guys, anyways? Part of some rival vampire gang?” You run a washcloth under the kitchen sink as you try to collect yourself, to make sense of everything that’s happened tonight as the water slowly begins to heat up. You take your time wringing it out as you wait for him to answer until you suddenly feel him behind you, his chest gently pressing against your shoulder blades as he whispers into your hair.

“Something like that, but they won’t ever harm you again.” His bloody hands graze over your arms, encasing your hands as the water falls down your knuckles, saturating the dried blood before he smears it away, sending a wave of warmth up your spine. “Here, allow me.”

His stern tone wavers a little as he takes the cloth from you, his hands nearly dwarfing yours as he begins to rub your skin in slow circular motions until it’s no longer stained that shade of muddy red. You can’t be sure whose blood covers more of the cloth now as he squeezes it out before starting again on your other arm, both of you watching it disappear down the drain.

Once your arms are clean, he takes your hand and turns you around toward him as if the two of you were back on the dance floor of that bar, watching you with a desire that has a whole new meaning to it now that you know the truth about what he is. His eyes seem to darken, but don’t burn that infernal red like the man who’d bitten you earlier tonight, instead only warming you from the inside out as they quietly take in the sight of your face and neck.

Oh no, your neck!

“Are you okay with this? You’re not tempted to… bite me, or anything, are you?” You refuse to relinquish the washcloth he tries to tug away from you as your thoughts of caution come a little too late. You realize now that you’ve let your romantic ease with him override your new knowledge of his potential for violence, putting you both in a compromising position as the space between you closes.

“If I wanted to drink from you, I would have done so already.” He states in that firm, cold tone that you secretly love as he pulls the cloth from your fingers. “But I’ve already fed tonight, and my interest in you lies elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” You smile, unable to stop the twinkle in your eye as his words make you feel a little bit safer. You assume that he wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to save your life if he wanted to take it the very second you invited him in, but you had to ask, just to be sure.

“To answer your question, those men are part of the underbelly of New Orleans, part of a world that the city likes to cover up with extravagant tourism and ghost tours.” He explains, wiping the bulk of the clotted blood off your neck as his other hand keeps your shoulder steady. “For centuries now, it’s been the reason that so many souls flock to the quarter, to experience the magic and danger of it, all while blaming it on the spirits inside the bottles that they drink.” He wets the cloth again, wringing it out one-handed before bringing it up to your chin, a small smirk crossing his lips at the image of your mouth drenched in blood. His blood. “But then people like you often get caught in the crosshairs, and that’s not what I ever wanted for you.”

“What you ‘wanted for me’?” Your brows knit together as you try to make sense of it all, wanting a bit more clarity than his stoic generalizations are giving you. Was he involved with Klaus, or this… Marcel Gerard that the other man had mentioned before? Or was he simply just in the right place at the right time for him to save you?

Elijah purses his lips together and washes behind your ear, the warmth of the washcloth soothing your previously broken skin as he holds you close, making you forget the rest of your prying questions for the moment. You close your eyes and let him clean you, getting lost in the pleasant feeling of the fabric washing away the horrors of the night and the sensation of his hands on your body.

You can’t help but think back to the other night when you were covered in paint with Klaus in his studio, and now you’re here covered in blood with Elijah. Both of these men are caught up in something much more maudlin than you can even begin to grasp. You get the feeling that choosing either of them would put you in a highly dangerous position, but Elijah had just saved you, no questions asked, while Klaus seemed intent on corrupting you to the core. The images of the Emperor and the King of Swords come up in the forefront of your mind before you open your eyes to take in his handsome features by the light of the moon shining in through your kitchen window.

“It was naïve of me to think that I could have you and not get you caught up in my mess.” His hand switches from squeezing your shoulder to cupping your cheek, having wiped all of the blood off of your skin. “I warned you that the phantom kills despite Christine, not just for her. What I forgot to do was remind myself of that fact. I wanted to be your Raoul, Little Lotte, but…”

“But what? You can’t see me anymore just because you’re a vampire?” Goddamnit, you’d just decided to stop seeing Klaus, and now Elijah’s backing out, too? You can barely wrap your head around dealing with the loss of one, let alone both of them at the same time. “I don’t want Raoul, Elijah, it’s never been that for me, okay? I want Erik, The Phantom, I want you!”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You know not what you ask, but if that’s true I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of them, make sure that you’re protected. You have my word.”

“Take care of who, exactly?” You raise your eyebrows at him, hating not knowing the whole story, especially when it’s putting your life at risk. You understand that it takes time to open up to people about certain details of your life, but you’re way past all that now.

Elijah sighs and weaves his fingers into your hair, pulling on it just hard enough to make you look at him again. “Those men that attacked you were random criminals looking for a bite to eat, nothing more. They weren’t connected to any other vampire. In fact, you don’t even remember what they said to you or your brother. All that you can remember is that you were bitten, and that I saved you.”

“Right, you saved me.” You repeat back to him numbly, a docile smile spreading across your face.

“You won’t go out into the quarter after midnight again unless I’m with you, is that understood?” That ice cold timbre returns, quickly chilling you to the bone as he delivers his last hypnotic order of the night.

“I understand.” You nod into a kiss on your forehead as he drops the blood-soaked washcloth into the sink, wrapping his arms around you in a tight yet affectionate embrace.

“Good, now let’s get you out of these clothes.”

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