#sharper fangs? yes please

[drplantboss]

i love the idea of long-tailed shadow

i wish more aspects of alien biology were evident in his official design, but i get that his design was probably finalized before that was actually incorporated into his backstory

still, with how FUBAR the sonic timeline and everything is at this point, anyone who gets mad over a relatively minor retcon should probably touch some grass

[hatethysinner]

Saw your requests are open and I’ve been thinking about OC from Let the Wrong One In being fascinated by Remmick’s fangs once he finally reveals himself as a vampire to her and admiring his other vampiric features (claws, those Bambi-from-hell eyes). In all his 1,000+ yrs Remmick is shocked he inspires awe not fear for once

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ

a/n: YES YES YES YES YES I LOVE YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS! originally i wanted to just do a small domestic fluff fic but i got carried away bc this theme was so good so i knew i needed to format this at least semi-right 😭. regardless, it was such a needed break for me from writing the current behemoth i'm working on now. i played with the vampire lore a little bit, don't hate me </3. hope y'all enjoy! this will be an add-on to let the wrong one in, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

wc: 4.3k

You’d always known there was something off about him.

Not wrong, exactly. Just… other.

It wasn’t just the way he’d limped through your threshold that first day, smoking at the skin like meat on a spit. Or how he never cast a reflection in the window behind the stove, even though the lamp always burned bright. You’d chalked it up to trauma at first. Sickness. Strange blood and painful burns.

But now, a week on, with the worst of the wounds healed and the swelling down to faint scars, there were things you couldn’t unsee.

He didn’t breathe when he slept.

Or if he did, it was shallow and irregular, more a mimic of habit than need. He'd go so still that you'd catch yourself leaning close to check his chest, just to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still resting in the quilt you’d laid out for him, curled at the edge of the hearth like a dog that didn’t believe it had earned the bed yet.

And he never left the house during the day. Not once. Whatever needed doing, he found a way to do it inside. Tinkering with the old radio, rearranging the pantry by scent alone, folding your laundry into neat, obsessive little squares though you never asked. He swept the floors more often than they needed it, flipped through your recipe book like it was scripture. Quiet, always. Careful, always. And secretly, it was your favorite time. The hush of morning light creeping through the curtains, the gentle rustle of him moving from place to place, like he couldn’t bear to sit still unless you asked him to.

But some nights, never on a pattern, never with warning, he’d vanish. You’d wake to cold sheets and the door left just barely ajar, hinges greased silent, latch clicked shut behind him. He always returned before sunrise, soaked in swamp water and silence. His boots left damp prints on the porch, and you’d hear him at the basin, cloth slapping water, breath low and quick like he was trying not to wake you. Sometimes he’d hum, something ancient and broken, as if to stitch himself back together before you saw him again.

And then there were the teeth.

He didn’t hide them anymore. Not the way he did the first night, lips tight and showing just enough to leave space for reasonable doubt. Now he let them rest where they were. Jagged and perfect, sharper than they had any right to be, glinting white in the oil lamp’s glow. You’d see them when he smiled, when he got too pleased with himself over something simple, like organizing your jars alphabetically or stacking your firewood into perfectly symmetrical towers. That grin would slip out before he could tuck it back. Not sheepish. Just… exposed.

And his eyes, God, his eyes.

They were still that endless, brilliant blue. But sometimes, when the light caught them just right, they glinted red. Not bright. Not obvious. Just a shimmer beneath the surface, like an ember curled deep in a log, waiting to be stoked. They never glowed, but you saw the way they shimmered in the dark. Watching you. Always watching.

He didn't try to hide it anymore. Not fully.

And you weren’t scared.

You told yourself that a lot lately. You weren’t scared. Curious, maybe. Studious. Alert in the way you were when you spotted a new plant blooming near the edge of the yard. Not afraid, just aware. You’d lived with strange things before. Nature never asked permission to be unknowable. Neither, it seemed, did Remmick.

He’d taken to helping you make tea.

He said he liked the smell. Said it reminded him of places he didn’t quite remember. The way he said it made your skin prickle. Like the memory was too old, or too far, or not quite his anymore.

You watched him now, standing at your counter, sorting dried chamomile and rose hips into little cloth sachets. He moved slowly, precisely. His hands were always gentle, careful not to bruise the petals. But the way his claws, because that’s what they were, now, no denying it, clicked faintly against the mason jars told you he was fighting to keep them sheathed.

They weren’t long. Not monstrous. But they were sharp, curved, and wickedly clean. Manicured like talons.

You didn’t ask about them.

You didn’t ask why his hands trembled when he held the lavender. Or why he never touched the garlic strung above the door. Or why he flinched, just barely, when you kissed his temple the night before.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched. Waited.

He hadn’t told you what he was.

But your body already knew.

And the strangest part? He looked peaceful like this.

Not natural. But calm. Almost happy.

You’d caught him humming again. Not always. Just at night, when he thought you were asleep. Soft, tuneless melodies, like lullabies spoken in a language you didn’t recognize. You could feel them in your bones more than your ears. They made your garden bloom early. They made the wind hush.

Remmick glanced over his shoulder now, catching you watching him from your seat near the hearth. His face split into a shy smile, fangs peeking through.

“Ain’t mean to wake ya,” he said.

“You didn’t,” you replied.

He nodded, eyes dropping, fingers twitching over the herbs. “Just… couldn’t rest. Thought I’d help.”

You rose, walking slowly toward him, bare feet padding against the warm wooden floor.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. But you saw it anyway. The way his breath hitched. The way his fingers went still.

You stood beside him.

Close.

Close enough to see the red shimmer in his eyes under the lamplight.

Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, wide and searching.

Close enough to know.

You reached for a bundle of chamomile, brushing his hand as you did.

It wasn’t cold.

Not anymore.

Still, his eyes flicked to yours.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Bracing for what you’d say next.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Tomorrow, he’d slip up again. He’d reveal something.

And you’d be ready.

Your gut was always right.

It didn’t matter what others called it. Instinct, a gift, women’s intuition. You’d never been wrong when your stomach twisted. Not once. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Just a slow tug behind your navel, a soft unease like a sour note in a favorite song. Sometimes it whispered hours before the storm clouds rolled in. Other times, it waited until the quiet part of the day, when the air felt too still, and the cicadas had gone silent.

Today had started off just like the others.

You rose early, the way you always did. Dawn was still stretching itself over the trees when your feet touched the floor, and Remmick was already awake.

He didn’t say much when he greeted you. He rarely did. Just looked at you in that quiet, reverential way of his and passed you your robe without a word.

Together, you stepped out into the garden.

He followed your lead, of course. Always did.

Remmick didn’t crouch or dig or weed unless you asked him to. But he hovered just close enough to watch, close enough to learn. His eyes never left your hands. Not when you teased a beetle off your basil, not when you pinched the browning leaves off your peppermint, not when you leaned in close to whisper to your echinacea like it was an old friend that needed gentle coaxing.

And the thing was, he never laughed.

Never made a joke about it. Never offered some flippant remark about talking to plants or casting spells or needing company bad enough to speak to the dirt. No, he watched like you were a priestess at work. Like the words you offered your roots and petals meant something holy. He never repeated them back, never tried to mimic your tone. But sometimes, you’d find him murmuring to the lemon balm when he thought you weren’t listening.

By midday, the sun had grown fat in the sky.

Remmick had long excused himself, as he always did when the heat crested too high. You didn't press him. You never did. He slipped into the house, eyes soft, smile lingering, and left you to your tending.

Later, when you came in smelling of rosemary and sun, the house was cleaner than you'd left it.

The rug had been beaten and shaken. The wood near the back door had been re-nailed. Quietly, expertly. The kettle had been scrubbed until it shone, and your dish rack was full of hand-washed mugs. Your comb, the wide-toothed one, had been repaired, and placed carefully beside your brush, as if he knew it needed fixing and didn’t want you to see it in pieces.

He didn’t say a word about it.

You thanked him. He looked bashful. Tried to shrug it off.

That evening, he read for a while beside you. His head tilted, those sharp eyes scanning every page like they had something to prove. The glow of the oil lamp caught in his lashes, his jaw resting in one palm as he sat curled in the rocking chair across from yours. He didn't speak unless you did.

Then the hour turned late. The light faded.

And your stomach twisted.

He stood up like he always did. Slow, quiet. Said he was going for a walk. That he’d be back before the rooster stirred.

You’d heard it before. And just like every other time, you nodded.

But you didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

You made tea, soft and floral, and sat in the quiet, letting the warmth from the mug seep into your hands. You didn’t read. Didn’t rock. You just listened.

The wind shifted sometime after two.

You felt it before you heard it.

The trees stopped swaying. The air went still. The kettle, empty and forgotten on the stove, creaked slightly as it cooled.

And then, you heard him.

Not at the door.

Outside.

Past the edge of the house.

Your ears sharpened, straining in the dark as bare branches scratched against the siding. There was a hush of steps moving low and slow along the rear of the house. Too careful for a man just coming home from a midnight stroll. You moved to the window with the light still off, lifting the corner of the curtain only enough to see.

There he was.

Remmick.

Not coming up the porch like a man who belonged.

No. He was skulking, body half-crouched, moving just beyond the reach of the moonlight as he crept toward the back edge of the yard. The swamp.

He was soaked.

Not rain. No rain had fallen.

This was thicker. Darker.

Even from the distance, you could see the smear of it.

Blood.

Not dried. Not old.

Fresh.

You watched as he reached the edge of the water, dropped to his knees, and plunged his hands into the shallows. He scrubbed. Hard. Rough. Like it offended him. Like it burned to wear. His shirt stuck to his back in deep red patches. His arms, even under the dim light, glistened with it.

Still, not his.

Not a wound on him.

His face was twisted in concentration, in something close to shame. Or rage. You couldn’t tell which. And then, like always, he slipped into the water. Up to his elbows, then his shoulders. Rinsed himself in silence.

You didn’t call out.

Didn’t step onto the porch.

Just watched.

When he finished, he stood slow, wrung the water from his shirt with both fists, and turned back toward the house.

And for the first time, you let him catch you watching.

He had already barreled himself through the back door before you could even turn around.

The creak of the hinge hadn’t finished groaning before he was inside, water still dripping from his sleeves, boot soles darkening the kitchen floor plank by plank. The air came in with him. Wet and wild and thick with swamp breath, smelling of bark and iron and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

And yet.

He stood tall.

Not frantic, not pitiful. Not the mess he looked like from the window. He didn’t stumble or stammer, didn’t make excuses or throw himself to your feet.

He just... paused.

Straightened his spine, wet hair falling back from his face, and fixed his eyes on you like a man walking into judgment.

And maybe he was.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

He waited for you to look at him fully. Your back was still turned, hand resting on the doorframe between kitchen and parlor. He didn’t dare call your name. Just stood in the silence like he’d been preparing for this moment since the first time he appeared, no, threw himself on your humble little porch.

When you finally turned, his whole body seemed to brace.

Not in fear. In readiness.

Like he’d accept whatever came next. Even if it was banishment.

But you didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Your gaze traveled slow. From his soaked boots, caked faintly in the dried silt of the creekbed, up to the hem of his shirt, still clinging damp and dark to his torso, streaked faintly in places with something not-quite mud.

Then to his hands.

They were clean now, scrubbed raw. Red at the knuckles, scraped slightly where bark or stone had resisted him. And still he kept them at his sides, fingers relaxed, not clenched. No trembling.

His composure was deliberate.

He wanted you to see it.

And then, his eyes.

You’d always known his eyes weren’t right. Not fully.

Blue, yes. Deeper than any human blue ought to be. Not clear like the sky or shallow like lakewater. His were darker. Silted and strange. There was a depth in them, a heaviness behind the hue, like they were holding onto something old. None of this was new to you.

But tonight, they gleamed.

A red had bloomed there. No longer just a thread, but a slow-spreading stain beneath the iris, curling and pulsing like something alive. It throbbed with rhythm, like a heartbeat made visible, overtaking the soft blue with something hotter, hungrier. It wasn’t rimmed around the edge. It moved, filling the center outward, pushing into the color like ink dropped in water, stubborn and seeping. It didn’t look human. It didn’t try to. But it didn’t frighten you either.

You’d never seen eyes try so hard to stay soft.

He saw your gaze catch on it.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hide.

Instead, he smiled.

Soft. A little strained. But real.

“Was hopin’ you were sleepin’.”

His voice still had that low, careful lull to it. Familiar. Full of the same patience he used when helping you dry rosemary or stirring your teas so they wouldn’t scorch. But underneath, it frayed. Just slightly. Like he was trying not to fray with it.

You didn’t smile back.

You stepped aside and let him pass.

Remmick took it as the invitation it was.

He walked past you without brushing your arm, though his body ached to. You could see it in the way his shoulder nearly tilted toward you, then pulled itself back like a tide fighting gravity. He stopped just shy of the kitchen, not daring to sit.

You followed.

The silence dragged.

He stood near the hearth where no fire had been lit, hands clasped lightly in front of him like he was visiting someone’s grandmother’s house, unsure where to step.

You took your time.

Watched the beads of water sliding from his shirt’s hem, down the inside of his thighs, pooling gently at his boots.

“Ain’t mean to track it in,” he said, glancing down at the muddied trail behind him.

You raised a brow.

“You’ll clean it.”

That made his throat twitch, like he wanted to apologize but knew better than to say sorry again. Knew it wouldn’t fix a thing.

So he did something else instead.

A pivot. Gentle. Strategic.

“Ya look real pretty in this light.”

His voice had dropped, syrup-smooth, the way it always did when he was trying to charm his way into something you hadn’t decided to give. But there was nothing slick behind it. No real expectation.

Just... admiration.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t look away.

“You clean?”

The question cut straight through whatever careful rhythm he’d been trying to establish.

Remmick blinked.

His head tilted, a soft nod following.

“Best I could manage. Swamp’s cold tonight.”

“Still smell it.”

He dropped his gaze then. Just briefly.

“I scrubbed.”

“I know.”

He took a slow breath.

“I’d tell ya it ain’t what it looks like,” he said. “But that’d be a lie.”

You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms.

He continued.

“I tried to be quiet. Didn’t think you’d catch me.”

“You always think that.”

He nodded.

“Foolish of me.”

Another pause.

The clock ticked in the corner. Somewhere far off, an owl called once and was answered.

Then you said, “You got blood on the rosemary.”

That finally cracked him. Just a little.

His mouth parted. A breath caught halfway between guilt and laughter.

“I’ll clean it in the mornin’,” he promised. “Before ya even wake.”

“Damn right, you will.”

He smiled again. Smaller this time. Relieved.

Still, he didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t plead.

Just stood there, soaked through, with a red glint in his eyes and the faint scent of iron clinging to his collar.

And waited.

You didn’t dance around it.

You’d never been one for hemming and hawing, not when the truth sat that close to the surface. And tonight, with the house still holding its breath and the floorboards still damp with the print of his boots, the truth felt loud enough to touch.

“What are you?”

The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t spit from the tongue or dragged through suspicion.

It was plain.

Quiet.

Like you already knew the answer, but the word had slipped just out of reach.

Remmick didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard you.

He just looked at you, really looked, and for a long, long second, you saw every year behind his eyes trying to decide whether or not to run.

But he didn’t.

He sighed.

And when he did, it wasn’t the sharp exhale of a man trying to find his way out of a lie. It was deep, tired, and slow. The kind of breath you take when a door that’s been closed for too long finally swings open.

“I don’t know what you’d call it now,” he said. “Folks’ve had a lotta names. Over the years.”

You said nothing.

Just tilted your head slightly. Waiting.

He wet his lips. Slowly. Out of habit, not hunger. Like he had to remember how to speak the word, how to say it in front of someone who mattered.

“Vampire,” he said at last. “If that’s still the word folk use. Feels funny in the mouth, but that’s the one most settle on.”

There it was.

Hung there in the space between you. All sharp and simple. No lightning strike, no howl of wind through the windowpanes. Just the word.

And the man still standing where he’d always been.

Your shoulders didn’t twitch. Your hands didn’t clutch the table. You didn’t take a single step back.

You just looked at him.

“That what you are?” you asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not just pretendin’? Not just wearin’ someone else’s coat?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, his voice soft. “Ain’t pretendin’. I’ve been this for a long while.”

“How long?”

He swallowed.

The quiet ticked again. The walls felt a little closer.

“Little over a thousand, far as I can figure. Give or take.”

You blinked.

Your expression didn’t change. Not much.

But your breath slowed. Measured. As if your heart knew before your head did that the shape of the world was different now.

“A thousand years,” you repeated.

He nodded once.

“Gimme an exact.”

He gave a dry smile at that. Not smug. Not proud. Just... worn.

“Been hard to keep track. I was born before folk kept good calendars. Or at least before I cared to mark ‘em. But best guess puts me ‘round the 10th century,”

You absorbed that in silence.

He kept talking.

“Didn’t always look like this. Used to be more beast than man. Took a long time to... settle. To figure out what the hunger wanted. To learn how to pass.”

His voice didn’t shake.

But there was something behind it now. Not grief. Not guilt.

Something older.

Weariness.

“And now?”

He exhaled again. Shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Now I do what I can. Hide where I need to. Feed how I must.”

You didn’t ask what “how I must” meant. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Slowly.

One foot in front of the other, your steps soft as you crossed the room until only the kitchen table separated you.

You didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

Your eyes flicked up to the red still faint in his irises.

“I knew you weren’t right,” you murmured.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “You never scared me.”

That made something twist in his expression. Not relief, exactly.

Something more like grief, bent toward gratitude.

“I shoulda told ya sooner.”

“You shoulda. But I reckon if you had, I wouldn’t’ve listened.”

He looked down at that.

And then, like your words finally gave him permission, he spoke.

“There are rules,” he said quietly. “Things that ain’t changed since I was first turned. Can’t cross thresholds without invitation. Sun burns me... as you know. Fire hurts. And the thirst never really ends. You just learn how to live beside it.”

You nodded.

Still, you didn’t look afraid. Just thoughtful.

“And the blood?” you asked. “Yours? Or someone else’s?”

His eyes flicked up quick.

He shook his head. “Not yours. Not ever. I wouldn’t-”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Remmick went still.

Then, slowly, he nodded again.

“I don’t take what ain’t freely given. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long time. And when I do... it’s animals. Mostly. Or people who trade it for coin, like a service. Or...” he hesitated, “... folk I trust.”

You studied him.

Your gaze raked down his frame. The water still glinting off his collarbone, the faint steam still curling off his sleeves in the warm air of the room.

“And tonight?”

He took another breath.

“Someone offered,” he said quietly. “City man. Got a house on the edge of the woods. Said he liked the teeth.”

That made you blink.

You let out a short exhale through your nose. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“And you just took off to go nibble on a stranger?”

He gave you a pained look.

“I didn’t want to wake ya.”

“You did anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, stepped around the table and sat yourself on his lap.

His posture tensed again, like he didn’t know what you were about to do.

But all you did was take his chin in your hand.

Turned his face toward the lamplight.

Looked again at the teeth. Always just slightly bared now, long and sharp like they’d never fully retract. Looked into those bloody-blue eyes. Looked at the man who had collapsed on your doorstep and gifted you a gold necklace and kissed your mouth like it was the last prayer he had left.

And instead of fear, you felt fascination.

You leaned in, slowly, until your breath brushed his cheek. Watched the way his lips parted as if he thought you might kiss him again. You didn’t. Not yet. Your hand moved instead, one palm against his jaw, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of one long canine.

He shivered.

You tilted your head, narrowed your eyes just slightly.

“They’re sharp,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

“I know,” he whispered, throat working. “I can cover ’em, if you’d like. Hide ’em again-”

You slipped your finger past his lips.

He froze.

Mouth open, barely breathing, as your fingertip traced the edge of his fang. It nicked you. Just barely. Just enough to break skin.

You felt it. That tiny sting.

And giggled.

Quiet and unexpected.

His eyes widened.

You pulled your hand back, sucked the drop of blood from your finger like it was stray droplet of nectar, and shook your head with something close to delight. “Damn things are sharp.”

He stared at you like you’d just blasphemed in a church.

“You ain’t scared?”

“Should I be?”

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the answer already.

Instead, you took his hand.

Turned it over, slow and reverent, palm to the low lamplight. Studied the curve of his nails. Longer than they should be, ridged like bone instead of keratin, glinting faintly like glass in the flame’s glow. They were claws. Elegant. Meant for something wild, something ravenous.

And you ran your thumb over them like they were precious stones.

“They look like they hurt,” you murmured.

“They don’t,” he said. “Not unless I want them to.”

You traced the edge of one, then threaded your fingers through his. Held his hand in yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He looked down at your hands. At the difference in them, warm and dark, soft and human, against his pale, calloused fingers. It looked impossible. Like everything should’ve stopped to watch it happen.

And still, you kissed him.

Just once.

Soft.

Pressed your lips to his, with the faint taste of your own blood still on your tongue.

His claws didn’t twitch. His fangs didn’t pierce.

He just kissed you back.

Slow and still, like his whole life had been building to that moment and he didn’t dare rush it.

When you pulled away, his eyes hadn’t moved from your face.

“You really ain’t scared,” he breathed.

“No,” you said, lips brushing his. “I think you’re beautiful.”

And for once, Remmick didn’t know what to say.

You held his gaze a while longer.

Then said, “All right.”

His brow creased. “All right?”

“I can work with that.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

Just stared at you with something ancient and awe-struck shining behind his lashes, like the world had cracked open just to let him feel something holy after a lifetime of sin.

You dropped your hand.

“Go dry off. You’re drippin’ on my floors.”

And that was that.

[catscidr]

I come with more brain rot that occurred to me during my shift.

Xiao being so so nervous to hold your hand with his gloves off. Please kiss the emos hands. He's so scared he's gonna hurt you, but he also wants to make you happy. I personally thing he has sharper canines so the look like fangs, kisses when he mentions them are maditory. He might Telenor away the first few times but after that he might pick up and try and get more kisses.

Scaramouche doesn't know how to complement people. His Kazuha voice line is proof of that. He will try so hard, bur they just come out so wrong. Please teach him how, or ask Nahida to help him. He does love you he's just gotta figure out how to say it.

sharper canines Yes but also xiao with longer and sharper nails…. xiao-with-more-birdlike-design-characteristics my beloved ueueghghh..... anyways moving on

start by taking off his gauntlets first n then kiss his gloved hands to get him used to it! help him get less nervous about handling you by doing small things like that, interlocking your fingers together (still without the gauntlet) and, when he’s finally almost to the point where he’s comfortable ditching his gloves, suggest wearing his gloves in his stead!

there’s still going to be a barrier between your skin and his, so, using his logic, it should be fine! plus the added intimacy points because you’re wearing his gloves….. they might not quite fit but it’s the thought that counts anyways

ooh and when he gives you the green light to hold hands without any gloves… give him so many smooches he’ll forget why he was nervous in the first place ♡ and it opens up a whole buncha new things you can do together! like now you can do each other’s nails! (or just his, if you’re not the biggest fan of manicures)— either way, he’ll still come to you to file his talons nails

he could do it himself by either using the nail file you got him, or by going out to clear some monster camps without the help of his spear, but he prefers the gentle way you handle him instead ♡

scaramouche my beloved. my awkward, maladroit, clumsy, beloved. he knows what he wants to say, and he's so sure of himself that he can say it, but as soon as he opens his mouth it’s like he just…. short circuits.

it's something he never wants to admit, but when he notices that you stopped smiling as much as before when he started... trying to compliment you? because he just ends up confusing you, and eventually frustrating you with the strange "insults" he ends up throwing your way? he can't stand it

but you catch on easily (because he's easy to read once you get used to his attitude), and gradually just play up the act of being hurt whenever he tries to compliment you

he eventually drags his feet to nahida for help, but she already knows why he's scoffing more than usual because you went to her for advice. but she still helps him and pretends she doesn't know why he's asking her "how to compliment people without making their smile droop immediately"; and when he goes to use his newfound skills, you beat him to the punch by complimenting him instead

needless to say, he knows how to compliment you now ( ͡º ꒳ ͡º) will he do it? ehhh, give him some time and eventually he will ♡

[feyascorner]

6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it. 

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him���technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back.  Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot. 

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

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[deceit-and-knowledge]

Professor. Please. The theory. - Umbrella Anon

f: yes-.. um *clasps hands together* forgive me if this sounds jumbled! But my mind is a little distracted..it must be from the sugar! Haha..

Um well you know how I requested to investigate your teeth.

t: yes.

f: well that's because me and a dear anon had an isty bitsy theory that you could be a vampire!

Do you reckon consuming my jam could make you feel more revved up and raring to go!?

t: just admit you want me to bite you and get it over with..

f: w-what!? N-no i-i hear me out! Were you exposed to shadow milk cookie's power? Do you reckon it could've in anyway rubbed off on you?

t: no. Even if I had, the effects are long gone.

f: what makes you so confident in that rebuttal? eeee we're debating!!

t: pure vanilla cookie's new changes is through his soul and soul jam intertwining with that of the beast, something I never did. I never cared to understand him, he wanted nothing but hurt for that world, me and the..

...

Most importantly I lack a pretty important aspect of this theory..

f: ah-

t: therefore. No I am not a vampire.. but if you want me to bite you I can. I just naturally have sharper fangs.

f: it's not needed..

t: do you want me to bite you?

f: w-why are you insisting!?

t: do you?

f: I'm starting to think you want to bite me-

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 25: Darkside

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The Night Hag slinks out from the fog, her twisted form more monstrous than human. She grins, her jagged, yellow teeth razor-like as she slowly approaches.

“Lost, are we?” She croons, her voice raspy and vile; the sound of something decayed. “Such pretty little souls, caught in such a dreadful place. But I can help you, sweetling. Oh yes, I can show you the way out... for a small price, of course.”

Her grin widens, eyes sparkling with the promise of trickery. You hesitate, unsure; the pull of her words tempting, but a cold voice interrupts the moment.

"Oh, how original," Astarion sneers. “Let me guess, a ‘small price to pay for freedom’ or some other such nonsense?” He rolls his eyes, stepping forward slightly. For most, the movement would barely have been registered, seen as nothing but an idle manoeuvre, but as his body slides between you and the hag, you cannot help but wonder if it’s meant to shield you. Or simply protect his property. “Do yourself a favour, and save your pathetic little offers for someone who might actually be stupid enough to take them.”

The hag chuckles, amused by his contempt, and her eyes gleam as she turns her attention to him. “Ah, but what do you want, vampire?” Her voice is sweetly sinister, her long fingers gesturing toward him. “I can see the longing in your eyes.”

His scoff is venomous. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. Please indulge me.”

“What is it you crave, hmm? Power? Control? No. I think not.” Her gaze polished with cruel delight. “Perhaps... freedom from your past. I could make you forget... her.”

The air freezes. Forget me?

You glance at Astarion, your breath catching in your throat. The hag’s words settle like a cold weight in your chest. Is that really what he wants? To forget you?

Astarion's face twitches—just for a second. But then his grin returns, sharper than a dagger. “Forget her?” he repeats with a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and heckling. “Oh, darling, you overestimate her importance to me. As if I’d waste my deepest desires on something so... trivial.”

Your chest tightens at his words, the venom in them striking deep. But there’s something else there, buried beneath the sarcasm—an atom of something more.

The hag seems to sense it too. Her smile doesn’t falter. “So proud,” she murmurs. “Deny it all you like, but we both know what’s holding you hostage, and it’s not that pesky, tattered soul of yours.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. The mercilessness returns in a flash, his voice laced with mockery. “Oh, spare me the psychoanalysis. If I wanted to erase her from existence, well, I wouldn’t need your filthy little hands involved. I am quite capable of doing that myself.”

Does he really want to forget me?

The hag’s milky eyes are still somehow predatory, and they narrow in on you now. She steps closer, her crooked fingers beckoning you forward, as if she can see right through the thin veneer of defiance you’ve managed to hold.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you? Trapped in a nightmare of his making.” Her gaze flickers toward Astarion, her smile growing wider. “Wouldn’t you like a way out of this?”

You stiffen, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. A way out? The thought, even fleeting, lances through your mind like a tempting whisper. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?

“Don’t listen to her,” Astarion growls from beside you, his voice dripping with disdain. His crimson eyes press in on you, cold and cutting. “She’s trying to manipulate you. You’re not that gullible, are you?”

Of course you’re not. You know better than to make deals with these creatures. You didn’t do it even when the offer was to remove the tadpole from your brain, and you’re well aware you shouldn’t be entertaining the offer now. But you are so tired, so alone, and there’s no end in sight.

You swallow hard, his words stinging more than they should. But the hag’s voice wraps around you, smooth as silk, chipping through the fog of doubt. “I can break his hold over you,” she purrs. “You’ll never have to answer to him again. No more compulsion, no more being bent to his will.”

Your chest tightens, and for a moment, the idea of being free from his control claws at your thoughts. No more being bound to his whims, no more fear that his influence could pull you under again. No more being used like a puppet.

But Astarion’s voice cuts through your temptation like a scalpel, his tone filled with caustic derision. “Oh, yes, of course, by all means, let the hag break my hold over you.” His lips curl into a smirk, but his eyes flash with something sinister. “Because that’ll surely end well for you, won’t it? I’m sure she’ll just hand you back your freedom out of the goodness of her heart.”

You falter, your mind racing. You know he’s right—there’s no way a creature like this hag would offer something without a catch. But the temptation gnaws at you. What if… what if she could break his ability to control me? What if she could free me?

“Don’t you want to know?” The hag’s voice snakes closer, teasing the edge of your resolve. “Those runes he carved into your back… I know what they’re for. Wouldn’t you like to know, too? I could tell you… all it would take is a little deal.”

Your breath hitches, a chill sweeping through your body. The runes? The thought of them—burning into your skin, etched with wicked precision—sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve wondered, feared, what they mean. What they could do. Could she really tell you?

Astarion steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, and the gentleness of his touch jolts you back to reality. His voice is razor sharp, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering—anger, yes, but perhaps something more. “Don’t be stupid,” he snaps. “You think she’s going to help you? She’s playing you like a fiddle, and you’re letting her.”

Your thoughts spiral, torn between the two forces pressing in on you. Do I really want to know? But what if Astarion’s hold on you grows stronger, more unbearable? What if he’s truly gone and you’re left with this imitation of him for eternity? What if those runes mean something far worse than you can imagine?

Your chest tightens again, though there’s no heartbeat to quicken with the stress, no pulse to remind you that you're alive—just the suffocating weight of the choice crushing you.

The hag’s voice grows softer, more tempting as she senses your hesitation. “I could free you,” she whispers. “No more games, no more strings attached. You could finally be your own master again.”

Your fingers twitch, the offer hanging in the air between you like a curse. Astarion’s grip on your arm tightens ever so slightly, and his words are a low snarl in your ear. “You really are a fool if you take this deal.”

But you can’t help it. The thought lingers at the edges of your mind. Freedom. Control. Knowledge.

But at what cost?

“I—” You open your mouth, unsure of what will come out.

But before you can say anything, Astarion cuts in, his voice venomous. “If you take her deal, don’t expect me to come crawling to save you when it all falls apart. You’ll be on your own, little orphan.”

You stare at him, your mind a swirl of confusion and anger. Does he even care? Or am I just another tool to him, a possession he refuses to let go of? The idea that he would wipe you from his memory stings deeper than you want to admit.

But you also know what’s at stake. The hag’s smile grows wider, her eyes gleaming with victory as she watches you waver.

“No,” you say finally, your voice shaky but firm. “I won’t take your deal.”

The hag’s smile drops, her face furling into something far more sinister. “You’ll regret this,” she hisses. “Both of you.”

You meet her gaze, your resolve hardening. Maybe I will, you think. But I’ll regret it even more if I give in to her now.

Astarion watches the hag retreat into obscurity, his expression unreadable. But there’s a tension in his posture, something unsettled beneath the bluster. You want to ask him—do you really want to forget me?—but the words die in your throat.

“Let’s keep going,” you conclude. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Obviously,” Astarion drawls.

The maze twists around you, a suffocating labyrinth that pins down your mind with its dark, oppressive presence. Every path looks the same. There’s no way to tell which way is forward or back, each step dragging you deeper into this hellish nightmare.

Astarion strides ahead of you. The silence between you stretches on until it’s unbearable. You try to shake the sensation of being watched, hunted by unseen eyes.

“You’re slowing down,” Astarion’s voice slices through the silence, impatient and cold. “I know you’re slow, but honestly, do try to keep up. Or don’t—makes no difference to me if you get swallowed by this place.”

“I’m…trying,” you manage, though your legs feel like lead, your mind swimming with uncertainty. The weight of the atmosphere is pulling your thoughts in a hundred directions. Why did you refuse the hag? The offer to break his control over you…to finally know what the runes on your back mean. You had a choice, and yet…

"Trying? How sweet," he drawls, his voice saturated with sarcasm. “Not like we’re on a time crunch or anything. Really, take your time. I’m sure this maze will get bored of us eventually.”

The darkness cavorts at the edge of your vision, bringing with it images, half-formed nightmares. You see yourself in a mirror—pale, hollow, eyes sunken in a way that reminds you of what you’ve become. A vampire spawn, cold and lifeless. You are his, and yet… not fully.

You stop for a moment, staring at the shadows that swirl at your feet. “Do you…ever think about what would’ve happened if things had been different?” you ask quietly, unable to keep the question at bay. “If we hadn’t ended up like this?”

Astarion’s laughter echoes, harsh and bitter. “What’s this now? Existential dread? It’s not really your style.” His words are malefic, belittling, but then there’s a softening in his tone, so subtle you almost miss it. "Though, if you must know, I don’t waste time on ‘what ifs.’ Useless, really.”

His words confuse you. The thorny barbs, the endless brutality—it’s what you’ve come to expect from this version of your husband. But there are fleeting moments where his words hint at something else, and you don’t know what to make of it.

The shadows around you shift again, growing thicker, descending into your lungs with every breath. You can barely breathe as you stumble, catching yourself before you can actually fall.

"You’re pathetic," Astarion mutters, but there’s no bite in his voice this time. “Honestly, I don’t know why I keep you around.”

You blink, surprised at the lack of bane in his words. “You say that…but you haven’t left me behind yet.”

His eyes float toward you, a glint of something unreadable in those listless crimson depths. “Well, maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Or maybe…” you start, unsure where the courage is coming from, “maybe you still need me.”

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, but the usual coldness is absent. “Need? You? Don't flatter yourself, darling.” He turns away, his expression hidden from you. “Just…keep moving. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can sell off your sorry soul and return to my palace without the weight of you dragging me down.”

You press on, but the environment continues to erode your mind, twisting every step into a fresh hell. Every path seems to lead to more confusion, every turn bringing up memories of pain, of control. His control. Your skin prickles at the thought of the runes carved into your back.

What if you had taken her deal?

What if you had freed yourself from him?

A part of you wants to ask him about the runes, to demand answers, but the fear of what he might say—or worse, what he won’t—holds your tongue.

The gloom twists endlessly, a vicious mockery of freedom. Your legs grow heavier with each passing moment, the weight of fatigue settling into your bones. Every time you blink, you see flashes of the hag's grin, her sickening offer to break the hold Astarion has over you. The temptation lingers like a poison, winding through your mind.

Astarion strides ahead, his posture as relaxed and arrogant as ever, as though the maze is nothing but a mild inconvenience to him.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” he says casually, not even glancing back at you.

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

“Fine?” Astarion stops, turning to face you, his eyebrow raised in mock amusement. “My dearest pet, if this is what ‘fine’ looks like, I’d hate to see you at your worst.”

You want to snap back to tell him to go to hell, but the words die in your throat as your knees buckle. You catch yourself against a tree, your fingers catching on what you think is a knot, until you glance at it and realize you’re holding onto somebody’s lower jaw, opened and screaming perpetually. You do not have the energy to pull away in horror, panting from the exertion of simply standing.

“Oh, for the love of—" Astarion’s voice cuts off, and for a moment, there’s something close to exasperation in his expression. Not cruelty. Not malice. Just...irritation. “You’re about to keel over, aren’t you?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop lying,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, vitriolic hiss. “Honestly, do you ever stop being so stubborn? Must I drag every last ounce of truth out of you?”

You glare at him, but the heat in your gaze is weak, overshadowed by the fatigue. "I don’t...need you to take care of me."

Astarion smirks, though there’s a darkness to it. “No, of course not. Because you’re so terribly independent, aren’t you?” His words cut, but then, with a frustrated sigh, he steps closer, his eyes narrowing as they take in your trembling form. "Fine. Have it your way. But you’re no use to me if you collapse. We’re making camp here."

“You don’t have to do this,” you mutter, sinking to the ground despite yourself, your body sagging with exhaustion.

Astarion chuckles grimly. “Oh, believe me, I do not want to.” He drops down beside you, his presence unnervingly close. You find yourself tempted to wrap your arms around his neck, press yourself close, and beg him pathetically to pretend, just for a second, that he cares about you. “But watching you stumble around like a half-dead thing is getting tiresome.”

“I’m already a fully dead thing,” you snap weakly, your words a bitter reminder of the truth. No heartbeat. No life. A glorified corpse.

Astarion glances at you, something unreadable lambent behind his crimson eyes. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

There’s silence for a moment, thick and uncomfortable, but Astarion’s presence is the only thing grounding you. Despite everything—his savagery, his ridicule, the way he toys with you—he’s still here. He hasn’t abandoned or killed you.

“What do you want from me, Astarion?” The question slips out before you can stop it, your tongue loose from exhaustion, and your voice barely above a whisper. “Why keep me around?”

He’s quiet for a beat, his eyes fixed on the Stygian path ahead, as if he’s contemplating something far beyond the situation you find yourself embroiled in. When he finally speaks, his voice is braided with satire, but there’s an undertone of something else your ears can’t pick up. “I suppose I just enjoy your company so much, darling. Your incessant whining, your stubbornness—it’s all very endearing.”

You laugh softly, though it’s bitter. “Liar.”

Astarion turns his gaze to you, his smirk fading. For a moment, you think he might say something real, something true. “You’re right,” he says coldly, his eyes hardening. “I’m lying. I don’t care about you, not really. You’re just...useful. For now.”

You force yourself to nod, trying to ignore the strange ache in your chest where a heartbeat should be. “Useful to sell, you mean.”

Astarion’s expression flickers, but his voice remains shrewd. “Precisely. Rest,” he commands, not looking at you. “We’ll move again soon.”

He gets to his feet and walks a few paces away, his back to you, his silhouette stark against the umbra. Your mind races, but exhaustion finally wins out. The last thing you see before your meditation claims you is Astarion, standing alone in the dark, watching over you despite everything.

You wake slowly, the sensation of warmth beneath your head pulling you from the fog of your trance. For a brief, blissful moment, you forget where you are—no maze, no shadows, no twisted labyrinth of horrors in the Hells. But reality crashes down when you feel something solid beneath your cheek, soft fabric against your skin, and the unmistakable scent of him.

Your eyes snap open, and there it is—Astarion’s lap, your head cradled against his thigh. The realization sends a jolt of alarm through you, and you immediately recoil, scrambling back, the motion unsteady as your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind. Panic twists through you, the memories of pain too fresh, too constant to forget.

His eyes are on you, watching, his crimson gaze edgier than usual. There’s something unreadable in his expression. He doesn’t say anything as you pull away, just lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Good morning or night to you too,” he drawls, his voice thick with a scornful jab. “By all means, don’t be too grateful. It’s not as if I’ve been sitting here for hours, keeping you safe while you slept like the dead.”

You blink, your mind still groggy. “What...why was I...?”

“Ah, yes,” Astarion interrupts, leaning back with a mocking grin. “The big question: why was your head in my lap? I’m sure it’s baffling, truly. Perhaps you just wanted to be close to me. Can’t say I blame you.” His smirk widens.

You rub your temples, trying to make sense of the situation. “You... let me sleep on you?”

Astarion’s expression tightens ever so slightly, but the mordancy doesn’t falter. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d willingly let you drool all over me. As soon as I sat down, you pitifully crawled over. I was benevolent enough to begrudgingly allow it. Wouldn’t want you rolling off into some thorny nightmare now, would we?”

His words drill more holes into your heart, but there’s something in the way he says them—something that doesn’t match the venom. “You didn’t shove me off,” you mumble, still trying to process everything. Your mind is beyond sluggish, more so than it should be. “Why?”

Astarion’s smile falters for a split second, and there’s that flicker again. “Oh, spare me the sentimental drivel,” he snaps, though his tone isn’t as keen as usual. “I didn’t shove you off because I didn’t feel like it. Does there need to be more to it than that?”

You narrow your eyes at him, sensing there’s more. "Usually, when you touch me, it's to hurt me.”

For a brief moment, he looks away, his jaw tight. “Yes, well. Consider it an anomaly.” He meets your gaze again, his expression twisting into something that’s half-snarl, half-grin. “But don’t get used to it. If you start expecting kindness from me, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Despite his harsh words, there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before—something unspoken between you. You search his face, looking for answers, but Astarion’s walls are as fortified as ever.

“You confuse me,” you admit softly, though there’s a tremor in your voice.

His lips curl into an edged, humourless smile. “Confusion is a powerful tool. Keeps you guessing, doesn’t it? But if you’re expecting me to confess some deep, hidden affection, you’ll not find that here.”

��I’m not expecting anything,” you reply, a little pricklier than you intended. “But it would be nice to know why.”

“Why?” he echoes, his tone biting. “Why, indeed. Maybe it’s because you’re useful. Maybe it’s because it amuses me to keep you around. Or maybe,” his voice drops, the causticity momentarily fading, “I just don’t like watching you suffer as much as I pretend to.”

Your heart would be pounding if it were still capable of such things. You search his eyes for any trace of truth, but he’s already deflecting again, his gaze sliding away from yours.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Astarion says, voice cold once more. “Whatever you think this is—whatever delusions you’re spinning in that head of yours—it doesn’t matter. I’ll do what I must to keep you alive. But don’t think for a second that you mean anything to me.”

You pull back further, his words settling like lead in your gut. He’s always like this—twisting the knife just enough to make you doubt everything, to make you question every shred of care he’s shown—but there’s little point in pressing him further, especially not when you can’t think straight.

The muscles in your body vacillate under your skin, coiling themselves in kinks and cramping. You swallow hard, trying to stymie the pain, disconnect yourself from it, and push it into the recesses of your brain. There is no time for weakness, not here and not with this version of Astarion looming like a threat.

“So what now?”

Astarion’s eyes snap back to yours, his smirk returning, though it’s more subdued. “Now, you get up, and we keep moving. Unless, of course, you’d like to go back to sleep on my lap awhile longer. I’m sure you’d find it so comfortable.”

You stand slowly, shaking off the lingering fatigue. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Pity,” he sneers, rising gracefully to his feet. But before he turns away, you catch the briefest glimpse of something warmer in his gaze—just for a moment, just enough to keep you questioning. Then it’s gone, and he’s back to his usual self. “Come along, then. We’ve got a lovely little maze to conquer, haven’t we?”

As you prepare to leave, your mind still hazy from the strange interaction, Astarion’s eyes drift downward. You don’t realize what he’s staring at until you follow his gaze and see your feet—bare, torn up, and bloodied from the relentless web of networks. The sight is familiar to you now—the constant pain, a dull throb in the background. But something about it seems to snag his attention.

For a moment, Astarion stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable. His keen, crimson eyes narrow as if calculating, and his lips press together in a thin line. It’s not concern—that much, you know—but there’s something unsettling in the intensity of his gaze.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dart around the area. His gaze lands on Shadowheart’s leather pack strapped to your side.

“Give me that,” he demands.

You blink, confused by the abruptness of his tone. “Why?” you ask, tightening your grip on the strap. That pack holds what little supplies you have—a healing potion, some scrolls, and anything else you’ve managed to scavenge along the way. You’re not exactly in a position to be handing over what little you have.

“Now, pet. I’m not in the mood for questions.”

You hesitate. There’s something odd about his request. He’s never cared about your supplies before—hell, he’s barely cared if you lived or died on most occasions, watching with disinterest as you struggled. Why now?

“Astarion, I need—”

Before you can finish your sentence, you feel it. The familiar cold grip of his compulsion wraps around you, sliding under your skin like an invisible chain. You stiffen, the sense of your autonomy slipping away. Your body is no longer your own.

Your hands move before your mind can catch up, fingers unclasping the strap of the pack from your side, offering it up to him like a puppet on strings.

No matter how hard you try to resist, your body won’t listen. It betrays you, forcing the bag into Astarion’s waiting hands, your muscles completely out of your control. Your mind screams in frustration, but it’s drowned out by the overpowering force of his will.

“There’s a good girl,” Astarion purrs mockingly, a savage smile twisting his lips as he takes the pack from your rigid hands. The compulsion lingers for a moment longer, making you feel like a prisoner in your own body, and then it releases you, leaving you breathless and shaken.

You recoil, stumbling back a step as you regain control of yourself, your hands trembling from the aftershock of his power.

“What are you doing with that?” you ask, trying to suppress the bitterness in your voice.

Astarion dumps the contents of the pack onto the ground with a clatter, items scattering across the cold earth. He shoves the one potion and scrolls to the side, but otherwise ignores whatever else fell out. Instead, he draws his dagger, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light, and begins cutting the leather into strips with practiced precision.

You stare, confusion swirling in your mind. “What are you doing?” you ask, your voice laced with uncertainty.

“Making you something more suitable for this lovely little excursion,” he replies. “Now, sit.”

Your instinct kicks in at the sight of the dagger, and you hesitate, grounding yourself in the Weave. You prepare to summon your magic, the familiar warmth thrumming just beneath your skin.

Astarion scoffs, his amusement evident. “Oh, don’t be silly.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re not going to try that nonsense again, are you?”

Before you can retort, the cold grip of his compulsion washes over you, wrapping around your limbs like iron shackles. The force is undeniable, and despite your resistance, you feel yourself sink back onto the ground, compelled to obey.

“When are you going to learn better?” He mocks, amusement dancing in his red, glowing eyes.

Something ignites in you—less fear this time, a streak of defiance. “Maybe when you stop being so insufferably callous,” you bite back, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning in your gut.

His expression wavers, caught between amusement and irritation. “Oh, how delightful. A little rebellion,” he replies, the words dripping with condescension as he steps toward you, his posture predatory.

You brace yourself, heartless and defiant, ready for whatever bite he might deliver. But instead of pain, he gently takes your feet in his hands, his grip surprisingly careful, the contrast jarring. He starts wrapping the leather strips around your battered feet, crafting a makeshift shoe with a surprisingly delicate touch.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, confusion deepening as you watch him work, the sight of his concentrated expression momentarily disarming.

“I need you to keep up with me,” he replies, his voice a low, scornful drawl, but there’s a hint of something buried beneath the layers of facetiousness. “I’m not about to carry you if your feet give out, and I’m certainly not in the mood to deal with any more unnecessary delays.”

The leather fits snugly, giving you a modicum of comfort, yet the entire interaction leaves you unsettled. You want to scream at him, to push back against the conflicting emotions that swirl between you, but all you can manage is a shaky breath as he ties off the strips and releases your feet.

Astarion rises, brushing the dust from his trousers. “There,” he grunts, his tone flat. “Now, stop whining and keep up.”

There’s something unsettling about this version of Astarion—the one who can be cruel and yet oddly considerate.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, still trying to reconcile his behaviour in your mind as you collect the potion and scrolls, stuffing what you can into your pockets.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, his tone clipped and dismissive, but a vestige of something softer flits across his face before he masks it with irritation once more. “Now let’s get moving.”

You nod, resolve hardening as you prepare to follow him into the void, your heartless state allowing you to push aside the lingering confusion. You still have to find your way out, and whatever emotions this twisted vampire stirs within you, they will not distract you from your goal.

The forest is seemingly never-ending, each turn a repetition of the last. Twisted trees and jagged rocks loom like spectres. Every step grates against your raw nerves, the tension between you and Astarion building with every passing moment. His footsteps are unnervingly quiet, while your makeshift leather shoes, for lack of a better word, scrape faintly against the earth.

You catch glimpses of him from the corner of your eye, his expression impassive, his gaze focused ahead as if none of this tortures him as much as it does you.

“How long do you think this will go on?” You ask, your voice low, not wanting to admit how much this is already starting to fray your mind.

Astarion glances at you, a mocking smile curling on his lips. “What’s the matter, pet? Already tired of our little adventure?” His tone is intense, biting—yet there’s a sliver of something almost... concerned? But the moment you think you catch it, he swats it away with a laugh.

Your mind drifts back to the Astarion—the one this hollow version has imprisoned somewhere deep within himself. The one who held you close after the nightmares, whose soft laugh felt like home even in the devastating moments. Your Astarion, the husband you barely got to spend any time with.

You ache for him—the real him—the one that still exists somewhere beneath this imitation. You miss the warmth in his gaze, the gentle way his fingers brushed against your skin when no one else was watching. The Astarion who could still care, still feel, still love you. The one who is gone now, locked away beneath layers of malice and apathy.

Where are you, Astarion? You wonder, hating that the person standing before you is a grotesque reflection of the man you once knew. And yet... a part of you can't help but search for him, even in this version.

“I’m tired of you,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you walk.

“Ah, and yet you’re still here. Curious, isn’t it?” he drawls, a glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. “Tell me, does the constant struggle against your better judgment wear you out? Knowing that part of you—perhaps the smarter part—wants to trust me?”

You snort, your steps faltering as you glare at him. “Trust you? I wouldn’t trust you with a cup of water, let alone my life.”

He smirks, fangs flashing briefly in the dim light. “Wise, perhaps. But deep down, you must wonder. Why am I still watching over you? Why haven’t I left you to rot?”

You stiffen, unsure how to respond. The truth is, you’ve been asking yourself the same question. His savagery is undeniable, but every so often, there’s some small gesture that doesn’t make sense for someone who should want you dead—or worse, sell you like livestock to an archdevil.

“Maybe you just enjoy torturing me,” you shoot back, keeping your eyes on the serpentine path ahead. “Maybe it amuses you.”

“You’re a nuisance at best, but I do have a certain... fondness for keeping nuisances close.”

Your fists clench, the rising tension between you nearing its boiling point. “Is that what this is? Just another game to you?”

He stops abruptly, turning to face you. His gaze is intense, unreadable. “What else could it be? You, of all people, should know by now that everything is a game to me. One that I always win.”

The way he says it, the absolute certainty in his voice, makes your blood solidify in your veins. There’s no room for doubt in him. No room for compassion or care—at least, not this version of him.

Before you can respond, the forest seems to shift around you, closing in tighter, the air growing heavier. You glance around, disoriented. The path ahead twists, writhing like a serpent. The world tilts slightly, and suddenly you’re not sure which direction is forward anymore.

Astarion notices your hesitation and steps closer, his presence like a cold shadow creeping up your spine. “Losing your nerve already?” he mocks, his voice low and taunting.

The labyrinth distorts again, and this time, the ground beneath your feet trembles, sending a shockwave through the air. You stumble, and Astarion’s arm shoots out, steadying you. You look up at him, confused.

He’s frowning, brows pulled down low. “Stay close,” he barks, voice tense. The shift in his demeanour is jarring, and it only deepens the unease settling in your gut.

The trembling intensifies, the trees groaning and shifting like they’re alive. You take a step back, your heart—well, the place where your heart should be—thrums in anticipation.

Astarion suddenly jerks his head, eyes narrowing as he scans the darkening path ahead. “Did you hear that?” His voice is no longer taunting but honed, focused. It’s as if he’s slipped into a mode of pure survival.

Your breath catches as you halt your breathing, and you strain your ears, focusing. At first, it’s just the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of the shifting terrain. But then you hear it—low, guttural whispers, as if the shadows themselves are speaking. They echo from every direction, surrounding you both, growing louder with each passing second.

“Astarion…” you whisper, your voice betraying the fear creeping up your spine.

“I know,” he snaps, his eyes darting around, calculating. “Stay behind me.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the ground splits open beneath your feet with a violent crack, sending a gust of scalding wind surging through the air. You stumble back, your legs buckling as the earth shakes and the trees twist into grotesque shapes.

A massive creature bursts from the ground in front of you, its skin slick and writhing with tendrils, eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Its mouth opens wide, revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth, dripping with venomous ichor. It towers over both of you, casting a long, terrifying shadow.

Astarion’s face hardens, and his dagger is in his hand in an instant. “Run,” he commands, his voice deep and dangerous.

The beast lets out a deafening roar, and before you can react, it lunges toward you with impossible speed.

Everything seems to move in slow motion. The creature’s massive jaws open, and you can almost feel the sharp teeth ready to tear into you. You try to move, but it’s like your body is locked in place. Your mind screams for you to fight, to run, to do anything—

Suddenly, Astarion is in front of you, pushing you out of the way with a strength that leaves you breathless. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting up your side as you skid across the dirt. When you look up, the creature’s massive claws are descending on Astarion.

You scream his name, but it’s too late. The claws tear into him, the sound of ripping flesh filling the air as the creature lets out a triumphant roar.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

If anyone is interested, I rewrote and edited the first 4 (I think) chapters because when I started this I was pretty new and not entirely sure of myself. Nothing in them has changed story wise or anything, just tried to improve on some scenes and pacing, so there's no need to reread them if you don't want to, but for those who might, I wanted to mention it.

This Astarion is giving me emotional whiplash to write.

[caeunot]

johnnie guilbert x reader

part 2 of him being a vampire! 🧛‍♂️

sluttier version ! 18+

part 1 here<3

it's been a few months since you found out your boyfriend johnnie is a vampire. you have learned the ins and outs and as time went on you found yourself enjoying every aspect of his new ways, even the bad ones

"show me your fangs again" you say as you were cuddled up against him on the couch. he turned to you and opened his mouth wide and his fangs automatically grew bigger and sharper. you take one of your fingers and gently pressed around the tip of the tooth, inspecting it. you had accidentally pressed to hard and a few drops of blood came running down your finger.

he grabs your finger and puts it deep enough in his mouth to suck the lost blood off, he then pulls it out his mouth with a small pop. "did you enjoy that baby?" you say teasing him. he fixes loose strands of your hair by putting them behind your pierced ears. "your blood doesn't even compare to others" he says with a smile

"prove it" you say with an evil grin. "in what way?" he says curiously. you lean in and whisper "I'm on my period", as you pull your head back his eyes widen and he gets up off the couch.

he goes and gets a towel and makes you sit on top of it, then he goes down on his knees in front of you. "beg for it" you say leaning down and lifting his chin up. "yes mommy, I need this, I need you, please let me taste you, let me help you out please, I'll do anything, let me be your little slut", you smile

"good boy" you say as you slowly start to undress yourself in front of him. you did it slowly on purpose to watch the way he squirmed from excitement still on his knees

you sit back down and grab his hair to bring his face closer, he starts by slowly licking around giving soft kisses as he went deeper and deeper untill he slipped his whole tongue inside of you. you grab his hair from pleasure, making him moan from the sensation. he takes his one hand and starts stimulating your clit as his tongue goes faster and deeper inside of you, sucking up everything you have.

finally you climax and yours legs shake around his body, he takes his head out and he was completely covered in blood. he gets up and you give him a deep kiss, not caring that his mess might get on you.

afterwards he gets up and cleans the towel as you get wipes to sort his face out. he sits down next to you on the couch and let's you clean him, "you were amazing darling" you say, he giggles "and you tasted amazing".

❣

[kairiscorner]

okokk hear me OUT, you know that movie jennifer check by megan fox?? the succubus demon that loves to seduce men and trick them inti having sex with her before she eats them? can you imagine her snd miguel?? like idk maybe the team thought that she’d be a great addition and also bc she ‘promised’ to be good but miguel’s like ??!?! fuck no that bitch maybe hot but she kills men and bat shit crazy yet one single look at her and he melted like a goddamn puddle

HI, oh yo...... reader sounds kinda hot ngl, i volunteer to be seduced and eaten ✋ I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS !!

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

miguel o'hara x succubus!reader

summary: you were dangerous, awfully dangerous–but you were powerful and a great asset to have in the spider society. the only one opposed to your addition to the team was him, who was way of every move you were gonna make here in HQ. but of course... he's only human, partially human, at least–he's weak when it comes to you, but he'll never admit it. word count: 679 a/n: might make an nsfw version of this on my sideblog HEHE this is pretty sfw for the most part, just some suggestive content below the cut, so be warned

"you've got a lot of spunk for someone that can easily be killed when you don't get fed. for such a... pathetic creature..." miguel trailed off as he felt your fingers creeping up on his broad chest, his gaze never leaving yours as you purred in a low voice and inched closer and closer to him. miguel gulped back the lump in his throat and coughed a little to compose himself. "...a pathetic creature that steals lives doesn't... have any place in my elite for–" "do i have a place in your bed, then?" you asked him in a suggestive whisper, with miguel gasping silently and taking in a deep breath, holding it in as you leaned closer towards him with a wide grin on your face.

"i'm talking to you." miguel said in a stern voice as you giggled, tracing over the curve of his waist. he grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer to his face, with his eyes going red as he glared at you with an evident frown. "you won't feed on me. i know what you're doing, and it's not gonna work." he seethed as he tried to keep his composure, but you were more cunning than him. you leaned over to him and planted a kiss on his nose, which he grumbled at... but released your wrist from his grasp. you didn't pull away from him, however, you instead sauntered over to him even closer and breathed down his neck; which... he really did not hate.

miguel shuddered as he felt you press your lips against his neck, feeling his face all the way down to his shoulders get hotter and hotter. he shut his eyes as he furrowed his eyebrows together in a frustrated manner. he was frustrated with how gwen and peter b took you in despite the danger you posed, how he now has to deal with you, how... how well your charms worked on him before the real seduction began. he was frustrated with how much you're making him want you.

"tell me..." you muttered as you placed your hands on his chest and gazed at him with a burning desire in your eyes, a dangerous, fiery desire dancing in your pupils. "...are you going to be good for me?" you asked him, and despite every single voice in his mind telling him to say no, no to your temptation, no to your seduction... "...yes." miguel uttered as you brought your lips closer to his own, your fangs baring as you chuckled. "good boy..." you whispered as miguel leaned closer to meet you halfway–when he suddenly lunged forward, baring his own longer, sharper fangs, and pinned you against the ground. you hissed as his weight kept you on the floor, his face only inches away from yours. you scratched at him, but he didn't let up. "look at me." he uttered as you looked at him from the corner of your eyes. "don't ever think... i'm that easy to fool." he said as his nose brushed against yours, his red eyes bearing into yours. "do i make myself clear?"

you slowly nodded as miguel's grip on you lightened, and he retracted his fangs. he pulled away and got off you not long after and went back over to his platform to monitor the multiverse. "i'd love to play with you again sometime, miggy." you said in a teasing tone as you strut out of his office, with him not sparing you a second glance or another word. "you thought that was super hot, didn't you?" lyla asked him teasingly. "keep tabs on her movements." miguel ordered her as she raised an eyebrow. "why, so you can ask her to–" "i'm not gonna ask her for any favors." "not even...?" "...at least not yet." miguel finished as the warmth in his whole upper body from you charming him up remained, and he just can't shake it off on his own. he'd be keeping an eye on you from now on... a very, very close eye on you from now on.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @fiannee @popeheywardssecretgf @arachnoia @melovetitties @ophanimgold @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Vampires yes please

Yay!

51 for 🩸 :

—-

He can smell people. Humans. He can sense them nearby.

He wants to kill them.

He wants to bite them.

He wants their blood in his mouth. On his tongue. Down his throat.

It’s sort of a concern.

Bobby isn’t a violent man. At least he wasn’t. Sure, he’s had bouts of anger. Outbursts. He hit Jonah. He shoved a man on a call once. He shoved Buck once. He’s not a perfect man. He snaps. But he has never once been homicidal.

He has never once wanted violence so badly he can feel it in his teeth.

His teeth.

They’re different now. Sharper. Longer. They feel.

Whatever virus he contracted in that lab, Bobby fears it has turned him into some sort of monster. Memories of last Halloween flicker in his brain. The fire station haunted house. A set of plastic costume fangs.

Monster.

There’s only so much he can do. He’s weak. His limbs are on fire. Whether from his illness or his efforts unearthing himself, or both. His wanting, a combined force of hunger and thirst, has left him entirely depleted. He’s useless.

After breaking himself out of the coffin, Bobby stumbled through the dark. He’s not sure where or for how long. He thinks he must have gone in circles. He kept blacking out. Coming to, face-first in the grass. Eventually, the sun started to rise. And with the hurrying dawn, he felt an excruciating sickness. One that had him dragging himself into what he can only now identify as a long-since abandoned mausoleum. It’s pitch dark. There’s no natural light. The dark is soothing. Bobby finds his eyes are adjusting to it.

But recently, more and more people are in the cemetery. Scents, smells, voices. Sources of blood.

[suzukiblu]

WIP Wednesday Song~ We are So Pleased With This Match. Icky by KARD. "Aroma, pheromones diffusing all over, Situation might get sticky icky icky~"

“Sir, he does get very aggressive at, uh, ‘these times’ . . .” The security officer trails off, still looking wary. 

“Yes, and that would be very dangerous if leaving him alone in his cell for a day or two didn’t solve the problem,” the scientist says as he rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated. His cell, Kara hears, and spares an idle moment to be furious. They keep Match in a cell? He works for them. Fucking–assholes. “Clockwork-predictable territorial instincts are hardly a concern."

"You morons,” Kara snorts, curling her lip just enough to bare her teeth. She doesn't have fangs like Kon's, of course, but they're still sharper than baseline humans’ ever could be. “He's not acting ‘aggressive’ because he's feeling dominant or territorial or whatever, he's acting aggressive because he doesn't think any of you are worth his time. Which you are clearly not, so why don't you just point us to him and we'll just get this over with.” 

Very, very quickly get this over with, more likely than not. Especially if Match really has chased off everyone in this stupid lab during his previous “times”. 

And especially because . . . 

“You improved Match from Superboy, right?” she asks pointedly. “Upgraded his DNA and educated him better?” 

“Very much so, yes,” the scientist replies smugly. “Subject Match is an improvement on Superboy in every possible way.” 

“Buuuuut Superboy still beat him the first time they fought,” Kara says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Superboy just about always beats him, actually, from what I've heard.” 

“A lucky fluke or two is hardly evidence of genetic superiority,” the scientist snorts. Kara wonders how that’s even what the idiot got from what she just said. Really hasn’t occurred to him that there might be any reason besides “genetic superiority” that’d win a fight? Really? 

“I didn't say Superboy was genetically superior. I'm saying Match considers him genetically acceptable,” she says, and smiles viciously pleasantly at the staff. The security officers immediately look unsettled, because they apparently have actual survival instincts. 

“. . . what the hell are you talking about?” the scientist says. 

Kara smiles all the wider.

[takaraphoenix]

for the October smut prompts: 14, hotel // aftercare with Peter / Stiles, please!

Tags: m/m, established relationship, Pack Alpha Peter, Spark Stiles, fluff, BDSM, aftercare, explicit sexual content, anal, knotting, overstimulation

Main Pairing: Peter/Stiles

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Peter Hale

Cherrytober Prompt: hotel + aftercare

Summary: Stiles loved Peter, loved the strong Alpha, loved when they were rough in bed, loved the firm dom side of his boyfriend, but his absolute favorite part was when Peter was soft with him.

This Fic on FFNet | This Fic on AO3

The Soft Bits

Mischief Mondays Series/Stiles' Cherrytober

Stiles loved Peter, wholly. Loved the strong, absolute power that the Alpha had in leading their pack. Loved the ruthless efficiency with which he'd protect their pack. Loved when they went at it rough and hard, leaving bruises littering Stiles' skin, loved the possessive way in which Peter would mark him up in bed. Loved the firm hand with which his dom would spank him for being a brat, how Peter never took his shit and knew how to put Stiles in his place. Loved the sharp-tongued, no prisoners lawyer that could domineer any court room and left his opponent suttering.

Every hard, strong, firm edge to the man was something Stiles loved, admired, cherished.

But his favorite side of Peter was that soft, gentle and caring side, the one he only ever showed Stiles, the one he only trusted Stiles with. When all else was said and done, when the pack was safe, the case was won, the fucking came to a spectacular climax, the scene ended – when it was just Stiles and Peter, curled together in the sanctuary of bed.

Peter growled lowly as he picked up the pace, thrusting harder and sharper into Stiles. All Stiles could muster was a broken whine. They'd been fucking for two hours now, every time Peter was close, he'd pause and instead of finishing the job, he'd spend some time leaving another hickey on pale skin. Once he was calmed down a little, he'd start fucking Stiles again. And all of that after the damn wolf had spent another hour lazily opening Stiles up with his fingers, with his tongue, until Stiles was a moaning, begging mess, pleading for more.

"Ple—ease," Stiles' voice broke, too rough from all the begging he'd already done.

"Mh?" Peter nosed his neck curiously. "If you're still capable of speech, I'm not doing enough."

And oh no. Stiles whined, a hopeless little noise, fingers helplessly tugging on the bonds that tied him to the bed-frame. Peter lifted his head off Stiles' neck to offer his mate a wicked smile, all fangs and red glowing eyes and Stiles' cock jerked desperately at it. He readily bared his throat to his Alpha, needing, needing. Peter's chest rumbled pleased by that.

"So good for me, darling," Peter whispered, attaching himself to the bared neck again.

He thrust even harder, hitting Stiles' prostate mercilessly until Stiles could feel tears of despair gathering in his eyes, sobs spilling from his lips. It was just all too much, too much stimulation for too long, too little friction, no release. When the first tear spilled from his eyes did Peter finally wrap his fingers around Stiles' cock and Stiles nearly came from the touch alone.

"Ah, ah, ah," Peter growled, nipping Stiles' jawline. "You only come on my knot, understood?"

"Yes, Alpha," Stiles forced the words out, knowing he wouldn't get to come at all if he didn't.

Peter's smile was sharp and pleased as he forced his slowly forming knot into his mate. He rocked back and forth while his knot fully formed, stretching Stiles so much, so much, so good, and when the knot fully caught, Stiles came hard, arching his back off the bed.

"So good," Peter's voice gentled, soft kisses peppering Stiles' face. "So good for me, my sweetheart, you did so good, sh, it's okay, you're okay, love, you were perfect."

He kissed away the tears, his hands undoing the bindings and gently massaging Stiles' sore wrists. Peter brought the wrists up to his mouth to kiss them just as softly. He sat back, carefully adjusting Stiles without dislodging his knot so the two of them could lay side by side.

"Hey," Peter carefully cupped Stiles' face. "Does anything hurt, love?"

Stiles shook his head, eyes half-lid, just to earn a stern look from his mate. "No. Just sore. Very."

He coughed a little and the next moment, Peter was holding a water bottle against his lips, letting him take slow sips. Stiles smiled up at his mate before snuggling into the soft pillows. He absentmindedly thought how nice it was to get dirty in sheets they wouldn't have to think about washing. Perks of hotel rooms, someone else would have to clean up the mess.

"Good," Peter smiled and pressed a kiss to Stiles' cheek.

Stiles' eyes closed and he gave himself to the feeling of Peter's knot tying them together and the soft, expensive sheets against his skin. A wet towel started gently petting him down. Stiles wiggled his nose at how cold the water had gone, but then it had been hours.

"What's wrong, darling?" Peter asked concerned, pausing.

"S cold," Stiles complained, waving a hand.

"I'm afraid I'm a little… tied down at the moment and can't get warmer water, I'm sorry."

The cute thing was that Peter genuinely sounded sorry. Straight up offended with the water for not being to Stiles' liking. With a lazy smile did Stiles let some sparks dance around his hand and a second later, the water warmed up. Peter chuckled at him, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I can't have exhausted you that much if you still got enough energy to perform magic."

Stiles cracked one eye open, watching how his Alpha cleaned him up, amused. They both knew that it'd take many more hours to get Stiles exhausted enough not to perform at least minor magic. He was far too powerful for that. Stiles loved that look of pure adoration and admiration on Peter's face that showed him just how aware the wolf was of this fact. Of the fact that Stiles was incredibly powerful but chose to submit to him, chose to give up his power to the Alpha. Peter never forgot that, prided himself on that, and always made sure that Stiles would not regret that trust.

"You were wonderful, my love," Peter smiled gently while cleaning Stiles up.

He traced every bruise carefully, a mixture of pride upon having marked his mate as his and concern at making sure he hadn't gone too fast, pressed too hard. It was cute, because Stiles knew his wolf could control himself – at least when it came to Stiles. He'd never seriously hurt Stiles, not even on accident, he couldn't hurt his mate. Still, Peter always worried after. Even though Stiles loved the bruises, loved being covered in his mate's marks, loved it rough, begged for it.

"Are you hungry?" Peter asked, trailing his hands over Stiles' sides.

"No, I just want you, Peter," Stiles sighed, reaching out for the Alpha. "C'mere."

The Alpha smiled amused and obeyed, laying down with his mate and pulling Stiles close, his arms around the Spark to hold him tight. Stiles sighed again, content this time. This, this was his favorite side of Peter's. The gentle and caring one, the one that made sure Stiles was uninjured, happy and taken care off. The one who took care of Stiles. The only one Stiles trusted to take care of him.

"I love you," Stiles mumbled, pressing a kiss to Peter's jaw. "Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary, my love," Peter smiled and kissed Stiles properly.

It was their fifth anniversary and Peter had booked this expensive, amazing vacation, for the whole pack, but they left Derek in charge of wrangling the betas while the Alpha Mates enjoyed themselves and it was perfect, every bit about it was absolutely perfect and Stiles loved it.

~*~ The End ~*~

[srovtl]

(Pacifying the Raging Lands) Oz SR Card Story Translation

The beast similar to him - Episode 1

Chloe: Hahaha! That tickles, Ozwald!

Oz: ...Ozwald?

Chloe: Oh, Lord Oz! What a surprise...

Oz: You were just calling him Ozwald...

Chloe: This is Ozwald! He's so cool and dignified, isn't he?

Oz:.....Dog?

Chloe: Yep, I thought that the long black hair and beautiful red eyes looked like Lord Oz...

Chloe: I gave this child the fake name that Lord Oz used on a mission before.

Oz: You gave this my fake name...

Dog?: ……..

Oz: ………

Oz: 《Vox nox》

Chloe: What?!

Chloe: Wh-what's wrong?! Why did you suddenly tied this dog up in the air...!

Oz: Don't come near it.

Chloe: U-um, Lord Oz. It looks scared, so please put it down...

Chloe: …….

Chloe: I-I'm sorry. Even though it was a fake name, I gave it Lord Oz's name without his permission, I'm sure I've made you feel unpleasant...

Chloe: But this child is innocent. If you're going to be angry, you should be angry with—.

Oz: I'm not angry.

Oz: And this isn't a dog.

Chloe: Eh?

Oz: Watch.

Chloe: (He threw a pebble at Ozwald's stomach...!?)

Dog?: Chop! Munch, munch...

Chloe: it stomach opened up and ate a rock!?

The beast similar to him - Episode 2

Chloe: L-lord Oz... This dog just ate a stone with its stomach, didn't it...?

Chloe: And it had a really big mouth with lots of really sharp fangs!

Oz: This is a beast that lives in the north. It looks like a dog, but it has a second mouth hidden in its stomach.

Oz: Its nature is vicious, and it's not a creature that plays with people.

Chloe: Oh……. Then, if I had continued playing with it, it might have bitten me.

Chloe: You saved me from a dangerous situation. Thank you, Lord Oz!

Chloe: I'm sorry I misunderstood you and thought you were angry.

Oz: Not a problem.

Chloe: Hehe. Lord Oz is really kind. ………But I see.

Oz: ……..

Chloe: I guess it's better not to play with this one anymore. I thought it'd grown attached to me, so it's a shame.

Oz: ……..

Oz: ...This beast is still a juvenile. Compared to an adult, its fangs are immature and it's a little docile.

Chloe: ? Uh, yeah.

Oz: As long as you don't harm it or scare it, it won't be as dangerous as an adult.

Oz: Besides, as long as I'm with you, we can deal with anything that happens.

Chloe: Does that mean... Now that you're here, I can play with it?

Oz: ...was I meddling in your affairs?

Chloe: Not at all! I'm so happy!

Oz: I've released the binding spell. Don't touch it's stomach carelessly.

Chloe: Yes! Thank you, Lord Oz!

Chloe: Good for you, Ozwald! You can play a little longer.

Chloe: There you go. Does Ozwald like to have his head stroked? How cute, Ozwald!

Oz: …….

Oz: ...I should have made him at least change it's name.

Nyanyan's Temptation - Card Episode

Akira: We all went to the Mount of crimson lotus the other day and it was fun! We saw a lot of animals too...

Akira: Was there any animal that made an impression on you, Oz?

Oz: ……….

Oz: Nyanyan.

Akira: Nyanyan!?

Oz: That's the name of the beast.

Akira: Oh, I see!: Nyanyan! What a great name!

Akira: (this took me by surprise. I thought Oz was imitating a cat's meow...)

Akira: What kind of animal is Nyanyan?

Oz: It's a cat-like creature with small antennae.

Oz: I thought you'd like it.

Akira : Wow, you thought about me when you answered. Thank you!

Akira: A cat-like animal with small antennae... I'd definitely like to see one.

Oz: If I see one in the future, I'll let you know about it.

Oz: But if that time ever came, don't touch it carelessly.

Akira: Eh? Is it a dangerous creature?

Oz: Nyanyan's tongue has sharp protrusions. It is much sharper than a cat's tongue.

Oz: If Nyanyan licks you, your hands will be covered in blood in an instant.

Akira: Wow, that much… Aaah, but it's a cat-like creature...

Akira: I'll be careful not to give in to Nyanyan's temptation…!

Homescreen voice line

Sage? What's wrong, you look so pale in the morning? Ah, the reason Mithra is lying there is because I beat him up earlier. He attacked me just before sunrise, but the sun rose while he was talking about his long-standing grudge... he gets stupid at the weirdest things.

[vobomon]

Berserk AU: Otter Apostle Judeau (pt. 4)

Time for another part in regards to this AU. But this time around, I decided to talk about those "silly" little otter traits that Judeau is dealing with thanks to becoming an Apostle.

Obviously this list does not include all the otter traits that I'm planning for him in this AU... I think it goes without saying that NSFW-related stuff isn't listed. So I'll leave that stuff to your imagination. You'll have to wait for those specific moments in my fanfic-- only after I update the rating to "mature" of course.

Reminder that this AU is a joint-effort between myself and @saturnsedan so please show them your appreciation too!

>After becoming an Apostle, Judeau finds himself dealing with plenty of animalistic traits (both physical and mental) that all revolve around his new form being based on an otter.

>On the physical end of the spectrum, while Judeau looks almost exactly like he did when he was a human, it is pretty obvious that some of his body has adjusted to reflect his new form. The most obvious change would be his right arm and hand. After losing it during the events of the Eclipse, he ends up with a replacement thanks to his body undergoing the change into an Apostle. Except the replacement arm is completely covered in brown fur-- meanwhile his right hand has webbed fingers and claws. It is one of the traits that gives away his status as something outside the realm of humanity. When he returns to the physical realm, he hides the arm under his otter pelt cloak.

>Other physical traits are not so obvious and are easily missed by the general public. Among some of those lesser noticed physical traits... Judeau's teeth get sharper but still are mostly normal in their formation but he (also) obtains front facing fangs that poke out from the top and bottom of his mouth. Sometimes when he closes his mouth and smiles, a fang pokes through his lips. Along with the fangs, Judeau obtains small blonde colored whiskers that grow from his cheeks and upper lip... and he gets pointed ears that make him look more like an elf or fairy. Yes... he is quite giddy over that last trait.

>His eyes also change considerably from when he was a human. His eye color changes from brown to green. And he obtains some "special" animal traits with this change. Most notably, he obtains a tapetum lucidum (and) nictitating membrane in his new pair of eyes. The tapetum lucidum is a layer of tissue in the eye that helps the animal in question have superior night vision. it is also found in sea creatures that swim in bodies of water with low visible light-- such as otters. With this trait, Judeau can see better when in an environment where humans would be unable to see anything in the darkness. But on the flip side, his eyes reflect any light shone in them... which doesn't exactly help keep up the appearances if his eyes are shining like a high beams in the darkness. Like wise, his nictitating membrane can also be a problem when trying to act human in public. The nictitating membrane is basically a transparent "third eyelid" that helps protect his eyes. It is found in otters too-- as they use this third eyelid to protect their eyes while swimming. It is basically the same thing as using swimming googles.

>At the same time, Judeau has to deal with a lot of behavioral traits linked to being an otter and they feel outright foreign to him because he still clings onto his humanity -- even after leaving that part of him behind. It takes him some time to adjust to these thoughts and instincts.

>While Judeau was always the jealous type when he was a human, he finds that these feelings are enhanced by his new mentality and the compulsion to give into territorial thoughts. He sees Griffith as something akin to being his "mate" and he will attempt to protect Griffith from others that he sees as threats. Unfortunately, this specific thought process often ends up causing issues in the long run after Griffith returns to the physical realm... but on the flip side, it simply makes Judeau look really jealous in the opinion of the general public-- instead of hinting at his animalistic behavior being the driving factor.

>Judeau ends up obtaining a newfound taste for all things fish or seafood based. He will occasionally make sounds similar to an otter, such as squeaks, chirps, and barks. These sounds are usually completely unintentional on his part; very commonly mixed in with his normal vocals and speech.

[thelovelylolly]

Him

Summary : Your husband comes home late one night, but something's off. He may look and sound like him, but he's not your husband. Warnings : Violence and death, fem!reader (gabirella calls her mom, reader is her step-mom), this is all going off of the theory that Miguel killed his own variant to have a family bc i love that theory (please tell me if i missed any!) Notes : Halloween fic! It's not very scary, but I tried to make it a bit creepy

You were reading your daughter, Gabi, a bedtime story when you heard him walk through the front door. The moment the door shut, you could feel something shift in the air, but you pretended like it wasn't. You finished up your book, tucked Gabi in, and left her to get some sleep.

You closed the door behind you and went to find your husband. When you did, he was standing in the middle of the living room, looking around like he had never been there before. He seemed bigger, buffer, different.

"What took you so long?" You asked, breaking the silence and causing him to spin around to look at you. Your eyes glanced down and you noted he didn't have a shopping bag in his hand. "Where's the ice cream?"

"Oh, uh, they didn't have it..." He quickly answered, trailing off at the end.

You watched as his eyes gave you a once over, so you did the same. Aside from being a bit bigger, his hair was messier than your husband would let it be and his eyes were red instead of the dark brown your husband had. You looked back at his hands and noticed how his nails seemed sharper.

Whoever this man was, he wasn't your husband.

But your daughter was in the other room, and you had no idea what this...stranger wanted or why he was pretending to be your husband.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna go to bed, okay?" He said, walking closer to you. He gently cupped your face in his hands, his eyes darting across your face, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You felt his sharp nails or claws on your skin, and when he pulled away and smiled, you could see fangs peaking out.

Your eyes widened, and he quickly became confused.

"What's wrong?"

"What happened to your teeth?" You asked, causing him to pull away but you grabbed his hands. "And your nails, why are they like this?"

"Querida-"

"What happened to you, Miguel?"

"Let's just get some sleep, alright? You're just tired-"

"I'm not!" You nearly yelled, but you caught yourself so you wouldn't wake Gabi up. You stepped away from him. "Where is my husband?"

"I am your husband."

"You're not him. What did you do to him?" You asked, taking more steps back.

He grabbed your wrist, digging his claws into your skin and leaving little marks. "I am your husband. Nothing happened."

You looked down at his hand gripping your wrist, the marks on your skin stinging as tears blurred your vision. You blinked them away, not wanting to show how scared you were, but this man's eyes felt like they were staring right through you. You met his gaze, silently begging him to let you go.

"My husband wouldn't hurt me," you spat. "Get out of my house, now."

He laughed dryly, his hand leaving your wrist only for both of his hands to grip onto your shoulders. "This is our house, cariño. I'm your husband, Gabriella is our daughter. What is going on with you tonight?"

"You're not him! You're not Gabriella's father! Let me go!" You yelled, trying to escape his grip but failing.

"Yes, I am. Please-"

"Daddy? What are you doing?"

Gabi's tired and soft voice cause you and him to look over at her. She was standing with her favorite teddy gripped against her chest, her bottom lip wobbling as tears filled her eyes.

"Gabi-"

"You're hurting mommy!" She cried, cutting him off.

He immediately released you from his grip and went to Gabriella.

"No, I'm not. It's just a...misunderstanding."

Gabriella looked up at him, tears threatening to spill. He knelt down in front of her, trying to comfort her with a smile.

"Y-you're not daddy," she said.

"I am-"

"Gabi, go to your room," you quickly cut him off.

She hesitated, but went back to her room. She shut the door and he could hear her lock it. He stood up and turned to you.

"What is wrong with you?" He asked in a low tone, stalking over to you.

"Get out of my house," you ordered, but he didn't listen nor care.

"What will it take to convince you that I am your husband-"

"Nothing will, because you are not him!"

He sighed. "You want to know the truth?"

You nodded and he grabbed you again. You tried to kick him away and fight back, but it was pointless.

"Your husband is dead in an alley way. It was going to happen anyway, it was a canon event. I just sped up the process, but I knew you would need him and Gabi would need a father."

Your heart snapped at his bluntness. This man, this stranger, killed your husband just to fulfill a...canon event?

"I always wanted a family, but I could never have one in my universe. This universe was perfect, and now you've ruined it," he said, forcing your head to the side to show your neck.

You started to shake and breathing became harder. "Let me go!"

He opened his mouth and sank his fangs into your neck. A scream got caught in your throat as your body seized up. He pulled his fangs out after a few moments, letting go of you and watching you hit the ground with a thud. You couldn't speak or scream, your vision started to get blurry and spotty, you were losing feeling throughout your body.

Miguel watched as your chest stopped rising and falling, as your body went limp. He sighed, annoyed he had ruined yet another universe just because a variant of you figured him out. After the first few times, he had a thought that it was maybe his fault, but he kept going because one day, he'll find the right universe.

"LYLA," he said, tapping his watch and opening a portal back to HQ, "clean this mess up."

LYLA popped up and glanced at your body. She glitched next to you, noticing the bite marks on your neck.

"You got it boss," she said, brining up digital screens in front of her and quickly typing away.

Miguel glanced at you one last time, then down the hall towards Gabi's room. He always felt guilty when he had to leave a variant of her behind, but the universes would end up being destroyed anyway.

He walked through the portal, leaving your dead body behind to find another universe.

[pen--pun]

HTTYD Nine realms redesign ideas

I wanna fix these but I can't be bothered right now, and my memory is shit, so I'm posting them here.

I can't stop you from stealing these ideas but please don't. I'm trusting you guys here.

And before you ask: yes the are all real.

Thunder

Night Light/Skrill mix

Make the chest smaller

Fix the mouth so it doesn't look like a fugly duck

Make him grey with black patches on back and white patches below

Sharper Longer Spikes

Bigger pointier Wings and fins

Spikes on wing joints

Wu and Wei

Zippleback/Scauldron(?) Mix

Make the Faces Less racist (LOTS of people have said this)

Replace yellow body with purple body

Red and blue legs

Gold accents (fangs, horns, claws, Spikes)

Way more frilly fins

Plowhorn

??? Mix

Change the name to Gemma or something because what the fuck were they thinking

More crystals

Bigger eyes

Four eyes

Six legs

Feathers

Deathsong/Whispering Death Mix

Come up with a better name

No legs only wings

Add feet to wing joints

Make the wings bigger and feathery

Actually more feathers everywhere

Make the eyes freakier

More Aztec quetzalcoatl imagery

Webmaster

??? Mix

How do you fuck up this bad

Why does it look like that

You literally just had to make it a long spider with dragon wings and a dragon head

Why is the body a sphere

Just make the body multiple spheres

Colour palette is great but used terribly so gotta fix that

Definitely missed some stuff but I'm very sleep deprived and it's half 5am so ima sleeb

Might add more in the morning or something idk

[almostempty]

hi ! I would love to participate in your event ! I love Pedro Pascal and also evil, unhinged women. Please may I have Oberyn Martell -⚓️

(also I sent in an ask earlier but it was super short since I was on the tail end of break and I wanted to jump on it. I felt a little rude tho so I wanted to resendl)

hells yes we love evil, unhinged women!! thank you for participating! I hope you love this oberyn prompt, i'm so excited to see what you'll do with it! send me or @gothcsz any questions if you have 'em <3! -and no worries i saw the other ask and it wasn't rude at all, i'd wanna snag my mans asap too <3!!

[ find writing challenge details here 🔪💋 ]

Oberyn Martell x Sea Monster ⚓️

In the cold, black depths of the ocean, under pressure no mortal man could withstand, you were created. Equal parts beauty and terror. Men are easy prey—you tear them in half with your sharp, pointed teeth. They’re easier to fuck—but torn in two just the same. You taught your sirens to lure the weak men to their doom with sweet melodies. The foolish ones perished in wrecks along your shore. Few reached your sanctum with their sanity intact. But this one won’t drown. Bleeding and bold, his footsteps echo around your jagged stone grotto. The scent of iron hits your tongue, making your fangs glisten, dripping with saliva. The spined fin between your shoulder blades flares as you glide toward the shallows. His eyes are dark, black as the waters where you were born, but his body was chiseled by the sun. A craving sharper than hunger, deeper than thirst, twists within you like a hot blade. The strength of a warrior ripples in his corded muscles. He reeks of glory, death, and sex. Your tongue flicks across your teeth. Not at the thought of eating him, but of tasting where his strength lies—salt-slick skin, the crease of his hips, the heat rising from his cock. Your slitted pupils narrow at the rich timbre of his voice, wondering if he’s strong enough to survive fucking the seductress of the sea.