#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

[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.”

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @aelieknox @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @bitterbeanren Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

[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

[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 ~*~

[imagine-darksiders]

The Human Influence.

Samael X Reader.

This is a 10,000 word continuation from this little ask I received a while ago.

Summary: Lilith brings her Prince a 'gift,' all trussed up in a silver chain and collar. To her credit, if anyone were to ask her if she thought Samael had a soft spot, she would never in a million eons dream that the answer might be 'yes.' Unfortunately for the demon queen, Samael's little 'soft spot' just so happens to be attached to the chain she grasps in her sleek, black claws.

-----

Samael won’t even vaguely pretend that he’s pleased to see Lilith when she comes strutting with a purpose through the doors to his throne room, her pretty, painted lips black as night and twisted into that self-assured grin he so detests.

The demon prince’s cragged chin sits perched upon his knuckles as he lounges inattentively in the seat of his throne, tracing Lilith’s sauntered path towards him over the black, basalt floor.

Neither of them bothers to pretend they’re especially pleased to see the other, even if it has been several months since Lilith set foot in Shadow’s Edge. She, however, puts in just slightly more effort than Samael, lifting her lips into a sultry smile when she catches him looking her way.

Just as he begins to wonder what kind of favour she might try to curry from him today, something glints in the light cast by the moat of lava that surrounds the room, and he drops his gaze slightly to find a silver chain clutched between his mistress’s talons.

Thick and cumbersome, it disappears behind her inverted wings, pulled ever so taut, doubtlessly locked fast around the neck of her latest little plaything.

Heaving a great sigh through his nostrils, the prince casts a bored glance between Lilith’s coiled horns in an idle attempt to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate creature that’s stumbling along in tow.

If he weren’t such an expert in maintaining his impenetrable countenance, he might have lurched forwards in his seat and crushed the armrests beneath his claws at what, or rather who he spies at the end of his mistress’s chain.

As it is, Samael’s only outward reaction is in the barest twitch of his pointed tail and the quirk of a scaly brow.

Inwardly however, a spark ignites.

‘She didn’t,’ he seethes to himself as an ugly, howling rage begins to stir in his belly, whipped up like flames in the wind, ‘Not this human… Any human but-…’

You.

His little storyteller…

It can’t be you. Not so soon after the Horsemen took you back from him the first time.

Questions fly around his skull like rapid, biting gnats. It’s hardly been a full Earth month since you were here last. He’s been keeping close tabs on your movements, not to mention the Four have barely let you out of their sight for a moment – How could Lilith have sunk her claws into you!?

Mistaking the subtle shift of his attention as a show of interest, the demoness’s lips carve upwards into a sharper smile as she blows a lustful breath between her fangs, prowling to a halt at the foot of Samael’s throne with her hips cocked.

“My Lord,” she all but purrs, dipping into a low bow and very deliberately exposing more of her chest than Samael finds either tasteful or necessary, “It has been far too long~.”

Alluring, golden eyes flick up to peer at him through her lashes, yet her smile wavers ever so slightly when she finds that his attention is fixed elsewhere.

He can’t tear his eyes from your face.

Samael’s nostrils flare wide to inhale the tangy scent of iron on the air. He’d know that smell a mile off. After all, he’s well acquainted with blood. It rises above the chamber’s usual aroma of brimstone and dank moisture, with a source that his well-trained nose can trace directly back to you.

Lilith, it would seem, hasn’t brought you to him unscathed.

Even the Prince of Hell himself is taken aback as the anger churning in his guts starts to boil, bubbling up from his stomach like putrid smoke and rising to fill the crevices of his chest.

A trickle of scarlet blood runs a track from your swollen, purpling nose down over quivering lips to gather at the bottom of your chin, where it drips steadily to the ground by your feet with soft, little splats that permeate the silence sitting like a smog between you.

One of your captivating eyes has swelled shut behind a dark bruise, and from your other eye – the one he tries and fails to meet – streams a veritable river of tears, cutting a path through the dirt on your cheek and mingling with the blood in the dip of your chin.

Like an ancient building falling to ruin, Samael’s unshakable composure slowly starts to crumble. Lowering his fearsome, yellow eyes to your neck, he locks his sights on the metal collar that Lilith must have fastened tightly around your throat, causing every breath to leave you in tiny, pitiable wheezes.

The delicate skin below it has been rubbed red and raw…

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Samael barely manages to compose himself, ducking his head and attempting to catch your eye again. And yet, your gaze slides away from his, fixing itself resolutely on the ground below your bare feet.

Lilith must have snatched you away in the dead of night, if the white, cotton sleepshirt hanging from your frame is any indication.

She stole you when you were at your most vulnerable…

Coward.

Easing his clenched jaws apart, the prince aims a poisonous glare over at his queen, his lips curling down at their corners. “Lilith,” he utters, his voice like tar moving under the earth, low and dangerous, “What… is the meaning of-?”

“- A gift, my Lord,” she interrupts smoothly, proud as a cat with a dove in its jaws, “A present, in part, to…. apologise for the time I’ve spent absent from your side…”

Frankly, he muses, her absence in itself has been gift enough.

Twitching her head sideways to peer over her shoulder at you, Lilith’s expression suddenly contorts into a snarl that mars her attractive features as she gives the end of your chain a jarring, vicious yank.

Samael’s spine snaps straight as you’re wrenched forwards by the neck with a strangled croak, collapsing onto your knees and throwing your trembling hands up to claw feebly at the collar, but the hateful piece of silver has been cinched so tightly around your throat, you can’t even squeeze your fingertips beneath it to relieve some of the pressure.

Curling his enormous hand into a fist, Samael raises his chin and stares down at you, his burning, fire-laden stare aflame with anticipation.

As much as he dreads the thought, he half expects a groan of pleasure to tumble from your lips.

Lilith’s… obscene influence is as powerful as it is repulsive. It’s an ancient, inherent magic that can pervert the mind of even the most pious angel and turn them into just another of the demoness’s depraved and lustful thralls.

She’s tainted the sanity of far more powerful souls than yours, through no effort at all on her part. And yet…

And yet, to the prince’s astonishment – and surprisingly, his relief - there are no needy moans, no adoring looks at his mistress, no grasping hands that stretch out across the space between you and her skin as if you couldn’t possibly live for another second without feeling her scales roll beneath your fingertips.

All Samael can see in your eye is a bone deep terror, all he can hear from your lips are quiet, wheezing breaths. Your hands are still your own, still clutching and scrabbling at the collar locked around your throat.

As twisted as it seems, he’s glad to see your terror, but… How are you still in your right mind?

“Bow before your betters, Ape!” Lilith spits, hauling on the chain once more so that you’re yanked forwards, thrown off balance and landing harshly on your hands and knees beside her with a strangled sob, “Or else I shall feed your legs to the Hell hounds!”

Now, Samael is the furthest thing from a saint. His cruelty, depravity and occasional grabs for power might be considered by many to be on par with Lilith’s own, craven deeds.

He’s a Prince of Hell, after all. The enemies he’s slain could fill all the rivers of Eden with their blood.

But… you’re not one of Samael’s enemies…

You’re not even a political target, despite your affiliation with the Four Horsemen.

You’re just…

You’re you.

For what you’ve had to endure, during the Apocalypse and your journey alongside the Horseman, Death, to bring your species back from extinction, for being the foremost intermediary between Humanity and the rest of Creation, you’re worthy of respect. Not… this.

Seeing his little storyteller bloodied and broken, bound on your knees in front of him doesn’t stir anything in the demon except a… a heaviness in his chest. He’s never once given his cold, ancient heart much consideration, but he certainly notices it now when it gives a sudden and unexpected twist.

He can only think to attribute such a sensation to the rage swelling behind his ribs.

Fire ignites beneath his scales and burns a path through his veins until he’s contemplating simply tearing Lilith to pieces for laying her vile claws on you. But… that would be showing his hand…

And Samael hasn’t been on the throne this long by showing his hand…

If Lilith catches the slightest whiff of a weakness in him, she’ll try to exploit that weakness to her own advantage.

She could kill you if she thought for a moment that your death would get to him.

As much as he’s loathe to admit it, it would.

Unfortunately for her, Samael was always better at playing high-stakes games than she ever was…

Plastering a sultry grin on her lips, she watches as her Prince leans himself forwards in the throne, balancing his chin atop steepled fingertips.

She must think him a fool…

You were never intended to be a gift for him.

This isn’t her attempting to win her way between his sheets after several months spent away from his fortress.

All this is, is Lilith drawing the Four Horsemen right to his doorstep.

When he brought you here the first time and the Horsemen arrived to rescue you, the only reason he came out unscathed was because you yourself were unscathed. Unharmed. Untouched. He’d kept his word to you, and never once laid a finger on you in malice.

You’d even vouched for him when War exploded into his all-powerful Chaos Form and charged hell-for-leather at the demon.

“War! Don’t!” you’d pleaded shrilly, hurling yourself between the charging behemoth and a bemused Samael, “He didn’t hurt me! Look at me! I’m fine! Please, just… just take me home…”

You knew the demon wielded powers that could easily match those of the Horsemen, and you weren’t willing to risk the safety of your friends.

Samael had been counting on your intervention. Without it, he’s sure his fortress wouldn’t have been left standing in once piece after an all-out battle between himself and the Four.

But if the Horsemen were to turn up now to find you in this state…? And they surely will, because Death won’t neglect to investigate the prince’s involvement for a second time.

Well… Samael is sure to come out of it losing something, even if not his life.

The tenuous reinstatement of peace between Hell and the other realms would no doubt be ripped up.

The Horsemen would declare war on him in your name. You’re one of theirs, after all.

And Lilith knows that.

“Let me see if I understand your intentions here,” Samael rumbles, planting his massive palms on each of the throne’s armrests and curling his black claws into the stone, “You have brought me.. this human…“

He has to bite his tongue before he almost says your name, though Lilith gives no indication that she’s noticed the near miss.

Sweat has begun to bead between her scales, and the stench of it drifts into his nose.

She’s nervous.

“Not just any human,” she rushes to assure him, twisting her fist into the chain and hauling you -hacking and spluttering – back up onto your feet, “Allow me to introduce you to the little pest that belongs to those treacherous Horsemen.”

Samael’s fangs grind together as she extends a sleek, ebony claw and slides its point beneath your chin, pushing your head back, and for the first time since she brought you before him, your eyes finally lock with his.

He almost wishes they hadn’t.

Samael must favour you more than he assumed, because the look you’re sending him empties the fury in his chest until it merely feels hollow and cold.

Even with one eye wedged shut and blood painting your lips crimson, he can easily make out the betrayal pinching your expression. It’s an expression he’s well-accustomed to.

But on you, it’s hard to look at. Predominantly because there was a moment, however briefly, where you seemed to trust him, if only a little – which was a damn sight more than anyone ever has before.

It wasn’t… an unwelcome feeling, to have someone believe him at his word. Not even his own troops would trust him. Lilith – the very demoness who used to share his bed – knows better than to trust him. And, yes, while it was terribly naïve of you, Samael had ended up proving you right, in some small way.

You trusted him when he said he wouldn’t hurt you, and he hadn’t.

Until now, evidently.

He can understand why he’s getting this look from you now.

He once swore you’d never come to harm within his walls, not by his hand nor any of his ilk’s.

Of course, it would be Lilith who shattered what fragile and hesitant faith you’ve granted him. In your eyes, by mere affiliation, Samael is responsible for his former mistress’s actions.

“You’ve brought the Horsemen’s human right to my doorstep?” he growls heavily, pushing himself up onto his taloned feet.

His chest gives an unexpected twinge when you take a step back, though he’ll admit it’s gratifying to see the confidence drain from Lilith’s face as he rises to his full, imposing height.

“And what do you suppose they’ll do, Lilith,” he adds, “When they find their precious friend in this condition, hm?”

A heavy, thundering step carries him down the stone staircase towards her.

The demoness’s forked tongue darts out to moisten her lips. She matches his advancement with a backwards step that brings her up alongside you. “This,” she starts apprehensively, “This is your chance… to take revenge on-!”

“-Revenge!?” Samael’s thunderclap of an interruption stifles the last remnants of cockiness in her tone and she hastily retreats as he draws closer, letting a few links of the chain slip through her slender fingers.

As soon as it goes slack, you take the opportunity to stagger sideways, putting as much distance between yourself and the two, massive demons as the chain will allow, your wary eye affixed on Samael, as if he’s the greater threat.

“And what offence have the Horsemen cause me that would warrant revenge?” the demon prince demands, endeavouring to keep his gaze trained on Lilith.

Her slitted pupils shrink as badly concealed irritation flashes across her face and her lips twitch with the beginnings of a snarl. It must have occurred to her, at last, that she isn’t fooling anyone.

This was never about Samael’s tenuous alliance with the Horsemen. It’s only ever been about Lilith, as always. Once again, her desire for vengeance for what the Four did to her Nephilim children has superseded her common sense.

Even thousands of years after the massacre at Eden, she still seeks retribution.

She always has been a master of manipulation - Pit the Horsemen against the Prince of Darkness, and no matter which of them emerges the victor, it’s Lilith who ends up reaping the spoils.

If Samael succeeds, she’ll have finally had her revenge on the Horsemen, but if the Four succeed, she’ll be free to move in and take the prince’s throne.

She certainly knows how to play the game.

It’s just unfortunate for her that he’s been playing it a whole Hell of a lot longer, and he always has so hated to lose.

Her first mistake was taking him for a fool.

Her second, and far more grievous, was taking you at all.

She’ll face retribution, for that he’ll make certain, though her punishment won’t necessarily be for the reason she expects.

Lilith’s mouth twists. He can already hear the venomous words curdling on her tongue, no doubt readying a jab at his cowardice for being unwilling to face the Horsemen’s wrath. She never gets the chance to voice whatever cruel sentiment rises behind her gorge.

Without warning, Samael’s hand snaps out, his fingers curled over and aimed straight at his former mistress. Before she can even utter a squawk of alarm, a dark, festering tendril of magic slithers into existence, ripped from between the fabrics of space itself and sent to coil around her neck like a serpent, crushing in on her throat with a pressure that only increases with every flex of Samael’s fingers.

At once, and as he’d hoped, Lilith drops your chain to throw her hands up and scrabble uselessly at the magic strangling her. But magic, by nature, is intangible. Her claws can’t make purchase.

“What say you, Lilith?” he growls, a vindictive smirk revealing two rows of gleaming, wicked fangs, “Is this still as gratifying as you remember?”

The demoness’s mouth hangs agape as she collapses heavily onto her knees. ‘There,’ he muses, letting a wave of sick satisfaction roll over him, ‘At last.’

Poetic justice if he’s ever seen it.

The feeblest sound twitches his ear, and he stills, flicking his gaze down to the human in their midst.

A single, undamaged eye shines back up at him, sparkling in the firelight that glints off the tears rolling down sodden cheeks. In a lone blink, Samael’s dark magic falters and the snarl on his lips withers as he studies your face.

You’re still crying… A sight that should have gladdened and satisfied him only renders the demon unpleasantly hollow. Perturbed, Samael tries to shake off the unexpected weight of your distress piling up on his shoulders… He soon finds, however, that he can’t.

Lilith’s wheezing gargle that sounds a little too much laughter snaps his attention back onto her and he growls, his fingers quivering with the pressure of closing the magic coil even more firmly around her throat to cut off any other, sinful sound she tries to make.

Sudden movement to his right draws his scorching glare down to the spot you’d been hunching in mere seconds ago, only to find it empty.

Inverted, leathery wings stiffen as he whips his gaze up and finds you stumbling away from him as fast as your wobbly legs can carry you, heading in a backwards run for the exit of his throne room to the corridors beyond. The silver chain rattles along in your wake.

It’s only by a fraction... just a fraction… but Samael’s wild and wrathful gaze starts to soften.

Heaving a sigh, he turns his focus back to Lilith once more.

She’s still on her knees, still choking on the magic locked tight around her throat, but her eyes are fixed coldly on the prince’s, her pupils narrowed to thin, catlike slits.

He knows then that she saw it. She saw the malice fade from his snarl as he looked at you…

Bristling, Samael peels his lips back and bares his teeth down at her. He can tell she’s trying to do the same, throwing as much hatred into her glare as she can, despite the agony that no longer seems to bring her any semblance of sick pleasure.

Right now though, he has more important matters to attend to.

“Begone from my sight,” he hisses. And with a final, dismissive flick of his wrist, he disperses the band around her neck.

Lilith’s gasp is loud enough to echo through the cavernous chamber.

Crumpling forwards onto her hands and knees – just as you had only moments ago – she greedily sucks down several lungfuls of air as Samael sweeps past her, his nostrils flaring, hoping he’ll catch your scent before you can run too far.

He barely makes it to the entrance before a cold, breathless chuckle reaches his ears.

“Oh~” she rasps in a haggard voice, “Oh, isn’t that precious…..”

Like a dark moonrise, Lilith picks her head up and spins it over a shoulder, glaring maniacally after his retreating back.

Samael doesn’t linger to hear what else she has to say, but the fortress rings with the shrillness of her cackles, her voice chasing his shadow as he in turn follows after the trail of blood droplets you’ve left to seep into the cracks of the basalt floor.

“The Horsemen will hear of this, my love! They will know! Who would have guessed that a human will be your doom!?”

-----

If nothing else, at least the stench of blood is easy enough to track.

Samael is not the kind of demon to hurry, but he’s well aware that his fellow demonic hordes can sniff out a wounded human from a mile away. So, if his thundering footsteps fall a little more hastily that usual… well, that’s his business.

For someone so injured, you’ve made good ground.

Unrelenting in his pursuit, the prince follows your scent up a winding, spiralling staircase and along a vast corridor all the way to a room that had seen much use just last month.

“Ah,” he muses aloud. Of course, it would make sense you’d come back here.

He finds himself standing outside the doors to your old prison.

The bed chambers he’d kept you in after he stole you from Earth.

His fortress is large and labyrinthian. It’s likely you fled along the only path you could recognise.

The moment he ducks his horns through the entrance and steps into the dimly lit room, he’s struck by an acrid concoction of blood and terror.

The bed to his left sits innocuous and innocent, perfectly unassuming.

But he’s the one who had it put there, so he knows of the small space between the springs and the floor, just enough of a gap for a human to squeeze themselves into, should they be so inclined.

Turning towards it, he carefully lowers himself onto a knee, breathing a sigh as he reaches for the silken, burgundy sheets that hang over the side and drape all the way to the ground.

“I wish I could tell you I’m not glad to see you again so soon, little one,” he rumbles, pinching the sheets between his thumb and forefinger and raising them slowly off the ground, “But in truth, I’ve been hoping our paths would cross again, though perhaps not under these circumstances…”

Stooping low, his burning gaze illuminates the dark, dusty space between the mattress and the ground, and there, in the shadows, he finds you.

“There you are…”

Curled into a tiny ball, you peer up at the demon’s colossal face, your pretty eyes blown wide with horror. That wretched, silver chain is still digging like teeth into your neck, rendering each breath that passes your lips small and lacking.

The prince’s browbones dip into a frown. “Come here…” he utters, neither commanding, nor passive. Just a request.

Yet still, you flinch at it despite its gentleness.

The smell of liquid iron – once so tantalising – now itches at the insides of his nostrils. You’re still bleeding freely, but…

That isn’t all that troubles Samael.

He doesn’t know how long Lilith has held you, and you haven’t yet said a single word to him.

He doesn’t like this silence, not from you.

A sudden urgency strikes him in the chest, though he mistakes it for impatience, and he emits a low growl from his throat, a sound of frustration, not anger.

Without giving you a moment to prepare, he promptly slides one, enormous paw beneath the bed frame and simply tips the entire thing up onto two of its legs, exposing you completely to his searching glare.

Recoiling in shock, you immediately heave yourself off your stomach and try to get your feet underneath you, only to find the escape attempt thwarted by a gigantic, leathery hand that closes swiftly, yet gingerly around your torso, plucking you up off the cold ground.

Samael’s shoulders drain of tension once he has you safe in his clutches. Swallowing back a throaty rumble, he raises you towards his chest and stoops to lower the bed once again, all the while subjecting you to his unflinching scrutiny.

The demon’s lips peel back to reveal his teeth as he takes a closer look at the swelling around your eye and the crookedness of your bleeding nose. At the sight of his fangs lingering dangerously close to your face, you utter a pitiable whimper and clutch frantically at the fingers circling your waist, making a valiant, yet futile attempt to shove them away from your night shirt.

You may as well be trying to bend steel beams.

“Did she touch you?” he suddenly urges, his voice strangely thin and ragged.

He needs to know… He needs to confirm for himself that Lilith hasn’t spoiled his little storyteller’s soul.

Your struggling pauses briefly as you tip your head back and fix him with an incredulous, pinched look, your bruised eyelid twitching as if to say, ‘What the Hell do you think?’

‘Ah…’ he realises, ‘You misunderstand.’

“I can see she has hurt you,” he elaborates with an uncharacteristic patience, lowering his gaze to that intimate place that’s safely hidden behind his fingers, just below your naval, “I need to know if she touched you…”

Perhaps the angle of his stare is a little crass, but at least you catch on swiftly, and begin to squirm unhappily in his grip.

The fact that the fierce shake of your head is delayed does little to ease his flaring temper.

“I need to hear your words, little storyteller,” he murmurs in his low, resonant timbre.

Your good eye grows wide as he raises the forefinger of his free hand and brushes it over the silver collar wound around your neck.

The anticipation screws your face up tight and you flinch back, eye squeezing shut. Yet rather than pain, you’re instead hit with shocking and blessed relief.

At the demon’s touch, the collar comes apart with a jarring snap and the whole thing slides from your throat, rattling down to the ground below your dangling feet.

A gasping breath is sucked down into your lungs too quickly, causing you to lurch forwards over his thumb with a grating cough, lifting your hands up and stroking at the tender, red flesh left behind with trembling fingers.

Without the chain obscuring them, Samael is given an uninterrupted view of the dark band of bruises that have been burned like a brand around the circumference of your throat.

Sparks of white-hot fire burst from his lips as he spits a curse in the demonic tongue.

You’re still breathing raggedly, choking on each grateful sip of the tepid air.

Samael’s tail coils and lashes as he waits for you to catch your breath before his patience runs thin and he bites out, “Do not make me ask you a third time…” Raising you up to dangle in front of his fiery eyes, he makes sure you meet them. “Did she touch you?”

“N-No!” you finally manage to gasp, watery and weak, thumping at your sternum, “Jesus, not… not like that.”

You shrink as best you can within his fingers as a hot breath washes across your face, averting your attention to the ground beneath him when he spins himself about and sinks down on his haunches, lowering you both onto the bed. The demon’s tail drapes across the silken sheets and a tension he hadn’t yet acknowledged drops from his mighty shoulders.

Mortified at the relief your words lend him, he furrows his brows into a scowl, his eyes fixed on your neck.

“You… lied…”

He blinks at your words, flicking his gaze to your face as a sardonic laugh, devoid of humour, bubbles up and falls out of your mouth. “Of course… you did,” you continue, shaking your head, “Prince of Lies, right? Can’t believe I trusted you…”

It’s an expected remark, but it still hits the demon like a hammer to the chest.

He’d worked damn hard to maintain that tiny little flicker of innocence. To have lost it feels like a devastating blow.

A prince of Hell never apologises, not even to the object of his… concern. But he will at least try to explain himself.

“If I had known what she planned,” Samael begins, carefully lowering you down to his bent knee and settling you onto it as gently as a brute like him ever could, keeping his fingers coiled securely around you lest you try to wriggle free, “I would have tried to stop her.”

You snort sceptically, though you soon cut yourself off with a gasp as the motion sends a shock of burning agony shooting through your nose bone. “Ah! Shit,” you hiss, tugging an arm out from the cage of his fingers and dabbing your own underneath your nostrils, feeling about tentatively for fresh blood.

The most abnormal urge nearly seizes him then, an impulse to bend down and brush his lips tenderly against the skin below your broken nose, using his coarse tongue to wash you clean of blood as he might have done when he first begun courting Lilith, aiming to show her that she’d be well-taken care of should she choose him.

That was, of course, before he discovered how much she abhorred a gentle lover.

Which was a pity. For all his strength and power, Samael rather prides himself on his ability and inclination to remain gentle between the sheets.

Still, he can’t imagine you’ll appreciate the gesture of a cleaning, regardless of his benign intentions.

As swiftly as the urge arrives, he’s beaten it back and sealed it behind a wall of stoic self-restraint.

Perhaps he ought to be less concerned with how you’d react to his courtship, and more concerned with why he’s considering courting a human at all.

A conundrum, he decides, that can wait for another day.

Right now, there’s damage to be undone, not least that which afflicts your nose, eye and neck.

Samael would rather not have you despise him, not after he’s had the fleeting taste of what a cordial rapport with you could feel like…

He begrudgingly finds himself shying away from the term ‘friendship’ because demon lords don’t have friends, especially a lord with his grim and destructive duties.

Absently, he lifts his unoccupied hand up and aims to crook a long, warm finger beneath your chin. His movements pause however, once you catch sight of the claw in your peripheral vision and throw your hands up, catching the tip of his approaching finger before it can come anywhere near your throat.

“Don’t!” you snap, aiming for stern but landing on squeaky.

Samael’s pupils expand to soft, round pits of darkness in a sea of gold as he takes in the miracle of your comparatively tiny hands pushing back against just one of his fingers. A wayward rumble sputters to life in his chest and threatens to travel up his throat where you’re sure to hear it, but with a hard swallow, he smothers the sound of contentment before it can gain traction.

That could have been embarrassing.

He presses his finger closer.

“Don’t touch me!” you reiterate with a particularly hard shove that gets you nowhere.

It’s almost a relief to see the spark of fire behind your eyes. There’s still fight in you. Lilith hadn’t managed to snuff that out either.

“You think I mean to hurt you?” he hums curiously.

Quick as a flash, you retort, “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Hm. He supposes that would be fair… if it were anyone other than yourself.

Scolding eyes flare with dangerous luminosity as they scan across your face, and the damage his former bed mate has left behind like cruel reminders of his failure.

“Contrary to popular belief, I hold very little sway over Lilith’s actions,” he points out, “I did not orchestrate what she’s done to you.”

With a resentful huff, your arms sag and he’s allowed to freely bring his fingertip to your chin, tilting your head back to take some of the pressure off your nose. You’ve been hurt – badly – because of him, which is……

… disquieting.

“Perhaps,” he begins slowly in that bone deep murmur, “You would allow me to amend her transgressions against you.”

Suddenly, you grow very still between his fingers, sitting rigidly as suspicion creeps into your brows. Squinting up at him dubiously, you ask, “Why… would you do that?”

Honesty has never been Samael’s favourite policy, and even now, he avoids answering you directly, instead opting to tell you just a fraction of the truth.

“You were not hers to take,” he growls, the undertones of a possessive prince almost broiling up to the surface. He can see your brow furrow even further as you no doubt try to read his expression in that way humans are so adept at, but Samael won’t allow you to ponder too long.

“Do you know any healers?”

Blinking, you fling your eyebrows up at his unexpected query. “Do I…. I’m sorry? What?”

By way of an explanation, the demon flexes his hand on the bed sheet and flicks his tail, grumbling, “I imagine it won’t surprise you to learn that I’m not well-versed in healing magic… So, if you can think of someone who is, I’ll…”

His statement remains unfinished, hanging like a hushed confession, bright and glaring in the air between you.

He’ll take you where you want to go. All you need to do is ask.

What you can’t figure out is why.

There’s a reason the Horsemen are so wary of Samael, why they were all so agitated when they got you back from him the first time. He’s dangerous. You knew that when he took you, and you still know it now.

What does he have to gain by letting you go?

Peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you decide to ask him as much. “You’re… gonna let me leave?” Though you tremble in his grasp, you manage to jut your chin out at him in what little defiance you dare to show.

Samael has always privately commended you for your courage, or at least, your ability to pretend that you’re brave. He knows you’re afraid of him.

Wise. And yet, ironically, you’re perhaps the sole human in existence who has the least reason to fear him.

His great, horned head dips slightly and you don’t miss the throaty hum that sounds far too much like a purr to suit such a brute.

“If that is your wish,” he breathes across your face, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

His gargantuan face looms even closer, unblinking, yellow eyes peering into your own with unnerving scrutiny that renders you suddenly and painfully shy, enough that you drop your gaze to the massive expanse of scarred flesh that stretches over his chest.

“I… don’t need a healer,” you mutter, “I just want to go home. Please?”

‘Please.’

How could he refuse you when you continue to be so genial with him, despite your pain, despite being back here in this dreary place? He’s never been granted kindness so freely before - kindness without an ulterior motive hidden behind it like the blade beneath a matador’s cape.

You are… an interesting change to the monotony of his gloomy existence.

It isn’t a change he doesn’t intend to lose.

While he’d much prefer to keep you in his fortress a little longer and let your laughter and stories chase away the lonely shadows, Samael’s pragmatic side reminds him resolutely that it would be far more beneficial in the long run to return you to your true home on Earth before the Horseman come kicking his door down.

The demon’s nostrils widen and close as he draws in a long, lazy breath, inhaling the soft scent of your shampoo that sits just below the smell of blood… You must have bathed only a few hours before Lilith took you...

If home is where you want to be, then that’s where he’ll take you.

“Very well,” he announces, raising his unoccupied hand and turning his palm to face the wall nearby.

He doesn’t need to look at your face to know it’s fallen slack with shock. Apparently, his easy acquiescence wasn’t expected.

Smirking to himself, he concentrates on pulling the threads of the Universe apart at their seams to create a hole – a doorway.

Deep in the depths of his mind, an image of your house emerges – your second house, the one the Horsemen had hurriedly moved you into because they thought the old one was compromised with his knowledge of it.

He latches onto the image fast, feeding powerful and ancient magics into the tips of his fingers, sensing the air around him grow hot and charged with energy.

After another moment of letting his magic build, he finally releases it in a rush.

The portal swirls into life right in front of him. One moment, there was nothing, and the next, a large, glassy surface ripples and hums gently on the opposite side of the room, beyond it, the unmoving image of your den beckons.

The change in you is immediate.

“That- that’s my house!” you exclaim in disbelief, leaning forwards over the demon’s thumb to stare gobsmacked at the view beyond the portal.

Flicking his gaze down at you, Samael grants himself the luxury of a rare, genuine smile.

By the time you twist around in his grasp to peer up at him, his usual frown is back in place.

“Shall we?” he asks.

-----------

“Samael?”

“Mm?”

“How’d you know they moved me here?”

All at once, the demon’s long tail ceases to drag itself back and forth across the plush carpet of your bedroom, plunging everything into a heavy silence.

He doesn’t turn to face you, though he can feel your eyes drilling a hole into the back of his skull.

Samael’s own gaze stays adhered to the little bookcase that sits proudly in the corner of your room, its shelves filled to bursting with dog-eared tomes and well-loved stories you couldn’t part with for all the world.

He should have known you wouldn’t miss such a glaringly obvious detail.

The Horsemen had moved you to a new house a little further out from Haven’s suburbs after they got you back from Shadow’s Edge last month. It was laughably easy for your former captor to track you down again – solely for the purpose of keeping a watchful eye on you, of course…. Though look at the good that had done, in the end…

Still, for once, he doesn’t think it’ll make much difference if you know the truth.

“I’ve been watching you,” he hums casually, swinging his clawed hands behind his back, clasping them together just below the juncture of his wings. As he starts to haul his body around to face you, the tips of his spiralling horns scape the ceiling, forcing him to duck his head a little to spare the plaster.

He’d asked, upon setting foot inside for the first time, why it seemed a place more adequately suited to accommodate a maker than a human. It came as little surprise for him to learn that it was, in fact, makers who built the place, and it had been at your own request that they fashioned a home that could easily fit all manner of guests, regardless of their size or species. All of your usual amenities – your bed, your kitchen, are perfectly suited for human use. But the ceilings, doorways and even the windows are grand enough that even Samael can move almost entirely freely inside without having to bend-double to avoid piercing the ceiling with his horns and leathery wings.

Once he’s turned towards the sound of your voice, he has to suppress a smirk at what he sees.

You’ve just emerged from your adjoining washroom, face clean of blood and dressed in a new set of fluffy, blue sleep clothes. In addition to your fresh ensemble, you’ve slapped a bag of frozen vegetables over your bad eye, apparently to relieve the swelling, or so you claim.

And yet, despite the amusing state of dress, you somehow still find it in you to look downright affronted.

“You’ve been watching me?” you echo accusingly, taking a bold step across the room towards him before you seem to think better of squaring up to a prince of Hell and halting in your tracks, “What, it isn’t bad enough you kidnapped me, now you’re keeping tabs on me too?”

A look of abject horror passes across your visible eye and you hasten to glance at each corner of your room as if you’re going to find something heinous lurking in the shadows. “Oh god, have you bugged the whole place?”

Samael hasn’t heard the term, but he can connect the dots.

“I can assure you,” he says, “I have only caught the occasional glimpse of your home from the outside…”

A half-truth. Those ‘occasional glimpses’ had turned into hours of lounging on his throne whilst gazing through a window into your world as you pottered around it. When the weather was fair, he’d see you in the allotment beside the house.

He found it restful to watch you go about your tasks, digging your trowel into the soil, gasping in delight if a bird were to land on the fence nearby.

You’re his own little taste of nepenthe.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you huff, pulling the bag of vegetables away with a grimace, “God… why are you even… Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Watching me!” you wheeze, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

You may have gulped down a couple of painkillers the moment you got back, but straining your voice still twinges your damaged neck. “Why bother!? I’m not a threat to you! Or are you just keeping an eye on me because you plan to steal me again?”

Admittedly, he’s been tempted to do just that several times, but each time, he’s refrained, if not to spare himself from the Horsemen’s wrath, then to keep himself as endeared to you as possible.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he hums.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You stare him down for several seconds through one, narrowed eye, when all of a sudden, your face breaks apart into a wide yawn that seems to catch you wildly off guard.

Throwing a hand up to cover your gaping mouth from view, you half turn from the demon, fighting off the uninvited wave of fatigue.

With the grace of a predator but not the intent of one, Samael pads towards you over the carpeted floor. “You’re exhausted,” he remarks coolly.

Giving your head a rough shake, you sigh and grumble, “Yeah, well… It’s been a long night…”

His encompassing shadow falls across you, blocking out the light from the fixture overhead. Whipping your head around, you glance up and blanch upon realising he’s crept close enough to snatch you.

However, rather than make a move to sweep you off your feet, Samael only flicks a pointed glance down at your cozy, inviting bed. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest when you’re gone,” you retort, crossing your arms.

‘Fine,’ he snorts to himself. And that’s when he finally makes a move.

All at once, you’re sent stumbling backwards towards the bed as he drops onto his large hands with a thud and begins to prowl towards you like a wolf stalking a doe.

“Woah! Hey!” you bleat, all bravado vanishing in an instant, “What’re you doing!? Stop that!”

The backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumble backwards onto it, dropping the vegetable bag in the process as you scramble to pull yourself upright again, raising your legs off the ground and retreating towards the headboard.

“Perhaps…” Samael growls – or does he purr? “… I am not yet ready to leave…”

He lays one, colossal paw on top of the mattress.

The bed groans suddenly under his weight as he pulls his upper body onto it and begins to settle down amongst the crumpled duvet. Letting out a rumble of contentment, he folds his arms beneath his chin and slumps heavily onto the mattress, causing the springs below you to buckle and screech in protest while he merely gives you a lazy blink.

The sight is so strikingly familiar, you feel the fear drain out of you with a whoosh.

‘Son of a bitch…’ you gripe to yourself, ‘The overgrown lizard’s just getting comfortable for story time…’

Slowly, your brows ease into a flat, unimpressed frown. “Are you serious? Right now?”

Samael only offers a warm chuff and sticks his nose into your heaped duvet, drawing a massive lungful of your smell into his airways.

‘Ah…. There you are…’ he muses.

It seems you’re the only one to have slept here, which he’s glad for. The sheets don’t stink of another’s flesh, nor can he detect the scent of sex…

The prince’s pleased hum is powerful enough to rattle the bed knobs against the wall.

“Don’t you dare start getting comfortable,” your voice pipes up warningly, and he drags a half-lidded eye up to meet your defiant glare.

“I’d like to go to bed,” you forge on, “And I’m not your prisoner anymore. I don’t have to tell you another story for as long as I live.”

You know this routine of his all too well.

When he’d held you captive, he’d often crawl up onto that gigantic bed and drape himself across it whilst you lay in your little corner beneath the silk sheets with his chin resting near your feet. For hours, he’d laze there like a massive, deadly lion, his tail flicking idly as he listened to the stories you’d spin for him, those you could remember from books you read and retained as a child.

You never thought, for one minute, that he’d want to continue that practice outside of his fortress walls.

“I mean it,” you hiss, shoving your legs under the covers and prodding his heavy arm with your toes, as if you might be able to nudge him off the bed, “Thank you for bringing me back, but I am still in a lot of pain, and I’m not in the mood to entertain you tonight.”

Blinking his luminous eyes at you slowly, Samael disregards your protests and utters, “You never finished your tale of the little monarchs by the creek…”

Something in your expression shifts at that, a mote of surprise soothing the wrinkle of your brows.

“You… you remember the Bridge to Terebithia?”

It was the last story you tried to tell him, recounted from memory on the night the Horsemen finally tore the doors down to save you.

“I remember every one of your stories,” he thrums deeply.

“Well… They’re not mine,” you point out, “I just told you what I could remember of the books I used to read…”

“Will you indulge me, little storyteller?” he presses, cocking his horned head sideways until his cheekbone rests upon a broad, scaly forearm, “The tale intrigued me. I’d like to hear how it ends.”

It’s selfish of him to do this, to stay when you’re in dire need of rest… but once the Horsemen see your injuries and inevitably convince you to tell them what happened to you, he anticipates that he won’t be seeing hide nor hair of you for a long, long time. If Death is sensible, he’ll take you off-world and stash you somewhere even Samael can’t reach you. Maybe to that family of makers you’re always gabbing on about.

This moment here and now may well be the last chance he has to speak with you until you persuade the Four to return you to your home on Earth.

“Tell you what,” you grumble, taking him off guard by kicking away the covers and sliding your legs over the side of the bed, “You can read what happens for yourself. I’ve got the book right here.”

The demon raises his head, watching as you cross the room to your bookcase. Drawing to a halt in front of it, you run a finger delicately along the collection of spines before you eventually stop and dig out a book that’s nestled snugly between a pair of thick, glossy tomes.

Flicking this pointed ears forwards, the prince chuffs softly in his throat - a sound born of instinct intended to call you back to the nest. He barely even registers having uttered it.

Soon enough, you’re slipping back underneath your duvet and retrieving the bag of not-so-frozen vegetables, pressing them tenderly to your eye once again.

As Samael lays his head back down, you toss the book across the bed where it lands with a dull thwack beside his chin.

“There,” you huff, sagging backwards into the pillows, “Happy?”

You nearly let out a loud groan when the book is promptly nudged back towards you with the tip of his forefinger.

“Oh, come on, big guy,” you complain, oblivious to how the impromptu nickname sends a spark of interest shooting up the demon’s spine.

“I want you to read to me,” he sighs and settles down again, allowing his eyelids to droop halfway shut, his pupils blown wide like black holes in a thin ring of gold.

“Ugh!” Exasperated, yet more than aware that the prince isn’t one to take no for an answer, you snatch the book off the duvet and start thumbing irritably through its pages. “Why do I have to be the one to read it?”

Your fingers pause briefly, however, when Samael shifts and a warm, solid knuckle suddenly alights upon your arm.

The breath catches in your throat. You hardly dare move. Frozen, you dart a glance down to see his colossal, red hand hovering beside you, the back of his forefinger stroking a gentle line down the bare skin of your shoulder.

His voice reverberates up through the bed, deeper than the purr of a motorcar.

“I like the sound of your voice,” he utters.

The words fall softly, like a prayer sliding off a sinner’s lips.

Hesitant, your gaze moves up to his cragged face and you have to swallow a gasp, admittedly startled by the look you’re receiving.

Why is he staring at me like that?

The demon’s knuckle rolls up to the top of your shoulder again, sending the hairs along your arms standing to attention.

He’s watching you closely through hooded eyes, his smile lopsided and his pupils abnormally large and round and...

Oh dear.

Oh dear, this… could be bad.

Perhaps it’s just your imagination, but… It might explain the gentle looks, the lingering stares, the rage in his eyes when he took in your bloodied face in the throne room… It would definitely explain why he’s still here in your room, and the slow stroke of his knuckle up and down your arm.

You don’t want to even entertain such a foolish notion.

‘I like the sound of your voice.’

Your stomach twists itself into anxious knots as you start to wonder if Samael likes more than just your voice…

Wetting your dry lips, you try to give your arm a slight shrug under the guise of opening the book, conveniently shifting backwards closer to the wall and pulling away from his tender strokes.

“Um, in that case, you’ll have to remind me where I left off…” you manage to eke out, clearing your throat.

If the prince of Hell is stung by your subtle rejection, he makes no mention of it, though his pupils shrink by a fraction as he lays his palm down on the mattress beside you, exhaling warmly across your face.

“The young human… Jess,” he mumbles into the scales on his arm, “He had just returned from the gallery with his tutor…”

Good memory.

“Yes,” you reply quietly, “Yes, that’s right.”

Trying desperately to ignore how suddenly suffocating the demon’s proximity has become, you prop the book up in your lap and start to read.

-------

“The boy was right.”

You startle awake from a light doze, jerking upright on your pillows with an undignified grunt.

‘Did I fall asleep?’

The book sits open in your lap, held loosely between limp fingers.

And Samael is-

You have to resist the urge to kick out your legs when you raise your eyes to find his colossal face resting peacefully between your parted knees. You’ve never been more thankful that you’d put your legs under the covers earlier, though suddenly the duvet doesn’t feel like such an adequate barrier against monsters as it used to be when you were young.

“Huh?” you blurt eloquently, still in the clutches of sleepiness.

Two walls of flesh shift on either side of you, and it’s only then that you realise you’ve been more or less surrounded on all fronts.

A pair of thick, muscle-bound arms are curled loosely on the bed to your left and right, close enough that you can feel the demon’s preternatural heat radiating off his skin. To your back is the bedroom wall, while ahead of you lays Samael’s red, rough-hewn face. The black horns jutting from his chin create deep divots in the mattress where they’re pressed.

“The boy,” he repeats, prying an eyelid apart and casting a yellow glow over your face, “He was right. She should not have trusted that rope.”

Oh… Right. The story…

Raising your hand, you nearly pinch the bridge of your nose before a painful throb reminds you not to do that. You’ll have to take some more painkillers soon…

Emitting a sleepy hum, you flop back down amongst the pillows and give a rough exhale. “Wasn’t the rope’s fault it snapped.”

“… Her caretakers did not blame him.”

Ugh. If this is going to turn into another long-winded discussion like the Rainbow Fish….

“Of course they didn’t,” you sigh, tilting your chin down to meet his gaze, “It wasn’t Jess’s fault either.”

“But he could have prevented her death.”

Samael’s probing insistence drags you a little further into the waking world and you start to sit up, propping your weight on your elbows to squint at him.

The demon’s face is like stone, hard and cold. “He could have asked her to accompany him,” he adds in a growl, “But his selfish infatuation with the older human kept him from doing so.”

A gentle frown tugs at your brows. “Jess wasn’t to know what would happen,” you point out, wondering why Samael seems so fixated on the matter.

Lifting his chin off the bed, his nostrils flare and his eyes flick down to the bruises on your neck, staring at them unblinkingly as he retorts, “He knew the rope was untrustworthy. He could have kept her away from it.”

“Well… Sure but… then it wouldn’t have been such an effective story.”

“Mph,” he grumbles, scowling at the wall behind your head, “I seem to recall telling you that I prefer stories with happy endings…”

You chew on that for a minute before closing your eye and offering him a drowsy shrug. “Good stories don’t always have to have a happy ending,” you tell him, your voice thick with fatigue, “Happy endings are nice, but it’s important that we’re told stories that… you know, like, challenge our morals and stuff.”

“… Go on,” he nudges when you fall silent.

Heaving a sigh, you whine, “I don’t know. I am way too tired to be having in-depth discussions like this at the crack of dawn.”

“Why read stories of tragedy and death? The tale only upset you.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper in exasperation, resigning yourself to the conversation, “I guess, because… if all we’re consuming is clean and good and happy, then when bad stuff does inevitably happen to us, I don’t think we’re ever really prepared for it. If that even makes sense.”

Samael’s lips quirk up at their corners, and he slides his gaze down to you again. “The way your mind works never fails to intrigue me.”

“Pft, it’s not working much at all at the moment,” you huff.

He hadn’t realised before meeting you, that this is what his relationships had always lacked. This is what he’s been missing.

Dialogue.

Nothing more than that. The simplest thing of all.

This sleepy conversation with you is ten thousand times more preferable to the cold, empty silences that would stretch across the massive void of bedsheets between he and Lilith.

His smile fades slowly as he finds himself drawn, as ever, to the band of bruises around your neck.

He knew not to trust Lilith. He should have kept you away from her. But he didn’t.

“The boy,” he murmurs deeply into the quiet of your room, “Do you suppose he was right to blame himself for what happened to her?”

“Right?” Humming, you lean back on one arm and exhale a slow breath. “No… Not right. Normal, though? Yeah. I reckon it’s normal that he’d blame himself. I think most people would do the same in his shoes.”

“Does that not then make them right?” he puts, “If that is the general consensus? To blame oneself?”

After a longer pause, you eventually shake your head and reply, “No.” Then, parting your jaw in another wide and toothy yawn, you add, “It just makes them human.”

Human…

How can blaming himself for what Lilith did to you make him like a human?

Hmm… While not the feel-good ending he’d been hoping for, it wasn’t necessarily a bad one either, and once again, whether knowingly or not, you’ve given him much to ponder over. He plans to do just that while you sleep. Already, those dainty eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as your head droops, exhaustion proving a fierce adversary on this long night.

Perhaps it’s time he let you rest. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll be leaving your side just yet.

Tyrants are seldom granted solace. Most would argue that they don’t deserve it.

Ironic, that it almost feels sacrilegious for Samael to be laying here on your bed with his mouth resting a mere foot from the most confidential part of you, and doing nothing but talking to you in soft, dulcet tones. Talking… it’s more intimate than the depravities he’s performed with his former mistress.

How laughable.

It’s inevitable, then, that the prince’s wonderous moment of peace should be so rudely shattered by the dull thud of a door closing downstairs.

Samael’s head shoots off the mattress with a snarl so quickly that it startles a yelp out of you.

Heavy footfalls – too heavy to belong to any human – pause in the room directly below your own. Then, all at once, there’s the unsettling sound of them starting up again at a far more urgent pace.

Your yelp hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The demon’s tail twitches irritably as he glares hard at the door.

… Just when he was really getting comfortable…

“War…”

The name whispered breathlessly from your lips draws Samael’s focus back down to you, silencing the growl in his throat. You’re staring at the bedroom door, brows screwed together in worry.

For the Horseman? Or for him?

Somewhere a few rooms away, metal boots begin to thunder up a flight of stairs.

Samael parts his lips and flicks a hot, red tongue over his canine, lowering his gaze to your exposed neck. He knows he has to leave. He isn’t about to let your night be ruined by a brawl in the middle of your bedroom. But… there’s one last thing he’s compelled to do.

Demons don’t apologise.

Not aloud, anyway.

Trapped below his bulk by enormous arms, you tear your eyes from the door and shakily raise them to his, swallowing a thick lump of apprehension that sends a dull ache through your bruises.

You don’t like the way he’s suddenly staring at your throat, the points of his fangs gleaming out from behind barely parted lips.

He looks agitated.

He looks hungry.

Your heartbeat steadily begins to reascend the mountain it had worked so hard to climb down from.

“Samael?” you peep.

The footsteps are on your landing now, shaking the foundations of your home with their weight.

Towering high above you, the demon’s fiery eyes flash with intent, like a predator tensing to pounce.

You aren’t even given a second to admonish yourself for letting your guard down before that mouthful of wicked, sharp teeth lunges for your neck, stealing a final cry of alarm.

It’s instinctive when you throw your head up and to the side so as to avoid having to see the enormous fangs flying in your direction.

You brace for agony.

However, what you feel instead is the furthest thing from it.

… The gentlest press of rough, warm lips lands upon the column of your throat, directly over the purpling bruises stained into the flesh.

Your good eye wrenches itself open like a shot.

You’re too stunned to turn your head, and your chest feels tight with the breath you’re keeping trapped inside it, afraid of what the slightest exhale might provoke.

The corner of your vision is almost entirely swallowed up by Samael’s head and horns. His flared nostrils glow with internal fire as he puffs swathes of hot air across your jaw, whilst the scratch of his lips tickles your skin when they seal together into a tender kiss just below your bobbing gorge - far too tender and painless to be given by a demon, let alone one of his size and reputation.

Up until now, you might have been able to convince yourself that the prince’s attentions had been born of mere curiosity.

Now though? The hope that you’ve just been misinterpreting his advances flies out of the proverbial window.

Samael, prince of Hell, Head of Satans and Chief of Devils… is placing a kiss on your bruised throat so gently that the only coherent thought flashing through your brain is that you must still be dreaming.

A resounding ‘boom’ alerts you to your bedroom door being kicked viciously off its hinges and the clank of metal announces War’s entrance.

The unswollen eye in your head swivels away from Samael and for one, damning moment, your fearful gaze locks onto the wild, infuriated blue shining out from beneath your Horseman’s crimson hood.

"Something to remember me by..."

The single lap of a scorching tongue coaxes a gasp from you when it eases over your bruised neck, and then, in a flash of fire that sends you screwing your eye shut against the intruding light, the pressure on your throat, and the weight on top of your bed vanishes, as if a demon prince had never been there at all.

[ibrithir-was-here]

After the last Blood of My Blood update, I can’t help thinking of what this has set in motion on Jonathan’s side. Mr. Holiest Love. Mr. Loyalty Unto Blasphemy. Mr. Almost Mauled His Own Son on Reflex.

This is going to sit with him and fester. Just as his human self bent against the grain of expectation by his peers, his undead self will bend against the impulse of the Vampire simply because he Wants to Undo the Sin of Frightening His Son. A desire at odds with blunt id, but Jonathan has always been singleminded, alive or otherwise. If he Wants to work against impulse, then he will succeed. (With a strain.)

Which I could see coming to a head with Mina near the bloody haze of the climax. Mina, Dracula’s other ransom, his wine-press turned usurper. Mina, acclimated to vampirism for twenty long years. Mina, sharper than fangs or steel at her most wrathful—and wrath she has in spades. So much that I wonder whether her forestalled vengeance on Dracula might overpower other imperatives, however briefly.

Something happens.

Something gets in her way.

Something touches Her Jonathan.

Something that makes her strike out blindly at… Who?

Arthur or Jack?

Lu?

Quincey, trying to shield them all?

(And, surprise surprise, almost failing because his Mama cannot see him through the red veil of Hate.)

(Wrath.)

(Stopping me stopping us raised a weapon to him to my Jonathan mine mine how dare they dare you wasting time He is getting away again fools and jackals dead dogs don’t bite don’t delay call down thunder and the storm and—)

And Jonathan tackles her. The bolt misses, barely. Hell as they wrestle, hiss, bay; until Jonathan gets her hands in his and locks her eyes in his stare. His plea.

“Look through me, Wilhelmina. See what I see. What our boy sees. Please. Look.”

She does. Suddenly, there she is with the closest thing to a reflection she’s had in twenty years.

But all she can see is Him, wearing her face all over again.

It’s enough to crack a fissure in the Vampire of her just as Quincey’s tears left a wound in Jonathan.

The Harkers are not human. They never will be again. But the revulsion of finding similarity with Dracula to the point of endangering those they love—

(Yes, I too can love.)

—might just veer them back from the Pit.

tl;dr: I am very normal about this AU

Oh goooooooooooosh

THIS

I honestly just have no words but YES

[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.

[luna--dragon]

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

[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.

[circus-complex]

Love Me, Bite Me, Suck Me Dry

Rating: Teen+

Relationships: Qi Rong, Lang Qianqiu

Characters: Qi Rong, Lang Qianqiu, Brief Xie Lian

Tags: Blood Drinking, it seems like lqq isn’t really like it but he does i swear, vampire!qi rong, werewolf!lang qianqiu

“Hey! Come’on, let me bite you!” Qi Rong tapped his foot against the floor. Lang Qianqiu looked up from where he was sitting. He pondered the ghost’s words. “Mmmm…no.” Lang Qianqiu went back to reading. “I either bite you, a heavenly official who won’t die, or I go and eat humans.” “...Fine.”

Qi Rong begs Lang Qianqiu to let the ghost drink his blood. Lang Qianqiu permits it.

fourth prompt for the TGCF rarepair g4g, from anonymous: Vampire Qi Rong x Werewolf Lang qianqiu. Could be AU, or modified canonverse where Yong'An are werewolves and the Xianle royal family are vampires. I just wanna see QR bite LQQ's neck hehe (in this universe vampires can't "turn" werewolves just suck their blood)

Also on AO3

Full work under the cut

Lang Qianqiu hailed from the royal family of Yong’an. Even if his family had died long ago, the curse remained. The royal family of Xianle had cursed their bloodline, just like the dynasty before them. Luckily, after over four hundred years of cultivation, he was able to control the extent of the spell. Lang Qianqiu had all the bonuses—wolf ears and a tail, heightened senses, claws. But he maintained a hold on his behavior, and did not fully turn. His lover enemy, on the other hand…

“Hey! Come’on, let me bite you!” Qi Rong tapped his foot against the floor. Lang Qianqiu looked up from where he was sitting. He pondered the ghost’s words.

“Mmmm…no.” Lang Qianqiu went back to reading.

“I’m hurt.” Qi Rong clutched his chest and fell onto Lang Qianqiu’s lap. “Please? Pretty please? I’m so hungry.” He pulled the book from Lang Qianqiu’s hands and pouted. “It won’t hurt, I promise!”

“Still don’t trust you.”

The royal family of Xianle had been cursed to feast upon the blood of humans. This only resulted in an elaborate system of bloodletting and donation, but even now the curse was in full force. While Xie Lian had used his cultivation to suppress the effects, Qi Rong had no such qualms. In fact, it seemed like he used it as an excuse for his other odd eating habits.

“I either bite you, a heavenly official who won’t die, or I go and eat humans.”

“...Fine.”

Qi Rong jolted upwards. “Really?!”

“Yes, really. Now get on with it.”

Qi Rong moved to straddle Lang Qianqiu, and cupped his face between his hands. His nails had been filed to points, not unlike Lang Qianqiu’s. But Qi Rong’s were nails, not claws, and they were painted a vibrant green. They dug in slightly into Lang Qianqiu’s cheeks, leaving tiny red marks in their wake.

Qi Rong kissed along his jaw before moving down. He was surprisingly gentle, compared to his usual need to attack.

“So how does this work, do you scratch me or—“

Lang Qianqiu went still as he felt two small pinpricks in his neck. It was…warm. His ears twitched. Qi Rong’s mouth latched onto his skin as blood slowly pooled. He licked at it until the small cuts closed up.

“Heh. A-qiu, your blood is so sweet,” he murmured.

“Just—Are you done?”

“Not yet.”

Qi Rong moved to bite another part of Lang Qianqiu’s neck. It was sharper this time. Pain shot through his body. Lang Qianqiu’s tail knocked his book off the couch.

“Qi Rong, be careful!”

“Sorry,” Qi Rong said, fangs still embedded in Lang Qianqiu. There was no trace of remorse in his voice. “I’ve always wanted to taste one of you Yong’an dogs. I thought you’d be a bit bitter.”

Qi Rong pulled his fangs out and licked at the cut. Lang Qianqiu shivered at the odd feeling. Qi Rong’s tongue wasn’t any different than usual, but having it run over an open wound made it feel rougher. Once those holes closed, Qi Rong adjusted himself so he could reach the other side of Lang Qianqiu. He mouthed along his neck before he found a spot he liked.

Kissing the crown prince’s neck once, he opened his mouth and sank his teeth in. Lang Qianqiu would have jumped if it weren’t for the other man keeping him seated. This time, blood flowed freely from the cut, and Qi Rong lapped it up like a dog.

“Your blood is divine,” Qi Rong muttered. He wrapped his lips around the cut.

“It already stopped bleeding, what are you—” Lang Qianqiu stiffened.

Qi Rong wasn’t satisfied with drinking the blood that left Lang Qianqiu’s body. Instead, he latched his mouth around the cut and sucked . Electricity shot down Lang Qianqiu’s spine, making him twitch and push a hand softly against the ghosts chest. Qi Rong’s nails held him in place, so he could only endure the torment.

Qi Rong finally pulled away. He laughed, lips stained with blood, at Lang Qianqiu’s expression.

“It’ll heal quickly, stop sulking,” he said.

“I’m not sulking! I’m just surprised!”

“At what? I think it was pretty fucking clear what I was doing.”

“You were just gentler than I expected?” It was a statement, but one Lang Qianqiu was unsure of.

Qi Rong rolled his eyes. “Why would I be trying to kill you? I need a sustainable source of food, and I found one. Plus, you're probably healthier than those grimy humans.” He paused. “And you taste much better.”

Lang Qianqiu rubbed his neck. He was slightly surprised to find the bite marks sore. Typically, his cultivation would heal any injuries and not leave a trace. “Qi Rong…are there visible marks?”

Qi Rong’s smile widened. “You fucking bet there are! Don’t bother getting rid of them, they’ll be fine within a week.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“A week?! I have a meeting tomorrow!”

“Ok…?”

Lang Qianqiu groaned. “With guoshi! Who would know what these are!”

Qi Rong rolled his eyes. “Ha! I bet my dog-fucker cousin has never bitten someone in their life. He thinks he’s just too good for that.”

The ghost turned his attention to Lang Qianqiu’s ears. He gently scratched at the base of them, and smirked when the god’s tail started moving. Lang Qianqiu leaned down to place his head in the crook of Qi Rong’s shoulder. Perhaps he could forgive Qi Rong, just this once.

✦✦✦

“Your Highness, are you ok?” Xie Lian asked. Worry was written across his face. They’d just finished discussing Lang Qianqiu’s duties for the next month.

“Huh? Yes, I’m perfectly fine, why?” Lang Qianqiu responded.

“Your neck, it looks painful.”

“…”

“Did you have a run-in with a ghost? I thought you were home yesterday, what happened?”

“I—yes. I encountered a powerful ghost yesterday.”

“Oh, ok.” Xie Lian paused. “Has there been any trouble lately?”

Lang Qianqiu’s face was slowly growing red. “No, it—I—it doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” He turned on his heel and beelined for his own palace.

He opened up his private communication array. Qi Rong, you were right. He didn’t know. 

HA! I TOLD YOU SO! I BET THAT RIGHTEOUS BASTARD HAN’T HAD BLOOD FOR CENTURIES! HE’S MISSING OUT!!”

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 58 - Behind Enemy Lines

You're in the goblin camp. Now what?

On AO3.

The temple is huge, falling apart, and absolutely infested with goblins. The sounds of slaughter outside don’t seem to have reached the inside; nobody’s up in arms. Y’all come in and hide up in the rafters a long while, just watching. Ain’t nobody sprints in or out, no shouts of alarm. Just bitching and belching.

Y’all find a quiet corner to descend—there’s a ladder, but Gale casts some falling spell on you and him for both your knees. Once on the ground level, nobody questions any of y’all. Apparently they’re recruiting “all sorts”, says one goblin too busy picking his ear to actually look at y’all. He examines his prize a second before popping his finger into his mouth.

The next goblin is sleeping on the job.

But the one after that mentions prisoners.

“Ah,” Astarion all but sighs. “Drink in the debauchery. It’s filthy, of course, but then they are goblins.”

You can’t help but squint at him.

So of course, the goblins got one of them prisoners on a torture rack. They’re getting ready to, as best you can tell, smash off his kneecaps with a club.

You panic. “Hey!”

The little shit looks at you, spouts something about watching (heavily implying something about masturbation). You think fast.

“Boss sent me,” you say. You don’t look away, you do not blink. You are a bored retail worker, you’re seven hours into your shift on a Thursday fucking night and your feet hurt. You’re done.

“Door Rags Lynn sent you?” Little Shit says. “Why?”

Bored employee. Somebody wants you to check the inventory in the back—you know for a fact the “inventory in the back” is jammed into four foot boxes stacked fifteen feet high and you sure as shit ain’t digging through that for this dude. You shrug. “Don’t know. Just following orders. Said something about a rotation, and I ain’t asking.”

He seems to chew on that a second. Then the other one snorts.

“If she wants to take a crack at him, I say let her. I wanna see that pain priest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Little Shit says. Tosses his club at you and thank fuck you manage to catch it. “Have at him. We been trying to crack this feck shite all day.”

You watch them scurry off, apparently to watch whatever the fuck a “pain priest” is. Leaving you and the crying guy on the rack.

“It’s clear, right?” you say, because others got that magic hearing

Shadowheart nods as Astarion frowns.

“P-please, I already said,” Rack Guy sputters. “I-I don’t k-know nothing!”

You set down the club. Reach up to examine the restraints. “It’s alright, kid. I ain’t here to hurt you. If we can get you down, can you walk?”

“I…think so?” he says. Tries to blink the blood and tears outta his eyes.

You nod. They done went and shackled the guy in, both wrists connected by an iron bar with another lock on it.

A glance behind you. Astarion fiddles with his fingernails.

“Can you get these off?” you say.

He looks up. Cool gaze slides from you to the rack. His nose wrinkles. “You’re letting him go? I was hoping for a little entertainment.”

You got a dark sense of humor, sometimes. But it don’t extend to people being fucking tortured.

“It’s a yes or a no question,” you say. Your tone is sharper than you intend, and you see him shutter against it.

“I could, darling, but what’s in it for me?”

“Fuck’s sake, Fangs,” Karlach says.

“We’re here to find a druid that can remove our parasite problem. Not go gallivanting around rescuing all the idiots too stupid or too slow to avoid getting caught by goblins, of all creatures.”

That’s just…he said he was enslaved. Was a puppet to that fuckface for two hundred years. And he’s just gonna stand there and leave this guy?

…why did you think y’all could be friends?

It’s been a day on top of a week on top of a lifetime. And you’ve had it.

“Are you gonna pick this lock or not?” you say, shoving aside the twinge of guilt, the strands of hurt. He ain’t your friend; that much is clear. The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the better.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. From where I’m standing, you got two things you contribute to the group: lock-picking, and murder. So which’ll it be? Help me with this guy, or go stand watch.”

He goes all rigid. Your stomach tightens and you want to open your mouth and take it all back. You’re sorry. You didn’t mean it. You’re just tired and could he please help?

But that’s an instinct you have. What your therapists have called a maladaptive coping mechanism. You make yourself small. Docile. Sweet and nonthreatening. But you ain’t small and docile, and you fucking deserve a place in the world.

So you stand there as Astarion slips on a smile as fake and sweet—it’s his eyes; them eyes are empty—as cotton candy. He gives you a bow and unsheathes his knives.

“I’ll be at the door, then,” he says.

You’re not actually surprised. Shouldn’t be disappointed. You been around the guy for a week, you don’t know nothing about him—favorite color, hobbies, does he like music? But you remember him leaning down to whisper information to you. The flash of surprise when you asked his opinion that first time, about Kahga. The way he lingered in your tent with his hands clasped around your wrist to stop the bleeding.

Oh no. No. You are not going to go sniveling like some pathetic fucking child.

“Can any of you get this open?” you say.

“I believe I may have a spell that’ll do the trick,” Gale says, more subdued than usual.

You back off and let him at it. Nobody says nothing about you sniffing and clearing your throat.

And it’s a good thing y’all do get Rack Guy free: turns out he was part of the group that got caught with the druid and he heard the goblins talking about a new war bear in the pens.

***

Y’all find the warg pens. Kill all the goblins.

Except for two, shitty kids. They’re assholes, no mistake. Each one deserves a solid ass-whooping. But you ain’t gonna kill no kids, even little bastard ones, because people gotta draw a line some damn where and that’s where you’re placing yours.

Wyll discovers a tunnel y’all can shimmy through all the way to the surface. But then the bear y’all rescued turns into a man. Or elf. A very, very large elf. Funny enough, he don’t do to you what Karlach does. Apparently you only like beefcakes when they got tits.

All of that flutters through your mind as the elf introduces himself. Goes quiet as he lays jesus hands on you. And crashes when his expression turns grave.

You make a point to avoid eye contact with Lae’zel. Y’all are gonna have to go after her creche, next.

The brainworms ain’t just brainworms. They’re magic fucking brainworms and they’re unfuck-with-able—Halsin don’t go into details, but it’s real easy for you to picture brains oozing outta your eye sockets like gray whipped cream and chunky jello.

“So all of this was for nothing?” Astarion says.

You don’t look at him, either.

But Halsin ain’t done. He has theories and information back at the grove, but he’s got a score to settle with the goblin cult. With their leaders. And he ain’t gonna get distracted by y’all’s problem until he deals with them leaders.

Or until you do.

Goddamn last thing you want is another fight.

Goddamn dead last thing you want is another fucking fight with a stranger in the mix. You kinda got a feel for how y’all move. Fucking trying to fit somebody else into that (who turns into a giant fucking bear, cause that’s subtle) would be a stressed out nightmare.

“You’ll try to help us after the grove is safe?” you say. And ignore the eyeroll you feel Astarion give the back of your skull. The quiet hissed swears from Lae’zel. Even Shadowheart looks miffed.

“I can,” Halsin says, all apologetic (and pissed), but weirdly, magnificently sombre. No wonder he’s head druid. Guy gives “wise grandpa” vibes in a brick shithouse body. “I do apologize for putting your needs aside—grave as they appear. But my people are in danger, and I cannot let this unnatural darkness take root.”

Fuck. You wince and rub your face.

“Don’t you dare,” Astarion says.

“We’ll do it.”

At least Wyll seems proud of you.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[cielles-random-vault]

vamp ghost brainrot do you see my vision

DO YOU SEE MY VISION?!?!?!?!?!

ok this is v random but apparently im on a creative spree so lets enjoy it while it lastssss

context: the idea came from when i noticed ghost had lil fangs on his mask and and and

reader is tf141's medic/nurse idk how you call it but you get it also shoutout to @unabashedcroissanttreefan (PHEROMONE IS BACKK) and @cluelylikesporn mwah

also reader is not white AND a vampire. boom. not black either but i like the concept of poc/mixed vampires (and poc vampires would look so cool) (i am mixed and id look so cool as an autistic soon-to-be-adult teen vampire and you cant tell me otherwise.)

wc: 1049

also trigger warning dislocation and blood (duh there's vampirism in this fic what did you expect /lh)

also maybe ooc ghost idrk

pt 2 in the making!

"okay, lets see... who do we have next.." you said as your checked your medical files. "lieutenant riley?" (you raise an eyebrow) "strange. he never came before" you thought out loud, but you shrugged it off. "you can come in!"

"hello, y/n" ghost greeted you politely as he sat in front of you. "i hope my team hasn't been of too much trouble"

"don't worry about them!" you smile softly, "lets talk about you, for once! what brings you there? you usually never come to check ups, which i have to say isnt very professional!!" you scold him lightly, "but im glad you seem safe and well!"

ghost chuckled softly before replying: " i came here because i have been suffering from awful migraines, and i have no idea where they can possibly come from, and so i wanted to ask you if you could check? and maybe give me a stronger dose of painkillers so that i won't need to bother you every week? also, i noticed i have been having more trouble falling asleep, it's as if i found myself more... active in the nighttime, i would say?"

"mhm.. this sure is strange, but dont worry!" you reply with an assured smile. "do you have some spare time so i can do your checkup now, or do you wish to book another appointment?"

"i would like to do it now, if you don't mind"

"okay, no problem!" you smile as you put on a surgery mask, "lay down on this chair and lift up your mask just above your mouth, please! ill start off with examinating your teeth."

ghost did as you asked him to, and you started your inspection; what you saw surely was weird.

"this is strange..." you muttered to yourself, "can you please bite into this?" you asked him as you handed him a plaster mold. "it looks like your fangs... have overgrown."

"what??" ghost asked, confused. "with all due respect, you must be kidding me."

"im not" you reply, showing him the mold he bit in. "see? its like, the bite mark is... sharper than a usual one would be"

"and... do you happen to have a reason to that?" ghost starts to panic, "or even a remedy?"

"i think... i might have an idea, but don't freak out, okay?" (he nods unsurely) "you might want to sit down for this one. okay so... there have been rumors - and i insist on the word 'rumor' - of a disease that turns people into vampires, and-"

"are you telling me i'm one of those freaks?!?" ghost hurried, panicked.

"that's... insensitive to us.." you mutter to yourself, "but nevermind. no, there is no cure, you just learn to live with it.

"thats..." he thought out loud, "wait did you say us? are you a vampire too?"

"duh, just because im not white doesn't mean i cant be a vampire thats- very cliché." you reply, slightly offended. "but yes, i am."

"but- how do you even sleep at night? how do you even feed yourself ? and-" ghost's mind raced with questions.

"let me guess, you're assuming all vampires drink blood to survive, aren't you?" (he nods, slightly ashamed, but you smiled, amused at his panic) "don't worry, we aren't all like that. i'd be delighted to teach you there are a whole lot of different types of vampires! for example, i am an empathic one! which means i tend to be more well... empathic."

"and how does one know what type of vampire one is?" ghost asked, seeming childhishly interested to the point it almost looked endearing.

"thats exactly what im coming to!" you reply with a soft smile, before coming back a few moments later with a little pouch of blood. "what does this make you feel?"

"this looks delicious" he replies as his eyes lit up, "can i have a taste?"

"well then," you chuckled, "it's all settled! you're a blood drinker vampire!"

"oh." the worries then came back in his voice, "does that mean i have to..." (he gulps) "kill people to drink their blood?"

"well, technically speaking, if we were in a typical eldritch story, you would have to. but, hopefully for the writer we're not, and its a good thing im a medic, so i have plenty of those little pouches!"

ghost sighed in relief, but then panic peaked again.

"do you think we should tell others? like, price and soap?" ghost asked worried.

"no. not for now, at least." you thought for a moment, and added: "but, one thing is sure, if we dont want anybody to find out you have to do whatever it takes to not get deployed,or else... "

"we're fucked, balls deep." ghost completed your sentence. "but how? price won't allow me to stay at the base unless i get injured."

"that's exactly my point!" you say as your eyes glimmer mischievously, "but im not sure you will like the idea.."

"whatever it takes for people not to notice.." he sighs.

"good!" you reply with a smile, "please lay down on this chair,just so youre warned its gonna be a little... painful."

"what the fuck- you sprained my fucking ankle???" ghost hurried, grumbling in pain.

"what?? you wanted a reason to not get deployed, didnt you? you should thank me" you chuckled as you noticed him wincing in pain. "anyway, its time for price's meeting, take those to help you walk, and you let me do the talking to price, okay?"

ghost nodded as you both headed to the briefing room, one of his arm around your shoulder to help him walk, where price and the rest of the task force were already waiting for you.

"sorry we're late, captain!" you hurried as you and ghost entered the room.

"its fine" price replied, raising an eyebrow, "what happened to you, Lieutenant?"

"we were practicing close fighting and he accidentally sprained his ankle, sir" you reply with an assured smile.

"is that so?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "then why didnt i see both your names in the record?"

"because we forgot, and there was nobody on the wait list, sir" you reply. "but i promise it wont happen again."

"good" price sighed, "then i suppose i have no choice but to make gaz replace you, ghost."

is all for part one i feel like its already too long help

hope you enjoyed, if you dont reblog ill snatch your toenails