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peachesofteal · 2 months

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The Lethe

An Ichor Veil masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 7.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Greek mythology au, modern retelling. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Smut, M/M/F, loss of virginity. Praise kink. Breath play. Pain play. Feelings of fear, jealousy, and anxiety. Mention of abuse by reader's mother.

The next morning, you wake alone.

You lay alone too, dread swirling in the cosmos, a thick, uneasy tension swooping over the palace where you linger, the protracted creep of corroded hanging moss, a thick curtain of dying green.

Memory is sharp. It’s fickle. It has a hold on you, your mind, your body, and your legs shift restlessly in bed, thighs pressing together.

Cerberus snores on the rug in front of the fireplace, lean and lissome and stretched long.

They open their eyes as soon as your feet touch the floor, shaking off their stupor and trotting over to rest all three heads on top of your thigh.

Pet me.

How could you say no?

“I really have to use the bathroom.” You whisper after giving each ear a good scratch, stretching tall, bones and muscle all stringent, but not sore. Almost nothing feels tender, you realize, and when you inspect yourself in the bathroom mirror, there’s no evidence of last night.

No raw, punished skin.

No puncture wounds.

You’re relieved, the impending doom-like feeling that plagued you the moment you opened eyes lessens, and-

A small shard of disappointment settles in its place.

Did you desire to wear their mark? To have them on your skin, by choice?

Your back is an ugly crisscross of fine golden lines, all remnants of the Whip.

These, you did not choose. These, you do not wear proudly, or at all. You hide them. You’d rip them from your skin if you could. Pull them out from tip to tail, scratch yourself raw.

You’ve already tried.

Your fingers find the faintest remnant of last night, a small dip in your skin the circumference of a tooth. Everything comes flooding back, the sting of your palm against the John’s cheek, the indulgent dig of the cuffs in your wrists.

They stole you.

Do you care?

You expect to feel more unsettled. More enraged, but it only trickles through like a summer’s spring, barely bubbling up through cracks in the earth. You feel betrayed by their thievery of you, but something else lurks beneath the surface, something soft and beautiful, threatening to drag you in with it.

It’s dangerous here, but not in the way you were expecting.

Maybe it is the separation from the wildest part of your being that has cooled your temperament, somewhat.

Only somewhat.

After all, you did hit John in a fit of rage, did you not?

A loud knock rattles the door. Cerberus whines.

“My lady.” A Naiad stands on the threshold of the room, your room, you suppose, her black clothes, nearly white hair both ethereally sleek, hands clasped in front of her waist.

“Um…”

“Your presence has been requested, if you are…” she pauses, delicately, jaw tilting with a shadow, eyes narrowing into slits. “Awake.” She sweeps over you, performing an inspection for something from head to toe, and you find yourself studying her ears, their needle pointed tips accentuated by such symmetrical bone structure, she nearly looks like a cat.

She regards you like one too. Aloof. Holier than thou.

Bitchy.

“I am.”

“Wonderful.” But it doesn’t feel wonderful, the word overflowing with acid. Who is this female?

“I’m sorry, who…”

“I am Minthe, my lady.” Why is everyone calling you that? All the time? You frown.

“Like the plant?” Cerberus shifts at your side, rising on their haunches just so, and she glares at them.

“Yes, my lady. Like the… plant, as you say.” Her teeth shine into a smile, forced and uncomfortable.

Something is wrong here.

“Will you be joining us, or shall I inform them you deign to continue resting?” Us?

“No, I’m well rested, thank you.” She inclines her head, graceful movement elongating her already supple neck. You study her, cataloging her razor-sharp fingernails, polished heels, chin length bob. She seems like an assistant of sorts, heavy black book tucked under arm.

“Very well. I will wait for you here.”

“My Kings. The lady Persephone.” Gross. Minthe announces you, stepping to the side to allow you entrance from behind, the removal of her in your path revealing a large office, two dark stained wood desks with two very handsome gods seated behind them. Bookshelves blanket the walls, and in the middle of the room, a magic made map of the cosmos glows, gold and blue light dancing across the black marble floor. There’s a giant leather armchair in the corner, wide enough for two, and a soft blanket folded over the back. It’s cozy, homey, a welcome surprise.

Your body aches. Desire simmers in the bottom of the stomach, skin prickling with a shiver.

How is it two beings you hardly know are so capable of making you so crazy?

“Darling.” John croons, rising from his chair. There’s a sharp intake of breath to your side, barely audible, stifled. “How did ye sleep?” He’s close now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you were so bold.

A magnet draws you closer.

A collar. A leash.

Hades holding the end of it.

“Fine, thank you.”

“That will be all, thank you Minthe.” Simon dismisses her, still focused on you. She steps away in silence, and when the door clicks closed- John is on you.

He presses close, arm snug at the small of your back, forehead dipping down to rest gently against yours.

“Sweet Persephone.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “Are ye well?”

“Yes.” You breathe. You welcome his touch, this affection, and it feeds a sapling, roots trying to take hold, trying to survive. To grow. To bloom.

His lips lay above your brow, long kiss freezing into a slow moment, and Simon watches with a satisfied smile, a loving glance exchanged between the two as John pulls away. “Have ye eaten?”

“No, she, Mint, brought me right here.” He holds a laugh at bay. “Who is she, anyway?”

“Minthe was once our consort, now she works as an assistant of sorts.” Simon says the slowly, and the room darkens, shadows building in the corners, flooding the cracks and crevices of the bookshelves.

Well, that explains just about everything, then.

“Your consort.”

“Aye. But ye dinnae have to worry, we’ve not been with her in quite some time. We’ve been waitin’ for-“

“Johnny.” Simon stands, moving into your space. It’s only his name, and still so much more is communicated within those two syllables.

Waiting for what?

“Would you like breakfast?” He’s smooth with the disruption, steering and redirecting the train of thought.

“We hoped ye would want to take breakfast in here, with us.” John explains softly, and you nod. A simple request.

“Sure.” You pause, considering. “Could I…” Would they still have them? Is it rude to ask? You’re not quite sure how it works. Is there a kitchen?

“You can have whatever you like, darling.” Simon encourages.

“Portokalopita?” Johnny chuckles, tugging you a little closer, mouth to your temple.

“Of course.”

The orange cakes arrive with a fragrant pot of coffee and some Greek yogurt, slivered almonds on the side. Your usual breakfast. You blink, suspicious for a half second before remembering-

“Why were you watching me?” Simon tenses. “I mean, it’s obvious, now, that meeting John outside of Hebe’s was not coincidental, was it?”

“It was not.” You tuck your feet up into the chair, shifting on your side with a steaming cup in your lap. “We have been… curious about you.” Your blood runs cold. The marks on your back begin to sting, a phantom pain you know does not exist, but still plagues you. Hurts you.

“Curious.” You croak. “Why?”

“We have heard stories. It is rare that we find ourselves so… fascinated by one who dwells in Olympus. John and I, we felt… a desire, to learn what we could.” John smiles, turning fully to face you, reaching for one of your hands.

You do not give it. You’re uneasy, like there’s a direness lurking in the darkness of the room, waiting to pounce. It’s an overwhelming inclination of trepidation, of misanthropy… much like the rivers spilling from this land.

“So, you spied on me.”

“We did.”

“And… you don’t see an issue with that?”

“I… understand how this may be unsettling to you.” Unsettling? More like a set up?

“I don’t…” You sip your coffee, trying to pick through a smattering of words. You must choose them carefully, you’ve come to realize, to get answers. “I don’t understand, why go to such great lengths? There are dozens of other goddesses, more beautiful, more composed, more worthy of your attention than… me.” You, Demeter’s daughter. Demeter’s failure. You, the goddess who rarely leaves her temple, the one who does not engage in socialite events or associate with the more powerful Golden ones in the city.

You, who talks to plants.

“I mean, look at Hebe, or Artemis, one of the Pleiades, they’re all-“

“No.” Simon cuts to the quick. “We do not care for other goddesses, sweet Persephone. We only care for you.” An undercurrent of power ripples, shuddering between the three of you. “Our affection, our care… is only true for you.”

“Me.” Because they do not know you. If they did, the affection would certainly wane. How long would it be, before Minthe was warming their bed once more?

“You, darling. It’s why we brought you here. To know you, as you are. Not as your mother intended, or how chatter portrays.” You look between them, slow eyes finding solemn faces, dogmatic in their assurance. “We had hope you might… enjoy our company, as we believed we would enjoy yours.” John shifts. It’s a fractured movement, barely perceived, but unsettled, and he cocks his head afterwards, gaze thick and focused on you.

“I told ye, we’d never hurt ye.”

“I know.” You whisper. You believe it now, to an extent. A pool of guilt tugs you into its current, an apology bubbling up over your tongue. “I’m sorry… about… striking you, last night. It was unbecoming of me.”

“I know ye are.” He soothes, and Simon interjects.

“The next time you feel an overwhelming urge like that, you tell us. We’ll take care of you.” His smile drips with a predatory gleam, and you’re suddenly inside a memory, the feeling of ichor sliding over your skin, spilling down around your fluttering rim, his finger pushing inside your body where you’ve never been touched by another. His mouth, covered in it. Golden lifeblood smeared across his lips, John’s cum spilling down your throat, molten earth, burning you anew.

What started it all? The idea that they locked your magic away? That they took you?

That they trapped you.

“I felt…” You tap over your heart, signifying the part of you that’s missing, and he nods in acknowledgement.

“I understand. It’s a difficult thing, we’ve asked of you, and you’ve done so well.” Your hands tremble, fighting the urge to preen like a raven beneath the praise.

It encourages you. Urges you to talk, spill secrets, let go of weights holding you at the bottom of the sea, where you cannot breathe.

“My- my mother. She used to do something similar. When she felt like I was out of control. When I became… too much. It’s a familiar feeling.” They exchange a long glance, and then John kneels, a hand on your knee, the other stroking deft circles into your thigh.

“Persephone. The scars,” Your eyes slam shut. “on yer back. They were made with a magical object. Did Demeter do that?” He demands, and you inch away, trying to create space, trying to escape this- this conversation, this vivisection.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper. “Please.” His eyes are so blue. Like the Aegean, a venetian, crystalline color that deepens when he frowns, his emotions worn so plainly for both you and Simon to see. He’s distressed, like he wants to scoop you up, carry you away. They’re both staring at you with… pity. “Do not pity me.” You snarl, hackles rising.

“It is not pity you see, darling.” Simon shakes his head. “We do not pity you, or your strength. The story of your temple is known far and wide, even to those down here. It is sadness that we feel. With you.” The lump in the back of your throat is thick, too thick, and it threatens to derail your composure.

You push past everything else. The assurance you could come to them, when you felt like you were going to explode, detonate across the world, when everything turns white and you need your pain, your pleasure.

You’re only here for a day longer.

The rest of your breakfast is put aside, and you stand between the two with an open palm.

“Well, then. What’s on the agenda for my last day?”

There are many places in the Underworld that hold you captive, but Hecate’s piece of it, a forest of dew dropped trees with gnarled trunks and lavender flowers, vibrant mosses shuddering beneath your feet, a hollow thrumming with the wildest of magics, leaves you breathless. The goddess is just as striking, tall and elegant, deep black hair that swings at her hips, emerald eyes and pointed nose perfectly set in her face. Her skin glows, a sepia drenched harvest moon, and when she reaches for your hand, you swear you hear the barking of a dog.

“My lady.” She gives you a graceful squeeze before she releases and bows her head. “You are more lovely than the rumors credit.”

“Oh.” Your face heats. “Thank you.”

“The rumors say ye’re as fair as Aphrodite.” John teases, and your eyes go wide.

“Surely not.” You brush it off, but the tingle across your skin remains, flattery nestling in your heart. “Your home… is beautiful.” You try to give it back, deflect it upon her, and she watches you with knowing eyes.

“Thank you. It was born from me, as I’ve heard your temple was from you?”

“Yes.” She motions to a winding path that disappears into the thick of the trees, and you oblige, soaking in the sparkle of the wood. The magic is dense here, heavy, like water, flowing through all things, the roots, the leaves, the crows adorning the branches, following you from perch to perch. You don’t notice, when John and Simon start talking, asking Hecate a question about… something, too transfixed on the multitude of colors flourishing at the tops of the canopy, leaves and petals fanning out like a muted rainbow.

Again, you’re struck with a confusing consideration.

How is it the Underworld is capable of such life?

Hecate’s piece of this realm is alive, lush and untamed, resonant magic oozing from every spiral and cell in the moss, in the bark, in the air. Amethyst leaves ranging in size from head to hand fall from the sky like the changing of seasons, and the entire hollow breathes with it, power pulsing in a light breeze all around you.

Even the crows are thriving, living things. Part magic, part bird.

You frown.

“Persephone?” Simon questions, gentle hand on your back. It’s warm, and firm, pulling you into the touch, butterflies in your belly slowly cracking their eyes opening, greeting the day with a flutter of wings.

“Sorry, it’s just… the crows, they’re… alive?” Hecate laughs.

“Yes, they live. They’re my own murder, traveling as I do, between the Underworld and Olympus.” She holds out a hand and an iridescent, onyx feathered companion lands gracefully in her palm, preening. “There are many corvids here, now. Magpies, jays, treepies. They’re supposed to stay confined to the hollow, but I suspect some of them have made friends in Asphodel Meadows.”

“Now? Were they not here before?”

“No birds lived in the Underworld, before Hecate’s residency.”

“Hades allowed me a home,” she smiles at them, gentle appreciation aglow on her face, and then turns back to you. “a gift in itself, and so, I give them one in return.”

“You are more than generous.” John says. He walks close, hand lax at his side, fingers occasionally grazing yours. The touch is hardly a moment, fleeting, but it burns you through, muscle, soul, and bone shivering in response.

“Hades is benevolent, though they’d never let Olympus know it.” She murmurs, raven black hair catching in the wind.

“I’m starting to see that.”

“This is the Lethe.” Simon gestures to the rushing river before you. It’s not a river of hopelessness, like the Acheron, but something else. Something different.

It’s a river of loss.

“What… what is it?”

“The Lethe is the river of oblivion. She takes memories from souls, freeing them from past torments, or pleasures.” John is gentle, grasping your elbow, keeping you close at his side. You don’t resist, sinking into the warmth of his body, letting his steady comfort guide you away from where you stood at the edge, entranced by the low rumble of the water, the melodic call echoing from the rocks below.

“Or it serves as a punishment.” Simon warns at your back. The chorus rises, song reverberating, and you tip forward, away from John, straining to hear who it calls, the repeated exhalation of your own name.

“Persephone.” He warns, heavy magic blanketing the ground, cypress and white poplar drifting on the breeze, thick with the weight of his magic. “If the Lethe were to take you, there would be no returning to Olympus, or your memories. She is a power even we do not control.” She.

“She? What do you mean?”

“She was, is, a goddess in her own right.” Your eyes widen, the river hissing and crooning to you, desperate vibrato just on the cusp of her song, a sound sharper than a banshee’s wail. “Of all the rivers in the Underworld, she is the one to be feared. We can free a soul from the Acheron, or the Pyriphlegethon, we can forbid a crossing of the Styx, but we cannot return memories taken by the Lethe.” Simon draws you away, arm around your waist. “Come.”

John drags you back to the meadow.

He cradles you in his arms, opposite Simon, who sits silently, eyes half lidded, reclined on his elbows.

“Do ye like it here?”

“It’s beautiful.” You trace the fragile petals, white velvet smooth and soft, canary yellow pistils shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I love narcissus.” Simon’s mouth quirks to the side, turbulent sea settling after a storm when you look his way, and John tucks your back into his chest, heavy arm across your shoulders.

“The Underworld agrees with you. It is not every day the Narcissus sing for a soul.” His mouth is on your cheek. You press, pushing skin between teeth, and he obliges with a nibble, not enough to sting, but with enough pressure you feel the edge of his incisors, vicious points of his canines.

“It’s… not what I expected.” This is easy to concede. Easy to close your eyes and slip away in the web of them, their hold, their touch. Easy to pretend they didn’t steal you outright, they haven’t locked your magic away, they haven’t taken you from your only home.

“Would ye come back? To visit with us?” Your eyes are still closed, and you hold them there, fingers sliding through the lithe growth of grass, stroking across stems and petals, feeling for the pulse of their power, the magical force of nature existing the same in a tiny blade of greenery, as it does in every fiber of your goddess hood.

“Yes, I think I would.”

They lay you down in a crux of a hill, legs spread upon a bed of Narcissus, fragile blooms crushed beneath sacred weight, a cacophony of power joining together.

Your mouths meet, again and again, limbs and tongues and teeth joining together in a rapturous haze, a firestorm brewing inside you, a swell of power so strong you can feel it tearing at your skin, glorious and brazen, clawing at the cage. It is wild in your heart, in your mind, and only burning brighter as Simon tugs you close, a hand over your heart, his mouth on your breast, teeth grazing your nipple atop muslin, an insatiable god devouring at a mystical altar.

When he bites down, your legs fall wide, and John kneels in prayer.

There are many names for it, you know, but in this moment, it’s as if time is old, a god’s back bowed for you, his mouth on your cunt, sacrosanct promises running free like the rivers of this land, like the spring bubbling up from the depths of your temple, pulled from the land like John pulls pleasure from you.

Ichor runs. It paints you in gold, drips from Simon’s mouth and between your legs, mixing with the slick and spit swirled by Johnny’s tongue, the cusp of a cliff’s edge growing closer and closer-

But not close enough.

A gilded hand fits your throat, a collar made of divinity, and he squeezes, enough to make your vision spot, fingers digging into the dirt and roots and stems of flowers long crushed. John does not relent, only pushes you farther and farther against the edge, sanctifying the bond stitching between the three of you each breath you draw, the spool of Fate spinning long woven threads stretching to the end and beginning of time, knitting you into the patchwork of their lives, their eternal existence.

Their goddess.

Your Hades.

“Come, Persephone. Come for us.” Light explodes, forcing your eyes shut, and you tremble between them, crying out their names in near hysteria, celestial light bleeding from your skin like a star in the sky.

John gasps.

Simon tips his chin to the sky, and laughs.

Their room is quiet. Dark in the daylight, an empty burrow dug by a fox, pitch black emptiness as far as one can see.

“I’ve never…”

“We know.”

They hold you like treasure, like glass. Gentle words and touch, John cradles you in the cove of his body, magic zinging across your skin, sparks flying in the room.

Simon kisses the inside of your knee, arranging you carefully between John’s spread legs. He’s hard at your back, heavy cock throbbing hot on your skin, but he only grabs your hand to hold it when you reach for him, tucking you gently back into his cradle with his lips on your neck.

Is this what it feels like? Love?

“What do you want darling?”

“You. Both of you.” Simon, aglow in the flickering fire light, smiles at you and John, pride and glory, divinity still fresh between his teeth.

“Let us care you for tonight.”

You nod, and clothes vanish. John’s cock weeps in the cleft of your ass, his body trembling with effort to hold himself still, and you turn your face to his, letting him work his tongue into your mouth as Simon stretches you a finger, tiny explosions of pleasure imploding with each stroke.

Hands, teeth, tongue- a tangled mess of divinity.

Powerful gods, together mightier than Zeus, worshipping between your legs, glory abound in the sound of your moans. Simon gives you more, languid touch turning fevered, adding another finger to your soaked entrance, and you gasp, spine quivering in pleasure.

The gods kiss. Simon cups John’s cheek, holding him steady, exploring, deep and true. You can only watch, mouth ajar, taking in every lavish touch exchanged, Simon’s bicep flexing as he pumps John’s cock, a crease in his eyebrows when there’s a huff and moan.

“Darling.” Simon murmurs, thumb and forefinger holding your chin. John presses his lips to your neck again, nipping and sucking your skin, fingers ghosting over your belly and breasts. It makes you squirm, insatiable hunger rising in your throat, in your soul, and you yearn for them, for this, for it to culminate and flower.

Bloom.

“Please.”

“Ye dinnae need to ask.” John hums, delicately lifting one of your knees, exposing you like a spring blossom. “Look at ye, already desperate for him.” He strums through the wet mess between your legs, fingertips lifting to his mouth, lashes fluttering as he licks.

You want to correct him. Want to tell him it’s not only for Simon, but for him too. That everything is for both, a balance of scales, pain and pleasure and passion all revolving around the two of them, with you in orbit.

But your words fail, and John looks at you with eyes full of stars, endless night dotted in endless nova, like you’re the one being orbited, being loved, being worshipped on consecrated ground.

“You give us a great gift, little goddess.” Simon’s palm rests on your thigh, thick, swollen cock leaking against your skin. He’s big, bigger than you’re sure will be comfortable, a little bit of fear starting to pique as you shift, and he leans, an elbow near your shoulder, face above yours, level with John’s. Everything slows, Olympus stopped in its tracks, the Underworld holding its breath, and the three of you breathe, magic tugging and tearing at your souls, dragging you closer to the cusp of something unknown.

You can feel it.

“We’ll go slow.” He strokes your cheek. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yes?”

“Yes.” There’s a softness in him, intimidating edges all worn gentle, and his eyes are heavy, focused as he pushes into your body, fire and flood making your fingers dig into John’s thigh.

It burns.

It hurts.

It’s good.

The agony is decadence, sharp tinged pain morphing into fiery pleasure, burning in your soul and your veins. You moan, and John presses his thumb to your tongue, holding your jaw firm as Simon begins to move, carefully working you open with gentle strokes, gritted restraint clear in his jaw.

“F-fuck.” You hiss around the digit in your mouth, and they both watch, observing, waiting for a safe word or a warning sign.

Nothing comes.

Only pain.

Only pleasure.

“More.” You croak, and Simon noses your cheek, lips drawing a line up Johnny’s forearm as he strokes, hips swinging to meet yours, body trying to fold in half when he seats himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly. “Oh gods.” Your eyes roll back in your head.

You’re on fire. Burning in the pits of Tartarus, crammed between the gods of death, exalted through mounting pleasure and pain, twisted together in veneration.

Simon shoves deeper, up through your cunt to your throat, through your magic and out your mouth, insanity leaking from your lips like you drip around his cock. It’s obscene, the way he batters into his body, the lap of John’s tongue in your mouth, his finger against your clit, how you light up beneath them like a supernova.

“There it is.” Simon’s eyes glow, observing and inspecting, watching the way you take his cock, celestial light spilling from your pores. You cling to them, shiny like a pearl, iridescent and wild, groaning with each thrust.

They split you open, crack your very soul wide, broken cypress beneath an axe.

It’s an unrelenting pace, an lewd show of slick and tears and sweat- ichor that runs down your throat when John pinches your clit, inside of your cheek crunching between your molars like a meal.

“Ahh, please- please.” You’re rambling. Begging.

More. More. More.

“Sweet little thing.” Simon spits, cadence transforming into something slow, the subtle rock of a boat on the sea, nudged up against your cervix. “Perfect little pussy, made for your gods.” Plural. Like they’re both housed in one, experiencing together, breathing and fucking and biting, as one.

John pushes his nose under your jaw, iron grip lashed across your waist, holding you steady, keeping you in place over the reverberation in your chest of screams and moans, noises unlike a goddess and more like an animal, a tiger, a bird-

Simon slams into you. The pain is shocking, and you scramble, reaching for purchase, clinging to him, to John, explosion of stars illuminating your vision.

When he rains a hand down across your flank, your eyes roll back, slipping beneath the swell of pleasure and pain, a war raging between the two.

“Good girl-“ Simon grits, and you pulse around him, greedily, squeezing with another strike against your flesh, fingers dug into your hip. There’s a glimmer of darkness in the room, ebbing cruelty lingering in the corners, watching in wait, bidings its time, knowing it needs the right moment, the perfect crescendo in order to strike.

“Look a’ him.” John marvels. “Makin’ a mess of ye.” You blink up at them both, lashes webbed with tears. They’re beautiful, etched from marble, perfectly cast in the image of ultimate power, dark and decadent, decay and hope, sculpted together.

They will break you.

“Please-“ the plea breaks off in a gasp.

“We know, darling. We know.” John soothes, syrupy and smooth, a hand running over your ass with another whip of his fingers. He probes at your rim, lightly testing before pushing in, stretching, exploring, and you keen, curling around them, muscles burning red like hot coals. It sears. It nearly pushes you over the edge.

You want to fall with them, into them. You want them to take everything, to give you pain and pleasure until you’re not sure who or where you are, remake you in the image of these emotions, this wildness flowing between the three of you.

John pushes a second finger in beside his first, and you see stars. Three become one, bursting into light and bathing the room, touching over the bed and walls and gods, casting opalescence across their faces.

“Fuck!” you gasp, and Simon’s lips curve on your skin, voice low and rough when he speaks.

“Ours.” He vows, chokes, guttural. “Our goddess." He fucks you deep, relentlessly, firm hand gripping you flesh. "You can take it, show us your light.” He’s lost himself in you, and you in them, crying out as they throw you over the precipice. “Come, darling.” It takes no urging. You’re already there, praise and agony and explosions of nerves imploding, throwing you into an orgasm that has your legs locking in place around Simon, your fingers tangling in John’s hair.

You become light. Divine incarnate. Celestial dawn, touching the peaks of existence for the first time. It flows and flows from you, overpowers your senses, drowns you in a sea of exhalation.

Simon shouts something. His mouth finds yours, but you’re lost in the waves of your own pleasure, still holding tight to both, anchoring yourself through the erratic thrusts of Simon’s body, his hips jerking as he fills you with his own gift, a touch of divinity lodged where he ends and you begin, his hand wrapped around John’s cock and stroking until he’s spilling. Simon’s tongue on yours, on John’s, open mouths and wet faces bent together to make one, hallowed, consecrated temple, the planes of your bodies twisted together in the depths of the Underworld.

Your light shines and shines until you think your heart may give out.

Maybe it does. Maybe it bursts into stardust. Maybe it becomes theirs.

“Will ye have dinner with us? A last meal?” John presses a kiss to your shoulder, decadent and sweet. You’d forgotten about your need to leave, forgotten about Olympus, and the reality is somber. Still in their arms, and you already long for them, mourn them, dread the lugubrious return to your own realm, where your life awaits.

“The door.” You murmur, fingertips tracing over Simon’s chest, the hallowed ground where your head lays, where you listen to the steady thump of his heart. “Will you show me?”

“After dinner. Please.” John murmurs it into your skin, and though it’s a shattered promise waiting in the wings, there is nothing in you deciding to protest or say no, not when he tugs you free, rolling you onto your back so Simon can tuck you into his arms. “After dinner, we’ll show you.”

He spreads your legs, stroking a finger through the seam of your cunt, watching lazily with heavy lids as you whimper.

An offering he will give.

An offering you will receive.

“After dinner, then.”

You wake to an empty bed, much like this morning.

“John? Simon?” The sheets are soft against your skin, but there’s bitterness in the air, magic like death lingering in the room.

It feels like rot.

The door is ajar, barely. It allows light to spill in across black marble, the faint, sharpened pitch of an argument echoing down the hall.

You sit up.

What’s happening?

There’s a wine-red robe draped over the edge of the bed, and you don it, quickly, quietly slipping down the onyx halls, straining to listen.

“The Fates decided, and they chose benevolently. We are honored by such a gift.” The Fates decided what? There’s a strangled, indignant laugh. A female’s.

Power snaps, rough and wild.

“You cannot possibly mean to make this… this goddess of spring your Queen.” What? Acid brews in the pit of your stomach, swirling together and forcing you forward, desperation on the balls of your feet. Is that Minthe? Is she talking about you?

“Persephone is to be our wife; ye will speak of her with respect or not at all.” John snaps. You’re what?!

“We have waited, and would wait centuries more, to receive her. Her presence brings an eternal season, to us, to all who would love her, here in the Underworld.”

“But you do not truly care for her.” You tremble. A sea devours you, pulls you beyond the black water, down into the trenches, far deeper than anyone ever knew existed. There, it tosses you side to side, virulent rage and sorrow rising beneath your feet, pushing you back up to where you break the surface.

And break free.

The agony in your heart shatters the strongest magic, draws your own power back into yourself, twists it together to become something more, something wicked, something villainous.

Ungovernable Persephone.

“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”

“But she’s a freak! A shut in li-“ Minthe’s words do not continue. They flail in her throat, the same way her soul does as you appear around the corner and twist it, making it malleable, ripping and tearing until it grows anew, sprouting with vigor into a new form.

The ground shakes. John shouts something at you, but you’re far past reason, far past explanation, and now there is only Demeter’s vengeful daughter, a wicked soul.

Rotten to the core.

Your magic swells. The palace trembles, and you feel the flow of life, Hecate’s grotto, the souls, Asphodel meadows. Every bloom and blossom cry out with you, and you scream your rage into a terrible power, one with thorns and vitriol. They surge together, and you draw from them like drinking from a river, pulling and pulling until you can no longer see, or hear, lost in the wind, the bliss of your wicked soul, your weaponized magic.

“Persephone.” A gentle voice calls, Hands cradle your face, a thumb smoothing your brow. “She cannot hurt you, Persephone. Stop this. Now.” A demand, sweeter than primrose and lily, drips like nectar against the will of your rage. “It’s alright. There is nothing to fear.” He murmurs, empyreal restraints tightening at your wrists, harnessing your power, redirecting it into the ether, commanding it still and steady.

When your vision clears, it’s horror you face.

Horror of your own doing.

You stumble away, clutching the robe to your chest, mouth agape.

On the floor between you and the Kings of the Underworld, is a small mint plant. It sprouts from a tiny clump of dirt, timid and frail.

It harbors a soul.

It harbors your wrath.

You are a monster.

“No, darling-“ John tries to reach for you, but Simon stops him, an arm out, catching him at the waist. There is sadness on one face, aloof calm on another.

Are these really the gods you gave yourself to? The ones you believed would care for you?

You are a fool.

You turn for the door and run.

You’re sprinting towards a river.

In the dark, you can’t be sure which it is. You’re not sure of anything, in these moments, these shattered clips that fracture your heart, the confusion that ricochets inside your brain, a silver pinball bouncing off walls with lights and noises exploding in the silence. Everything competes with the rush of a river, roaring swell crashing against rock, humming alive in the dead of night.

Their wife.

They brought you here to be their wife.

You laugh out loud to the cool, crisp air.

A fool.

Fate’s tool.

They weren’t interested in you. You aren’t special. You’re only a sanctimonious fortune from the The Moirai. Something promised. Something they feel you deserve.

Something you have no choice in, again.

But would you choose it?

Simon’s words ring in your ears.

“Persephone is to be our wife; you will speak of her with respect or not at all.”

“We have waited, and would wait centuries more,”

“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”

The Fates.

The Fates decided.

The Fates decided to honor them… with a gift.

A gift.

You laugh again. It catches, hysterically, building and building into an explosion, a wild streak of pain taking root in your heart, and beneath your feet, Narcissus blooms. Even at a full sprint, the rage in your voice is palpable, and it breaks, cracking your chest wide with a sob.

They were never going to let you go.

They do not care for you. They only care for what has been bestowed to them. Their gift.

Not you. Not Persephone.

“Persephone!” A shout in the distance echoes over the valley, and only urges you faster, feet flying through a meadow. No flowers grace your shins, only grey grass, silvered in the moonlight.

Another voice calls to you.

The promise of oblivion. Of freedom. Memories laid to waste in her path, scars and agony and heartbreak all put to rest, buried beneath a mountain built of abeyance, weightless in the face of true nirvana.

Freedom.

Freedom from this truth, this betrayal. Freedom from your own stupidity, your foolishness washed away, soul wiped clean. Freedom, from the crack of your mother’s Whip, a magical object sculpted from the breadth of her power, built to hurt only you, for eternity.

You stand at the water’s edge. She’s too strong, and you cannot pull away, feet glued to the riverbank, fixed upon the rage of her waters, the power behind the swell.

Would it be so terrible?

You see Hebe. Melia. Nell. Their light, their laughter. The way their smiles sculpt their faces, how their power tastes when it infects the air. Your friends, forgotten.

But still she calls. She lashes her power to your own, strips of bark laid against your soul, binding you to her, tugging you closer and closer to the water.

You dig in your heels. The cacophony thunders, drowning everything else out, the scream of your name, the haunting in your heart.

You fight.

You fall.

Simon has never felt such terror.

Ichor turns cold in his chest, fear and panic rising into a tidal wave, an epic monster of emotion, filling his lungs with leaded salt water, choking out his last breath.

“Simon!” John shouts. He pushes his power into the river, cutting the current effectively in half, slowing its pace to a trickle. It will be enough, to find you.

It won’t be enough to save you.

Simon stands motionless. He cannot see anything, except the memory of your fall. Slipping into the river, disappearing beneath the water that will take your mind, your memories. The intricate pieces that make you, you.

He does not deny he had considered it. Allowed it to darken his mind, disrupt his intentions. He discussed it at length even. Argued with Johnny about bathing you in the water, bringing it in through a spring, disguising it as something it was not. Something safe.

“If she bathes in the Lethe, we will be all she has ever known, Johnny. She will no longer hold the pain, the torment from her mother’s hand, she will not carry the grief, the guilt of leaving Olympus behind. She will be ours. Wholly.”

“Ye’re talking about erasing who she is. The things that make her ours. Without them… what is she? An empty soul. A husk. Ye know what they’re like after they bathe in the Lethe. Ye cannae possibly want that for our wife.”

Johnny was right, of course. A million little pieces made up the goddess that you were, and Simon was a selfish being. He wanted every single one.

But now…

Johnny finds you in the bend of the river, limp and unmoving.

You’re almost gone. Simon knows it, can see it, can taste it. He can hear the realm, weeping for you. Your meadow, covered in Narcissus, each flower’s face wet with tears for you.

“Open yer eyes, Persephone.” John shakes you roughly, grip tight with panic, and then cradles your head to his chest like a babe, rocking back and forth. “Come on, little goddess. I’m here, we’re right here. We’ve got ye.” You’re silent. Near death, eyes and skin a thin membrane, everything washed away in the Lethe.

You’re gone. They’ve lost you.

Your heart slows. Your breathing stutters.

He’s been here before. He knows this feeling all too well. The frightening emptiness that even he, Hades, cannot combat.

“Simon.” John snaps. His hand hovers over your diaphragm, more magic, more power releasing into your body, filling you with all that he can give, all that you will take.

They’ve lost you. Before they even had a chance.

Too proud. Too arrogant. A monster on a throne.

He caused this.

“She is not gone, Simon. Help me.” John hisses, tenacious and hopeful. Strong. Simon’s compass in the dark. The brightest star in his sky. Forever buoyant.

Unstoppable John MacTavish.

Ungovernable Persephone.

And… him.

Your skin is cold, ice, and you’re so delicate in John’s arms, so broken, that Simon considers falling into the Lethe himself, just for a moment. “We need to get her inside.” John rocks you, cooing above your ear, trying to soothe the radiating distress, the rattle of your chest. “Sh-sh-shhh. Ye’re safe. We’ve got ye.”

Simon tugs all his power around you and Johnny like a jacket, a blanket tucked snug on your shoulders. It warms you, easing the shivering and jerking, and he holds it there, unleashing the untouched depths of his power, of Johnny’s, of this realm, forcing it into your soul the only way he knows how.

An idea blossoms in his heart. One born of midnight flower, bat orchid and hellebore, black dahlia and elderberry. Framed by the flowering vines that cover the outside of your chambers.

It’s an idea blooming from the very essence of your magic, your goddess-hood.

It’s reactionary. It’s wicked.

Rebirth.

Split your soul, and theirs, again. Merge their power, and yours.

Wed you.

“Johnny.” He whispers. He steps closer, hovering, a hand strong on the back of his neck, the other cupping your cheek.

“We shouldnae.” He shakes his head. “I cannae do it.”

“We must.”

“She will ne’er forgive us.” He cradles you tighter, almost defensively. You moan, the sound wretched and pained, and Johnny pales.

“The Lethe has taken her from us. She is fading, I know you can feel it.” Johnny slams his eyes shut, brow quivering. “Look at me.”

“Si.”

“This is our only option.” For every protest, he has an answer. For every reason why not, he provides an alternative. It snakes forward, through John’s rebuttal, through the time it takes for Simon to pull both him and you into his arms, on the banks of the Lethe in one moment, in the din of their bedroom another.

“She might remember, one day.” John lays you on their bed, the rasp of your lungs only increasing with each moment. “Her magic is strong.”

“Then we will beg for forgiveness and hope her vengeful spirit gentles.”

#peaches writes #AIV #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #simon riley #john mactavish #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #simon ghost riley

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latimeria-fell-from-heaven · 10 months

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⌗︙・⚠︎ being intimidated by love-struck and obsessed wriothesley ⚠︎ ♡⸝⸝

Wriothesley is aware of how intimidating he is.

Sometimes he doesn't even mean to be, and he feels a bit guilty about it. Given his stoic and less-than-inviting expressions, he doesn't blame the average person for flinching in his presence whenever they notice him in the vicinity. Hell, he's accidentally given the staff at some of the restaurants he frequents a bit of a fright from his tone and expression alone. And all because he had been simply inquiring about his meal, as it had taken longer than usual to be brought out.

But his seemingly unapproachable manner doesn't mean that Wriothesly doesn't attract his fair share of admirers and potential suitors. He'd have to be a fool to not see the lovestruck stares that were thrown his way by certain individuals, to not hear the hushed whispers of admirers fawning over his attractive features and squealing whenever he'd coldly glance their way for a split second. He isn't one to let all of that admiration inflate his ego, let alone pay much attention to it, to begin with. If at all, he'd rather avoid people's attention, much preferring to enjoy the quietness of solitude.

But he doesn't care about any one of them. Wriothesly only cares about you—his eyes are reserved for you and you alone.

Love-struck gazes on your form are often what he finds himself doing a good majority of his time, his heart beating so hard—so painfully loud—that he feels dizzy by just looking at you. Wriothesly looks at you as if you're the very reason he takes each breath, the reason why he wakes up and gets up out of bed, the very reason why he lives on. Sometimes if he catches himself passing by a mirror after having seen you, his cheeks and even ears are tinged with blush. To the unsuspecting eye, the dark haired male is more akin to a happy dog having received a treat for being good, his gentle smile and softened eyes making him look nothing like the intimidating man he is supposed to be.

But his lovesick puppy gazes fade away upon seeing you with somebody else, somebody else making you smile and laugh in a way that makes his belly fill with warmth but is quickly snuffed out once he remembers that your sweet laughter is not for him. Jealously rears its rotten, ugly head within Wriothesly's gaze, sick thoughts coiling to fruition within his mind. He cannot stand the thought, let alone the sight, of you interacting so merrily with someone that is not him. If looks could kill, then the bastard would have long since torn to pieces, left as a bloody pile heaped upon the ground long ago. He ends up crushing the fragile tea he'd been holding in his hand to pieces from the raw anger surging through his veins.

But it is not just possessiveness that fuels his obsession with you. It is envy—envy that others could make you laugh and grin so merrily in ways that he cannot. You are uneasy around him, unwilling to spare him one of your smiles that renders him a clumsy fool.

Self-hatred festers inside him every time you flinch in his presence, how when he does manage to ease a measly excuse of a conversation from you, you don't even look him in the eyes—the dust gathering in the dingy corner of a room is far better than looking at him. He supposes that your less-than-stellar first meeting has something to do with your wariness around him, as well as his frightening demeanor and voice—he sometimes forgets that he comes off as scary to you even if that was far from what he was intending.

But Wriothesly can only hold in his suppressed feelings for so long. He's only human, and even he has his limits too after all, no matter how standoffish and collected he appears on the surface. He wants nothing more than to lose himself in your warm embrace, bury his nose in the side of your neck and soak in the tranquility of being so intimately close to you without having to worry about scaring you off once again. Those daydreams that leave him shuddering with need and wanting more can hardly suffice anymore.

Wriothesley is uncertain for how much longer he could possibly hold in his festering feelings.

#lati thirsts #tw yandere #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #yandere wriothesley #written before the release of fontaine so pardon the potential inaccuracies #once we get him then i can rewrite this to make it more accurate

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ancientgoddessofegypt · 1 year

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ASTROLOGY OBSERVATIONS - Sensual Connections Pt.2

Pluto in the 8th house individuals need something raw and deep. They need to see you naked and im not talking about just taking off your clothes. When it comes to having a lover, need you to be on bored with wanting to connect vulnerably with them as this creates the most passionate sex/relationship there is. They'll take you deep to the underworld and back to earth, take you down to an ocean where its impossible to swim back up as your old self. You have to be willing to transform during this emotional act, because for them its more than sex. Its a portal to a new life.

Venus/Lilith individuals can and will be in a few relationships that are very taboo. They might be the ones to initiate these relationships first. These placements need lovers who will go the extra mile with them and will allow them to be themselves along the way. You cannot tame them, which makes their love a whole lot sweeter ;) There kink could be in beds where they come be the dominator. Or play the role as the submissive because who doesnt like a little cat & mouse ;) They need love that surrenders to the darkness of their soul, and releasing it as you both intertwine with each others shadow. They can show you a love that is raw, deep and penetrating and you probably leave a different person after being with them. Being with them is an adventure.

Sun/Neptune Venus/Neptune Individuals need a love like in the story books, Im talking candles in the room with rose petals everywhere. A love that feels like cupid just shot them in the back. They need to create a world for them and their lovers to exist in where no one can taint it. These are the type of lovers that would paint their lovers, or be the muse themselves.

Venus Scorpions need their lovers to feel every inch of them in their souls. They cannot have anyone who doesnt love them for them in their entirety. They need the good, bad, and the ugly when it comes to taking a leap further in all their sensual connections with their lovers. These scorpion babes need their lovers to be engulfed into their shadow, allow them to take in all of their nutrients as in the end it will make both of you stronger. Scorpion Venuses need you to obsess over them a little, may even want you to fight for their honor. This turns them on and lets them know that you truly wish to be their one & only.

Sun/Uranus individuals need someone whose different, and allows them to be different. Sun/Uranus people are always changing and they need someone who understand this. There love can grow stronger for you if you can take the journey of self-discovery with them. There kinks can go be a little different but their fun, Could be into the use of sex toys with their lovers because why nooooot ;)

Venus/Mercury Sun/Mercury Moon/Mercury individuals need an intellectual. Point blank period, a dead mind is a boring soul to them. They love to uncover the brains of their lovers as this is a turn on for them. Natural mind readers, they want a telepathic connection with their lovers. And want to be bonded with them were their is no secrets or no need to hide who they are. Need someone who sees the ins and outs of who they are, because their is so much that goes on inside of them that most people cant seem to notice.

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avatar-anna · 4 months

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Bruises

"I feel so...hollow," you said, your voice breaking on the last word. "But—But like my feelings are so heavy they could drown me at the same time. I don't—I don't know when it started, but I can't remember how to be happy without waiting to be punished for it later."

Tears were tracking stains down your cheeks like small rivers, leaking out of your eyes faster than you could stop them. Not that you tried to, anyway, even that seemed exhausting. One thing you could do was avoid Harry's gaze. You felt it like a severe burn as he practically begged you to look at him, but you just couldn't. Not while you were so vulnerable. You felt stripped bare, even more so than the number of times the two of you had been intimate.

"Y/n—"

"Don't," you said, nearly leaping out of your skin when he rested a hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him then, saw the pain in his eyes at your rejection of his touch. But you couldn't handle it. Your soul felt raw as you said things you never thought you would out loud. "Please don't, I can't—"

Harry seemed to understand as he nodded and took a step back, but the concerned furrow of his brow remained, his fingers curling awkwardly at his sides. He'd always been the type to communicate through touch—a squeeze on the shoulder, a tip of your chin, a gentle nose nudge on your cheek, a hand never far away from your person. You knew that he craved touch to comfort people, and yet he stayed put. For that you were thankful, and it helped you find your words again.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," you said, almost too quietly for anything but your thoughts to hear. "I—I don't know why I'm feeling like this, or how I got here, I—I just feel like I'm stuck in this emptiness."

Saying all of that made you want to run and hide. Harry didn't need to know all this, how wrecked you really were inside. No one did. He was just someone who happened to be around when you were at your worst. Normally you were able to keep a lid on your darkest thoughts, but he'd come over when you were in the thick of it, and you couldn't exactly hide how you felt when you were crying uncontrollably for virtually no reason other than it was a Tuesday afternoon and life suddenly felt like one big chore.

Maybe it was the holiday, seeing everyone so happy, hearing songs about falling in love and kissing under mistletoes and commercials that said, "The perfect gift for that someone special!" Being surrounded by so much cheer only left you feeling more hollowed out, more lost than you'd ever thought you'd become.

"Y/n, why—why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Like what?" you laughed bitterly. "That I cry at the drop of a hat and can't handle light teasing from my friends? That I haven't felt right for weeks and getting out of bed feels like a chore? We—That's not who we are to each other. I—I have no one."

The words clanged around, grasping onto your heartstrings and convincing you it was true. You had friends and family, but when the darkness reared its ugly head, you always felt hopelessly and inescapably alone. Words deserted you when you needed them most, leaving you to smile and pinch your skin, trying your best not to cry in line at the grocery store or while sitting at your desk at work. It was all too much, too much to handle, and yet you didn't want anyone else but you to share that load, the weight of your inexplicable despair.

"Do you honestly think that?" Harry asked. You couldn't even dignify him with an answer. It had been humiliating to say it once, let alone look him in the eye and say it again. So you just shrugged and wiped your cheek. "You're my friend, Y/n, and I care about you. I'm sorry if I haven't done enough to make you know that."

"It's not just you, H," you sniffled, feeling bad for making Harry uncomfortable. It wasn't his job to make you feel better. Your problems were yours to bear alone. They always had been. "I don't—I don't know how to do this."

"Do what, love?"

Despite the discomfort of having shared so much, Harry's gentle voice felt like a warm blanket over your shoulders. It made you finally look up to meet his eye. You were surprised to see so much emotion held in them, but you didn't shy away from it like you thought you would. It helped fill that hollow ache a little, made you feel a little less alone.

"I don't know how to deal with this any other way," you said, trying to explain. "I don't...I hate sharing this stuff with people. It makes my skin crawl."

Your body felt heavy, your soul weary, as if no amount of shed tears or leaning on shoulders would ever ebb the emptiness that was taking over you. But you didn't want the pity. You didn't want anyone to worry or look at you differently because of how sensitive you tended to be sometimes. To deal with the myriad of moods that swung on a pendulum day to day, sometimes moment to moment. The pressure of feeling like you should reach out and ask for help was almost worse than the emptiness and despair.

"This is a good start," Harry said, inching just a tiny bit closer. "I just don't want you to think you can't talk to me. You can, Y/n, and I'll listen, or give you space, or help you find professional help, or do whatever it takes to make you smile. Just let me be here for you."

The notion didn't sit well with you at first. It wasn't how you dealt with things, though clearly your methods weren't working. That didn't make letting Harry in any less scary, or any easier. But Harry was still here. You'd broken down, shared just how broken you really were, and he was still here, asking to be someone for you to confide in.

Harry had been your friend for a long time. You ran in the same circles and saw each other often enough that you'd consider him to be someone you were close to. It wasn't until your arrangement that you got to know him more. You'd never had a friends with benefits situation before, but you never imagined it to be so easy. Rules had been sketched out, boundaries were made and kept, and things between you just seemed to work. Even when you didn't see each other for a week or two at a time, there was no awkwardness.

There was no jealousy at parties or possessiveness; you were exclusive, but okay with the idea of ending things should either of you meet someone you wanted to explore a relationship with. You and Harry just clicked—two friends who happened to sleep with each other, companions who could hold conversations about their jobs amicably, yet knew every inch of each other's bodies intimately. And now Harry was offering something more, something different.

Nodding, you said, "Thank you."

Harry gave you a small grin, then tentatively reached a hand out to wipe away a stray tear. You let him, not feeling like a startled animal anymore. You knew part of you should've felt embarrassed that Harry had caught you in such a state, that you'd let him see how broken and hurting you were on the inside, and maybe a small part of you did, but you mostly just felt like a weight had lifted off your chest.

"Can I get you anything? Maybe a cup of tea?" he asked, leading you over to your kitchen counter as if it was his home, not yours.

You let him, content to watch him move around your kitchen as if it was his own. He'd been over to your place enough times to know his way around and know how you took your tea.

Sitting in silence, you watched as Harry took a mug that looked like a gingerbread man and one that had a textured, cable-knit sweater design from your cabinet and fixed up two cups of tea. His shoulders flexed beneath his loose shirt, dark brown curls curving every which way at the nape of his neck. The familiarity of this moment was comforting after such an emotionally taxing and foreign afternoon. Harry was here as often as your busy schedules would allow, or you were at his place, neither of you concerned with how much time you spent together.

Though today you hadn't expecting to see him, hence the emotional breakdown. You didn't really plan those kinds of things, but you'd been feeling more down than usual and had been seeing Harry less and less recently as a result. Every text about a next meet-up, whether that was to get lunch or have sex or anything in between, had been rebuffed quickly and kindly. Today he'd shown up out of the blue.

"H?"

"Yeah?" he said, his back still to you.

"Why did you come over today? Y—You didn't text like you normally do."

Harry looked over his shoulder briefly, a small smile playing at his lips. "We hadn't seen each other in a while," he said breezily. "Which is fine, I know we're both busy, but I just had this distinct feeling you were avoiding me."

"I'm sorry," you said, finding it easier to say it when his back was to you. "I don't mean to do that."

"I know," Harry said, that same gentle and easy tone in his voice. "I've always known you're squirrelly about feelings."

You huffed at his choice of words, trying to focus on his humor rather than the fact that he seemed to know you better than you thought he did. You appreciated that he didn't state the obvious, which was that you went way past "squirrelly." The last hour had been emotionally taxing, and you appreciated that Harry offered you a modicum of normalcy.

"Thank you for checking up on me," you said. "You're a good friend, H."

Perhaps better than I deserve, was what you didn't say, because you knew he would scold you for even thinking it.

"Well, my visit wasn't totally innocent," Harry teased as he finally came over with two steaming mugs of tea, yours done just right. There was a faint blush on his cheeks, but didn't say anything more than that.

Raising your brows, you said, "Ah. You couldn't find anyone to watch Hallmark Christmas movies with you, could you?"

Harry chuckled into his mug, taking the excuse you both knew was a lie and ran with it. "Yeah, that's exactly it. I knew you'd understand."

"I wouldn't say to no a cheesy Christmas movie."

"Promise me you'll tell me when you're feeling like this again," Harry said a while later.

You could tell Harry was trying to hide his eagerness to pull you into your room and fire up your TV. His eyes scanned over you briefly, as if he was trying to assess where you were at mentally. It would be hard to see that stare, to know Harry had seen you at your lowest and would constantly be gauging if you were on the verge of another breakdown. But the thought didn't irritate you the way you thought it would. You were surprised to feel a little relieved that you weren't the only one taking care of you, at least for the time being.

You were huddled under a mountain of blankets together. Twinkly lights in your bedroom casting a warm light over you both. You'd meant to put them up earlier in the month, but hadn't made yourself get around to it, the small task falling to the wayside the same way a lot of your everyday chores did. Harry took one look at the forgotten box of lights and got to work, even going as far as putting a looped video of a roaring fireplace in his phone and setting it up next to your television. It was a little silly, and a tad over the top, but you appreciated it all the same, the lengths he was going to ease the ache in your chest as best he could.

He was practically on top of you now, but unlike the events of today, that was something you were used to. Harry liked to sprawl out, specifically with you underneath him—leg over your waist, arm tucked across you to keep you close, face buried in your neck or chin resting on top of your head. He insisted on draping himself over you like a blanket, even before you started sleeping together.

"I don't want to bother you—"

"Bother me, Y/n," Harry said, his voice gravelly as he gently turned your face to meet his gaze. "I'm not doing my job as your friend if I'm only with you when things are easy or—or good. You're not alone, okay? As long as I'm in your life, I'm in it. Good and bad."

"I'll try."

You tried to blink back tears, a little surprised you had any left to shed. Your face was undeniably puffy and a little dry, and you were tired in a different way than you had been the last few weeks. But these were different tears from earlier. A different emotion took over you as you nodded.

That seemed to satisfy Harry. He kissed your forehead, and you closed your eyes against it, allowing yourself to believe everything he'd said to you today.

You weren't magically fixed, that crushing weight was still waiting for you like a monster under your bed, but you weren't alone. Harry had turned the lights on, showing you that perhaps there was no shame in letting someone see the worst parts of you. Because he was still there, promising to hold your hand and help you until you felt whole again.

#Spotify #harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic

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pandorafairy · 1 year

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Fire of Souls

Part 4: Celebration

part 1 // part 2 // part 3

Tsu'tey x Reader (younger sister of Jake Sully, dreamwalker) Enemies to Lovers

Contains: hunting, secrets, return home, and a party

Anything written in italics is spoken in Na'vi

Tsu’tey moves silently through the bushes, his weapons dangling around him. I glide behind him, my feet stepping into his footprints. We’ve been tracking the beast for the entire day. Tsu’tey’s jaw is clenched and his eyes are focused. We are right on it's trail.

There have been no signs of the Na’vi who attacked Tsu’tey but I keep my eyes open, prepared for anything. Tsu’tey crouches further to the ground as an animal chitters above us. I follow his lead, unable to see anything except his braids as he peers through some underbush.

He lifts his hand, his long blue fingers pointing upwards, telling me to stop. I halt instantly, my heart rate rising. Tsu’tey’s ears flicker against the side of his head as he listens. I strain my ears, trying to hear whatever it is he hears.

After a moment, he closes his hand and beckons me to keep moving. I follow after him, my back aching. The only time we’ve spoken is when we made our plan for killing the beast. After that, we fell into a rhythm of silently working together, knowing what the other person meant without them saying a word. It’s much better than our usual arguing.

Tsu’tey leans back and puts something in his loincloth. His eyes meet mine and he gives me a curt nod that means, we’re close. I nod in response.

A crack sounds through the forest. I freeze as Tsu’tey reaches his hand in front of him, telling me to stay calm. Sweat gathers between my knees as a strong burst of air filters through the treetops above us. It smells of raw meat and decay. The beast.

My eyes widen. Tsu’tey’s face goes flat, his lips in a straight line and his hands clasp around his bow. He creeps forward, not making a single sound. He pulls a string of leaves to the side. There, the beast stands in the middle of the clearing. His horns curled around his huge, unnatural head.

My breath catches in my throat. Tsu’tey whips his head around. He cocks his head to the side, are you okay? His eyes ask. I nod, forcing my nerves down. Tsu’tey watches a moment longer, contemplating the nervous look on my face before lifting his three fingers up. It’s our signal. It's time to go.

Tsu’tey breaks through the trees as one of his arrows goes sizzling through the air. The beast rears back in surprise. I climb up a nearby tree, my fingers digging into the bark as I cock my arrow into place. Tsu’tey springs out of the bush, distracting the beast as I shoot an arrow down. It slams right into the beast’s side.

The beast roars an ugly, almost mechanical sound. Even the tree I’ve climbed seems to go still at the sound. I load another arrow and shoot again, this time ramming into the beast on the other side. It roars again, sending leaves down from a nearby tree.

Tsu’tey doesn’t hesitate to jump onto the beast’s back. He grasps its horns and clamps his legs around its throat. He looks up at me, his eyes viscous. I grab the long knife from beside me and throw it to him, angling the blade so it lands perfectly in Tsu’tey’s hands.

Tsu’tey catches it even as the beast thrashes beneath him. He rears back and slams the dagger into the beast's heart. I suck in a breath as Tsu’tey jumps off and takes a few steps back. The beast roars, stumbles, blows out a nasty breath, makes a strange gurgling sound, and then collapses on its side. The beast shudders and goes still.

Tsu’tey doesn’t move as he observes the now dead beast. I climb down slowly, not fully believing our success. I drop my weapon and move closer to Tsu’tey. He begins to inch towards the beast. I hold my breath until Tsu’tey turns around, a huge grin plastered on his face. A real smile, that spreads across his face and lights his eyes. “It’s dead!” He yells.

“Hell yea!” I holler and pump my fist in the air. “We did it!”

Tsu’tey turns back and whoops excitedly. I instinctively offer my hand like a high-five. He instantly grabs it, his fingers wrapping around mine like a handshake. He gives me a firm squeeze.

I squeeze back, feeling the callouses of hands.

“Not bad,” Tsu’tey says before pulling back. “Now, let’s go home.”

Home. I smile at the thought as Tsu’tey walks over and cuts off the beast's horns.

~~~

I wake in my human body feeling weak and hungry. I push open the machine that links me to my Avatar. It takes a moment to fully adjust. It’s dark out but I can still make out the sharp outline of the Floating Mountains. I groan as I stand, my back cracking.

Grace and Jake’s voice float into the room, followed by a clatter of utensils. I sniff the air. It smells like burnt bread…

“Oh shit!” Grace yells from the other room. I chuckle to myself and head towards them. My legs feel weak and foreign. I miss my Avatar body the second I’m not in it. It’s starting to feel like my human body is the fake one.

There’s a banging sound like Grace just plopped the bread down. I can’t wait to tell them about slaying the beast. Jake laughs but it sounds different, almost strained. Nerves bubble in my stomach.

“You have to do something,” Grace says, her voice serious.

I freeze at the entrance to the room and push myself against the wall so they don’t see me.

Jake hangs his head in his hands, his wheelchair pushed all the way against the table. He sighs. “I don’t know what to do.”

Grace pulls out a chair with a loud scraping sound and sits beside him. “You have to tell Neytiri and soon.”

Tell Neytiri what? My hands flutter nervously at my side.

Jake scoffs. “No way. She’ll never forgive me. And my sister…”

My blood runs cold.

“You should’ve told your sister a long time ago.”

I step out from behind the entrance before I even have time to process a thought. I cross my arms as Jake’s face goes from shocked to nervous. “Tell me what?”

Grace lifts her eyebrows. She glances at Jake. “Well,” she heaves a sigh and stands from her chair, “at least you can check one of those boxes now.” She leaves, walking off to her own link station.

“Tell me what, Jake?” My voice is rough, almost panicked. My nerves are growing by the second. Things are starting to go well for me. We just killed the beast. We’re going back to Hometree. I could be one of them. I just pray it isn’t all about to come crashing down. Jake doesn’t respond, he just runs his hands across the armrest on his wheelchair. “Jake.”

He blows out a rough breath. “Okay, look,” he begins nervously, “do you know why we moved up to the Floating Mountains?”

What is he getting at? I nod, clearly irritated. “Yea. Your dumbass was hanging around Quaritch.”

“Do you know what we had talked about?”

I pause, unsure of where this is going and suddenly not sure that I want to know.

Jake exhales slowly. “He wanted me to get the trust of the Omatikaya so I could negotiate terms of their relocation.”

Relocation? I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. I dread the answer but I have to ask, “What do you mean by relocation?”

Jake runs a nervous hand through his hair before meeting my eyes. His face is full of pain. “It was before I knew. Before I saw how amazing the people are and before Neytiri…”

My heart starts pounding in my chest. Jake is always straight forward. Whatever this is– it’s bad. “Jake,” I say harshly, “out with it.”

“Promise you won’t do anything rash,” he says.

“Fine.”

“They’re gonna destroy Hometree.”

The air in my lungs is sucked out. I reach my hand out to steady myself as a wave of nauseous rolls over me. My ears are suddenly ringing. He can’t be serious. There are thousands who live in Hometree. It’s their home. It’s everything. I shake my head, unable to process this.

Jake wheels himself closer, his face peering up at me. “We still have time.”

I suck in a breath, trying to calm myself. Nothing feels real.

“Y/n,” Jake mummers, “please, try and listen.”

“What do you mean by time?” I ask, my voice raw.

Jake sighs. “We have time to gain their trust and convince them to leave.”

It feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut. My hands cradle my stomach as I let out a small moan. Tsu’tey’s trust? I’ve just barely gotten it, just silver. When he finds out… Any hope for friendship will be out the door. It will have been for nothing. “We have to stop them,” I say flatly.

Jake shakes his head, his eyes sad. “We can’t. All we can do is warn them when the time is right.” He pauses as he observes my face. “Will you help me, sister?”

I press my fingers to my eyes, fighting back tears. I wait a moment before nodding. “I’ll help you,” I whisper defeatedly, “what other choice do I have?”

~~~

Linking with my Avatar again felt like coming home. I opened my eyes to the streaming morning light. Tsu’tey had already packed the direhorses, the beast's horns curled from around the sides. There was something more relaxed about his demeanor; he’s happy to have killed the beast. Happy to be going home.

His relaxed stance hasn’t gone away as we journey back to Hometree. I try not to think about what Jake told me. I try, with every ounce of willpower, to force it out of my mind. But it still plagues me. Making me feel numb.

I don’t think Tsu’tey has noticed because we’ve hardly spoken any words to each other. We just move in silent agreement, a team that doesn’t need to write a plan; we just know.

We’ve been going for hours and my legs are going numb. “How much further?” I ask, breaking the long silence.

Tsu’tey slows his pace and looks back at me, flicking his braided hair over his shoulder. A small smile grows across his face. “Very soon.”

I raise an eyebrow at the rare smile on his face. He breaks through a line of dense trees, the leaves brush against his calves. My vision is blurred by the greenery for a moment before coming into full focus. An entire crowd of Omatikaya stand before us.

I gasp. Hometree looms right before me, looking mightier than ever. There’s no way Quaritch could destroy it. I force the thought away as Neytiri runs up to me, a brilliant smile across her face. “Welcome!”

I can’t help the grin that makes its way onto my face. All of the people have gathered outside Hometree. They're all cheering, whooping, and pumping their hands in the air. All of them are full of so much pride that it warms my heart.

“Is the beast dead?” The Olo’eyktan, Eytukan, calls above the cries. The crowd goes quiet as he makes his way through in his feathered chest piece. Neytiri backs away, joining Jake in the crowd. He gives me a goofy thumbs up but I look quickly away, not wanting to acknowledge him, not wanting him to think that I’m okay with this.

Tsu’tey dismounts and walks closer to the crowd as he holds his pack, the beast’s horns jutting out. I copy him, immediately hopping off my steed and falling into step beside him. Once, Eyutkan is right in front of us, we bow our heads in respect.

“The People want to know,” Eyutkan says, his face stern but his eyes proud, “is the beast dead?”

Tsu’tey grins. His smile sends chills down my spine, it’s lethal and charming at the same time. He reaches down and yanks the horns of his pack. “The beast has been slayed!”

The entire village erupts into roars of delight. Smiling faces as people hug and praise Tsu’tey the warrior. Then, I hear my own name. They are praising both of us. A small blush creeps onto my cheeks as various clan members look right at me and smile proudly.

“We will have a celebration! Tonight!” Eyuktan yells again before turning and facing the crowd. “A feast in honor of Tsu’tey and Y/n.”

The clan bursts into an array of activity: conversations and giddy excitement, as some run into Hometree and other’s grab hunting gear and head for the forest. A feast in my honor. Neytiri and Jake join us as Eyutkan pats Tsu’tey on the back. Tsu’tey’s eyes brighten at the gesture.

Neytiri grabs my hand and squeezes. Jake smiles at me and I feel my blood run cold like I’m suddenly back in the Floating Mountains, talking to him about Hometree. I feel sick. I don’t deserve this feast. If only they knew…

Neytiri’s face flickers with concern but before she can say anything, Eyuktan asks, “did you have any hardship along the way?”

Tsu’tey tenses beside me. I remember the cut along his chest, the poison seeping into his blood, and how I saved him. He remains silent beside me, waiting for me to speak. I clear my throat. “No, Tsu’tey and I worked well together.” Tsu’tey’s head whips towards me, his eyes light with surprise. I pretend not to notice and continue on, “all went well.”

Eyuktan nods as he pats me on the back. Pride swells in me. Neytiri’s eyes flutter between Jake and me. She looks at her father. “They are ready.”

Eyuktan grunts in agreement. “Tomorrow, take them to the ikran.”

My mouth drops open as excitement pools in my stomach. I look at Neytiri to find her smiling at Jake. I raise an eyebrow. Interesting…

Tomorrow, I’ll get to choose an ikran. I can’t contain my excitement to do something I’ve only ever read about. Tsu’tey catches my eyes and gives me a curt nod. My stomach flutters. He’s proud of me too.

~~~

There is a large fire in the center of Hometree and the clan dance and eat all around it. Loud drums pierce the air as people talk and laugh. The celebration is in full swing. I’ve managed to forget about all my worries and just enjoy this moment.

Earlier in the night, Tsu’tey brought me a plate of my favorite berries to which we shared a knowing look. Neytiri had cocked her head to the side in curiosity but said nothing else. Tsu’tey then tipped his head and stalked off, presumably to enjoy the party on his own. I haven’t seen him since and I pretend that I’m not slightly upset by that.

Besides, I’ve been too busy dancing. Neytiri and I danced and danced. My feet are practically burning. All around me, the clan moves their bodies to the rhythm of the drums, it’s magnetic and alive. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. Then Jake comes and sweeps Neytiri off into a dance off their own. With my aching feet and tired muscles, I begin to push my way off the dance floor when a male blocks my view.

“Congratulations,” he says. It’s a man I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, broad shoulders, and his hips are wider than Tsu’tey’s. Not that, I’m thinking of Tsu’tey… I shake my head feeling suddenly fuzzy from the party. The man tilts his head. “I’m Kiezan, I don’t think we’ve met.”

I swallow, forcing myself to get a grip. His eyes are wide and amber. His hair is loose and tied behind his head with a single braid. He’s handsome. I smile at him. “I’m y/n.”

He smiles back at me. “Pretty name,” he reaches his hand out, “do you want to dance?”

I take his hand without thinking, allowing myself to get swept away once again in the enthrallment of the party. He is a good dancer and he leads me through the crowd with ease. The drums pound loudly and we sway our bodies, matching the rhythm, the heat of his body melting into mine.

I catch Neytiri’s eyes from across the floor. She nudges her head as if to say, oooo. I roll my eyes and shrug. It’s nice dancing with Kiezan but it isn’t amazing. I don’t feel that warmth in my stomach or flutter in my heart. It’s just nice.

My eyes move from Neytiri, across the crowd and up to the stairwell where a familiar frame leans against the wall. I jolt. Kiezan’s hands trail down my side as I watch the figure lean forward. There is something familiar about their stature…

“You like dancing?” Kiezan’s whispers in my ear, his hot breath hitting my neck, making me feel suddenly sick. The figure on the wall immediately straightens before whipping around and disappearing up the stairs. I freeze as I watch their braided hair swing behind them. It’s Tsu’tey.

I shove Kiezan’s hands off me. He grunts in surprise. “I’ll be back,” I muster as I run into the crowd. He calls after me but I can’t make out what he said.

There was something about Tsu’tey’s posture, the way he was watching; it sparked a feeling in me, one I can’t discern. I’m following after him and I’m not even sure why. I guess I’m curious about him. Maybe he’s upset? He should be enjoying the celebration… After all, it is for him.

I make it through the crowd and up the stairs. The air feels cool as it hits my skin. It’s darker here as I walk deeper into Hometree, searching for any sign of him. I keep going, my heart thudding in my chest. Why am I nervous? It’s just Tsu’tey.

After a while, I’m nearly at the top of Hometree and I haven’t seen him. This was stupid. What was I thinking just going after him? He doesn’t need me. I shake my head, silently scolding myself before turning around.

“Y/n?” Tsu’tey’s voice stops me right in my tracks. I slowly turn to find him standing between an archway that leads outside onto a branch. He peers curiously at me. He’s wearing a yellow and red beaded chest piece that brings out the gold in his eyes. I swallow.

“I, uh,” I mumble, struggling to find words, “I was wondering where you went.”

His eyes grow. “I just needed some space.”

“Oh, right, I’ll leave you to it,” I say awkwardly.

“Would you like to join me?” Tsu’tey asks before slamming his lips shut like he hadn’t expected to ask me that. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. A breeze floats in from the archway, blowing his loincloth softly. My heart begins to pound again as I nod my head.

He turns and walks through the arch. I follow him to find myself on a branch, far above the ground. The night sky is clear and the moons illuminate the forest beneath us. I gasp in delight as I take in the sight.

Tsu’tey hums under his breath, “I love it up here.”

He sits down, letting his long legs dangle over the edge of the branch. I sit down next to him, making sure to leave a bit of space between us. I take a deep breath, tasting the sweetness of the air. “I can see why,” I reply.

“I wanted to thank you,” He says as he looks out at the view.

I tilt my head, my lips turning to the side. “For what?”

“You didn't tell the Olo’eyktan about my injury,” he continues as the moonlight hits his high cheekbones, “you could have gotten much praise but you chose not to tell.” He looks at me, his eyes containing a feeling that I can’t quite place. “You are unexpected.”

My ears perk at his words. I’m not sure how to respond. I clear my throat and shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“Hm,” he hums as he returns his gaze to the forest. Pandora is gorgeous at night. I’m constantly awestruck by the forest and the Omatikaya. Tsu’tey, despite living here his whole life, seems to still appreciate the beauty of it all. All the way up here, away from any noise.

“You don’t like celebrations, do you?” I ask him.

He lifts his head at this and lets out a little laugh. “You are observant.”

“I am a scientist,” I remind him, “and not a useless one.”

He looks at me, his eyes gleaming with remembrance. “No,” he agrees, “certainly not a useless one.”

My cheeks heat and I quickly look away. “So, why don’t you like parties?”

He shrugs. “Too many people in one space.” I can’t argue with that. There were so many bodies, all of them dancing, it could easily become overwhelming. I drag my fingers along the bark of the branch.

Tsu’tey inhales. “Kiezan seemed to like dancing with you.”

I whip my head towards him, my eyebrows raised and mouth slightly open. “What?”

Tsu’tey reaches up and scratches his forehead. “Oh, I just saw you guys. Nice that you have made friends but…”

“But what?” I scrunch my eyebrows together.

“You could do better than Kiezan,” he says like it’s a fact as his tail flicks behind him.

A laugh escapes, full of disbelief and bewilderment. Why is Tsu’tey talking to me about this? His ears flatten against his skull for a moment before returning to normal.

“What friends would you recommend?” I ask playfully.

“Neytiri,” he begins as he counts on his fingers, “any of the hunters, not Jake but I suppose he is your brother, so...”

I laugh again, the sound rumbling from my stomach. Tsu’tey’s eyes soften. I shake my head. “Okay, good recommendations,” I say lightly, “so who are your friends then?”

He freezes. His entire body goes rigid. My heart sinks into my stomach. Did I say something wrong? I bite my lip as Tsu’tey rubs his hands together as if he is contemplating what to say next.

An ikran crows in the distance, piercing the silence between us as I wait for Tsu’tey to say something. I scratch the bark beneath my fingers anxiously.

Tsu’tey blows out a breath. “I had a best friend, a finance, I loved her so very much,” he says and the deepness of his voice pains me, “her name was Sylwanin.” My heart sinks lower into my body as I recognize the name of Neytiri’s sister. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say more. His lips turn downward as he stares at his hands. He looks beaten down, vulnerable. I’ve never seen him look like this.

“She must have been pretty amazing,” I say softly.

He nods. “She was killed by skypeople.”

I gasp. I didn’t know that part. My brain searches for something to say, anything, but no words form as I watch the grief stricken man before me.

“That is why I hated you so much,” Tsu’tey says, his voice barely above a whisper, “every time I saw you, I saw the enemy.” He turns to me, his face open, his eyes full of pain and something else– something hopeful. “But I was wrong.”

My heart springs back into my chest and flutters. I blink a few times, processing his words. “I understand,” I reply, “when my brother died… I felt so lost. So lost that I came to a whole other planet.”

Tsu’tey’s face is somber as he nods. A shared sense of understanding floats between us. The same kind of understanding as when we hunted silently. We allow our pain to mingle quietly between us, not needing to speak to know it is there. The only sound is the chitters of animals beneath us.

After a while, I decide to lighten the mood. It is our celebration after all.

“I guess I should go back,” I say as Tsu’tey turns to me, “since I need to go find some better friends.”

“Ah,” Tsu’tey replies, “I’ll be your friend.”

My mouth falls slightly open. Warmth spreads through my whole body, starting at my toes and into my fingers. My lips split a part into a wide grin. He spoke to me in Na’vi. Friends.

I nudge his shoulder as my grin turns into a smirk. “Who said I want to be your friend?”

~~~

Hi! Thank you so much for reading <3

I'm sorry I took so long to post, I've been having bad writers block lol

Let me know what you think of this part and if you have any feedback :)

Taglist: (i will be adding new people for next part!) (thank you all sm))

@qu33n0fth3n3rds @star-dusst @smol-book-nerd @elegantkidfansoul @h0n3y-sug4r @aonungs-tsahik @kpopslur @perseny @myheartfollower @perilous-pasta @zilena9 @galaxyfruits @tanchosanke @eternallyvenus @glitterandgoldfinds @willow-sages

#avatar 2 #avatar #avatar 2009 #avatar 2009 x reader #tsu'tey x you #tsu'tey #tsu'tey x reader #tsu'tey avatar #avatar fanfiction #avatar the way of water #jake sully #jake sully x reader #jake and neytiri #neytiri #neytiri x you

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cerastes · 3 months

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I think Laios succeeds as good autistic representation in the same way Hikigaya (Oregairu) succeeds as good depression representation in that they are made genuinely and affectionately with a focus on showing the real pit falls that come with it (with Laios' journey not being about "beating it" because it's not a vile thing to beat in the first place and it's not even an explicit thing, while Hikigaya's journey is very much about moving past it not by being thrust into a magical depression-curing manic pixie dream girl, but rather, giving him people he cares about so much and that he has to acknowledge care so much about him that he takes the extremely difficult first step forward by his own will) as overall parts of a greater narrative.

The emphasis here should be the sincerity and affection it's done with, a combination of both: I don't condemn things written with escapism in mind, "comfort reads", if you will, sometimes that's what people want to write and want to read, no greater journey, just Please Accept Me. But I think it's phenomenal, even important, when topics like this are written with this level of sincerity and affection, affection because it's not a mockery or simply superficial, sincerity because it shows you the ugly and the difficult parts of it as well, because there's people out there that, if the succeeses of Oregairu and Dungeon Meshi are anything to go by, are in fact receptive to this more raw, more blunt, more sincere showcases of these things, penned nonetheless with affection and optimism that treats them not as dead ends, but rather difficult but surmountable states (Oregairu with depression and self-loathing) or simply just how some people are and operate differently from the established norm and how that doesn't make them worse or inferior people (Dungeon Meshi with its autistic representation). Nothing wrong with some fast food popcorn wish fulfillment, but there's an audience for seeing something that may hurt a little or more than just a little in how accurate and truthful it is the real experiences lived by those that can relate, because this ache translates to investment, and now I'm invested in seeing how this breathing, living character overcomes the inherent adversity of something we can very much relate to.

#dungeon meshi #oregairu

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pepperjack14 · 11 months

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The meme is funny but apropos. I have long felt a spiritual level of reverence for curvaceousness and when it is specifically manifest in a partner... she becomes a vessel of the divine. There is a primal magic to the succulent abundance of softness in a round, wide, heavy woman. A raw physicality, a gravity, a magnetism that speaks to something feral in our bones and blood, something that thrived in our hearts and minds thousands of years before civilization reared its ugly head. The evidence is there, carved from stone and wood and bone, etched into rocks stained with sacredness. You think this is something new? It's fucking ancient and it will not be denied.

#fat admiration #fat positive #fat positvity #fat belly #fat girls #fat tummy #Venus figures #venus of willendorf #Fat shamanism

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fettuccinealfred0 · 4 months

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Til Death Do Us Part | Part 5

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 13.6k

(CW: SMUT 18+, vampire biting/blood drinking, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, handjob, mentions of past sexual assualt and trauma)

Summary:

Astarion reaches out, feeling the soft petals on one of the flowers. He smells the sweet, floral scent in the air. The smile on your face seems to be wavering the longer he’s silent.

“What do you think? Do you like them?” You ask, nervous.

“I adore them.”

I adore you, he thinks, before he’s able to stop himself.

Astarion quickly snaps off a blossom and faces you.

“But, you’re still my favorite little flower,” he says, tucking the stem behind your ear. Your eyes close at the touch of his fingers against your cheek as he pulls away. He’s struck once again by how badly he wants to kiss you. It physically pains him to step away.

But he must distance himself from you. Because love is a sickness, a weakness. Love is about trusting someone enough to offer up your very soul to them, to give them the power to own you. And Astarion wasn’t going to allow that to happen. No one would control him ever again.

Read on ao3 here.

There’s blackness.

Astarion reaches his hands out, but they hit a wall.

He reaches to the side. Another wall.

He immediately knows where he is. The dread settles into his bones. He’s back in that cursed coffin, buried beneath the earth.

He’s scratching and clawing at the wood surrounding him, throat raw from screaming, desperate and choking on his hunger. A vampire without enough blood was driven to madness and he had spent so much time down here with nothing but unending thirst.

And just when had resigned himself to that eternity, Cazador was digging him out and torturing him anew.

Astarion’s head is pounding and he can’t think straight. Has Cazador finally caught up to him? Is this punishment for escaping?

No, Cazador is dead.

Astarion is sure of that. And he’s all too sure he’s been here before.

This is a memory. One of those twisted, ugly things that claws its way out from the back of his mind and he’s helplessly forced to watch it replay.

He can’t remember what came before this. There was white?

No. It was snowing. The first snow of the season. Tainted red by blood and dead bodies. They had been ambushed by the Gur.

Your hand reaching out to him, blood dripping into his mouth.

Astarion closes his eyes and focuses on your face in his mind, filled with a sense of calm and warmth. His pretty wife welcoming him home.

The image in his brain warps.

“I have something for you,” you say, poking your head into Astarion’s study. You’re careful to hide your body behind the doorframe so Astarion can’t see what you’re holding, but you’re practically vibrating with excitement. It sends a pleasant thrum through his own chest to see you like this.

“Why, do tell, darling, I can hardly stand the suspense.” Astarion hears himself say without really saying it.

This must be another memory, though his muddled mind struggles to place it.

You step through the door frame, holding an ornate vase filled to the brim with flowers.

“You need to liven this room up a little bit,” you tell him, setting the vase on an empty table. You take a moment to rearrange the flowers to your satisfaction and step back to inspect your work with your hands on your hips. “It’s not that much longer until the first frost and it feels a shame for all those pretty flowers out in the garden to go unappreciated.”

The bouquet you’ve made is stunning. Red chrysanthemums, red roses, and red asters surrounded by clumps of tiny little white flowers. Heliotropes, Astarion thinks they’re called.

Astarion is vaguely familiar with the meaning of flowers. In the back of his mind, he can hazily recall his mother telling him their meanings when he was a boy. But he must be misremembering because he’s fairly certain all these flowers you have given him mean love and undying devotion.

“I thought you’d appreciate red. I assume it’s your favorite color, what with the blood and all,” you tease, sounding entirely too proud of yourself for coming up with that little quip.

Of course you weren’t trying to indirectly communicate with him via flowers. It made much more sense that the bouquet was a joke for you to amuse yourself with. It’s still a sweet gesture. Astarion isn’t quite sure why his stomach sinks with disappointment.

“A vampire loving red. You’re very clever,” Astarion says sarcastically, coming to stand beside you and inspect the flowers more closely.

“Wrong answer.” You turn to face him, hands still on your hips and a stern look on your face. It’s cute. “This is the part where you thank your lovely wife for bringing you flowers.”

Astarion huffs, rolling his eyes. He’ll humor you today because you’ve put him in a good mood. Though, he does try to sound as annoyed as possible. “Thank you for the flowers, dearest wife. They are the highlight of my day.”

Deep down, he knows he means every word of what he just said. If anything, you were far more than the highlight of his day. The highlight of his week, of his year, of his life, more likely.

And you do look so very pleased with yourself. Giving in to you was undeniably worth it, then. He adored that little look you got when you felt you had bested him. More and more often, he found himself conceding in your little verbal sparring matches just so he could see that look.

“I have another surprise for you, too, tonight! Plan for a walk in the gardens.” Your voice is so light as you beam at him. His personal ray of sunshine. He wants to keep you like that forever, fill your days with nothing but joy and laughter.

You hum as you slip down the hallway, practically skipping.

Drink, Astarion hears you say, but that doesn’t make sense. You left already.

His head hurts so bad.

Something cold is pressed against his lips. He opens his mouth and tastes the sweet, metallic tang of your blood against his tongue. His brain is too foggy to question what’s going on, so he just revels in your taste, lets it coat his mouth and dance against his taste buds.

He drinks and drinks until there’s nothing left.

It’s not enough. He could never get enough of you.

His eyes flicker open and you’re leaning over him. Something warm presses against his forehead and he recognizes that you must be wiping down his face.

This isn’t a memory, though, the corners of his vision are a bit too crisp. He can feel himself starting to squirm, an attempt to sit up and orient himself.

“Shh,” you reassure him and your soft voice is music to his ears, even if it does sound clouded and distant. “Rest. We’ll have more for you soon.”

—----------

It’s dark in Astarion’s mind. He’s walking down the streets in the city of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where are we going?” The man’s voice behind him calls and he tugs insistently on Astarion’s hand.

Astarion takes the opportunity to spin, pinning the man to the wall. He licks up the man’s neck, biting softly on his earlobe before murmuring in that practiced, seductive voice, “Come now, don’t be impatient. Are you really so desperate for me to fuck you?”

He knows the man is. He was one of the creepy ones that were easy to pick up in a seedy tavern. And Astarion can feel the hard length of the man’s cock pressing into his hip.

“Yes, take me here,” the man says breathlessly, head falling back against the wall.

“Be a good boy for me, wait just a moment longer. I have the perfect spot for us. Then, I can take my time with you,” Astarion purrs, with all the control he can muster. If he could just get him back to the castle quickly enough, he might not actually have to do anything. He might still be able to spare himself that little agony.

Astarion had been through this so many times- he knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do. His whole body felt numb as he continued his way back to Cazador’s palace, his new victim’s hand wandering and groping as they walked. Astarion laughed and pinched him back, even if he hated the feeling of the man’s hands on him.

It was easier this way, if he just let his body act out the part. If he went to that little part of his mind and hid away in there until this was over.

Once he gets the man inside the palace, it’s finished almost immediately.

Cazador makes Astarion watch as he drains the man dry. Makes him stare into those desperate, scared eyes of the man he betrayed. That part doesn’t bother Astarion. But the fact that Cazador enjoys a feast Astarion himself will never get to experience has him nearly going blind with hatred. He soothes himself by imagining he’s prying out Cazador’s fangs.

“Good job, boy. Here’s your dinner,” Cazador hurls a rat at Astarion and he drinks greedily. If he was quick enough about it, he almost couldn’t taste the gamey, bitter blood that barely kept him alive.

The man’s body creates a loud thump when Cazador drops him to the ground.

Only, when he looks again, it’s your bloody face staring back at him. Astarion’s crawling forward to you before he can even think- let Cazador unleash his worst punishments for this transgression. Astarion nearly retches at the sight of your once-beautiful eyes staring open at him, lifeless.

No, no, no- this is all wrong.

Astarion is sobbing and crying, pulling your dead body to his chest, pressing his forehead against yours. Your skin is so cold.

Astarion closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of your cold skin against his hand.

When he opens them again, you’re in the gardens, shimmering and swimming in the moonlight of his memory.

“Close your eyes,” you tell him.

“What are you going to do to me, you little minx?” He flirts and he can hear you shushing him as he shuts his eyes.

You grab one of his hands and your palm is so warm against the cool night air that stings at his skin like needles. Astarion didn’t like the cold before he was turned and after, it was as if his tolerance to weather was nonexistent.

With your finger intertwined, you lead him, giving gentle instructions on where to step. He practically runs into you when you stop and has to steady himself with his hands on your waist.

“Oof, sorry, should have told you to stop. You can open your eyes now,” you say, but you don’t really sound too sorry. Astarion opens his eyes, but keeps his hands firmly on your waist, pulling you back against him a bit tighter.

In front of him is a new patch of white, star-shaped flowers. They’re pretty, undoubtedly. But Astarion can’t quite figure out their significance or why this surprise had mattered to you so much.

“They’re moonflowers!” You rush to explain. “They bloom at night! And they look like stars so they reminded me of you, little star.”

He can hear the nerves in your voice as you say the last part. Little star. Just like his mother used to call him. For the first time in centuries, he thinks that perhaps he can feel his heart beating in his chest, can feel the pounding pulse reverberating in his head, making him dizzy.

“I asked Gale to help me find them in the woods and then Halsin helped me plant them! I thought you deserved to have something that looked prettier at night than during the day. Something special just for you,” you continue to explain, twisting in his arms so you can study his reaction.

Astarion used his beauty as a shield, as a distraction. Keep it flirty and light and people’s minds become clouded by desire and they give you what you want.

But you watch him, study him. He can feel your shrewd eyes on him, catching every involuntary twitch and movement in his face. He can see you categorizing and sorting them away in your pretty little brain. It’s the first time in many years that he hasn’t minded someone’s gaze upon him.

But it’s endlessly frustrating how you keep poking and prodding at him in an attempt to dig deeper? Why couldn’t you just be distracted by the beauty like everyone else? Why did you make him want things that were impossible?

Astarion is speechless. You had given him these beautiful flowers, a gift just for him. Watching this memory play out before him, he’s forced to remind himself that this was just as real as the memories of Cazador. That despite all the trauma of his life as a spawn, his mind also contained these beautiful moments with you.

His hands drop from your waist as he moves forward to inspect the flowers. It’s amazing to see. Where most flowers would sleep for the night, these large white blossoms are opening up their petals to the full moon, drinking in the silvery light. Astarion misses the sunlight, desperately. He misses the warmth on his skin and the way colors used to look so bright. But the way these little flowers worship the moonlight, Astarion thinks that perhaps a life relegated to the dark might not be so bad. Not if he has you to worship.

He reaches out, feeling the soft petals on one of the flowers. He smells the sweet, floral scent in the air. The smile on your face seems to be wavering the longer he’s silent.

“What do you think? Do you like them?” You ask, nervous.

“I adore them.”

I adore you, he thinks, before he’s able to stop himself.

Astarion quickly snaps off a blossom and faces you.

And that’s not what this feeling is anyway, Astarion tries to reason with himself. He wants to kiss you because that’s what his body is trained to do. To repay. Even if he knows your kindness has no expectations attached to it, Astarion thinks that this desire is a side-effect from centuries of conditioning. Love isn’t possible after what he had experienced.

But then, that doesn’t explain why he wants to kiss you nearly every time he sees you. Or why he spends half his day thinking of silly lines he can say at dinner that will make you smile. Or why he wants to hold you so close to him that your bodies nearly fuse together. Or why he wants to flutter his eyelashes against your skin until you’re laughing and pushing him away.

It’s perverse- the soft, domestic things he wants to do to you.

“Astarion,” he hears your gentle voice coo out, though you’re growing hazy in front of him.

He’s trying to reach out to you, to keep you with him.

He opens his heavy eyes and your worried face is looking down at him. You’re so blurry.

“You need to drink more,” you say softly, and the goblet is being pressed against his lips again, the irresistible taste of your blood in his mouth.

—--------------------------------------

When Astarion wakes again, it’s night. He finds you sitting next to him, alternating between pretending to read a book and staring out the window. The curtains must have been drawn back after the sun went down. Astarion can tell that you’re worried by the little crease in your brow and the way you chew on your lip. He lets himself watch you for a couple moments before he pushes himself up to sit, finally alerting you that he’s awake.

“Here, drink.” You’re rushing a goblet to his mouth immediately and this time, he’s able to take the cup from your hands and actually raise it to his own mouth with minimal shakiness. He tilts the cup back, throat still burning with hunger as he swallows thick mouthfuls of your blood.

“You’re looking better. You’ve been pretty out of it for a while,” you say, taking the cup from him and sitting on the bed beside him.

You reach out to brush a curl away from his forehead and Astarion doesn’t miss the slight shake of your hands or how ashen your skin looks.

How much blood have you given to him? Astarion makes a mental note to ask Shadowheart to make you a special tea to help deal with any nasty side-effects of blood loss.

“What happened?” He asks, trying to piece together how long he had been unconscious.

You frown. Astarion hates when he makes you frown.

“You were staked. Not through the heart, thank the gods, but you lost so much blood. Shadowheart called it blood madness. She said that your body was returning to death,” you explain.

Blood madness. Everything starts to make sense. The weird visions and memories. Falling in and out of consciousness as his undead body struggled to stay reanimated with so little blood in his system.

Astarion’s shocked when you let out a laugh- a hysteric, sorrowful thing that sounds all wrong coming from you. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t know why I thought vampires would have less blood. But you bled so much.”

“You gave me your blood,” he says and you nod in confirmation.

“Shadowheart knew some way to drain it from my arm. It was… pretty gross.” You wrinkle your nose so sweetly and Astarion is struck by the desire to reach out and feel the way your skin creases with his thumb. “I passed out the first time she tried. We had to do it a few times so that you’d always have something to drink if you woke up.”

Your hands are folded in your lap and Astarion reaches out to cover them with one of his own. “Thank you.”

“I wasn’t going to let you die,” you scoff.

“I’m not that easy to kill, pet, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Astarion shoots you a wry grin that has you rolling your eyes before he turns serious again, giving your hands a little squeeze. “I know that your life would be easier without me. So, thank you. This was a gift. I won’t forget that.”

Your eyes are a bit teary when you look up from where his hand rests over yours in your lap and you say with a watery smile, “We’re just lucky they didn’t get you through the heart.”

You lean forward and pull Astarion into an embrace, your arms circling tightly around his torso. He grimaces, letting out an involuntary grunt of pain at the sharp throbbing in his abdomen where you had brushed against his wound. His body must still be starving for blood if his wound wasn’t healing at its normal vampiric rate.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” you rush to apologize, drawing away from him.

“S’okay, little flower, just be gentle with me,” Astarion reassures, pulling you back against him. Your arms circle around him again and you’re careful to not put any pressure on his wound.

He’s shocked for a moment at how warm your body feels against his. Slowly, he lets one of his own arms wrap around you, tucking you tighter into his side and resting his cheek against the softness of your hair.

Astarion could live without the warmth of the sun forever, so long as he has this- his own, personal sunlight.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” you say, so quietly that Astarion is sure he has mistaken your words.

You pull away too soon. Though, if it were up to him, he would hold you in his arms forever.

—-----------

You sit with Astarion and read to him while he continues to regain his strength. His wound heals quicker and quicker the more blood he gets back into his system. By the middle of the night, you finally allow him to get up out of bed and move around.

He pities any patient that would have you as a nurse. The power went straight to your head. You were far too bossy- yelling at him not to move every time he tried to get comfortable and forcing him to drink some disgusting tea Shadowheart had made to help him heal.

But Astarion won’t lie, it’s nice to have you fussing over him.

And now that you have finally deemed him safe to take a bath, he shooes you out of the room, sending you off to eat what he is sure is your first meal in days.

He calls for Gale, who arrives with a flurry of other servants and water a few minutes later. The other servants leave the room after dropping off the water, but Gale stays. He doesn’t need to- they both know that overseeing a bath is beneath his status. But Astarion thinks Gale’s probably sticking around because you asked him to.

When Astarion peels off the bandage on his abdomen, he finds that the wound has already closed and his skin is an angry red.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic, didn’t you?” Gale jokes. Astarion knows this really means ‘glad you came back alive, you really scared us all.’

“You can’t even go on one measly trip to Emerald Grove without me or you come back half dead.” Gale pauses for a moment, to laugh at his own words. “Or, more dead than usual.”

This is the sort of light mockery that served as the basis of their friendship. Only, Gale’s wrong that he could have been of any help when the Gur attacked.

Astarion had a… complicated history with the Gur that had started with a number of key rulings against them during his days as a magistrate. He still didn’t think that warranted beating him to the brink of death in a dark alley, though, so the distaste was mutual. Add to that, the fact that Cazador had ordered Astarion to kidnap a large number of Gur children at one point and that Astarion is now a thriving and powerful member of nobility again and well, the Gur certainly weren’t pleased.

And there were just so many of them during the ambush.

Karlach is a masterful fighter and Astarion certainly knows how to hold his own and is quick enough to dodge most blows, but it had been a losing battle from the start. They never had a chance. Not when all the Gur seemed to have their eyes trained on Astarion. Not when they all had stakes and seemed content to die so long as they attempted to land a killing blow to him.

Perhaps if Lae’zel or Wyll had been there, it might have made a difference, but they were off searching another spot. Gale would have just gotten in the way and likely found himself killed in the crossfire. He always did seem to have a knack for getting himself injured in the stupidest of ways back when Astarion had first hired everyone in Baldur’s Gate.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Gale.” Astarion says, instead, rolling his eyes as he steps into the bath. The warm water feels glorious against his skin, his internal temperature still a mess from the blood madness. “The only thing you could have done was bore the Gur to death by talking in Latin.”

“I’ll remember you said that the next time you need me to translate something,” Gale narrows his eyes, moving a pitcher of water over the fire to warm it, knowing that the cold radiating from Astarion’s body will seep into the bath water all too quickly.

“And you’ll translate it anyway because you can’t resist showing off to everyone about how smart you are.”

They settle into silence after that. Gale continues to tend to the fire and Astarion begins washing himself with a bar of soap.

“Lady Ancunin was really worried about you,” Gale says, completely changing the subject. It causes Astarion to pause for a moment, the bar of soap slipping out of his hands into the water. Gale pretends he doesn’t notice as Astarion scrambles to catch the slippery thing at the bottom of the tub. “She spent the whole time you were gone pacing like some sort of caged animal. And when you were injured, Shadowheart had to practically chain her to the bed to get her to sleep.”

Gale laughs a bit, but Astarion doesn’t find it amusing. He hates himself for causing you distress.

“You didn’t tell her anything, did you?” Astarion asks, suspicious of why Gale would bring you up.

“Ye of so little faith,” Gale feigns offense.

“Perhaps I just know how much you like to talk.”

“Careful, Astarion, or I might think you’re being mean.” Gale says with a tone of warning. They’ve known each other for years now. They know each other’s tells. And they both know that Astarion can grow volatile and catty when he’s defensive.

“But no, my lips are sealed.” Gale makes a motion like he’s zipping up his lips and throwing away a key. “None of us have said anything about…” he trails off, dropping his voice to a loud whisper, “C-a-z-a-d-o-r or R-a-p-h-”

“I’m being serious, Gale,” Astarion interrupts. “And she knows how to spell, idiot, so that was a useless code.”

Gale laughs, pouring the final pitcher of warmed water into the tub and dumping the last bit directly over Astarion’s head. Astarion couldn’t be too mad because his hair was a mess from his days of bedrest and definitely needs to be washed, but it’s about the principle of the thing.

Astarion pushes the wet hair out of his eyes and glares at Gale, who looks entirely too pleased with himself. They’re silent again for a few minutes as Gale starts tidying up and Astarion washes his hair.

“She’s a smart one, your wife.” Gale says, always trusted to break the silence. “And loves to read. Might be a big help doing research if we just give her an idea of what we’re looking for.”

Your wife.

It has that jealous, possessive part burning within him. Yes, he thinks, she is mine- and it’d serve you right to remember that.

But he doesn’t like the rest of what Gale’s saying, hates the idea of involving you in the plot that he’s been so careful to keep you out of. At first, he had been so secretive because he didn’t trust you. But now…

“That’s a slippery slope.” Astarion says, trying to keep his tone careful and not betray the panic that he feels rising in him at the idea. “First, we let her read a few books and then she’ll start getting ideas about coming with us on trips.”

And then she’ll be hurt and I won’t be able to live with myself, Astarion thinks.

He sighs, “And then it’s only a matter of time before someone mentions Cazador. And you know how she is when she gets something in her head. She’ll torture us all with questions until someone breaks.”

And Astarion knows there is no way you will ever love or respect him if you know who he truly is. No, it was best for you to only know him as the man he is now- not the weak, worthless spawn he once was.

“You’re just as stubborn as she is,” Gale responds.

It makes his heart beam with pride to be compared to you, even if Gale did mean it as an insult.

Astarion steps out of the tub and dries off, pulling on the clothes that had been set out for him- white shirt and comfortable trousers. His fingers run comfortingly along the words embroidered on the hem of the shirt before he tucks it in. His secret poem, his constant reminder.

“Thank you, Gale,” Astarion says, dismissing him.

“I’ll let her know you’re finished,” Gale nods in acknowledgement as he leaves the room.

It’s like he can smell you as you come down the hallway. Gods, how could he possibly want you more now that he’s tasted your blood. It’s pathetic.

When you knock at the door, Astarion can hear your heart beating so fast, like a little bird.

“How was your dinner, darling?” He asks, opening the door and leaning against the doorframe. “Devastatingly dull without my company, I assume.”

You completely ignore his teasing, which has Astarion worried immediately. You never passed up the opportunity for a good battle of wits. Instead, you brush past him into the room, wringing your hands together nervously.

“What’s wrong, little flower?”

“You’re doing better now, but you still need blood. You can drink from me, if you need,” you offer, words coming out in a rush.

It’s everything he ever dreamed of- here you stand, offering yourself up to him. And he does need blood.

He’s practically tripping over himself to accept. Only a fool would say no.

“How do you want me?” you ask and it’s sweet how nervous you are underneath your poor attempt at a calm, unbothered demeanor.

“In every way imaginable, darling. But let’s start on the bed.” Astarion says, shamelessly. He can hear your heart quicken at the words, how the breath gets caught in your throat. This is exactly why he loves teasing you- the involuntary reactions you always have that let him know his flirting is working, your unconscious admission that he has at least some effect over you.

Astarion reaches out for your hand gently and leads you over to his bed, sitting on the edge of it and patting the spot next to him. “Come on, pet, I don’t bite. Not until you ask nicely.”

“Oh, you were serious about the bed,” you say, looking at him with nervous, wide eyes.

“In case you get lightheaded. I don’t want you to hurt yourself if you pass out again,” he explains, reassuring you with a light smile.

Astarion guides you down so you’re resting comfortably against a pillow. Selfishly, he’d really rather have this experience be a pleasurable one for you so you’re more likely to let him do this again.

“And it saves us time when you’re unable to resist me after this and demand I ravish you,” he adds when you’ve finally settled next to him on the bed because he can never pass up the opportunity to tease you. The playful elbow you ‘accidentally’ poke into his stomach has him laughing.

His lips are almost on your neck when he hears your voice, barely a whisper, “Will it hurt?”

“Just for a moment, like you’re pricking your finger on a thorn.” Astarion runs the back of his fingers against the soft skin of your neck, soothingly. “Then it won’t feel like much of anything.”

You nod, but he still feels you moving restlessly. Frankly, it’s a bit distracting to have you rubbing against him like that when his pelvis is pressed so snugly against your skirts.

“Relax,” he breathes, as he gently moves your hair away from your neck.

Astarion takes a moment to savor the smell of your blood rushing through your veins, to feel your pulse fluttering so sweetly underneath your skin before he sinks his teeth in.

The little whimper you let out at his bite has lightning running through his veins straight to his cock. Astarion had seen every sort of depraved, erotic display a person could imagine- had participated, even. Had he really fallen so far from his former grace that just a breathy little sound from you had him half-hard?

You taste just as good as he can remember, perhaps even better, because this time he’s fully conscious and can fully appreciate the rich, savory flavor of your blood. He could buy every expensive wine in the world and he would still be chasing after your full-bodied tang.

Your head falls back against his own and your hand moves up behind you to curl in his hair, pulling him closer. He feels you shiver with delight, feels the gentle thud of your heartbeat ringing in his own ears. He drinks as slowly as he can manage in his half-feral state- he wants this to last, wants to drag this out as long as he can since he’s unsure when you’ll allow this again.

Tearing himself away from you is perhaps the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life.

He preens at the little puncture marks on your neck.

Mine, he thinks.

He leans down to lick up the drops of blood forming on the surface of the wounds and the gasp you let out has him nearly out of his mind with how badly he wants to fuck you, just to see what other pretty little sounds he could conjure up from you.

“That’s enough for tonight, I think,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss next to the mark on your neck. He turns so he can shuffle around on his nightstand and find one of the bandages Shadowheart had left for his own wound, pressing the cloth carefully against your skin.

You settle your head back against his chest and let out a hum of thanks. Astarion gives himself this moment, lets himself pull you closer and begin carding his fingers through your hair.

Oh, the heavens must have blessed him tonight, indeed, because you let out one more content little sigh as your heavy eyes fall closed. Astarion knows you haven’t slept soundly in days, that the last time you slept longer than a couple hours was probably before he left.

But, Astarion is also sure that you don’t want to spend the night in his bed, so when your breaths become even and your heartbeat slows, he wraps you in his arms and carries you softly back to your own room. You stir a bit as he pulls the blankets up around you, eyes dreamy and unfocused as you pull Astarion down to press a kiss to his cheek.

Thank gods your eyes have fallen shut again because Astarion is sure his face is bright red. In his own room, his hand immediately moves to hold his cheek, as if that will somehow allow him to revive the sensation of your warm lips against his skin.

Astarion practically crawls on his hands and knees to your room the next night, unable to stay away. From you? Your blood? Both? He doesn’t think about it too hard. All he knows is that he asks and you offer up your neck to him so sweetly that he wants to cut himself open for you and let you dig around inside his chest.

He comes begging to you the next night and the next night and the next. Had he lost all sense of humility? And did he really even care how weak and foolish he was acting right now?

Every night, he allows himself to press his lips against your throat in a parting kiss. He allows himself to hold you against him as you fall asleep before he carries you back to your room.

Until one night, your hand clutches behind you blindly, reaching out for any part of him you can catch onto. He thinks you’re going to yell at him, chastise him for taking too much blood, tell him never to come back to your room. But instead, you call out for him to stay.

Astarion is given a new gift that night as you turn around to curl against him, tucking your head underneath his chin and moving one of your arms to wrap around his torso. Your breath is soft against his collarbones and the two of you are so wrapped up in one that Astarion can hardly fathom how he was able to rest before this.

It starts to become a sweet little ritual. You, reading aloud to Astarion as he fights to pay attention and not be distracted by how lovely your voice is. You, pressing against him, sweeping your hair to the side and offering up your throat in sacrifice. Him, worshiping at the altar of your neck. The safety of holding you, or being held by you, as you sleep.

Astarion is pleasantly surprised one night when he’s wrapped around you, pressing soft kisses near his bite mark after he’s fed, when one of your hands comes up to curl around his own and guide him nervously under your chemise.

Astarion hesitates.

He’s more than a bit worried about how present you really are, worried that your mind has gone fuzzy from a lack of blood. He shifts a bit, so he’s able to see your face, able to see the way your eyes are boring into his with a desperation that’s so uncharacteristic of you.

You, his sharp, guarded little heart, who always pretends to be so strong. You, his little wife who hardly ever asks for anything. And here you are, presenting yourself to him like a feast.

And Astarion wants this, he thinks. For the first time in a long time, he wants something sweet and innocent, a moment that belongs just to him. He aches to make you feel good. Perhaps in part to repay you for the blood, but mostly because you’ve made him feel so impossibly happy these past few weeks. He hopes that this will make you become as dependent on him as he is on you. Then, you would never dream of leaving him.

He lets his fingers trace against the warm, smooth skin of your inner thigh and feels you shiver against him.

It had been so long since Astarion had felt this desire to discover someone else, since he had felt genuine curiosity at the reactions of his partner. And right now, he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from your face as he lets his hand press feather light, teasing touches right next to where you need him most.

A cruel part of his mind almost wants him to make you beg for it, to make you pay for all the times he’s so willingly fallen at your feet in submission.

“I had no idea you needed me this badly, pet. You’re so wet you’re practically dripping,” the voice that comes out of Astarion is breathless and full of astonishment, so far away from the low, seductive tone he had mastered long ago.

“Astarion,” you whimper and he feels your hips shifting slightly towards him, chasing after more. The way his name sounds falling from your lips has him wondering if it’s possible to die twice.

“In time, little flower,” he shushes you, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the thatch of hair covering your pubic mound. “I intend on drawing this out as long as I can. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

He feels a bit of pride that he will get to make this an exquisite experience for you. Not like the first time he was touched, fumbling around in a back alleyway with another young lord.

Astarion finally dips his hand so that his fingers can stroke your inner folds, watching intently how your eyes flutter closed as you lose yourself in the sensation.

Astarion knows bodies- knows their signs, knows their cues, knows how to play them like a maestro.

But, this is you. This matters.

This is about taking his time, about learning you better than you know yourself. About watching each little gasp and every little muscle that moves in your face, carefully saving them all away to replay in his brain forever.

For a while, Astarion works with no real purpose. He’s careful to keep his hands away from your clit, which he knows is aching to be touched. Instead, he spends his time learning the folds of your cunt, cherishing the warm, velvety soft skin that just begs him to come inside.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He croons, desperately trying to distract himself from the blood rushing to his own cock. This was meant to be about you, damn it, not him.

He accentuates that point by finally, mercifully swirling his thumb in teasing circles around your clit, feasting on the way that your mouth falls open in pleasure.

He’s finally rendered you speechless, it seems. For once, you don’t have a snarky rebuttal or quick little jab.

No, Astarion is graced with something far better when a shivery little moan escapes you as one of his fingers presses into you. He feels his own mouth water as the soft, wet heat urges him deeper.

Astarion is filled to the brim with lines that he used to make his lovers sing, but somehow, none of those seem enough. All too rehearsed, too empty for the depth of the longing he feels for you. His brain is growing empty as his finger continues to move in and out of you at a torturously slow pace. He feels your own hips moving against his hand, trying to quicken the motion.

“Uh uh, pet,” he chides, impressed with himself that anything other than incoherent praises are managing to tumble their way out of his mouth right now. “You’ll take what I give you and nothing more.”

It’s easier, trying to revert back into that self-assured, confident persona to regain some semblance of control over the situation, so sure is he that he’s about to lose himself in how velvety soft and sticky sweet your cunt feels against his hand.

He can only imagine how it would feel to be wrapped inside you. It would probably take every shred of his concentration to last more than a few shallow thrusts. Gods forbid if you clenched your cunt around him, he might just ascend to the heavens.

He sees you nod, catches how your hands claw desperately at the sheets as you try to still your hips. He feels the growing need to grind his own hips against something- to feed that aching, burning desire pooling low in his stomach.

“Astarion, please.”

And oh, how pretty you beg.

It’s far better than anything Astarion could have conjured up in the dark recesses of his mind. He considers dragging this out for hours- forcing you to beg over and over and over for him.

But he’s too needy right now, so instead, he leans down to lick a stripe up your throat, savoring the twin droplets of freshly congealed blood that he picks up before he practically groans in your ear, “Tell me what you need, my love.”

Oh. Evidently you liked that based on the fresh surge of wetness that pools around his hand. He’s not sure whether it’s the endearment or the soft command that affected you so, but he’ll have to experiment with that again in the future.

“More,” you whine out, one of your hands brushing softly against his jaw before you reach up to curl your fingers in his hair and press his forehead against your own. Your eyes are screwed shut and he can feel your sharp pants of breath on his lips.

He almost thinks about making you answer- more what? But he’s not sure you’re capable of stringing together more than a couple words at the moment and truthfully, he knows exactly what you need.

“I know, little love,” Astarion says, slipping another finger in and letting them curl against your soft walls. Your hand tightens almost painfully in his hair at the added sensation. He gives you a moment to adjust before his thumb is moving against your clit again.

“Oh, gods, Astarion. So good… so, so good,” you cry out.

He feels the soft insides of your cunt fluttering against his fingers. He hears the sharp intake of your breath, your heartbeat erratic as you orgasm. He continues, riding you through the high and working his fingers against you until you’re shaking against him.

It’s then that he finally grants himself release, finally allows himself to lean down and press his lips to yours.

It’s just a kiss, but it feels like so much more.

Astarion has kissed many, many people. But fuck… it felt like a disservice to call this just another kiss. Not with how slowly and sweetly your lips slide against his own. Not when you release a happy little sigh into his mouth.

Astarion feels the warmth in his chest, surrounding his unbeating heart.

When he pulls away, the sight of you underneath him is breathtaking. Your hair is fanned out against the pillows, pupils blown dark and wide, skin flushed with exertion, the bite on your neck that marks you as his.

He’d do this forever, until his hand went numb from overuse if it meant you would keep looking up at him with those warm, gooey eyes that feel like sunshine against his skin.

Astarion pulls your chemise back down from where it’s bunched up around your hips and shifts to pull your head down against his chest. His fingers card softly through your hair as he whispers how proud he is of you, how good you did for him, how you listened so well, little flower.

Your soft, even breaths as you fall asleep and the relaxing, repetitive motion of running his fingers through your hair help to soothe the burning desire he feels within himself. It was easy to ignore his own needs, after all. He was used to that.

But he can’t help thinking that if this is what the rest of his days are like, an eternity seems too short.

————

The next day is totally normal. As if the world hasn’t undergone some massive shift that has knocked Astarion’s center of gravity completely off balance.

It’s not until you’re getting ready for bed that you bring it up, when Astarion finds you nervously pacing the length of his bedroom.

“Last night…” you start, but trail off. Astarion knows what you are going to say- last night was a mistake, it should never happen again. He’s completely taken by surprise when instead you say, “I liked when you kissed me.”

“Oh, you liked that, did you, pet?” He purrs, confidence now firmly back intact since you had reassured him. “Can I do it again?”

You nod so eagerly. Astarion lets his hand come up to cup your face and tilt it up to him. Slowly, with all the restraint he can manage (he’s barely holding on by a thread), he lets his lips press against yours.

Like last night, it’s slow and sweet how your lips slide against one another’s. One of his arms comes to wrap around your waist, to pull you closer.

The longer you kiss, the braver you grow. But what else did he really expect from you, his wild wife? You run your tongue along the seam of his lips and Astarion opens his mouth, welcomes your tongue as you explore.

Astarion nibbles on your bottom lip, letting one of his fangs scratch the delicate skin inside. He feels the warm rush of blood and sucks your lip into his mouth to drink from the little cut. An appetizer for the meal yet to come.

You bite his lower lip in retaliation and Astarion groans, pulling away from your lips so he can press kisses along your jaw as he makes his way to your neck. The familiar wounds have only just begun to heal from yesterday. Astarion sucks at your skin, pulling the blood up to the surface. Then he bites.

He’s rewarded both by the rush of blood into his mouth and the pretty sigh you let out as you wrap your arms around his neck, beckoning him impossibly closer.

He will never tire of this- of the taste of you in his mouth and the way you writhe against him. He will want this forever, drinking and pleasure and whatever else you bless him with. He will want this for as long as you’re willing to indulge him.

Astarion is sure to keep a steady arm around your waist in case you get dizzy. But all too soon, you pull him up from your neck and crash your lips onto his again, your tongue licking into his mouth. He’s shocked because he knows the metallic taste of blood must still be heavy in his mouth, but based on the way your tongue slides against his, you don’t seem to mind it at all. If anything, you rather seem to enjoy it.

Astarion presses one last soft, slow kiss to your lips before he breaks apart from you, resting his forehead against yours. Your fingers play with the short curls at the nape of his neck.

“You’re really good at that,” you say. Astarion panics a bit about what you mean but your voice is sweet and relaxed.

“So are you, little flower,” he says, nudging your nose gently with his own. You giggle at that.

“It’s like dancing,” you respond, “Anyone is a good dancer if they have the right partner.”

“Is that so?” Astarion starts to sway and you move with him, feet taking small steps as the two of you dance in a little circle. “If I recall, you were an exceptional dancer. Other than when you stumbled over your feet when you first saw me.”

Astarion was chasing after the exact reaction you give- a little indignified huff as you pull away a bit to narrow your eyes at him.

“Don’t be upset, darling. You’re hardly the first person to trip when they saw me. And you certainly won’t be the last,” Astarion jokingly reassures.

You stop moving and purposefully stick one of your feet out so that Astarion stumbles a bit over it.

“Oops.” You look up at him all innocent, but you’ve got that dangerous little gleam in your eye that means trouble.

“Cheeky little pup,” he says, shooting you a wicked grin, and you look so proud of yourself.

“Lay with me?” You ask, tugging on his hands to pull him toward the bed.

And how could Astarion ever refuse you?

He gladly welcomes the few sweet, sleepy kisses you give him as you cuddle together.

“Goodnight,” you murmur against his lips.

“Goodnight, little flower. I lo-,” Astarion cuts the words off, clearing his throat to cover what he was about to say. You give him a curious look, but lay your head back down against his chest.

Had he almost told you that he loved you?

No, that was ridiculous. He doesn’t love you- it had just been such a long time since he had kissed someone he actually wanted to. It had been so long since kissing was an enjoyable enough experience to be able to stay in his body.

Even after Cazador, when Astarion had thrown himself headfirst into all sorts of debauchery as a way of proving his bodily autonomy to himself, it all felt wrong.

And this didn’t- this felt right. Wires were just getting crossed in his brain, that’s all. He’s pushing heavier emotions onto you because you’re the first person he’s felt comfortable with in centuries.

He feels satisfied with that explanation so he lets himself relax and close his eyes.

—---------

Astarion likes how your nightly routine has shifted and evolved. You still read and talk before he drinks from you. But now, afterward, you kiss him until he’s dizzy. And some nights, his hand will slip down under your chemise or he’ll bunch the gown up around your hips and settle himself between your thighs to eat you out like a man starved.

It’s strange. Astarion can’t remember the last time he was excited about sex. But now, he takes such great pride in how easily your body responds to his touch, at how he’s able to make you sing and writhe with pleasure. He’s never felt so clear headed.

And when your own hands begin to wander lower down Astarion’s body, he dutifully redirects them. He’s too worried about what might happen if you do touch him- worried that he might slip away to that little part of his mind and begin moving on autopilot, worried that he wouldn’t even be able to enjoy how wonderful you felt.

And gods, you deserve nothing less than his full, undivided attention.

Astarion could smell your arousal tonight, could feel the way you shift your hips up to meet his own. He’s more than happy to oblige.

“Can I?” He asks, sliding your nightgown past your waist, moving to pull it off you. He watches you hesitate for a minute, hears your heart racing nervously.

He’s always fascinated by how certain aspects of intimacy make you shy. It had been so long since he had blushed about anything. He was so used to his body being on display.

He waits for you to decide, moving to pepper soft kisses across your jawline and reassure you, “You’re so pretty, darling. The sun and stars themselves bow to your beauty.”

He feels you shiver a bit at his words- you always were so wonderfully responsive to praise- and slowly, your own hand moves down to help him drag the soft fabric higher up your chest and over your arms.

The only thing remaining on your body is the necklace chain with your wedding ring. It sits so beautifully against your bare chest.

Possessiveness flares within Astarion at the sight. If it were up to him, he’d keep you bare like this forever- covered in only your wedding ring and his bite marks.

Let the world know you belong to him.

Astarion’s finger draws a line along your breastbone and he slips the ring over the tip of his finger, using the chain as leverage to pull you closer for another heated kiss. One of your hands tangles in his hair and he feels his groan reverberating in his chest when your nails scratch lightly against his scalp.

“Trying to show off your claws, my love?” Astarion purrs. He reaches up to gently disentangle your fingers from his hair. Lacing them between his own, he pins your hand to the bed.

He grabs your other hand from where it had been working to untuck his shirt and pins that one down, as well. You let out a wonderful little moan. He chuckles darkly, “You should know it’s dangerous to tease a vampire. You might get bitten.”

“I seem to get bitten plenty even when I don’t scratch,” you tease back breathlessly. Astarion nips playfully at the column of your throat in retaliation.

“And yet, you keep coming back for more,” Astarion speaks against your skin. He presses a kiss over the bite mark he left the previous night, “But you’ll have to wait. I have something else I want to taste first.”

Astarion releases his hold on your hand so he can drag one of his hands down to trace his fingertips in teasing patterns over your slick folds. He presses gently into your cunt to collect some of your wetness on his fingers before he pulls his hand away.

You huff out a frustrated breath that has Astarion chuckling. You always had to make your opinion known- his sweet, stubborn wife.

Astarion brings his hand back up to his mouth, his eyes falling shut as he sucks his fingers into his mouth to taste you. He moans, “How do you always taste so much sweeter than I remember?”

He’s done these actions so many times before as part of some performance. But it never felt rehearsed with you. Everything just seemed to flow so naturally.

You’re looking up at him with wide, loving eyes that nearly pull the breath from his lungs. For a moment, you both just stare at each other, a bit stunned, before Astarion feels your warm palm against his stomach. Your gentle hands nearly burn where they press against his skin, pushing his own shirt higher up his torso.

He’s hesitant to take it off, to let you see the poem Cazador had carved into his back. He knows you- knows you’ll have questions that he doesn’t want to answer.

“It’s only fair,” you pout and yep, he’s a goner. He’ll just have to be careful about how he angles himself so you can’t see his back. He pulls the shirt off and throws it blindly behind him as he soaks in your victorious little grin.

Astarion is used to his body inspiring awe in people. And yet, when you gaze upon him, it feels as if he is being worshiped by the sun, herself.

It’s too intense, the ache nestled deep in his chest feels too much like love. A nervous little shiver runs up his spine that he tries to hide.

“You can touch, darling, I won’t break. And I certainly plan to touch you,” he says, leaning down to press a slow kiss to your lips.

If he could just get you distracted, he could tamper down that little part of his brain screaming out to him that he should whisper those three little words against your skin and watch the radiant smile that would light up your face.

You whimper, but your soft, warm hands descend upon him almost immediately, fingers tracing along the lines of his collarbones and feeling the sinewy muscles in his chest. It feels divine. Astarion could lose himself in this forever. The little voice screaming at him from the back of his mind is soothed and placated by your gentle, wandering hands.

When one of your hands starts to move its way over his shoulder, getting uncomfortably close to his scars, Astarion distracts you by nipping at your neck. Your hands give up their search immediately, content to hold on to his biceps as he sucks and kisses at your skin.

Astarion continues to trail kisses along the column of your throat, stopping for a moment to enjoy the beautiful scent that sticks so heavy to your skin before he continues downward.

Your nipples have hardened from the cool night air and Astarion ghosts his finger on the underside of your breast, watching the goosebumps rise on your skin. He had forgotten how living skin was able to do that.

Fascinated, he squeezes your breast, feeling the soft, warm weight in his hand.

“Astarion, stop teasing,” you whine. He can feel your hips grinding subtly against his own.

“You like when I tease,” he smirks, faintly tracing a circle around your nipple before he gives it a pinch. “And I’m not teasing right now, I’m appreciating. It’s completely different.”

Astarion is sure to provide your other breast with equal appreciation, so dedicated to balance is he.

And as he appreciates you, he’s fed with the most salacious little noises. Your hands claw desperately against his skin, looking for purchase. The soft sting of your nails has his own cock aching.

Astarion adjusts slightly before he rolls his hips against you. You gasp, head sinking even further into the pillow. The curve of your throat, decorated with his bite and little love marks has something akin to pride blooming in his chest. He moves his hips again and this time, you move your own to meet his.

He grinds his hips against yours, the fabric of his pants growing damp where it rubs against your wet cunt. It makes the fabric cling impossibly closer to his own cock. He has to stop himself before he makes a total mess of his pants by coming inside them.

You pout when he stops moving, but that quickly disappears as he presses kisses along your chest. His journey continues lower- he’s still hungry tonight.

With each gentle kiss along your sternum, he can feel your stomach muscles tightening with anticipation. He takes his time, savoring how you squirm beneath. When he finally reaches his destination at the juncture of your thighs, he nudges your legs further apart to frame his shoulders.

How was Astarion expected to find roses beautiful after this? Not after he had feasted on the nectar of the beautiful flower that resided between your thighs.

“Oh, look how desperately you need me,” he says, astonished.

Astarion is always amazed with the things you let him get away with saying when you’re spread open before him. You do try to make a noise of protest, but that quickly dies in your throat when Astarion leans forward to lick a flat stripe against your cunt.

It’s an act of reverence as he licks and sucks at your soft folds, an act of devotion when he dips his tongue inside to taste you, an act of veneration when his tongue rolls over your clit. He can feel your little tremors and he’s studied your body so intently that he recognizes the signals of your impending climax and pulls away.

“I was so close, Astarion,” you whine out his name so pitifully, the fingers that have curled in his hair attempting to push his face back towards your cunt.

“In time, beloved,” he runs his nose along the inside of your thigh, smells the blood rushing underneath your skin, “I just need a taste.”

You recognize that he’s asking for permission, smart little thing that you are, and you’re nodding your head so fast and eagerly that it nearly falls right off. “Gods, yes. Yes, please.”

You open up your leg a bit so Astarion has easier access to your thigh. As had become his new habit, he presses a soft kiss to the skin of your inner thigh before his teeth sink in.

It should be a sin how sweetly your blood mixes with the taste of your cunt in his mouth. A concoction made by the devil himself to personally drive Astarion insane. How is he supposed to sustain himself on anything other than this? How is he ever supposed to drink the blood of another when he has tasted the gods’ ambrosia?

When he’s had his fill (it will never be enough), he moves his mouth back to your center, lets his tongue dip and lick and suck. He presses a finger into you and curls in in the way that always makes you let out a pretty sigh.

The room is filled with the wet sounds of him feasting on your cunt and all your sweet, delicious noises. Astarion’s chest blooms with an unfamiliar warmth.

He insists on pulling at least three orgasms from you before he relents, pressing a kiss to your hip bone before he’s moving back up your body.

“You’re so sweet, little flower. Would you like a taste?” Astarion asks and you’re surging up to kiss him, tongue sliding hungrily against his.

He feels your hand trailing down his stomach, moving closer and closer to where he desperately needs you to touch him. His brain is almost short circuiting.

He goes to move your hand away, as usual, but you’re insistent tonight, evading his grasp as you play with the waistband of his trousers.

“What are you doing, my love?” He asks when your hand dips even lower, tracing along the outline of where his erection strains against the fabric of his pants.

“Show me,” you tell him, eyes boring pleadingly into his. “Tell me what to do. I want to make you feel good, too.”

Oh, how is he supposed to resist you when you look at him with those warm, loving eyes?

Astarion’s not even sure anymore why he had been resisting your advances so ardently. He deserves to feel good, he deserves to feel loved. And how could he possibly slip into the darkness of his mind when there’s this electricity running through his veins?

“Okay,” he agrees, moving so the two of you are laying side by side. He manages to pull his pants down and kick them off his legs while still looking moderately graceful.

You start with innocent, feather light touches that have him almost in agony before you wrap your hand around him and move slowly along his shaft.

“Tighter,” he instructs you, bringing his own hand down to guide you, to help you adjust your grip and show you how to move up and down a bit faster. He can’t help but think about how tight and hot your cunt would feel wrapped around him.

Tracing his thumb across his tip, Astarion collects some of his precome and spreads it along his length as lubricant. Your fingers chase after his own, eager to learn, and dance over the head of his cock. His whole body nearly jolts in response.

Astarion’s trying to watch your face, studying how your own curious eyes dart down to glance at his cock and how you bite your lip so sinfully. But your hand moving against him feels so good and it’s been so long and it’s all just getting to be too much.

“Tell me how it feels,” you murmur, shifting to kiss and suck at his neck while your hand continues to move.

Astarion wonders if you’ve noticed that he was starting to lose himself. He’s eternally grateful to you for helping to anchor him back to reality.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Astarion calms his mind, focusing on how your soft hand is moving against his cock and he manages to choke out, “Warm… your hands are so warm… and so soft.”

And oh, you start twisting your hand a bit toward his tip and that has Astarion’s hips rocking into your hand involuntarily.

“That’s- so close. Fuck… Feels so good. So…” Astarion groans as he trails off.

He faintly feels you smile against his skin before your teeth are sinking lightly into the base of his neck. It feels unbelievable- the gentle sting only serves to amplify the pleasure. He completely understands why you’re always so eager for him to bite you.

He comes hard, spilling over your hand and the soft skin of your stomach.

You keep moving your hand against him, his cock pulsing in your hand, until the sensation starts to hurt a bit and Astarion’s steering your hand away from him.

“You did so good for me,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth.

It’s so sweet to have you whisper the words back to him that he always tells you after he’s brought you to ruin.

“You’re so handsome,” you continue, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Always so patient with me,” you press another kiss to the spot between his eyebrows. “My wonderful husband.” A final kiss on his forehead.

There’s that lovely, fluttering warmth surrounding his heart again at your words. Astarion catches your chin and guides your lips to his own for one last slow, sweet kiss. You let out a content little sigh into his mouth.

But Astarion feels sticky where his come is drying uncomfortably against his own skin, so he can only imagine how you feel.

“Let me clean you up,” Astarion says, pushing some strands of your loose hair behind your ear.

He detangles himself from your arms and you eventually let him go after trying unsuccessfully to pull him back into bed a couple times. Your actions have Astarion smiling with a goofy grin, happy that you seem to crave his embrace as much as he craves you.

After wetting a cloth at the wash pitcher and basin, he comes back to the bed, where you have spread yourself out in his absence.

“And where am I supposed to sleep, little flower?” He teases.

“In a coffin, probably,” you giggle and Astarion snorts out a little laugh at your stupid joke. You kick playfully at him when he tries to sit back down on the bed.

“You never make anything easy, do you?” Astarion rolls his eyes before catching your foot. He presses a kiss to your ankle before he sets your leg back down on the bed.

“Where’s the fun in that? You’d get bored.”

Astarion is sure to keep his touch gentle as he wipes down your stomach and he moves his attention to the bite on your inner thigh. The blood had already started to coagulate and heal, but the skin around it was angry and red.

You will have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Astarion will probably get an earful from Shadowheart.

Oh well, it was worth it.

“You always take such good care of me,” you say with a dreamy sigh, reaching out to wind your finger around one of Astarion’s curls that had gotten dislodged when your fingers were threaded into his hair earlier.

He reminds himself that you don’t really mean this- that you’re probably just feeling a bit faint from blood loss and are caught up in the afterglow.

“You’re just tired,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze and continuing to wipe away any remnants of stickiness from your skin.

“No,” your palm moves from his hair to cup his cheek and your eyes stare into his desperately, like you need him to really hear your next words. “That’s not- I’m trying…”

You huff out a frustrated breath of air. Obviously, you’re going to tell him you’ve grown tired of him- that he had served his purpose and you’d be moving on now. He’s desperately trying to come up with ways to bargain with you in his mind, to convince you to stay.

“I’m not very good at being nice,” you say.

That’s a lie, Astarion thinks. You’re plenty good at being nice. You can be a bit brazen and you are certainly obstinate and headstrong. But underneath all that, you are deeply kind- you gift Astarion flowers, you offer him your lifeblood when he’s on the brink of death, you save him from the worst parts of his mind even after he has already given you pleasure.

“I just…” you trail off again, biting at your lip. “You take very good care of me. You let me set boundaries and try things at my own pace. I appreciate that. I appreciate you. Sometimes it just overwhelms me how lucky I am to be married to you.”

That’s… oh… That’s not what Astarion expected at all.

And he knows that if he sits in this moment, if he lets himself say what he’s really thinking, he’s going to finally realize that the feeling you inspire in him is love. And that maybe it’s been love for quite a while.

“Did you ever imagine yourself saying that when we first married?” He says instead, and he can feel his lips splitting into a wide smile.

Teasing was easy. Teasing was comfortable. Teasing distracted him from that little feeling gnawing at him.

You groan in embarrassment, bringing your hands up to cover your eyes.

“It’s cute, you get all blushy and flustered when you’re embarrassed.” Astarion continues, pulling on your wrists gently to move them away from your eyes. You give him a little pout that makes him chuckle. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your pouting lips, “Makes me want to take a bite.”

“Down, boy,” you laugh, lightly pushing Astarion’s head away from you. “You’ve had plenty today. I’m cutting you off.”

“A shame.” Astarion gives a big, dramatic sigh and settles his head against your chest. He feels you shake with laughter.

The rhythmic movement of your fingers through Astarion’s hair and the loud, steady beat of your heart has him nearly purring. He uses his own hands to draw swirling shapes on the soft skin of your stomach that have you giggling and swatting at his hands.

When Astarion rests his chin on your chest to look up at you, he can’t ignore it any longer.

The only emotion that can possibly fit what he is feeling is love.

It terrifies him. How could he let himself be so weak, so foolish?

Astarion nearly falls out of bed, attempting to put as much distance between you and himself as quickly as possible. He needs to get away from here, needs to think.

“Astarion, what’s wrong?”

He can hardly hear your voice over the roaring in his ears, the bubble building in his chest that’s pushing away all of his air. When your hands reach out for him, to pull him back to you, your hands are too hot against his skin. He steps away as if he’s been burned.

“I have to go,” Astarion manages to choke out, pulling his clothes back on before he’s stumbling out of the room. His feet carry him back to his study.

He paces the length of the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

It was never supposed to go this far. He was never supposed to love you. It’s just that at every step, he kept craving more, kept getting carried away.

He shouldn’t have concerned himself at all when he overheard your father and that vile man at the party, talking about you like you were an animal up for auction. He shouldn’t have gotten the foolish idea in his head that he could help you. Should have never even conceived the plan to marry you as a solution.

He should have killed you when you found out he was a vampire.

But you had such fire, such tenacity. He was intrigued. And he had already concocted the plan to marry you. It had seemed so simple, at that time, to twist his own reasons for why marrying you would help keep his secret from getting out.

He shouldn’t have started inviting you down to dinner, shouldn’t have entertained you in the library in the evenings or taken walks in the garden with you.

He never should have tasted your blood. He should have woken up from his nearly comatose state and demanded that they fetch one of his blood bags from the village.

He certainly shouldn’t have allowed himself to drink from you every night. Never should have pulled you into his bed, never should have let you read to him or comb your fingers through his hair or hold him while you sleep.

He never should have let himself become intoxicated by the taste of your cunt and those delectable noises you make.

You were the sun, the best and worst parts of you. You were bright and brash, the gentle touch of a spring day and the angry blistering heat of summer, creation and destruction. If Astarion stayed on course, he would become consumed in your sweet warmth.

Without even recognizing it had happened, Astarion had become your moon- existing solely to reflect your own brightness back upon you.

No, his transgressions would end here. From now on, you were just someone who he shared a house with and nothing more. Whatever that feeling was, whatever love he thought he felt needed to be gone. He couldn’t confront Raphael if his heart had such an obvious gaping wound.

“Are you alright?” Gale asks from the doorway, shocking Astarion out of his pacing.

“I’m fine,” Astarion nearly snarls back at him.

“It’s just… It doesn’t seem like you’re fine?” Gale says, hesitant. “Lady Ancunin sent me to check on you, she was worried.”

And the idea that you’re worried about him nearly has him reversing all his plans again, nearly has him crawling back to you on his knees and begging you to forgive him for causing you distress.

But, no, he must stand strong.

“Is this another one of your episodes?” Gale asks when Astarion still hasn’t answered.

Astarion feels his face twist in rage at Gale’s unknowing implication that you- his precious, lovely heart- could even be compared to the vicious monster that was Cazador and the horrors Astarion would be forced to relive forever.

No, this anguish was something entirely new, something entirely foreign that Astarion didn’t know if he would ever be able to navigate.

“Leave,” Astarion commands. “I need to think.”

Gale looks reluctant, but follows the instruction, letting the door click shut behind him.

Astarion throws himself back into research. He has been too distracted lately, too willing to forget his mission so he could spend more time with you. But, the quicker he can find the final gem that Raphael needed to complete the crown, the quicker he can get out of this idiotic contract, the quicker he will be back in your arms…

No, Astarion stops that line of thinking.

There would be no returning to you. Love is a disease that festers and grows and spreads. Even after he is free of Raphael, growing close to you would grant him nothing but suffering.

You were human, you would die.

He spends the rest of the day pouring over books, reading until his eyes hurt. Even then, he doesn’t take a break. His mind has to be wholly consumed by getting out of this deal with Raphael. If he lets any part of himself think of you, he might lose his resolve. Deep down, he already knew he was a weak man when it came to you.

“Astarion,” you knock gently at the door to his study, interrupting him from his reading.

Astarion shoots a quick glance over to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It’s evening again. He had hardly noticed the day passing.

When he looks at you, it feels like someone has staked him through the heart. The circles under your eyes are dark, like you didn’t sleep after he had run off. He quickly turns his gaze back to the papers on his desk.

Had he really been driven so mad that the mere sight of you threatened to ruin him?

Pathetic.

“Astarion, talk to me. What happened this morning?” You approach him where he sits at his desk, hands reaching out to relax the muscles in his tense shoulders. He jumps away at the contact and the look on your face is so heartbroken.

“What’s going on? Has something happened? Tell me and I can fix it,” you plead.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’ve just been thinking…” he trails off because the words he needs to say next are getting caught in his throat, his body and his brain at war with one another. “I just think it’s time that we end our little arrangement.”

“Our… arrangement?”

“I don’t need your blood anymore. I have someone else.” He tries to keep his voice as measured and even as possible, tries not to choke around the bile threatening to rise up in his throat.

“Someone else…” you take a deep breath and it looks like you’re forcing down tears. His hands are itching, shaking at his side with the need to reach out, to cup your pretty face and apologize as he wipes away every single tear.

But no, Astarion knows the next words out of his mouth will ruin everything with you forever.

“I just need someone who could keep up with my tastes, darling. Not that you weren’t fun for a while, you’re just a little… bland,” he says, trying hard to make it look like his face is contorting with disgust and not anguish. “You were a fun challenge at first, but now, you’re just too easy. Too desperate.”

Astarion does recognize that it is a bit ironic to call you desperate when he is the one who requires your attention as a basic need for his survival.

You look as if he has split your ribs open and dug the beating heart out of your chest cavity. Astarion wishes that the gods might smite him where he stands so that he can escape this agony.

“That’s just- that’s not-” you splutter and for a second there’s a warmth that blooms in his chest like there always is when he manages to catch you off guard. Your face twists, anger taking over, “Obviously I haven’t been thinking clearly from the blood loss or I would have never let you touch me!”

And just like that, Astarion’s very worst fear is confirmed. He had been taking advantage of you.

You always have to have the last word, Astarion knows this about you. It’s what he lov- likes about you- that his nettling and teasing always gets him some sort of response.

But he also knows when you’re angry, when you’re really, truly angry, that your words can almost border on cruelty, and can cut him so deeply in ways you could never understand. He shouldn’t go poking and prodding at you when he knows you’re this upset.

“Well, consider this,” Astarion points his finger between the two of you, “finished, then.”

He’s fighting with everything in him to keep his even, trying not to betray the hidden storm brewing beneath the surface.

“I hate you,” you spit out at him before you’re leaving, slamming the door behind you.

You should, he thinks. He will never forgive himself for what he has done to you.

Astarion pours himself a glass of wine and finally lets the wave of emotions crest.

For once, Astarion had something good in his life, something he enjoyed. Something just for him. But of course, he was too selfish, too greedy, and had pushed you too far. He had turned into the monster, Cazador, that he always hated. Someone who took and took and took until the people around him were drained dry.

And Astarion thought he was being so careful, too. He had waited for you to initiate intimacy. He had checked to make sure you were level-headed. He had thought he had known what you wanted…

But it doesn’t matter what he thought, he reminds himself. It only matters what you think. And you have just confirmed that he is just as bad as Cazador, Worse, even. Because Astarion had done this to someone who he loves.

It was a vicious cycle that he seemed doomed to repeat- the monster and the victim. He had been on both sides of it now. They felt equally miserable, equally terrifying.

It’s good that he is finished with this dalliance, with this weakness. Astarion would never let love hurt him again.

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Notes:

*squirts Astarion with water* No, bad Astarion, stop overthinking and self-sabotaging.

To everyone who made it to the end, thank you for sticking with me! I know this chapter was long and had quite a few emotional ups and downs as well as a lot of plot.

As always, thank you to my wonderful beta-writer AliensNSuch on ao3!

Okay, now time for a couple notes. I do not know the logistics of being bitten by a vampire every day. I’m pretty sure you would just, like, die… HOWEVER, this is fiction and I like vampire bites so I like to imagine that Astarion’s just taking a lil sip every night and that Shadowheart brews a really awesome tea that prevents death by daily vampire blood draw.

Second note, I have fully lost the plot on whether it’s day or night in most of these scenes lol. In my head, the reader is fully nocturnal by now and it’s like late fall into winter for this chapter, so the nights are longer. But if there’s ever weird night/day mix ups- oops, my bad.

Also, I love you all! I cannot even begin to express my gratitude to everyone who has read this fic and left likes/kudos or sweet and encouraging comments. I see them all, I love them all. It makes me so excited to sit down and keep writing the rest of this!

Chapter 6 will be up next Sunday! It’s somehow just as long as this chapter…

Taglist: @ayselluna @idkbrodontaskme @maruichio @fanfic-share @the-littlest-bruja @asterordinary

Feel free to let me know if you would liked to be added/removed from the taglist for future chapters!

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #x reader #til death do us part

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