#cw rapture mention

[chelledoggo]

i'm so glad that people like Mason Mennenga exist to call out this kind of BS theology.

like "ohhh God sends suffering to make you stronge-" OH FUCK RIGHT OFF

[yardsards]

do people who weren't raised evangelical Know that the main reason why so many evangelical christians support israel is bc they see israel as a pawn in enacting a prophesy to bring back jesus and cause the apocalypse? bc that's very much A Thing

[mackeralsauce]

Welcome to Rapture AU: Barnaby

first reference i've finished is the big blue dog! barned bees,,,

version without the frost [to make any artists' lives easier if they wanna draw the fella!]:

click down below for some lore on this big guy!:

Barnaby B. Beagle

Occupation [Pre-1959] - Actor for the kid's show "Welcome Home", Comedian, Radio Show Host, Carnival Worker [Seasonal Job] Plasmids of Choice - Winter Blast. Has overused it to the point of developing ice crystals on his physical form. Weapon Arsenal - Grenade Launcher, Drill Backstory: Barnaby B. Beagle was one of the actors on the kid's show "Welcome Home", but he was also well-known for his frequent comedy shows at local taverns, and for his radio show "Beagle's Bites" in which he would discuss entertainment, comedy, and his perspective on Rapture as a whole. He didn't get into plasmids and ADAM until his co-star and partner Wally Darling fell into a spiral of using it. During the period in which Fontaine's smuggling business ran, Barnaby would often have to protect Wally as he ended up getting into some shady business just to get another hit of ADAM. As Wally's life fell into crime and addiction, his bonds with others would crumble from neglect, leaving only Barnaby by his side. Barnaby swore to never abandon him as his friend and partner. Wally had planned to organize a New Year's meet-up with his friends in an attempt to repair their bonds outside of work, but as he was overwhelmed with work and addiction, he never went. Barnaby stuck by his side as promised, although guilt panged at him knowing this would only worsen the trust between the group of actors. It was a blessing that they didn't go as this was the night of the riots at Kashmir. Even so, others in the group were not so lucky... After the war, Rapture was left to ruin, splicers running rampant and any sign of civilization in decay. Now, Barnaby spends most of his time hanging around Wally. He still runs his radio show for the few who listen. He gained a special addiction to the Winter Blast plasmid, and it has left crystals growing all over his body. His addiction to ADAM in general has caused damage all over himself and his left paw had to be amputated from how terrible the tumors and growths had gotten. At one point, he ripped the drill off of a Big Daddy, and has since managed to attach it to his body.

[salsflore]

⠀

[jellys-compendium]

Bodyguard!Nanami Headcanons

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, Minors DNI)

Pairing: Nanami x F!Reader Cw: smut, p in v sex, masturbation, cunnilingus, mutual pining, mentions of violence, jealousy Wc: ~1K A/n: Just some Bodyguard!Nanami brainrot here folks. I'm slowly getting more practice writing for this absolute beast of a man. 💙

Bodyguard!Nanami is a professional that takes all of his contracts seriously. He's the best of the best when it comes to keeping people alive. Enlisted by a mysterious figure with a deep need for secrecy and an even deeper bank account, Nanami is assigned to you. His mission? To protect you using any means necessary.

Bodyguard!Nanami whose relationship with you starts out awkward and rocky. You're not in the market for a babysitter, and you certainly don't need this massive man looming over your shoulder day in and day out. But despite your protests, Nanami quietly does his job without fault, a protective presence that you find yourself getting used to--sometimes even craving.

Bodyguard!Nanami who sparks the curiosity and intrigue of those in your elite social circle. Wherever did you get such a handsome and loyal bulldog? Does he do tricks? Is he as ferocious as he appears? Will he really take a bullet for you? Does he fuck you as rigorously as he protects you?

Bodyguard!Nanami who senses your anger at their hungry stares and mockery of him, and grounds your piquant fury by resting a heavy hand on your shoulder. 'Let it be.'

Bodyguard!Nanami who two months into his contract realizes that he has his work cut out for him protecting you. With your fierce determination, dazzling intellect, and smart mouth there is very little that actually frightens you. And that frightens him.

Bodyguard!Nanami who honors his contract to the letter, putting himself in the line of fire to shield you from whatever threat comes your way. Imagine Nanami's surprise when it's you who ends up pushing him out of harm's way instead.

Bodyguard!Nanami who chastises you the moment he gets you alone for putting yourself at risk for his sake. It doesn't matter that he had a gun pointed to his head, above all else his job is to protect you.

Bodyguard!Nanami who initially, only touches you when necessary--pointedly ignoring the stinging bite of envy along his inner cheek when he sees your suitors' hands indulging in your soft curves so nonchalantly. Their fingers on yours, resting at the small of your back, brushing along your shoulder. It takes every once of restraint Nanami possesses to keep himself from ripping their arms out of their sockets.

Bodyguard!Nanami who takes solace in the fact that even though he's not considered your equal in your social circle, he's the one who knows you from the inside out. He's studied you each and every day, listened to your tipsy murmuring on those long, quiet night drives back home, felt your body melt into his whenever he carried you to your bed. Nanami knows the name of your childhood pet, recognizes the hidden tilt in your voice when you're discouraged, knows that your most favorite thing to do in the world is to try out new recipes with him on rainy Sunday mornings.

Bodyguard!Nanami who groans with pleasured frenzy in the shower as he fists his thick cock to the thought of you. Fantasizing about your body, your eyes, your smell, your taste--arching and coming to the dizzying thought of the sweet sounds you'd make under the rapture of his tongue. But he knows he can't touch you. You're his contract, not his lover.

Bodyguard!Nanami whose desire becomes more difficult to control and near impossible to hide with each passing day. His gaze follows you everywhere you go, drinking in your movement, holding you with his eyes. Nanami desperately wants to kiss you, feel you and fuck you until he can't tell where he ends and you begin. What would his pretty boss sound like coming on his tongue? He wonders.

Bodyguard!Nanami whose self-restraint snaps on that fateful afternoon when you prance out of your bedroom in that beautiful yellow sundress that he's imagined fucking you in countless times. Nanami is on you like a hurricane, pulling up your skirt and nearly tearing off your panties before eating your cunt like a man starved. Frenzied, your bodyguard pins you to the nearest surface and locks your hips in the crux of his strong arms. He delights in your excited moan, growling against your sensitive flesh, sucking and licking your folds and clit until they're twitching and swollen. Nanami won't rest until you're whimpering, trembling, and have drenched him down to his chest with your glistening arousal.

Bodyguard!Nanami who becomes addicted to your flavor, the scent of your sex, and the chorus of your pleasure. He'll eat you out whenever you'll let him but fucking you is a line he won't cross. He'd sever his arm before he'd sully your reputation in the service of his own desire.

Bodyguard!Nanami who never takes days off because a day away from you is nothing short of agony. It is only at your prolonged insistence that he takes some vacation time to go and visit his family out of town for a few days.

Bodyguard!Nanami who stifles his panic when he receives an emergency call on one of his rare days off that you'd been taken for ransom. The words 'she's gone' screeching in his eardrums as Nanami drops everything, immediately ending the call and opening the tracking app on his phone. He traces your last steps in a mad race against time to find you.

Bodyguard!Nanami who tears through an army to get to you, crushing every opponent that stands in his way with no mercy. Whatever their plan, whatever the weapons in their hands, in the end Nanami will always make it to you. Disheveled, panting, purple knuckled, and dripping crimson. The moment Nanami gets his hands on you he frees you from your bonds and holds you close, thanking every god he can think of by name. You're alive. You're alive and safe.

Bodyguard!Nanami who makes love to you that same night he thought he'd lost you forever. He meets you by moonlight, wordless confessions hanging heavy in the cool, blue air before the two of you melt into each another. Nanami strips you naked and worships you with his tongue, loving you tenderly with his lips, gently stretching you open on his girthy cock--wide and trembling and wanting just for him. With teeth on your throat, Nanami groans at the feeling of your sharp nails digging into his back, thrusting deeply into your eager little cunt that squeezes and milks him so affectionately with each surge forward. Swallowing your moans, Nanami paints and restores every line of your form with his reverent hands. All night long, your loyal bodyguard works diligently to put your pieces back together and return you to your rightful place--safe and happy in his arms.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Doppelgänger

Miguel x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst, self-image issues, mentions of childhood trauma, addiction, our mans has had it rough as fuck™

A/N: Brought on by this post from @tarjapearce and the comments i made (I'm sorry i am a ho for some angst sometimes) I'm merging ATSV stuff with comic stuffs because NO WAY IS HIS MOVIE DESIGN LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE WITHOUT IT POSSIBLY COMING UP IN FUTURE MOVIES ASDFGHJKL

Taglist: @tojishugetiddies

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

You came home and it was quiet. Quiet and dark; and already you knew something was up. You left Miguel sleeping so you could attend to some meetings and paperwork at your office, and pick up a few groceries.

Miguel had been acting strange the past few days. You'd asked him if it had something to do with work and he simply shrugged the question aside, like it was a small chip on one of his broad shoulders.

You'd asked him what was bothering him again, and he simply stared at the carpet, muttering something you didn't quite catch, and he went straight to bed.

You were so worried you'd even texted Gabriel on your walk home:

Hey, Gabe...

Heyyyy! If it ain't my favorite brother's girlfriend!

You couldn't help but roll your eyes with a soft snort. You only have one brother, Gabe.

No no, chica, I meant that you're my favorite of any girlfriends he's ever had. 😂

Gabe that sounds a little... Bad. 😬

Does it? Woops! Anyways, what's up? My big dumb, brick-house brother do something to make you mad?

No, Gabe... He's acting weird. Has been for the past few days, and he won't open up to me. I'm worried.

You could see the chat bubble pop up over and over again with '...' signifying that he was in the process of texting. With how many times it popped up and went away you were expecting a bible scripture's length of a text wall.

But what you got instead made your heart sink.

He saw our mom. She... She brought up Tyler.

Oh, god. You knew that Miguel and Conchata had a rocky relationship. Miguel had told you why. It was so bad, even just recalling everything, that you felt Miguel's pain like it was your own.

You also knew that Miguel's biological father, Tyler Stone, was the one that manipulated him, that used him, got him addicted to Rapture and almost killed him...

But it wasn't even the real dose of Rapture. It was simulated. Just another manipulation tactic. It was overhearing that conversation that Miguel found out the truth of his heritage, and you could tell that nugget of knowledge permanently chipped his sense of identity.

Even moreso when he confessed to you about Gabriela--

Your phone pinged.

They fought. It was... It was ugly. I... I didn't know about Tyler. God, chica, I didn't know. Dad was...

You felt your heart flop, knowing poor Gabriel was shielded by Miguel for so long so he didn't have to suffer like he did at the hands of their gaslighting and manipulative mother, his sadistic sperm donor... Miguel wanted nothing more than to protect Gabriel from that pain.

Your fingers flew fast on the little keyboard, a few spelling errors here and there;

God, Gabri im sory you had to fidn out that way

I know. It figures Miguel would have told you, before me, tho. He loves you.

He loves you too, Gabri. God, more than you know. He loves you.

I know. He was trying to keep me safe and out of Mom's drama.

No offense, Gabri, but if I ever see that woman I'm rearranging her face with a shovel.

OMG. I mean... After the things she said to Miggy, I... Kind of want her to at least feel consequences of her actions, y'know?

Oh, she will. Don't worry. Thanks for telling me this, Gabri.

Go cuddle my big brother and tell him I love him, k? Let me know how he's doing.

OMW home now, I'll text you when he's feeling better.

KK, see ya.

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

Yeah. You knew for sure Miguel was still heartbroken when you came home after that.

You put the groceries away, a somber expression on your face as a million thoughts went through your head.

God, of course Conchata had to come see Gabriel at the same time Miguel was there. You wouldn't be surprised if either she could have tabs kept on him, just to... to try and lord her power over him somehow, like he was still that scared little boy, holding onto his baby brother, being his shield and buffer from their parents' fights.

That bitch had to have had a hand in Tyler using him the way that he did, that she had to have known about--

Your mind was knocked away from those dark thoughts when you heard glass shatter.

You dropped the bag of apples onto the ground, the fruits tumbling out and rolling across the floor as you made a mad dash to your bedroom.

Noting Miguel wasn't in there, you turned to the adjoining bathroom door, seeing faint light come down from below, small wafts of steam rolling out.

"Miguel?" You frantically called out, knocking on the door and leaning your ear against the smooth metal.

You could hear shuffling and the tinkling of glass shards, as well as the shower running; but no verbal reply.

You knocked on the door again, hurried and a little too hard, your fingers hovering over the control panel.

Before you could push a button, the door slid open.

Miguel was in nothing but a pair of boxers, leaning over your bathroom sink, his hands gripping the marble countertops, threatening to crack the material. Beads of water rolled down his muscular, tanned skin; droplets of water dripped from the ends of his thick, wavy chocolate locks, the natural curls more apparent thanks to the water.

That's when you noticed it. Your bathroom mirror, shattered into a hundred pieces, scattering the counter, floor, and in the sink.

Bright, scarlet droplets were on the floor, steadily building into small puddle from his right hand, his knuckles split, shards of the reflective material sticking out of it.

"I'll pay for it." His voice croaked out, unable to lift his eyes to meet your horrified gaze. "I just--"

"Oh, god! Miggy!" You breathed, reaching out, taking a step towards him, only to wince and hiss when the pieces of broken mirror stabbed the soft, delicate soles of your feet.

You gritted your teeth as the glass crunched, but you grabbed Miguel.

Instantly it was like a switch flipped inside of him, Miguel's head snapped up and he looked down at you, seeing the bloody footprints you now left on your tile.

He looked terrified at what he was seeing. How you just ignored the shards in your body in favor of frantically digging around one of the cabinets for your first aid kit.

"Bebita... I..." Miguel choked out.

When you found it, you killed the shower and stepped into the glass once again, pulling him into your room, and onto your bed, your feet leaving bloody prints as you walked, like macabre rose petals being left in your wake. Miguel had a large enough stride that he was careful to avoid getting any in his feet, but the smell of your blood permeated the air, it made him sick to his stomach. Not with disgust.

With guilt.

Of course, you checked him over first, plucking out the shards of glass from his knuckles and cleaning the cuts out with wound wash, ignoring the blood welling up onto the tile floor of your bedroom from.

You carefully roll his hand as you try to wrap the gauze around his knuckles. "Miggy, can you hold your--"

"I'm sorry." He interrupts.

You looked up at him, and only then do you see his face. Framed in his wet curls, his face was shadowed and haunted, his eyes dark and as tumultuous in a maelstrom of anxiety and fear.

You bring your hand to his cheek, caressing one of his sharp cheekbones with your thumb. "Baby, it's okay. It's just a mirror, I can--"

He shook his head, as if your touch to his face burned him like a hot iron.

He leaned over, grabbing your legs and pulling your feet into his lap so he can assess the damage, and return the favor of cleaning and dressing them.

"You're hurt because of me." He whispered sadly, dabbing the blood away.

"I'm hurt because of the glass, honey." You tell him gently, letting him apply the "honey" to the cuts in your feet, sealing them.

His massive hands encapsulated your ankles, his thumbs rubbing small circles as the rough pads caressed your skin. Like you were made of the delicate gossamer of a butterfly's wing.

He sits like that, not meeting your eyes. And god, did that hurt you so badly. You knew how important eye contact was with Miguel, he almost always went out of his way to keep eye contact when he was conversing with someone. Having him avoid your eyes... hurt.

Because you knew he was hurting.

"Miggy." You breathed. "Talk to me."

You move your feet from his lap and scoot closer to him, moving your face until he locked eyes with you again, and you could see the pain and the tears fill his own as he looked at you; his full, pouty lips trembling in an effort to hold his emotions at bay.

His shoulders dropped low, and Miguel leans forward until he was practically bent in half, clinging to you, burying his face in your chest as he fisted your shirt in his hands.

You rubbed his shoulder with one hand, biting your lip as he softly cried into your blouse, your other hand combing through his messy wet hair.

You stayed like that, for what felt like hours. You weren't sure how long it was exactly, with the blackout curtains drawn and the lights off. The only light that dimly illuminated the room was from your bathroom, and the open door.

He finally calmed enough to speak, to explain why he shattered the mirror.

"...I look like him." Miguel said, his heart in his voice, his soul stripped down and naked with raw pain.

"Mig--"

"God, I look like him. That... that cabrón." He hissed, tugging your shirt in his fists.

"I look like that bastard that... that made me into this." The self-contempt in his voice broke your heart.

You kiss the top of his head, murmuring against him. "No, you don't, baby."

"Yes, I do!" He snapped, pulling himself away from you and throwing himself to his feet. He paced like an angry tiger in a cage, waiting to swat at whatever keeper dared enter his enclosure. He didn't notice that he was stepping into the sticky, dried blood trails you left.

"I have his--his face. His fucking face--" He said, gripping his hair in his hands, tugging as he started to hyperventilate. "My fucking nose, my fucking cheeks, my fucking lips--they're all him! I'm not allowed to be me, every time I look in the mirror I see him! I can't ever get away from him! He's a part of me, he always will be! I fucking look like him!"

You get to your feet, ignoring the throbbing in your soles as you dared to reach out, to touch the pacing tiger.

Your hands smooth up his back, gently, softly; then back down until they wrapped around his mid-section.

You feel him, how tense he is, how his muscles flex at your touch almost like he's bracing himself for some kind of blow that simply will never come from you.

You rest your cheek against his back, feeling how hot his skin was burning.

"Baby. You don't look like him. You aren't him, and you never will be." You whisper.

You plant kisses wherever you could reach, not letting him go, feeling his body shake with each shuddering breath as your soft lips made contact.

"More importantly, Tyler will never be you."

"I--"

You cut him off. "Listen to me... Did Tyler figure out multi-dimensional travel, build a strike force of super-powered people from across the multiverse? Does Tyler, almost every day, work to keep dozens--no, hundreds--of universes safe from monsters?"

He didn't answer.

"And did Tyler Stone protect your baby brother from your mother all these years?"

No answer.

"You are Miguel-goddamn-O'Hara." You tell him. "I love you, with trauma, quirks and all. I love your little scritch-scratches you make, the way your bottom lip pokes out when you pout, your crooked teeth when you smile. I love your ridiculously large body, I love how you hug me. I love the little snores you make when you fall asleep at your desk, how you crinkle your nose when you're about to sneeze.."

You feel his hands slowly rise to touch your arms where they're almost-locked around his larger frame.

"I love how sweet and gentle you are. I love hearing you curse to yourself when you shock yourself with your soldering gun... I love listening to you bicker with Lyla, or complain about one of the other Spiders bugging you." You place more kisses after each sentence; hoping each one plants a seed of love beneath his skin, to bloom into a garden that he can admire and love, not hate for the very skin he was born with out of illegitimacy and infidelity.

"Tyler Stone is not you. He never will be. He will never be as good as you." You sigh against his skin, feeling the goosebumps form in the cold of your room, now that the adrenaline of his anxiety was beginning to fade, and his body became aware of the water that was slowly drying and cooling his skin.

"I love you, Miguel O'Hara. You and no-one else. Don't ever think for a second that you don't have your own identity because of your genes."

He slowly turns in your grasp, looking down at you with raw, unclothed emotion as his hand touches your cheek.

"You're more than that. You're you, and I wouldn't have you any other way." You say, your tone set and jaw tight; every word you spoke carrying a hefty weight of seriousness and honesty.

He smiles, almost sadly as you feel the rough pads of his thumb against your cheek, the little talon there poking you but not breaking the skin.

"...I..." He said, his voice stiff as he swallows the lump in his throat.

"I really will pay for your mirror, you know."

You grin up at him and turn your face so you can kiss the palm of his hand.

"I know you will, Miggy."

"But I am curious... I felt like you were going to keep going with the affirmations." He said, raising an eyebrow slowly.

"Well, the last one..."

"The last one?" Miguel tilted his head down at you quizzically.

You grin at him again, your teeth showing and eyes creasing as you barely manage to reach around him, swatting his ass playfully.

"I also love the fact you have the nicest ass I've ever seen on a man."

He couldn't contain the snort that came out of him, and he reached up to cover his whole face with his other hand.

"Mierda..."

You giggle as you step around him, giving a playful swat to his ass once again as you walk by.

"C'mon, Miguel O'Hara. You got a broken mirror to clean up."

His shoulders lifted as he watched you, his eyes softer than you've ever seen as he smiled.

Yeah. You were right.

He was Miguel O'Hara.

And he was certainly going to pay you back for the smacks to his ass.

[sellenite]

cw: giving Suguru head <3, oral (m! receiving), mentions of spit (because of aforementioned oral), some praise, little bit of hair pulling (hair holding?), little bit of throat-fucking (because apparently I can't write a bj scene without it), slight dacryphilia, light sub-dom dynamic, some pet names (Suguru calls reader pretty girl + baby)

an: I swear on my life I am writing an actual plot for him, but in the meantime, sorry: this is straight, shameless smut lol

MDNI | 18+

Suguru has you right where he wants you—on your knees, body caged between his tall, broad frame and the wall behind you—as you smile up at him. So soft, so pliant for him.

"Open." The timbre of his voice is warm as he looks down at you—but commanding nonetheless—and you part your lips and stick your tongue out for him obediently.

You're rewarded with his satisfied smirk as he takes his thickness and pumps it a few times in his fist before he presses the tip of it into the wetness of your awaiting mouth. The saliva is already pooling at the front of your jaw, but you hold it there and let him slide himself across your tongue, tasting the drops of salt that leak from him.

Suguru hums in approval, bracing his hand against the wall behind you as he leans over you. He starts easing a little further into your mouth, and you take your cue to wrap your hand around the base of him, keeping the length of him pressed to your tongue.

He places a tender hand on the side of your face, brushing the pad of his thumb against your cheekbone. The rest of his fingers thread through the back of your hair, subtly gripping into the strands as you swirl your tongue around his head.

"Want you to take all of it for me, yeah, pretty girl? " He goads you with that silken tone, ever so composed. But the slight upward curve of his lips gives him away, the only indication of how much having you like this affects him—so obedient, so docile for him. His in every way he could ever want, ever need.

Suguru's words go straight to your cunt, liquid heat pooling in your center as you nod your head, eyes beaming up at him as you close your lips around the head of his cock. The hand that was on your cheek affectionately tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before it settles on the top of your head.

The view above you is undeniably sinful, yet strikingly beautiful. The lean expanse of Suguru's torso is highlighted by the lamplight in the bedroom, the carved muscles of his abdomen accentuated by the shadows cast on his body. The black silk of his hair is loose, framing the elegantly handsome feature of his face as he looks down at you.

You bob your head on his length, working your tongue up and down the underside of his shaft as you prepare your throat to take more of him, working him a little further back every time.

"You look so pretty like this. Such a good girl for me," he purrs to you and you hum around his cock. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, biting into the fullness of his bottom lip as his hand tightens into a fist to grip the hair at your scalp. You moan again for him and squeeze your thighs together a little tighter.

"Fuck, just like that—" Suguru's voice is breathier now, the head of his cock breaching the ring of muscle at the back of your throat. You gag at his length—despite your best efforts—and lurch forward, eyes squeezing shut as tears burn behind them. Your throat constricts around him, tightening around his tip, and he lets out a deep, sinful groan.

It's his turn to close his eyes now, the hand gripped in your hair presses your nose into the trimmed, black hairs above the base of his cock, his body bent forward at the hips as he leans heavily onto the wall behind you. You open your watery eyes to see the rapturous view above you, the way Suguru's lips part open in a silent moan.

He opens his eyes to meet your own, watching the swell of unspilt tears that cling to your waterline.

"Just a little longer for me, baby." His voice is strained with pleasure now, his muscular chest heaving as he bends over you. He brings his hips back just slightly, only to push forward again, fucking into the ring of your throat. He does it again and you gag—the noise wet and desperate. Your eyes close involuntarily, pushing the tears down the apples of your cheeks.

Suguru groans low in his throat. "So fucking good, baby." He pulls out of your mouth completely this time, leaving you to gasp and pant like a dog in front of him, the spit running down your chin as you look up at him through teary eyes.

Your lips are parted open as you catch your breath, and Suguru releases your hair to hold his cock, taps the thick head of it against your tongue while he strokes himself. Looking up at him, you can see he isn't faring much better than you, his lips still parted as he breathes heavily.

"So pretty for me, baby—fuck, think I'm gonna cum just looking at you." Suguru tugs his bottom lip between his teeth again, the ends of his eyebrows knitted together in pleasure, the muscles of his abdomen flexing as he jerks himself a little faster over your tongue.

He tilts his head back when he finishes, lets out a drawn-out curse and your name, looking like the vision of something ethereal. The adam's apple of his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the spurts of his release painting your tongue, some of it landing in ropes on your cheeks. You swallow what he gives to you, leaving the rest of his spent on your face for him to see.

You look up at him in reverence as he comes down, the high points of his cheeks tinted red as his gaze meets yours. He smiles, drunk off a light mix of pleasure and his devoted affection for you. He loves you for all of you, all the time. But he would be lying if he didn't admit seeing your face covered in his seed wasn't one of his favorite ways to have you.

"You okay, baby?" Suguru asks you softly, eyeing the tears that still glisten on your skin. His hand reaches out to grip your chin, running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I'm okay," you echo back to him, smiling into his touch.

"Good." He lets out a deep exhale, getting his breathing back to normal as he admires the way his seed decorates your pretty face.

"I'll get you cleaned up and then it's your turn next, yeah?"

[elliesflower]

i hate u [abby anderson]

pairing; abby x afab!reader

word count; 3.8k how tf did that happen

cw; language, mentions of death, angst (like, so much angst), enemies to lovers, eventual smut

summary; abby has always had it out for you. the feeling was mutual.

until it wasn't.

an; hiiii, it's me, providing you with the abby content i'm devoid of. i love this buff lesbian woman so fucking much.

read pt 2 here!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR I'LL CRY (and as always read it on AO3 here <3)

there were much more productive ways you could be spending your time. you could be, i don’t know—literally doing anything else other than being forced to clean these goddamned bathrooms. 

it’s not that you didn’t mind cleaning, no. in fact, under ideal circumstances, cleaning could actually be fun for you. there was just a big problem with who it forced you into a room with this time. with her stupid long french braid, and her absurdly large muscles—like seriously, what the fuck was she showing off for? we’re killing scars, not for training for the fucking rapture.

“you know, if you move the mop in a back-and-forth motion, it would actually clean the floors.” 

to put it quite plainly, abby doesn’t like you. you said left, she had to say right; you say go, she had to say stop—the mutual loathing was just routine at this point, it came almost as natural as breathing. surely it didn’t help that the two of you were typically sent on assignments that involved being together for far too many hours at a time. rarely was it made only slightly better by the presence of someone else, another body to diffuse even an ounce of the tension that hung between the two of you like a rope. 

you scoffed at her juvenile insolence, though you started mopping again nonetheless. “trust me, i don’t want to be here any longer than i have to. i have shit to do,” you jeered, making it a point to look down at the ground, watching the soapy water spread across the tile. not at the way her muscles—have you mentioned they’re absurdly large?—flexed as she wiped down the counter with bleach. 

“oh, i’m sorry, i didn’t realize i was keeping you from something!” abby exclaimed, feigning ignorance. “by all means, you run off and do whatever it is you have to do, and i’ll just finish this little punishment all by myself.” 

you had to bite back a bitter laugh, instead choosing to shake your head at the ground, your mopping becoming just a little bit more aggressive with each stroke. you chose to ignore it. you almost had her completely tuned out of your mind, until you didn’t.

“it’s not like i was the one who just let that scar go.” that stopped you dead in your tracks. 

abby has said a lot of things to you. a lot of untrue things. a lot of hurtful things, even. and again, it was entirely possible you could have even ignored that. but then you looked up—and you saw her stupid, imprudent fucking smirk, and it was over. “you know what abby?” you started, throwing your mop. you didn’t even have the energy to smile at the way she flinched when the wooden handle hit the ground with a loud bang. she played it off quickly, though, raising an eyebrow and leaning back against the counter. you didn’t expect the sudden lump in your throat. 

“fuck you.” 

the words didn’t come out exactly like you’d hoped. maybe there was a slight hesitation, the faintest crack between the syllables, a single tear threatening to spill down your cheek—but you meant it, wholeheartedly. 

fuck abigail anderson.

you couldn't bother to give her even a second thought as you turned on your heel, ignoring her calls of your name from behind you. perhaps a bit childish, but you slammed the door extra hard on your way out. 

let that scar go? is she fucking for real? 

you were so tired of having to prove your place here to her. isaac sent you both on the same assignments, he trusts you just as much as her to do his most important jobs, but it never seems to be good enough. whether it was jealousy or stubbornness, you could never be quite sure. 

time and time again you’ve tried to make nice with abby; you had actually wanted to be friends with her—the jaunty girl who never seemed to let her past slow her down, taking every opportunity to crack a sarcastic joke and practically jumping in front of bullets for the people she loved—you’d tried to spark friendly conversation, volunteered to take some of her extra assignments, even offered her a book you’d overheard her mentioning she wanted to read that you just happened to have on your bookshelf, but it was all futile. she wanted nothing to do with you, like your presence alone was a personal inconvenience. so, naturally, you stopped trying—yet, the two of you almost always somehow ended up in the same room together, whether it was a drunken night in leah and nora’s room, or cleaning bathrooms as a stupid punishment. 

but one, one little slip up and that’s all it took. you took your eyes off that scar for a split fucking second, and now she’ll never let you live it down. you were furious, angry tears clouding your vision as you stormed away, down the hallway and practically sprinting up the stairs to your room. 

she can clean that bathroom all by herself, you thought as you fumbled to get your keys out of your pocket, dropping them on the ground in your haste. “fuck!” you exclaimed, bending down to pick them up, searching for the small silver key on the ring. 

“there you are,” a sudden voice from behind startles you enough that you flinch, dropping your keys again. of fucking course. 

“go away abby,” you practically snarl, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks with your palm before she could see. despite your weak protest, you could hear her heavy footsteps getting closer as you finally unlocked the door, pushing it open and slipping inside. 

“oh, come on,” abby was right on your heels, pressing a hand against the door and preventing it from fully closing behind you. your eyes felt like they might roll into the back of your head. 

“i’m sorry, what part of ‘go away’ was unclear to you?” you snapped, turning around to glower at her through the small crack in the doorway. her arm strength was incredible, she was barely leaning against the door as you pushed with an embarrassing amount of effort to try and close it on her. what you lacked in brawn, you pride yourself in making up for with brains—yet another reason it was already embarrassing enough that you fucked up, now she was practically rubbing it in your face. 

abby’s eyes held a look you couldn’t quite understand. no way she was apologetic, but her face held a certain softness to it you’d never quite seen before. usually her face was all rigid lines and sharp angles, clenched jaw and guarded eyes, especially with you. it was rare for her to smile around you, now that you thought about it.

“can we talk?” abby asked, and her voice was almost…pitiable. her eyes were low and her pink lips parted slightly. it was unnerving. she never asked you for anything, let alone to talk. your eyes flickered across her face, trying to make sense of what she was really trying to say, beneath the surface. 

but there was really nothing to say to that. no, you wanted to scream, no we can’t fucking talk, fuck you, and i never want to talk to you again. but you said nothing, instead shaking your head and turning away, letting the door swing open against the pressure of her hand. 

“why do you hate me so much?” your mouth was moving before your brain could catch up, arms crossing defensively over your chest, though you were no longer facing her. 

“why do i hate you?” she scoffed, and you heard the door closing softly. 

“yes, why?” you spun around to face her now—she still stood near the door, that same indecipherable expression painted on her face. you avoided her eyes, but noted the way her nose twitched ever so slightly. “ever since i stepped foot in this stadium you’ve had it out for me, and no matter how hard i try, i can’t understand why,” oh fuck, the anger was coming back up, rising in your throat like bile, “is it because i don’t put up with your shit anymore?” 

“no,” abby gritted out, taking a step toward you. “listen, i—”

“because i see right through your little act?” you cut her off and wow, she was fuming now, chest rising and falling heavily as she clenched her fists together. “stop it, i’m trying to—” 

but you couldn’t stop, even if you didn’t mean it, “‘ooh poor me, my dad died and now i’m stronger because of it, and everybody loves me,’” the words stung in your mouth, and in your eyes, “‘i’m isaac’s top scar killer but i have a heart of gold,’” tears falling as you stomped toward her, “well good for fucking you abby. i’ve lost a lot of people too but you don’t see me acting like i’m better than everyone.” 

you couldn’t help it, you were pushing her before you knew it, right in the chest with as much strength as you could muster, and she wasn’t expecting it because she stumbled backwards into your bookshelf, a picture frame falling and shattering on the ground before she caught her footing. 

you looked her right in the eyes for the first time since she had entered your room, uninvited, and all you saw was flames, burning through her blue irises like wildfire. you stepped back, wide-eyed and disoriented, her figure nothing more than a blurry silhouette in front of you. her heavy breathing was all that you could hear, it consumed you, made you dizzy as you staggered backwards, that ineffable sadness reaching into your chest and squeezing around your heart, fuck, how does she do this to you? 

“for fucks sake, would you just listen?” abby’s asked suddenly. her voice was rough around the edges, chipped away by your words—you couldn’t look at her, it was too much, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it. why did you say that to her? she was reaching toward you before you could say another word, you half expected her to hit you, to strangle you, to say fuck you and never speak to you again, but then her calloused fingers were gripping your forearm. 

“abby,” your voice was pathetic, broken and whiny, god, you were completely out of control. you let your arm go limp, watching as her hand practically burned an impression into your skin as she pulled you into her chest. you were overwhelmed by her scent, that fucking pine soap she always hoarded and faintest hint of bleach that burned your nose, reminding you of what started this in the first place. 

no, this couldn’t be real life, there was no way you were crying in front of abby, your biggest vulnerabilities tumbling from your lips like an avalanche, but her arms were there, wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket as her head fell into the crook of your neck. you couldn’t tell whose heart was beating faster, her pulse pounding against your ear as your arms hung limp by your side. your brain was absolutely spinning trying to figure out what to make of this, a few loose strands of her braid hair tickling the side of your cheek as you shifted your head.

“i’m sorry,” her strained voice bled down your neck, sending a shiver down your spine, her breath hot against your shoulder as she tightened her grip. instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her waist, giving in to her touch, her apology washing over you like a humid rain in the summer—you’d waited so long just to hear those two little words, but it felt wrong somehow. “i’m sorry,” she repeated, quieter now, though you were probably the one who should be saying that.

“abby,” you found yourself saying again, squeezing your eyes shut as you leaned into her, feeling the tightness of her back muscles flex as you flattened your hands against her back, oh god, what the fuck is happening right now? “i didn’t mean that,” you whispered, muffled slightly against her shirt. the words i’m sorry usually came easy to you, often apologizing for things that didn’t warrant one in the first place, but the words were harder to get out somehow in this moment, pressed against the fabric of her shirt. 

her grip on you loosened, her arms sliding down your back and she was gone in an instant, turning away, clasping her fingers together and bringing them to the back of her neck. 

“i don’t hate you,” but she couldn’t face you, dropping her arms to her hips as she looked at the ground. you watched the anxious tapping of her foot and it felt like you couldn’t breathe—isn't this what you wanted? to be friends, or at the very least, for her to not hate you? maybe then, but not now. “i’m intimidated.” she was quiet, turning to face you. the orange glow of the lamp cascaded over her face, painting her in the softest form you’d ever seen her in.

“intimidated?” you were taken aback, furrowing your brow. “by me?” you shook your head, incredulous at her sudden confession. what could she possibly be intimidated by? “abby, you’re-” you gestured at her, unsure of what to say. “-you could probably snap me in half if you wanted to, i-i don’t understand-”

“oh trust me, i know,” abby cut you off, scoffing, and fuck, she just couldn’t help herself could she? you were mortified she’d caught you in a moment of weakness, you were angry, you were so fucking confused. your pity quickly soured, tears dried up in an instant, the disdain seeping back into your skin like a parasite—no matter how many times the two of you got close to reconciling, it always went wrong somehow. it had felt different this time, but maybe you were wrong. 

“abby, i swear to god i-”

“okay, okay, i’m sorry,” she softened again, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “old habits die hard, am i right?” 

you squinted at her, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “does this really seem like the time to be making a fucking joke? because the door is right there,” you made a show of pointing at the door before turning to sit on the chair behind you, bending over to take off your boots. anything to avoid looking her in the eye. 

“fuck, i’m sorry, i don’t know how to talk to you about this,” she was walking towards you now, and you didn’t bother to look up. she sat opposite you in the mismatched chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. you looked up at her through wet lashes as you pulled your boots off, tossing them haphazardly to the side. she looked just as confused as you felt, brows furrowed in frustration—nothing about this felt normal, or okay. 

“what i’m trying to say is that i’m sorry,” she started, dropping her head to look at the ground. 

“you said that already,” you noted dryly, scooting back in the chair and pulling your knees to your chest protectively. she laughed, but it didn’t sound bitter. 

“i’m sorry, for everything,” abby looked at you now, and your breath hitched. “for how i’ve acted around you. for the way i’ve treated you, the things i’ve said. all of it,” her eyes were full of sorrow, and it made her look a way you’d never seen before—vulnerable, fragile, empty. “right after you moved onto the base, leah told me about what you’ve been through, losing your parents and your brother, being forced into that military school, and still fighting to get here all the way from boston. if i’m being honest, i was jealous that you could take it all in stride.”

you could do nothing but stare at her, wide-eyed and dumbstruck. 

“from the minute you got here, you were so calm and collected, ready to help anyone who needed it. you were constantly volunteering for extra assignments, helping out in the classrooms, doing all the work that no one else wanted to do with a smile on your face…i know we all have a past but i never could’ve guessed yours,” she let her head fall again, clasping her hands together and taking a deep breath, “and god, you’re so fucking smart, like there’s no way you learned all the shit you know about history at that dumb military school.”

your mouth fell open slightly, trying to process her words. first, an apology, and then a compliment? no smart-ass comments, no snarky look, no just kidding. you’d never even talked with her about your love of history that much, let alone your family.

“abby,” you started, pulling your knees tighter to your chest. your brain and your mouth were fighting over what to say, the years of dissention between the two of you threatening to surface—but she seemed genuine. bouncing her leg up and down, abby continued to avoid your gaze as she picked at her cuticles. 

“when i first got here, i was a mess.” she cut you off.  “i could barely eat or sleep, i hid in my room whenever i wasn’t out on an assignment, and i didn’t care about anyone or anything. it took me months to get past it all and then you came along, so open and easygoing, even after everything you’ve been through…i was embarrassed.”

“everybody handles grief differently,” you said quietly, putting your feet back on the ground. she looked up at you, and her cheeks were wet. you swallowed thickly. “i wasn’t always that happy behind closed doors.”

abby frowned slightly. she was quiet now, pensive as she held your gaze. your cheeks burned under the scrutiny, and you wanted to shrink into the chair. less than an hour ago you had all the intention in the world of never speaking to abby again, and now she was sat, taking up space in your room, and your mind, fuck, how was she always on your mind?

“that still doesn’t explain why you were so mean to me,” you broke the silence after taking another second to process her words, and tears were clouding your vision again.

“yeah, if i’m still being honest, i don’t really have an explanation for that either. or, not a good one, at least,” she at least had the decency to look sheepish, leaning back and scratching her neck lightly. “i guess because i was so intimidated by the way you handled yourself, i just defaulted to…jealous rage?” she sounded unsure, and you scoffed. 

“wow,” you said. “you’re right, that is a terrible explanation,” you shook your head, leaning back to match her pose. she laughed again, looking up to the ceiling, and it sounded foreign. 

“i’m not the best with words,” she smiled weakly, a blush creeping up her neck.

“trust me, i could tell by all your elementary insults.”

“hey, didn’t i just say i was sorry?” 

you smiled back at her now, against your better judgment. the two of you had spent the past three years practically at each other’s throats, and a simple i’m sorry i was mean to you because i don’t know how to handle my emotions was supposed to fix it all?

“i meant it though,” abby said softly now, eyes boring into yours. “i’m sorry. for everything.” 

you held her gaze a moment longer, but had to look away. you had to, before she could see that you were caving, that all you’ve ever wanted to hear was that—that you wanted to just talk to her without always being on guard, that you wanted to know her favorite music and what she really thought about all of manny’s sexcapades and if she ever took her hair down from that goddamn french braid and— “you don’t have to forgive me. not right now, anyways. i just hope that one day you can.”

and then she was standing up, your eyes followed up her torso as she stood, smoothing her shirt down before giving you another weak smile and heading for the door. oh god, fuck, fuck all of this, “abby, wait,” you were up and after her in a heartbeat, grabbing her forearm just as she had yours earlier, forcing her to turn around. she looked surprisedly, first at your face, then down at your grip on her forearm, which you quickly dropped when you felt your heart skipping a beat. her eyes were wild, tired and full of anguish. 

before you could talk yourself out of it, you were practically throwing yourself at her, arms wrapping around her torso as you pressed your cheek into her chest. she stumbled only briefly, before you felt her arms envelope your shoulders once more. this time, it didn’t feel wrong. 

it felt like coming home. 

“i really shouldn’t have said that thing about your dad,” you said, but it was muffled in her shirt. 

you felt her laugh rumble in her chest before she squeezed you tighter, her head lowering into your neck so that you felt her lips on your shoulder as she spoke. “yeah, that was pretty fucked up.” 

you smiled into her, and god, this was all fucked up. the world was fucked up, and out of it was born you and abby—two fucked up people making fucked up choices that lead to some pretty fucked up consequences. 

she pulled back from you, but kept her hands on your shoulders. you took a fistful of her shirt, looking down to avoid her eyes. your stomach was flipping, the heat radiating from her body overwhelming you and making you feel dizzy. “can you forgive me?” 

and yeah, that was maybe your fucked up, roundabout way of telling abby, i do forgive you, but she seemed to understand. when you dared to look back up, she dropped a hand, and the other came to softly caress your cheek. she looked at you tenderly, the rough pad of her thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t even noticed. 

“of course i can.”

and then there was only the sound of your heart thrumming in your ears, her quickened breath as she looked at you in a way you’d never seen before. you gripped her shirt tighter, lips parting slightly as you felt the weight of her hand against your cheek. you leaned into it, eyes slipping closed for a moment. 

“abby,” you whispered, your free hand coming up to hold hers in place against your cheek. 

“shh,” she shushed you softly, and you could sense her getting closer. you didn’t dare open your eyes, heat pooling in your stomach as you felt her breath fanning across your face. 

“don’t speak.”

her lips pressed against yours so softly that for a moment, you wondered if you were dreaming.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

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

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

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

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

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone. 

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured. 

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still. 

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught. 

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite. 

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.  

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon. 

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers. 

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood. 

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know. 

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up. 

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette. 

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger. 

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently. 

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles. 

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?” 

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries. 

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.” 

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes. 

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.” 

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.” 

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst. 

Nothing survives Hellfire. 

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons. 

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace. 

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.  

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you. 

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself. 

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart. 

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously. 

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!” 

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly. 

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location. 

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight. 

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself. 

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.” 

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you. 

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race. 

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness. 

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target. 

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back. 

You are running out of time. 

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch. 

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.” 

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death. 

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room. 

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters. 

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.” 

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely. 

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.” 

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.” 

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you. 

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.” 

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?” 

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers. 

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.  

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest. 

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep. 

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening. 

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves. 

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.” 

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh. 

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece. 

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.” 

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries. 

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in. 

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.” 

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips. 

 “Yes, sing.” 

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call. 

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?” 

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.  

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs. 

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them. 

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity. 

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion. 

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served. 

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin. 

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“ 

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges. 

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door. 

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door. 

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly. 

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.” 

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click. 

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.  

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it. 

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true. 

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence. 

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.  

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.  

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.  

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.  

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life. 

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”  

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years. 

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.  

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”  

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.  

But Gods, you are so hungry.  

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”  

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”  

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”  

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”  

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.  

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.  

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”  

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone. 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.  

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers. 

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. 

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing. 

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.  

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time. 

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness. 

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady. 

“Why what, pet?” 

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“ 

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.” 

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.  

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way. 

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul. 

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be? 

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck. 

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line. 

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding. 

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful. 

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair. 

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.” 

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.” 

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily. 

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.” 

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear. 

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils. 

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help. 

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried. 

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?” 

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.” 

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay. 

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you. 

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.” 

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps. 

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!” 

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.” 

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.” 

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?” 

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.” 

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge. 

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.  

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal. 

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed. 

“They will heal in time.” 

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt. 

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles. 

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?” 

 She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.” 

“I want to see him - this version of him.” 

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.” 

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?” 

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.” 

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.” 

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.” 

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

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

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

[maneskinwh0re]

injection stable ~ maria o'hara x fem reader

one shot, nsfw, 18+

cw: dom!maria, fem!miguel, maria o’hara x reader, vampire!maria, mention of drug usage, biting, little blood

wc: 1.4k not full smut, just a spicy lead up bc i like edging you freaks.

inspo from a wattpad story i read of miguel x peter b parker

"haunted" by beyoncé while you read >:)

cred to og artists - i got these pics from pinterests, not my own !

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

location: nueva york, earth-928

it had been almost two weeks since maria stopped taking rapture. every day her relapse had been worse than the last. rapture was a drug maria had taken involuntarily to limit the more dangerous traits of her spider-like behaviors and powers, and she had been addicted to it ever since. she has tried stopping many times, but her relapses became so destructive and severe that she just couldn’t survive without it. you had to pick the lesser of two evils and just remove it from her entirely.

she needed help and extra care during this time, which is the reason you, jessica drew, and peter parker have deemed it necessary to check on her multiple times a day as recruits at headquarters.

“maria?” your voice echoes as you enter her dark office-like room.

no reply.

you sigh before swinging up to her pedestal, seeing her standing over her desk, her face focused on a blinking notification on the holographic screens. her gloved hands were tense on either side of the main keyboard.

“maria?” you repeat softly, taking a cautious step forward and crossing your arms. “what are you doing, spider?”

the nickname you have for her slips out in hopes that it lightens the tension in the air.

it doesn’t. you run a hand through your hair and sigh. “spider?”

her head snaps to the side quickly, allowing you to see her side profile. it’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting, but her wide eyes almost seem bloodshot. you study the sight of her. her holographic red and blue spider suit is snagged and glitchy while her dark hair is tangled yet loosely curled. the bridge of her nose is scrunched and her teeth are barred – that’s when you notice something you've never seen before, it’s almost like she has… fangs?

'hell. no way,' you think to yourself. 'again–it's probably just the lighting. she’s a spiderwoman, not a vampire.'

“maria, do you wanna try going to bed? i could get you something to eat,” you offer, still cautious of her mannerisms. her breathing seems ragged yet slow, but you can tell she needs something in her system. at least, something other than the empanadas from the cafeteria. “hm? how does that sound?”

she only stares at you with that narrow look in her eye that is honestly unnerving, but it drives something inside you crazy. 'it’s only maria,' you tell yourself, 'nothing to be scared of.'

“go home, y/n” she snaps, her voice laced with that smooth, spanish accent. you can see her back muscles tensing through her spider suit as she breathes.

you need more than a few words of attitude to check off if she’s going to be okay. not that you care, it’s more for protocol. no one besides you, jessica, and peter know that maria is off her rapture. it was a 2/3rds vote that one else in the spider society should know that their boss is secretly going through major withdrawal. you thought it would be better for her to take some time off and get some rest, or at least tell the others so her workload can be lightened or something.

again. not that you care.

“spider, i can’t leave without a proper check in. you know this,” you retort with a huff. you don’t understand why this is so easy for peter and jessica. every time you're alone with maria, which isn’t too often, it’s like talking to a damn brick wall. the possibility crosses your mind that she could still hold a grudge towards you for being a so-called 'anomaly' or whatever. that's how you met about four months ago. she's been cold to you ever since.

“so?” you eventually ask. “are you gonna make this easy for me?”

“no.” her tone is growing more agitated, and her brown eyes are still on you as her breaths quicken.

“and why not?” you raise a brow, starting to grow annoyed.

“because you haven’t made this easy for me,” she grits out, her hands balling into fists against the surface of her desk.

'cool. so she has officially lost it,' you think to yourself.

you notice her shift an object in one of her shaky hands until you recognize it to be a half-used rapture needle locked in her tight grip.

'god, damnit.'

“alright, come on,” you sigh, walking towards her.

“y/n,” maria warns. you sense tension in the air rising, but decide to push your luck.

“look, o'hara. i’m no therapist, and i can’t promise i’ll pay attention either, but it could help to just talk about it.” you stretch a hand out to touch her shoulder. “for all i know, your powers or abilities could-”

she turns abruptly and grabs the fabric of your f/c spider suit, letting the needle fall to the floor. the sound of crashing glass rings in your ears. green fluid oozes onto the floor by your feet, and all of a sudden your heightened spider senses are alarming in emergency-like flashes. your mind is racing as your breaths pick up speed in a panic.

you look back up to her towering figure that held your body close. you quickly lift your hands up in a surrendering motion, showing her you mean no harm.

“what are you– i don’t wanna figh–”

your defenses are cut off by the motion of her teeth sinking into your neck. you tense at the feeling as she inhales deeply against your skin.

it was not the lighting earlier. she definitely has fangs.

you feel a hot liquid, of what you can assume is your own blood, dripping down the nape of your neck, and you freeze as she drinks it in. maria is seemingly oblivious that one of her large hands is tangling itself in your h/c hair. you feel her fingers pull on it with intention to tilt your head back, and you allow her to, giving her mouth further access.

your eyes start to roll to the back of your skull as you let yourself almost enjoy her touch. as soon as you start to relax, her mouth pulls away while her tongue laps away any excess bleeding. a soft moan involuntarily escapes your lips from the sensitivity of it all, followed by her name in a breathy, sensual haze.

any control you have left is gone. and you think you're okay with that.

maria’s eyes open to observe the wound she left on your neck. her breaths are warm as her mouth hovers over your skin. she motions as if she’s going in for a second bite, until she pauses, and then pulls away completely. a gloved thumb runs across her bloody lips before her hands grip your waist. she simply pushes you away, creating space between you both as if nothing happened. your expression portrays speechlessness—eyes wide and lips parted slightly. maria’s hands linger on your hips while she avoids eye contact, her focus trailing up and down your frozen body.

a moment passes. you lick your lips and take a breath to speak, but her words cut you off.

“leave now, mi querida.”

she then drops her hands and turns around to lean on her desk. a hand runs through her hair to fix her appearance, and you can only stand still while your eyes level with her back. your body is ridden with shock. a blushful heat creeps its way up your aching neck and face as your mind begins to process what just happened.

you finally regain the consciousness to move, and on your way out, you catch a glimpse of the holographic screen in front of maria, a new notification now reading:

~ injection stable ~

hours pass and you still can’t tell if the darkening marks on your neck are from bruising or her dark lipstick.

or both.

you secretly hope it’s both…

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

anyway lol comment if you want more, maybe i'll write full smut soon, requests are open bc idk what to write !!

-bee xx

[philistiniphagottini]

ITS COOKIE 🍪 😃 um anyway HAKU YUKI 28 PLEASE AND THANK YOU YOURE MY FAVE WRITER OF MY FAVE WRITING OFFICIALLY

Hi Cookie, glad you stopped by. Aww thank you so much for the kind words, I'm blushing :) And thanks for the request. I hope you like it.

28. Period Sex

(cw for period sex, mentions of blood, fem!reader, aged up characters)

NSFW below the cut

You couldn’t suppress the spine-tingling shiver that wracked your body when you felt the crown of Haku’s erection kiss your poor, neglected clit. You sucked down a sharp breath as the bundle of nerves throbbed harshly, prompting a trickle of blood to leak from your swollen pussy. You whimpered softly, squirming underneath your partner as your body retreated further into your makeshift nest, soft pillows and fluffy blankets tickling your bare skin with every move you made. You choked on a moan of pleasure as Haku’s hips tilted forward, the head of his cock pressing intimately against your soaked entrance. A small hiss whistled through your teeth as your hands flew to his waist, sharp nails scratching his skin as you tried to anchor yourself. 

"Haku" you whined. "Sensitive."

A patient smile tilted Haku’s lips as he gazed down at you, warmth swimming in the depths of his eyes. He smoothed his hands over your plush thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your searing skin, easing the tension out of your muscles. 

"I know, I know" Haku replied. "I promise to be gentle."

"Are you sure? It’s really…messy down there."

Haku pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, fondling nuzzling the tip of his nose into the soft skin before he leaned back. "It’s okay. A little blood will not put me off. Just let me spoil you."

A contented noise bubbled up your throat as Haku continued to rub soothing patterns into your body, coaxing you into relaxing further and easing your troubles away. Your stomach still ached from menstrual cramps, a dull throb settling in the pit of your gut as you constantly shifted, trying to find a position to lay in that didn't aggravate the pain. A moan stirred in your chest as Haku nudged his hips forward, sinking more of his heated arousal into you as your silky lips parted for him with little resistance. You continued to watch him ease into you with dazed eyes, unable to tear your gaze from where your bodies were joined in fervorous rapture. A shaky sigh fell from Haku’s lips, long lashes brushing against his hot cheeks as his eyes threatened to slip close from the onslaught of bliss. You always felt so heavenly around him and right now, your pussy was so warm and tight it made his nerves fray at the edges. He paused when he was fully sheathed inside of you, his hips flush to yours. You struggled to breathe, pulse racing frantically beneath your skin as your blood simmered in your veins. You dragged your nails across his porcelain skin, leaving behind faint red lines as a tight knot coiled in your stomach. 

"Does it feel good?" Haku asked. 

You nodded; hair ruffled against the soft pillow supporting your head as you swallowed the budding saliva on your tongue. "So good."

Haku hummed softly as he started to move, slowly dragging his cock through your slick folds. The leisurely pace of his hips made you moan beneath him, your voice gracing his ears like a chime from a shimmering bell. Another warm smile pulled at his rosy lips; the bruised skin parted around soft sounds of your name.

"You take me so well" Haku praised. "Such a good girl."

You fought to peel your tongue off the roof of your mouth long enough to form a coherent response. But all that escaped your parted lips was a breathy whisper of his name as your body trembled beneath him. Your body continued to burn with bliss, the discomfort in your stomach rapidly dissipating as Haku slowly dragged his cock through your plush walls, letting you feel the veins on his steadily throbbing dick with each punctuated roll of his hips. Your ears burned red hot at the wet sound coming from between your joined bodies, your thighs dripping with beads of arousal that stained your clammy skin as your insides were turned to mush. 

You whined and twisted beneath Haku as his warm hands skimmed your sides, fingertips dancing over your torso as they walked up your soft belly. His greedy hands pawed at your heaving chest, cupping your soft, bouncing tits and giving them a firm squeeze. A loud squeak was wrenched from your lips as his deft fingers plucked your nipples, the slender digits rolling the sensitive buds into stiff peaks with practiced ease. Your walls fluttered around him as his fingers rubbed at the sensitive nerves, sending sparks of electricity to race along your back until your spine curved into a beautiful arch. 

"Ahh, Haku" you moaned, each syllable dripping from your mouth like warm honey. 

Your toes curled into the soles of your feet as Haku hummed gently, the vibrations dancing along your skin and making every hair on the nape of your neck stand up with a silent shiver. Long strands of brunette hair tickled your skin as he leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours as his lips grazed the tip of your nose. 

"You look beautiful" Haku whispered. 

His words only made the heat inside of you burn hotter, smouldering embers turning into brighter flames as your body was edged ever closer to your inevitable high. With each slow and precise rock of Haku’s hips the tension coiled tighter, threatening to shatter at a moment’s notice and drown you in an endless abyss. You weaved your fingers through his hair, silky strands curling around your fingertips as you pulled him closer, lips desperate to find his. A soft moan stirred in Haku’s chest as you caught his lips in a searing kiss, your breath puffing against his heated skin. You whined against his mouth, tongue pushing against the seam of his lips as you grind your hips against his, desperate for any extra spark of friction that could help you stumble over the edge. 

"Are you close?" Haku asked, hot breath tickling your lips. "Is my pretty girl going to cum?"

You nodded along to his words, grip in his hair tightening as your nails pressed into his scalp. A small smile tilted his lips as he kissed you, a hand slipping between your bodies to toy with your aching clit. He adored the sound that crawled out of your throat as his thumb pressed against the tightly packed bundle of nerves. You threw your head back as a loud moan stung your throat, echoing around your stuffy bedroom as you pressed your face into the comforting embrace of your pillow. Haku dragged his lips across your jaw, butterfly kisses tickling your throat as his tongue darted out to taste the sweat dotting your skin. You could feel his cock throbbing inside your creamy walls, the head of his erection grinding against your sweet spot and making stars waver in your vision. He rubbed your clit in tight, firm circles, the swollen flesh shrieking from his attention as the pressure inside of you finally reached boiling point. 

You could barely utter a warning, mind dazed and head feeling light as your world exploded around you. The coil in your stomach unfurled, bathing your body in white hot rapture. Haku wedged his bottom lip between his teeth, stifling the sultry moan that tickled the back of his throat as your ichor coated his entire length, your pussy gripping him like you were afraid to let go. His hips stuttered, fingers squeezing your pliant body as he moaned your name, warmth spreading across your abdomen as he spilled his seed deep inside you. Your body sank into the comforting confines of your bed, heart racing frantically in your ears as you tried to regain control of your breathing.

You shivered when Haku removed himself from you with a loud pop, pearls of his sticky cream dribbling through your folds as you pressed your legs together to try and stem the flow of fluids leaking from your core. You leaned into Haku’s comforting touch, your senses sluggishly crawling back to you as he pressed his lips to your temple.

"You did so well for me" he whispered, pressing another fleeting kiss to your skin.

You purred with content, soaking up all of his attention as he pampered you with more sweet affection and words of affirmation. The mess you made was a problem for future you to deal with.  

[chelledoggo]

i swear this Discord Bible study is gonna turn my brain to mush... (in a good way.)

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Leverage - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Risk-taking behaviors...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

cw: unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of pregnancy, birth control

Snippet:

"I’m going to come," he gasps, and it's the closest to an admission of defeat he can bear.  

"Come." It's a husked invitation. "Come in me, bastard. Fill me up."

"Sevika—"

"Inside. Don't fucking stop."

She squeezes down like world's most decadent business handshake.

And, fuck, he's got no room to renegotiate.

His arms lock; his spine arches. The last few thrusts are blind, blissful. Her mouth catches his, unerring, and the noose snaps taut, a groan dragging loose as he comes, deep pulsating spills, and all the while her good hand cradles his skull, and she kisses him like she needs him to breathe.

It's a while before he remembers how.

He comes down, panting, and Sevika is still there. The full weight of her: a solid anchor. The only color in the room is the green bands of neon refracting in her half-lidded eyes. The only sound is her tripped-up heartbeat slowing back to a steady cadence. The only scent is brightleaf and sandalwood, undercut by the harsh enticing tang of satiation.

Hers, and his.

Sevika’s good hand traces the damp knobs of his spine.

"You okay?" she whispers.

"Hm."

"That was... intense."

"Hmm."

He can't formulate a better word. Can't quite meet her eyes. He's still buried deep. Still half-hard, even as the last pulses fade. He wants to stay here, and let the day's ugliness bleed away. Not even sex; just the body-closeness of two monsters, entwined in a patch of shadow so warm it could double as sunlight. 

Or a womb.

His good eye squeezes nearly shut.

"Sevika?"

"Yeah?"

"You're still taking the pills, aren't you?"

"You know it." Humid breath fans the crown of his head. There is the tiniest, most minute hitch.  "Don't want any truck with raising kids. Especially yours." 

"Of course." It comes out stilted, not quite right. "Just checking."

"We're good." Her good hand drifts south, between their bodies. They're both awash. "You came pretty fucking hard."

"So did you." The reminder brings a ghost of a smile to his lips. "Three times."

"Four," she corrects, and her fingers find the spot just above where their bodies are joined, and begin circling.  "Could rub out one more."

"Insatiable slut." He shivers as she clamps down. "I'm a man crossing a certain age."

"Your cock's missed the memo."

"It has an opinion. Rarely a good one."

"Oh, it's a good one. Good and hard. Keep it like that." Her fingertips stir, and her hips are moving again, a deep sinuous grind. "Fuck. Right there."

She is not just insatiable. She is incandescent. Her body clutches his, even as he softens: a forge that consumes all sense. Silco sucks in a breath, letting her jig herself off on him. The pleasure has ebbed into an aching after-throb. But the way she comes, soft rippling tremors, holds a breathtaking languor that is nearly as satisfying. 

Sevika subsides with a sigh.  Years of hard living have slid like sweat from her features. The glow of her half-lidded eyes holds a woman's rapture, not a soldier's pride. Silco doesn't often think her beautiful—not the way Nandi was, or the way Medarda is. But his gaze roves with an infinitude of hunger: a different sort.

One that's just as dangerous.

He'd never fucked Sevika's type, before fucking Sevika. Never saw the appeal: all grit and no glamor. But the willowy girls with the long-lashed eyes are beginning to hold less and less gravitas. And the hardbodied boys with the chiseled muscles are beginning to seem more and more blasé. He still prowls for flesh: a man who runs a city with a proclivity for the carnal seldom has to roam far. His menu of morsels remains eclectic, and easy to come by.

But whenever the meal is done, the aftertaste proves flat.

He's growing accustomed to a zestier kick. A stronger bite. To a body that fits his, and a heat that lingers: on his tongue, on his cock, in the darkest corners of his mind.   

To a place that's nearly home.

Except home, Silco knows, can always be leveraged against you.

[atundratoadstool]

I know you've listed the character ages already, but what about physical descriptions? I remember Van Helsing being described as having red hair and blue eyes and I know Lucy's a blonde, but that's it.

Stoker is both frequently very spartan in his physical descriptions of characters and obsessively interested in detailing their facial features owing to his zealous belief in the thoroughly racist science of physiognomy. Here's a breakdown of what we know in the text plus some notes on how these features possibly operate in relation to Stoker's views, experiences, and research:

[CW: Spoilers and a fair number of mentions of Stoker's inescapable racism/antisemitism under the cut.]

Jonathan Harker: Jonathan is barely described but in possession of hair that turns white over the course of the novel. He possibly has a beard or a lot of stubble following the unfortunate yeeting of his shaving mirror. Like many of Bram Stoker's hunky lawyer protagonists, he's more often describing characters than being described by them.

Mina Harker: She is described by Seward as "attractive," "sweet-faced," and "dainty looking." She also has eyes that blaze like "pole stars," which is a very common description in Stoker's greater body of work (See: Stephen Norman in The Man and Teuta Vissarion in Lady of the Shroud) and match with his rapturous descriptions of real world actress Geneviève Ward. While it isn't as common a denotation of willfulness and determination as aquiline noses, it's generally used to indicate female characters who are very hardcore and may obtain a gun. Her skin is light enough for the red mark she obtains to be clearly visible upon it, although I will note that Mimi Salton from Lair of the White Worm is both undeniably a Mina 2.0 and mixed race/darker skinned, which might be worth considering in the realm of headcanon given how frequently Stoker just recycles characters and their physical attributes.

Lucy Westerna: She's pretty, and her weight and appearance definitely fluctuates over the course of her illness. Her hair is laid out in "sunny ripples" while she's alive. She becomes a "dark-haired woman" while undead. This frustrates many many critics and commentators. It's been proposed that the "sunny ripples" just refers to the gloss on her dark hair. It's been proposed the blondeness/darkness hair is an indicator of her innate goodness/evilness... like Smurfette (which has--again--some Stoker-typical racist implications). The most obvious Doylist explanation is that Stoker cannot track characters' hair color much as he cannot track all his dates.

Jack Seward: Strong jaw. Nice forehead. Immense lunatic asylum. He's also mentioned as being thin in comparison to Renfield and Lucy thinks he's handsome (although obviously not as desirable as Arthur).

Arthur Holmwood: His hair is curly. He is tall. He is also a hottie, as attested to by Lucy and by Jack (who finds him very manly as he kills his vampire fiancee).

Quincey P. Morris: I haven't recalled or been able to look up any major descriptors. He apparently carries himself like a "moral Viking" (as Jack attests in the midst of commenting on yet another friend's manliness). I went into some detail as to how he reads in terms of race here and how it might mesh with Lucy's comparison of him to Othello.

Abraham Van Helsing: After the Count, he's the most thoroughly described character in terms of physiognomy, and that physiognomy... is more or less the spitting image of Bram Stoker as he describes himself (...you know, Abraham "Bram" Stoker, who has the same first name as this super genius great-at-everything character). He's got sensitive nostrils, big forehead bumps, a nice jaw, a big mouth, a strong build, and red hair. I wrote a comparison between him and Stoker here. I will also note that the forehead bumps are a phrenological feature denoting creativity and that Jonathan remarks that he apparently has eyebrows incompatible with self doubt.

R. M. Renfield: He appears to be swoler than Seward even if his swoleness is to no avail against Dracula.

Dracula: There is a lot to unpack with Dracula. He has an aquiline nose, which is one of the absolutely most significant recurring features in Stoker's greater corpus (See: The Judge from "The Judge's House"; Solomon Mendoza from The Watter's Mou; Don Bernadino from The Mystery of the Sea; Joy Ogilvie from Lady Athlyne; and Edgar Caswall from The Lair of the White Worm), and this trait was shared by his boss and Idol Henry Irving. It undoubtedly has physiongomic significance to Stoker, who seems to use it to denote command and leadership, although it is worth noting that Cesare Lombroso mentions aquiline noses as a feature of murderers and that many critics have pointed out its potential connections to Stoker's antisemitism (and specifically the suspicion regarding Jewish immigrants in the wake of the Jack the Ripper killings). Dracula additionally has a "domed forehead," which can paradoxically be associated in physiognomy with both high intellect and mental feebleness. His sharp teeth are a trait Stoker associates with "a militant instinct" (Lombroso, again, connects them with murderers) and are described in much the same way he describes Alfred Lord Tennyson and Sir Richard Burton's teeth, although he took notes from Sabine Baring-Gould's Book of Were-wolves in which sharp teeth are a werewolf trait. We also have pretty explicit evidence that Dracula's unibrow, pointy nails, and hairy palms are also from Baring-Gould. Overall, Dracula seems to be a real hodgepodge of physiognomic traits that seem to haunt Stoker's work, racist criminological theory, and actual folklore.

[jellys-compendium]

Plant Heat Headcanons

Millions Knives Edition

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, Minors DNI)

Pairing: Knives x F!Reader Cw: smut, heat cycles/plant heat, overstimulation, dacryphilia, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, creampie, breeding, orgasm control/denial, possessive and obsessive behaviour, dominance & submission, degradation, grinding, some religious symbolism (in Trimax Knives' portion). Word Count: ~3K A/n: A lovely person inquired about some Plant Heat Headcanons for Knives on my AO3 account. I was inspired, so here they are! Hope you enjoy them! 💜

Prefer to read on AO3?

Tristamp Knives

He is very aware of his heat and knows precisely what to expect and how to counteract it. Despite the physical symptoms that he suffers, Tristamp Knives only views this biological cycle of his as a minor inconvenience. He had always been prepared for it, overcoming the intense urges of his body with sheer willpower alone. Willpower alone had always been enough…until you came along.

Similar to Tristamp Vash’s heat, Tristamp Knives’ heat is also quite physically intense. His body aches and heats up to the point of fever. His razor sharp mind becomes slow and sluggish—obsessed and plagued with impulsive thoughts of grabbing you, ripping your clothes off, and pounding into your sweet cunt until you cry. He doesn’t quite care if he ends up doing it in front of an audience either.

Tristamp Knives’ plant markings glow exponentially brighter during this time, his fangs elongating to sharp points as his senses heighten. You become like a beacon of desire to him in this state. Tristamp Knives can sense your every breath, hear each beat of your heart, and smell the arousal that drips between your legs even across a distance. It’s infuriating for the prideful plant. It’s as if your lewd and tantalizing body were calling out to him—mocking him for his foolish attempts to control himself.

Eventually, Tristamp Knives does give in to his urges, but he holds fast and so desperately to that illusion of self-control. He dominates you physically and mentally, lording his strength, power, and superiority over you even if he’s the one moaning as he sinks his cock inside your tight walls.

Tristamp Knives’ stamina is unmatched. He can bring you to the brink of orgasm, only to then deny you and repeat the process. Tristamp Knives will do this over and over again until he has you sobbing and pathetically begging for release. He is in control. Not you, and not his heat. You will be the one praying to him, not the other way around.

I should also mention that Tristamp Knives’ cum and saliva acts like an aphrodisiac. This helps his partner keep up with him, but Tristamp Knives also uses this property of his fluids to torture, tease and taunt you. “Coming from just a little kiss? What a depraved little slut you are.”

Tristamp Knives’ iron will to stay in control is formidable, but it is not absolute. You can break him—forcing him to submit to his feral urges if you play your cards right. Put on a little show for him. Tease him by lewdly touching yourself, salaciously cry out your pleasure with rapture, fuck yourself shamelessly on his throbbing dick while chanting your devotion to him. If you can manage to rile up this control freak of a plant well enough, you’ll find yourself pinned to the nearest hard surface before you can blink. At that point all you’ll hear is Tristamp Knives’ feral growls in your ear before he starts to fuck you so hard you nearly pass out.

It’s a dangerous game that you’ve decided to play, but you’ll be damned if you’ll allow Knives to have free reign over every little part of you for a moment longer.

Yes, he is stronger, smarter, faster and infinitely more powerful than you--but at this very moment, as Knives denies you your orgasm for the third time in a row, you decide that those facts don’t matter. You have a hold over him too. A power so profound that he desperately tries to deny and curtail it, forcing you to submit and take what he gives you in an effort to hide his secret vulnerability.

No more. You’ll expose that nerve and grind it to dust.

Knives chuckles darkly as he removes his glistening fingers from your twitching cunt, plant markings pulsing an angelic blue as he pops his fingers into his mouth and savors your taste. 

“Couldn’t come in time, pet?” Knives taunts, those white fangs of his glistening as he elegently licks his fingers clean. 

“Pathetic.”

Your body is covered in sweat—exhausted and aching—but somehow you manage to muster your strength and reach forward to claw at Knives hips. The plant’s eyes widen with surprise, his breath leaving him in a choked gasp as you bury your fingernails into his flesh and swiftly pull his hips to yours. Knives moans, his hands slamming against the mattress on either side of your head, steadying himself while you bury his cock to the hilt in your eager pussy.

The ecstasy that flows through your body is unparalleled, and you mewl with abandon, arching against Knives’ burning skin as you come around his cock—hips grinding obscenely against his hardened flesh as your cunt milks him hungrily.

“Want you.” You gasp, breathless and delirious. Your gaze captures his own as your body rides out your orgasm sensually beneath him. Beckoning him. Breaking him.

“Please,” You whimper, body arching so that your lips brush sweetly against his perfect, pink mouth. 

“I want you, Nai.” You breathe against his lips. “I want you more than anyone else. I’m at the end of my rope, I’m aching for you. Please, fuck me. Please, please, please!!”

Knives is motionless above you, his eyes and body bathing your own in that ethereal blue glow. A moment of silence passes between the two of you, gazes locked in silent battle as your panting breaths fill the air.

Then a devious grin spreads across Knives’ face. The sight sends intoxicating shivers of anticipation down your spine. Like a predator, Knives leans down and whispers a dark and sensual promise in your ear.

“You want me, pet? Fine. Then I’ll give you everything you asked for.”

98 Knives

This stubborn plant tries to ignore his heat. 98 Knives is in complete denial and is the biggest brat about this biological cycle. He’s flushed? You’re seeing things. Had he been staring at you for too long? Only because he can't believe how ugly you are! Is he hard? Why the hell are you looking at his junk in the first place, pervert!?

Completely opposite to 98 Vash, 98 Knives tries his damndest to avoid you during his heat. On the surface, he wants nothing to do with you during this time and will actively leave the room whenever you enter. If you manage to touch him unguarded however, you swear you can hear him purr sensually under his breath.

Compared to his other counterparts, 98 Knives doesn’t go through the same physical changes during his heats. No fangs or distorted wings or glowing marks. However, 98 Knives is just as affected in terms of his sexual drive and he is in a constant state of horniness. He’s also super pissed about it.

98 Knives angrily jacks off every moment alone he can spare. It never fully relieves him though, and for the most part it only riles him up even more. 98 Knives’ head is always swimming with thoughts of you—both unbelievably aroused and severely irritated. How dare you cloud his mind like this? How dare you make his cock so hard? How dare you make him want you?

When he does finally submit to his heat, 98 Knives becomes the bossiest and brattiest little pillow princesses. This whining plant makes you do all the work while also growling his demands of what he wants from you through clenched teeth.

But rest assured, when you manage to edge 98 Knives just right—hitting that sweet spot of his with perfect precision—oh can you make that plant sing.

Knives groans, gritting his teeth as he arches beneath your hips. Those beautiful blue eyes of his squeeze tightly shut as he curses you under his breath. 

Ignoring his insult, your eyes linger on the straining muscles of Knives’ neck as he pathetically thrusts his cock against you. His leaking and throbbing glands just barely manages to breach the tight entrance of your pussy despite his best efforts.

“E-enough.” Knives rasps, fingernails scratching at the meat of your thighs—childish and demanding. Those wild eyes of his open again, pegging you with a petulant glare.

“Hurry up and sit on my cock, you idiot!”

Ah. He’s near his breaking point.

“Hmm, and what if I don’t? What if I leave you here aching and unsatisfied? It would be exactly what a brat like you deserves.”

The rage that flashes in Knives’ eyes lasts only a second. Quick as a flash you raise your hips, letting Knives’ cock slip from the warmth of your cunt. He growls, utterly livid as his dick lands pathetically on his navel with a wet slap. 

But before the tantruming plant can retaliate, you sit on his cock, harshly grinding your slick folds up and down his entire length. The breath explodes out of Knives’ lunges, as you grind your pussy along his length and his next words leave him with a pathetic whine.

“Th-that's not what I meant you disgusting, brutish—aaaahhhhh!”

You press your weight against his frenulum, grinding your clit mercilessly against that most sensitive spot of his—breaking him down piece by piece and smiling with satisfaction as Knives melts in your hands like butter.

He's such a whiny little thing.

The plant’s hips start to piston, his whimpering mewls now uncontrollable as he starts to grind against your sex. Knives' blue eyes glass over with lust as he stares at you with a mixture of hatred and need. Right now, you are at the epicenter of his world, and he hates that.

“Beg me,” You whisper teasingly with a smile. “Beg me to fuck you. Do it nicely and I’ll give you what you want.”

Knives’ teeth clench, his expression a conflicted storm. But in the end, the plant's lustful need supersedes his pride. Releasing a huff of air, Millions Knives swallows and then whispers oh so sweetly.

“Fuck me, pet. Please.”

Trimax Knives

Trimax Knives regards the period of his heat with virulent disdain. To him it is a primitive mechanism of survival derived from the disgusting remnants of the human DNA that poisons his every cell. Among many things, Trimax Knives detests his heat.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) for you however, your touch he does not detest.

Similar to his brother, Trimax Knives also goes through a lot of physical changes and a significant amount of pain during his heat. At the peak of his heat, razor sharp, almost crystalline wings involuntarily tear outwards from beneath his skin. His eyes glass over to a milky bluish white, and his fangs practically double in size. Each fang is razor sharp, easily capable of tearing anyone limb from limb. Trimax Knives is exceptionally beautiful in this form, but he is also dangerously aggressive.

Trimax Knives is possessive, and obsessive on a good day. In the midst of his heat however? Those tendencies of his magnify tenfold. Once his heat hits, the vastness of Knives’ mind becomes singularly fixated on you. Your scent, your soft skin, the sound of your voice, the beating of your heart. Every aspect of you is impossible for Knives to ignore. He wants to claim you, mark you, and fuck you until you are begging for mercy.

The compulsive and feverish thoughts of breeding you—of mating with you so thoroughly and completely that he gets you pregnant—nearly drives Trimax Knives to the brink of insanity. It’s not necessarily because he wants offspring (honestly even if you’re incapable of such a thing he couldn’t care less), it’s more so because Trimax Knives is so madly possessive of you that he wants no doubt in anyone’s mind exactly who you belong to.

Woe is any idiot who decides to breathe the same air as you (let alone touch you) while Knives is in the throes of his heat. People have been maimed, and several of the Gung-Ho Guns have the scars and the psychological damage to prove it.

Also similar to Trimax Vash, Trimax Knives’ heat is slow to build but quick to peak. You will see the warning signs before the full force of his heat hits, and when it does, it’s like a storm of biblical proportions.

When mating with you, Trimax Knives comes quickly and abundantly. His refractory period is short though, and this man will have you coming on his cock over and over and over again, pumping you full of load after load with each round. Trimax Knives takes what he wants, having little regard for your tearful cries for mercy from being sore and overstimulated. He knows your breaking point, and despite the feral state he is in, he will never cross that line. Instead, Trimax Knives balances you perfectly on that edge, watching you come undone beneath him time and time again with blissful satisfaction.

The urge to nest is intense for Trimax Knives during his heat, although he’s not exactly one to build a comfy place for you. Trimax Knives is more interested in finding a safe place over which he has full control. An isolated space where no one either than himself has access to you. This is where you will experience the full force of his heat.

Trimax Knives will also very strangely take good care of you during the entire period of his heat. In spite of the physical exhaustion you will endure, you will be fed, given water, and held tenderly. It’s in Knives’ silent actions where you can truly see how much he cares for you.

You awaken from your deep slumber. Eyes bleary and clouded as they open. Your vision finds the faintest of light above you, and you focus on it until your senses sharpen. 

Once your vision returns you look around. A thick layer of crystallized, shimmering glass is spread beneath your aching body. It looks cold to the touch but it is strangely…warm. As if it were a living, breathing thing cradling you, comforting you, and protecting you.

You shift and in that moment you realize that you’re still connected to something. Heated skin shifts with you and a soft groan sounds in your ear. Turning your head, you look over your shoulder. Memories of the last few days slowly snap into place like puzzle pieces. Knives lays behind you, his alien and unreadable stare fixated on you.

A burning throb commands your attention. You look down, and it’s at this point you realize that Knives’ cock is still buried deep inside you—the evidence of his dizzying girth a demanding pressure between your hips.

“Don’t move,” Knives commands. 

He twitches again inside you and the pressure increases. You mewl at the pleasurable ache. He's still coming.

“Knives…” 

The raspy tone of your voice does not escape the plant’s notice. He tsks, attention turning to something just beyond your reach. His powerful arm snakes past your line of vision, and then returns with a flask of water clutched in his hand. You watch, parched and mesmerized as Knives brings the flask to his perfect, pink lips and pours.

His Adam's apple bobs deliciously as he takes the water into his mouth. After two gulps Knives places down the flask and reaches for you, his fingers grasping your chin. Your mouth opens instinctively, like a baby bird desperate for nourishment, as he leans down and seals his lips with yours.

You whimper, lapping up every precious drop that you can from Knives’ mouth while his tongue glides sensually along your own. The kiss is cut short however, leaving you licking at the little remnants of water left behind. Knives smirks, then from his hand he produces a slice of apple.

“Eat.” He commands.

So you do. Obediently, you take the apple slice from his fingers, wet tongue kittenishly and shyly touching the tips of his fingers as you receive your blessing. Knives hums his approval, his gaze possessive and intense as his thumb gently glides over your bottom lip as you chew. 

The exchange is powerful. Primal. Like a god of creation, Knives institutes himself as the source of life. Of your life. From his lips you drink, from his hand you eat, and from his cock you are filled with euphoric purpose.

“Are you satisfied?” Knives’ purring rumble echoes like an ancient melody upon the crystal glass.

You nod, and no sooner do you show your satisfaction does Knives turn the both of you. His body remains flush against yours as you are maneuvered from your side and onto your hands and knees like an animal. Your face and breasts press firmly against the makeshift glass bed below as Knives lifts your hips into the air—keeping them connected with his own. 

A pathetic moan escapes your lungs as Knives resumes his rut, his cock plunging as deep as your pussy would allow. His burning glands kisses your cervix with each surge forward as his balls slap deliciously against your clit. You arch and sob. You’re so swollen and sore, but Knives feels too fucking good.

“Who do you belong to?”

Of course. This ritual would be incomplete without your pledge of devotion to him.

“Y-you, Knives.”

The powerful being bears down on you, his sharp teeth on the shell of your ear.

“Who do you worship?”

“You.” 

“Who do you love above all else?”

You tremble, the confession vibrating like an explosion in the air as it spills from your lips. 

“You. O-only you Knives. I love you.”

And with a hot groan, Knives comes inside you, his fingers bruising your hips as he grinds his cock against your puffy walls, filling you up with yet another load of his hot cum. When he’s done, his hands come to gently rest on your swollen tummy and you are rewarded with a tender kiss.

“Mine.”

Interested in some Vash plant heat headcanons?

divider source

[thescrappyraccoon]

CW: specific mentions of Christian religious abuse (the rapture, etc.), hell, death and panic attacks

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When I was a kid, I grew up in a really harsh Christian religious home. My hellfire & brimstone preacher- grandfather pastored the church we attended, and I learned early on that the God of the Bible was vengeful, angry, and just waiting to punish us for our sins. The church was in the Pentecostal vein, so I was also taught that if I died without repenting of those sins, I would go to hell. That became one of my obsession-compulsion loops; I was constantly confessing of anything and everything, just in case I had sinned in a way I didn’t clock.

The summer before 3rd grade my grandfather found some movies and decided the church would host summer movie nights for families. I was required to attend, of course; “I’d the church door is open, we’re going to be there” my parents often said.

The movies my grandfather found were low budget Christian films (of course 🙄) about “The End Times”, AKA the years building up to the return of Christ when he would rapture all believers and take them to Heaven before brutally and horrifically punishing the sinners that remained through something called The Tribulation (the time frame when the Antichrist would assume worldwide power) before sending them all to hell.

Keep in mind, I was EIGHT YEARS OLD. I know I was made to watch all of them, but I only remember one called A Thief in the Night. I vaguely remember the sequences prior to the rapture happening, but bc I VIVIDLY remember what followed: Christians ego hadnt repented before the rapture and were “left behind” were arrested and executed by guillotine; others were trying hide in the woods but were being hunted down before execution. I’m certain that I dissociated through much of those movies. As a little one, they were absolutely terrifying to me, and immediately started having nightmares that lasted well into my 30s.

That fall when school started, I was allowed to walk home for the first time. On one particular sunny Tuesday afternoon, I walked home as usual. Our car was in the driveway, but when I went to open the door, it was locked. I want the doorbell thinking maybe my mom was in her bedroom and forgot to unlock it, but she didn’t come to the door. The back door was locked too, and by the time bc I got back to the driveway, I was having my first panic attack. I was convinced that the rapture had happened, and I had been left behind. I sat on the driveway and leaned against the car, hyperventilating and sobbing.

I’m not sure how long that lasted before I knew had to think of a plan. I decided my best chance of survival was to break the glass on the back door so that I could unlock the door. I would go in, get my toughest clothing and shoes, and fill my backpack with food before running to the woods. I knew there were 100s of acres where my friend lived a few miles away. I knew I wouldn’t make it out alive; I had been left behind, and the only way to get to heaven was to die a martyr. But at least I could try to survive for awhile first.

Soon after, my mother arrived home. On Tuesdays my grandmother and mother went to a nursing home in a neighboring town to conduct church services. They had been kept late for some reason, and while they were normally home long before me, today they had been running late. They could tell I had been crying, and scolded me for being too sensitive.

Fast forward to tonight. I’m laying in bed snacking and watching TV while resting from a busy-for-me day. A helicopter or low flying plane flew over my house, loud enough to rattle the window in my room. A few minutes later, I realized I was still calm.

There were YEARS—from the day on the driveway until my late 30s—when that would have sent me spiraling. I lived in constant fear about the rapture, the Antichrist, persecution of Christians, etc. But tonight, I didn’t react. I noticed it bc it was loud, but nothing else. I smiled to myself and thought “Wow. I’m ok.”

Sometimes when we’re in recovery from complex trauma, it can feel like we’re not making progress. Just earlier today I got so triggered by something related to my ex, and then a part of me was so frustrated that it still bothers me. But the truth is, it’s still fresh. My divorce was only finalized **last week.**

These might seem disconnected but truthfully, I NEEDED that place to fly over so I could see at least some forward momentum. If I can get over that, I can get over this. I’m going to be ok. Someday, a similar thing will happen, a thing that triggers me about my ex, and I’ll realize I’m not reactive. I’m ok. That day isn’t today, but it will be. I will be ok.

Image description: a Caucasian woman lies against 2 blue and 1 turquoise pillow. Her hair is purple, almost chin length on the right side and shaved on the left side. She is wearing a gray t-shirt.