#~sanguine hunger~

[nis-si-hellhole]

she's found a camera and she's gonna make it everybody's problem

[brittandbiscuits]

Help my man, he’s hungry af.

[faroreskiss]

Resurrection Gone Wrong

Read on Ao3

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Summary: Link finally accepts the truth about himself out loud, and more.

Chapter 4 - Acceptance

“And as for your memories… the Slate once again will be the key. Journey to the lab in the village of Hateno. They will know more about how and why this happened. Take the contents of the chest with you, and go.” 

_____

Right when he was about to ask Impa and Paya where this Hateno Village is, Impa spoke to him again.

“Link,” she said, as she pointed to a picture of a… swamp? It almost tickled his brain. It was such a vibrant green. He was, of course, as motionless as before right after he turned back to her.

“Does it look familiar?” Impa continued. “From this village, you should be able to get there in half a day’s time.” She motioned to Paya again, and instructed her to give directions to Link. 

He was on the way once again. 

Despite his confusion and loathing towards his own ‘condition’, Link pressed on. Whatever the type of that thing they gave him, it kept him sated longer than he expected. At least he didn’t get tired, and he didn’t need any sleep, even though he could if he wanted to. 

When he attempted to doze off, he was haunted by disturbing dreams, even in such a short time. He saw himself ripping the throat of that woman in the stable and drinking her delicious-…

No more naps then, he decided. Not like he got tired. 

As the sun was finally gracing the sky with its rays, the village started to come into his view. Even though it was still at least a few kilometers away, he could already hear the waking villagers slowly starting their day. Though there was something else he could feel as he neared the gates, something sinister. It wasn’t bothering him exactly, but it felt like it wouldn’t be an exactly welcome presence by the other heavenly forces he already interacted with.

When he entered the village, Link tried his best to not interact with anybody. 

Even though he was now relatively sated, being near this many people was dangerous, for them. The dryness in his throat was making itself  more noticeable as the amount of people who woke up and went out in the village increased.

Will it ever go away? He perhaps knew the answer, but never dared to respond to it even in his mind.

Unfortunately, he had to talk to somebody in the end, an old guy near the inn, to ask where the lab is. He found it easier to interact with older people when he was in this state, it felt as if their bloods were flowing a miniscule amount slower, their hearts not pumping the delicious liquid through their veins as rapidly compared to the younglings.

As they spoke, he could see the concern in the old man’s eyes. Worry. He was worried for him, thinking him weak and malnourished. Link was just trying to focus more on what he was saying, instead of what was inside him. He thanked him for showing him the way, and started walking towards the steep road uphill. 

“Oh poor boy…” Link heard him speak behind him later, though the old fellow was just mumbling to himself.

He should have been worried about his life instead.

_

The lab was relatively far from the village, placed on a hill. He could already feel two heartbeats from the cabin, two adults, one of them being significantly older.

After gently opening the door, he doubted his own eyes and newly found sharp senses. A child? This little girl absolutely registered as the older adult to his senses, or at least her metabolism did.

Right when he was about to speak, the strange little girl with her odd glasses started speaking in a kind of a monotonous voice. She had a mischievous yet tired look in her eyes. She felt at least as old as Impa. 

“Hello!” she said, with her hands on her hips, “This is the Ancient Hateno Lab. Do you have some business with the director?”

“That’s right” he nodded.

“The director is in the back,” she replied again plainly, though Link could hear the smirk in her tone.

As Link walked back to the guy at the back near the bookshelves, the man turned to him and after taking a look at Link’s Slate at his hip, he started yelling in excitement.

“Director! Listen Ms. Director! This is a REAL Sheikah Slate!”

“Director?” Link asked quizzically. 

“Oh, that’s right,” he started, and nodded. “I haven’t introduced our director, Ms. Purah happens to be right there”

Purah. That was whom he was looking for! But there is only the strange child there-

Oh.

“Check it!” Purah cheerily jumped. “Are you surprised? Heh.” 

Link raised his eyebrows.

“The director of the lab is not Symin, it’s me!” 

“...” Link was still busy trying to register what was going on. Granted, this wasn’t the strangest thing that happened since he woke up, but it could definitely make the top 10.

“Come on Linky! Impa sent you here, right?!” she spoke cheerily again.

Linky?

“...Linky? What’s with that look, you do still remember me, right?” She inquired with an intense look and expectation in her eyes.

“Even though 100 years ago I was the one that put you into the Shrine of Restoration?”

“Uhm… I don’t remember..” he answered with regret in his voice, “But… Aren’t you a child?” he finally gave in to his curiosity.

“How rude!” she snapped, surprising Link but then laughed it off. 

Apparently it was due to a failed experiment. This woman was also over 100 years old. 

And she knew him. She knew things. A glimmer of hope sparked in him.

But Link simply couldn’t get a word in in the conversation, he was already trying to avoid talking or breathing unless it was necessary, and this wasn’t helping. 

First, Purah made him carry some strange blue fire all the way to the lab, then played around with his Slate, activating some “runes”. Whatever she had in the lab, looked like the same ancient structure he saw in the shrine where he woke up. 

Finally, she activated some functionality in his Slate which unlocked some pictures, she claimed that he might perhaps remember stuff if he visited these places, apparently they were the places where he accompanied Princess Zelda.

Zelda… How familiar it felt to hear that name.

“Oh yeah, the ‘lost memory’ thing can be troublesome, of course,” Purah tittered. She was avoiding the topic he was trying to bring up, he realized. Instead, she entirely focused on ancient materials, ancient this ancient that… Sure, they were important, but she really wasn’t letting him talk or change the subject. 

He could feel her gaze on him, on his fangs, his pure skin, pale complexion. The way he barely moved, his chest not moving at all from breathing. Information about his memory loss was absolutely not the only thing she was noting down.

Link was finally able to get a word in.

“Purah.”

“Yes, Linky?”

“Please…” he sounded desperate. 

“Oh?” she feigned ignorance, but Link could see she was shifting uncomfortably.

“Impa sent me here because she said you would know what happened to me.”

Purah pursed her lips and pretended to look through her notes again and then she sighed. 

“Tell me from the start, Linky. What you did, what happened so far. I want to know every single thing first before I explain anything.”

As Link was about to start, she held his index finger high to stop him for a moment.

“And do not try to censor anything. Understand? No judgment here,” she winked.

Reckless, so reckless this woman was. She sent him to the village even if it was for a brief amount of time, and then spent hours with him. There was no way she knew anything if she was this relaxed about it, or she knew everything but was simply crazy.

But again, Link didn’t have anything to lose. So he started from the moment he woke up, the voices, the “potions” he had versus the incident he had at the stables, his conversation with Impa.

“Mhm-hm,” Impa hummed as she took notes and compared them with the ones she had.

“Alright, Impa already explained the legends to you, so let’s get that out of the way. The creature she is talking about is a ReDead, and that’s not what you are, you are too alive for that,” she chuckled. She chuckled!

Link simply nodded, as he really expected her to continue.

“So Linky, even without your memories, I’m sure you still have your wits. You already realized what you are, yes?” 

Of course he did, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He gulped again, feeling the drought in his larynx.

“...’a slave to sanguine hunger, a creature of the night’, though I think we already established that you are definitely okay under the sunlight! Fascinating!” Purah continued. How was she this calm?

“Purah,” Link tried to keep his voice as low and as calm as possible, but his worry and frustration was making themselves known. 

“Yes, Linky?~” Purah replied playfully, she was drunk on the science of things.

“How are you this calm? I am a Hylia-damned vampire!” he finally snapped.

There was a silence of a few seconds which felt like an eternity for Link. He finally said it out loud. The hope he had for himself, the lie he had been feeding in his head, the charade finally ended. He was a monster that fed on the blood of living beings. 

“Oh Linky,” Purah was startled, but wasn’t scared at all. He was in agony. 

“You won’t hurt me, I know you won’t.” she said calmly, as a matter of fact.

“How do you know?” Link asked again.

“Well, you remember the four bottles you found and then the one Impa gave you?”

Yes, he did. Those four bottles were what he rationed, as he was still trying to fool himself to believe they were some type of red potion. By the time he made it to stables and tried to drink an actual red potion, he knew what they were. However, he didn’t stop the lie. What shattered everything completely was when Impa gave him “a drink”. 

Even then, he had hope. 

Oh how arduous and torturous it was, each time he had a twinkle of reverie, to have it shattered. Where was his resolve coming from? What was this hero complex?

“Before we put you into the shrine, the princess knew the risks. Yet, you almost lost your life saving hers, and she just couldn’t leave it alone even though… Well, even though the shrines could have also been affected by the Calamity.” Purah started explaining.

“There was of course, never a guarantee that you would recover, even though I am a Sheikah myself, the technology is ancient and we didn’t know much about it really,” she just shrugged casually as she kept examining Link meanwhile visually. He felt exposed yet safe at the same time.

“Ah, do you mind?” she asked while pointing towards his mouth. “I wanna take a closer look,”

Link instinctively recoiled but then composed himself. “Uhm… Okay,” and opened his mouth slightly to give Purah a better look on his fangs. 

“Yeah so, we prepared the bottles just in case, right after we placed you in the shrine. But again, the blood in the bottles is of course not just any blood.”

“Shom shyntetic blad, then?” Link tried asking while his mouth was still being examined by Purah.

“Oh no, we don’t have that technology! It is actually your own blood!” She spoke so casually, Link’s mouth opened even more.

“Ah good, lowering your jaw helps me to see a bit more!” she mumbled busily.

“Anyway, right when we were about to place you on the altar, I took a bit of your blood and distributed it to the small potion bottles, you know, ah, in case,” she shrugged. Apparently since Link was pretty much dead at that point anyway, she didn’t think it would be a big deal. 

This woman…

Still, Link was glad. He was shocked yes, but knowing it was his own blood he consumed made his conscience for some reason feel better. It was his fault that he failed, why would he also take the blood from somebody else?

“But again, that’s not the reason that I’m not afraid of you. Well… Of course, you are Linky and that is a reason, but then there are also two other facts.” She withdrew and sat down again and  started flipping through her notebook.

Link looked at Purah after running his tongue through his new fangs again, it was such an odd feeling, yet it still didn’t feel foreign.

“You know, you are the chosen hero, you pulled the Master Sword and all, though Zellie took it back to the woods after uhh, you know, the incident.”

For some reason, instead of making him feel better, the facts bit him. He was a chosen hero that failed, that was the only thing he could focus on. It was the only other thing he could focus on other than the dry itch in his throat. He tried dismissing the thoughts.

“You must have noticed though, after the bottle Impa gave you, your thirst must be even more under control. It should last a while, but at some point you will still probably need some uhm, nourishment. Luckily, you are going to the castle as soon as possible to help Zelda anyway, right?!” Purah was speaking like an Octorok spitting rapid stones.

Of course that was his plan. He wanted to help Zelda, even though he didn’t remember much, he knew it was his duty to do so. It was almost compelling, disturbing.

“What is in it? How can I have more?” He sincerely wanted to know. Compared to what he drank, his own blood, though the feeling of it had been icky, what Impa gave him was better, and he was able to control his urges better. He was able to go through the village, even while slowly walking, and he was able to focus on just carrying the torch. He didn’t think about the delicious treat flowing through the veins of the villagers…

No. 

“Oh, well… That’s of course Zelly’s blood!”

If Link wasn’t already in a statue-like state, he would have frozen.

[lordszarr]

Maybe I’m just schizo but it’s actually so annoying when people kin as one of us like it doesn’t actually suck but what do I know. Let’s all ignore the super old evil vampire lord.

[shuploc]

"A vampire… A slave to sanguine hunger"

[tavs-tressym]

~ A slave to sanguine hunger. ~

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Ptichye Moloko

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Yelena & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Late-night cravings drive you to the kitchen, where you find unexpected solace. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’, Female reader, Reader is a mutant with blood manipulation powers that require her to have regular blood consumption. Slow burn! I have around 10k words of lore for this reader insert, so strap in. Beta read. Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood/blood consumption. (very) Slight descriptions of body horror. References to past trauma/violence. Word count: 3.1k

Some days were easier than others. That sanguine hunger that churned in the depths of your stomach was only a distant hum, a sound so quiet you had to tune the rest of the world out to hear. That was before the Thunderbolts, when Valentina still held both the carrot and the stick.

When Valentina dangled fresh meat over your nose, and you devoured it like the pathetic dog you were. You were always fulfilled, at least in terms of blood; you always had a victim you bled dry, and another lined up. The last eight years as a mercenary was mindless work with a simple objective: kill. Valentina used you as a warning to anyone who didn't play nice.

Things were different now as a 'New Avenger'; killing was usually frowned upon, and deaths were few and far between. So, the hum grew louder, eating at your insides like the parasite your power was.

The Thunderbolts tried to work together to find a solution, trying to think back to your old Avengers days when you had weekly blood transfusions, but after being fed for so long, it wasn't enough any more. After trial and error, the Tower's refrigerator became your own personal blood pantry—rows of crimson bags organised by type, each one a salvation from the need you fought harder than any enemy to keep contained.

Although transfusions were more desirable for everyone else to witness, feeding directly into your stomach was the most potent way to get blood into your system. At first, you took to carrying a matte black tumbler everywhere, but eventually, you grew tired of Walker's lingering gaze whenever you took a sip, his eyes fixating on the ruby stains between your teeth, his expression a shade of disgust, though he tried to hide it.

So now you only drank in the dead of night, in the comfort of your room.

But tonight was different. The day had been a special kind of hell—cameras flashed in your face during the press conference, and fighting the 'villain of the week' drained you mentally and, from using your powers, physically.

Now the kitchen, your last lifeline, remained frustratingly occupied. The rest of the Thunderbolts found themselves orbiting in the kitchen long into the night, some impromptu debriefing (that you refused to attend) became aimless conversation, their voices drifting down the hallway like a barrier between you and salvation.

It wasn't until the bright, glaring red numbers on the clock beside you read 2:12 AM that silence settled, and the telltale sound of footsteps began fading.

You waited for twenty, painstakingly long, minutes. Counting each second like a prisoner counting down the days until sweet release. You slipped from underneath the silk covers of your blanket, your mattress groaned against your weight, as if telling you to stay. Your feet made no sound against the marble flooring of the tower. The hallway stretched before you, room after room, two with light peeking out from under the cracks of the door.

Your senses picked up on the smell of fresh exposed blood just two floors down, and you could almost taste the metallic tang dancing on your tongue. You took the stairs, descending with irregular clumsiness, one hand trailing the wall for balance as a wave of dizziness reminded you how desperately you needed blood. The communal floor was supposed to be empty, dormant like the rest of the Tower.

Yet as you approached the kitchen, your nostrils flared as they caught something. Something sweet, a flavourful mixture of cocoa powder, sugar, butter, and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. You froze mid-step, cursing silently. Someone was still awake.

Yelena was in clear view, her head buried deep into a cookbook. For a second, you thought about turning around and retreating into the confines of your room, but the painful stab of your veins convulsing brought you back to your senses. "You're not as quiet as you think," Yelena said without looking up.

Her hair was messily piled behind her head, and she wore comfortable-looking faded flannel pyjama pants and an old, beat-up white tank top. "I could hear you pounding down the stairs," Yelena continued, now looking up. Her eyebrows furrowed deep into her glabella, her top lip arching upwards in slight shock. "You look like shit. You okay?" You remained in the doorway, caught between pain and the unexpected intimacy of seeing Yelena do something so domestic.

"Drained," you replied, quick and rougher than intended. Pattering down to the fridge, you swung it open with shaking hands. Yelena nodded in quiet understanding and looked back down at the bowl in front of her. You scrambled for any bag you could reach, your hands gripping tightly at the first one you touched. The liquid sloshed around in the clear bag as you twisted the valve at the top and wrapped your lips firmly around the nozzle.

The first mouthful hit your system like electricity, flooding your withered veins with life. You tried to suppress the small sound of relief that escaped your throat, but failed. Behind you, Yelena continued working, the rhythmic sound of a whisk hitting against the side of a bowl providing a strangely soothing backdrop. No questions. No staring. No judgment.

“What are you making?” you asked after a moment, your voice already stronger, the tremor in your hands subsiding as the blood worked its magic. 

“Ptichye Moloko," Yelena replied, her hand working tirelessly, whisking a white, sweet-smelling mixture. “Couldn't sleep.” You nodded, understanding without needing elaboration. You all had your coping mechanisms. You stepped around the kitchen island and sat on a stool in front of Yelena. 

“My mother used to bake,” you offered quietly, “Challah, mainly.” You smiled crookedly, your thoughts trailing off, unprepared for the memory's sudden vividness, the smell of your mother's kitchen from a century ago. You finished off the rest of the blood bag and placed it to the side; your veins were fuller now, yet the relief was fleeting. You recognised the hollow echo still reverberating beneath your skin. You had stretched yourself too far this time, waiting until you were running on fumes.

One bag merely took the edge off; your body, depleted from your powers' exertions, demanded more.

Yelena didn't push for more, instead responding with, “If you're still awake in an hour, you can try it.” You bobbed your head; you should have returned to the solitude of your room, hidden behind the walls you had spent so long meticulously building, but instead, you found yourself walking beside Yelena to get a better look at the cookbook. It was in Russian, of course. 

“I can help, but my Russian is rusty,” you said, your eyes scanning over the words you understood. Yelena's eyebrow arched slightly, but she nodded toward the refrigerator.

“Fridge. Third shelf. Heavy cream. I hope your arm isn't weak.” A small laugh escaped your lips, unexpected but genuine. You retrieved the heavy cream from the fridge, grabbing another blood bag. You placed it on the counter beside you, trying to be casual about it. Yelena's gaze flicked to it briefly, then back to her bowl without comment. “Put it in a bowl and whip it, I'll say when you're done.” You poured the cream and began whisking it by hand; the repetitive motion was almost meditative, and for a moment, you forgot about the blood bag sitting inches away. 

“You said you knew Russian?” Yelena asked, now adding the layer of pale, thick cake into a pan. 

"Yeah. Natasha taught me. Taught me English, too," you replied tentatively, hand gripping your spatula slightly tighter in anticipation of Yelena's response. A shaky breath left Yelena's nostrils, but her mouth remained tightly shut. 

"She liked Ptichye," she said, eventually, her throat closing. "You're almost done." You felt the familiar ache rising again, eyeing the blood bag. "Just drink it," Yelena said without looking up, her hands reaching underneath a cupboard, returning with a small pot. Heat flushed in your cheeks at the notion of being caught staring. You stuttered for a moment, fumbling around for a reply. 

"I usually don't have it in front of others." 

"Why?" Yelena asked, "Because Walker? He's disgusted by everything. Yesterday I saw him scowling at my guinea pig." A laugh bubbled up from your chest. 

"People think it's weird, disgusts them. Reminds them I'm…" You drifted off, trying to focus all your attention on the stiff peaks forming in your bowl.

"Different?" Yelena finished, shaking her head. "When I was young, they made us sleep with our ankles tied to the bed frame. Every morning, my skin was raw." She lightly pressed one of the stove's digital buttons, which beeped in response. "Everyone has their scars. Some are easier to hide than others." You reached across the kitchen island as you twisted the valve and brought it to your lips; you braced yourself for the recoil you'd come to expect, but Yelena continued pouring chocolate chips into the warmed pot atop the stove, completely unfazed.

"Smells good in here," a small voice said quietly from the kitchen's door frame. You jumped lightly, immediately wiping any remnants of blood from around the rim of your mouth. Bob stood stock still on the cold flooring, his bare feet restlessly fidgeting. His hands twiddled around with the bottom seam of his blue pyjama jumper. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Couldn't sleep. Could smell someone cooking."

He lingered in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light, his shadow stretching across the kitchen tiles. He shifted his weight awkwardly for a moment longer before walking in and sitting on a barstool. His eyes fluttered to the blood bag in your hand before snapping back up to your eyes. You smiled back at him, revealing your blood-stained teeth. 

"Bird latex," you said, presenting your bowl of whipped cream to Bob. Yelena burst out in laughter, her eyes creasing in the corners. She shook her head, her hand preoccupied with mixing the melting chocolate. 

"Bird milk. Ignore her, Bob, she is terrible at Russian." Bob's mouth hung open, his brow furrowing as if decoding a cypher. A soft "oh" escaped him. 

"It's just mousse and chocolate icing, I think." You took another mindless sip from the blood bag as you thought, moving to sit beside Bob, "Yelena's right, my Russian is terrible." The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, only broken by the soft clinking of Yelena's spoon against the pot of melting chocolate. 

"Do you want to help?" Yelena asked, glancing at Bob quickly from behind her shoulder. Bob straightened, his shoulders tensing slightly before he nodded. "You can start assembling," Yelena instructed, pointing to the pan with cake layered at the bottom. "Cakes in. So start cream, then cake again. When I'm done, we'll put the chocolate on top." As Bob moved to help, you watched with silent amusement. He hadn't commented on your drinking, nor cared that your teeth were stained, or your breath gave off a metallic tang with every word. His eyes shot up to where your eyes watched him. 

A drop of blood dripped from your mouth and trickled down the side of your lip. Bob watched it slowly descend the curvature of your lip before your thumb swooped it up, sliding a red streak across your chin. Your tongue darted from the side of your mouth and lapped it from your finger in one careful swoop.

His Adam's apple bobbed slowly in his throat, mouth suddenly dry from watching your unintentional performance. He shook his head repeatedly, trying to remove the inappropriate imagery from his thoughts. Trying to focus on scooping up the spoonfuls of cream into the pan, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if he was defusing a bomb rather than forming a cake.

"You know," Bob said as he waited for the dessert to settle before adding another layer, "I've been thinking about starting a garden on the rooftop. Growing things. Walker says it's a waste of time, but…" He shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished. 

"Walker," Yelena rolled her eyes, "has a heart of wet cardboard." You laughed in reply and discreetly dipped your finger into the bowl of whipped cream in Bob's arms, gesturing to him in a silent plea not to tell Yelena. 

"I could help. I think it'd be a good use of all that space," you replied, and Bob's face brightened in response. 

"Really? Do you know anything about plants?"

"No," you admitted, bluntly. "But I'm a quick learner." You shrugged your shoulders and leaned back on the stool. The stove turned off with a distinctive 'beep', followed by Yelena holding a warm pot of melted chocolate. 

"You had some, didn't you?" Yelena accused, her head tilting sideways as she stared down at you. 

"No," you lied, raising the blood bag to your lips with deliberate nonchalance. You gestured with the half-empty pouch clutched in your other hand, as if its very existence disqualified your involvement. "Ask Bob." Yelena's gaze shifted to your teammate, whose guilty expression hung between you. Before words could leave his lips, you corrected yourself, "Don't ask Bob," your voice softening as a smirk bloomed across your face. Bob's laughter mingled with the clink of his spoon against glass as he settled it down, his work finished.

Yelena poured the warm chocolate over the layered dessert in one smooth motion, creating a glossy coating that immediately began to set against the cold layers. She picked it up by the base of the tray, opening the fridge with her spare hand. "It needs to set," Yelena stated, sliding the dessert into the refrigerator. "Forty minutes. Minimum."

You groaned in response, finishing off the rest of your blood bag, and you placed it beside the other empty one. You felt your power flow back into your veins, you could hear everything again - the subtle heartbeats underneath layers of clothes and skin and the sound of blood rushing through veins and travelling through hearts. All of it under your command. 

"I'll wash," you offered, sliding off your stool. The least you could do was help clean up after they'd accepted your feeding without comment.

"I'll dry," Bob added. He brought all the utensils he could gather at once to the side of the sink and grabbed one of the dish cloths. Yelena looked momentarily surprised before stepping back and raising her hands.

You settled into a rhythm, washing each utensil haphazardly and passing it to Bob, who dried it with practised fluency. It was repetitive, boring, but oddly comforting. No mission plans, no next steps, just bubbles and wrinkled hands.

Yelena had taken her temporary leave upstairs at some point, stating she'd be back down when the cake was done, leaving just you and Bob washing dishes side-by-side. "This is nice," Bob said, his voice so quiet that if you hadn't just turned off the water, you wouldn't have heard it. 

"What is?" you asked, although part of you already knew. 

"This," he gestured vaguely around the kitchen, a dripping cup still in his hand. "Normal things. Together." You smiled in response, dipping your hands back into the water-filled sink. You handed Bob the last bowl and drained the sink, watching the soapy water swirl away. 

"The garden," you said, turning to Bob. "What would you grow?" His eyes stayed focused on the bowl in his hands. 

"Anything I couldn't kill easily. I have a black thumb." You laughed in reply, tucking a piece of loose hair back with your shoulder. You couldn't help but stare at him for a moment, his face was slightly flushed, a light shade of pink.

Your ears focused on the rhythmic pattering of his heartbeat against his rib cage, steady but fierce. Your bottom lip found itself slowly trapped beneath your front teeth as you stared him down. You gulped hard, feeling the thick saliva crawl down the crevice of your throat.

"I'll buy a book," you grabbed the cloth from Bob's hands, gently pulling it from his grasp. "Start simple. Tomatoes, onions, garlic." You wiped your hands with the moist cloth, and Bob's eyes followed the movement. 

"I have a book in my room, got it a long time ago when I first had the idea." He trailed off and, realising he was starting to ramble, attempted to backtrack. "But, I mean, you can still get a book. My one is probably dusty by now, I don't even think I remember where I put it." You stopped him with a light touch on the shoulder.

"If you're not tired, after cake, we can go to your room and start planning. No clue when we'll get the next chance." His thin lips twisted into a stunned smile, and he nodded repeatedly.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your conversation, and Yelena reappeared in the doorway, a thick cardigan over her tank top. "Cake's probably done."

"Never thought I'd see the day," you said, turning around. "Yelena Belova, deadly assassin, waiting impatiently for cake to set." Yelena shot you a look. 

"And I never thought I'd see the day when the notorious bloodhound 'Vampyra' would be washing my dishes." She bit back.

"Not a Bloodhound any more," you corrected. The nickname didn't sting like it used to. "Just a regular dog. House-trained and everything." Bob laughed, and even Yelena's lips bent up. Yelena walked down to the fridge and observed the cake - it still needed more time. Instead, she pulled out the dessert and examined it. 

"It'll do," she decided, setting it on the counter. She took a knife and cut into it with no technique at all, revealing the uneven layers of cake and cream. She handed a crumbling slice to Bob and you. The stickiness attached to the skin on your hands, leaving chocolatey brown stains in its wake. You took a bite, the sweetness of the chocolate juxtaposing the stark taste of blood still resting on your tongue. It wasn't unpleasant. Bob took a much larger bite, his expression instantly softening into delight.

"This is amazing," he mumbled through the mouthful. You nodded in agreement, taking another bite of your slice. "Do you think we should do this more often?" You looked down at the cake in your hand, uncomfortable with the tenderness. 

"Why not?" Yelena said, her expression unperturbed, her voice slightly muffled by her mouthful of cake. "Kitchen's always here." You looked up to find Bob eyeing you, waiting for your verdict. 

"Sure, I'm up most nights anyway." 

[nis-si-hellhole]

missing him (a video game character whose game i can open at literally any time)

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement

Summary: You managed to convince Astarion not to go through with the rite of profane ascension. He remains a vampire spawn, and you now offer your blood from time to time to help with his sanguine hunger until a solution is found.

Even though you had both decided to stay as friends back in Moonrise Towers, lines begin to blur once more as other cravings come to the surface… and things with Astarion are seldom uncomplicated.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Rating: Explicit/18+

Setting: Canon compliant. Post-endgame.

Warnings (will be added as the series progresses): Blood drinking. Pining. Biting. Sexual tension. Mentions of past abuse. Explicit smut.

Chapter 1 - Bloodlust

Chapter 2 - In Between

Chapter 3 - Inconvenience

Chapter 4 - Solution

Chapter 5 - Confrontation

Chapter 6 - Broken

Chapter 7 - Tension

Chapter 8 - Revelations

Chapter 9 - The Arrangement

Chapter 10 - A New Way

Chapter 11 - First Light

Chapter 12 - In the Beginning

Chapter 13 - Tempest

Chapter 14 - Trance

Chapter 15 - Acquaintances

Chapter 16 - When All Things End

Masterlist . AO3 (cross-posted there)

[ccazimi]

Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1

cw: vampire hunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...???, blood (blood drinking, mild gore), violence/torture (electrocution), sadism, usage of a shock collar, petplay, male masturbation, facial, humiliation/degradation, forced submission, piv sex, very mild anal play (more like teasing), hatefucking, creampie, major character death including murder-suicide, angst wc: 12k a/n: i listened to ma meilleure ennemie while writing the ending and lowkey cried ummm also i didn't edit this i'll clean it up tmr sorry if it's a bit rough

songs i listened to while writing this part

me again - 12 rounds

stitch in time - genitorturers

ma meilleure ennemie - stromae, pomme, arcane

You drift in and out of a restless mockery of sleep the next day, dreams pulling you under in ragged fragments. In some, you’re a child again—perhaps the closest you’ve ever come to feeling human.

Sometimes, you used to pretend you were one of them. But the hunger always ruined it in the end.

Hunger.

Your oldest companion…your only companion.

It’s the thing that defines you, that sets you apart. The reminder that no matter how well you mimic them, you don’t belong. Not to the world of the living, nor the dead. You exist somewhere in between—drifting, untethered.

But there are two absolutes in your reality, two anchors in the dark.

Hunger.

And Sukuna.

The man who was your enemy before you even knew his name. The man whose purpose was to end you—but instead, became bound to you, inexplicably and irrevocably. The man who, despite everything, has become just as much a part of you as the hunger itself.

Hunger and Sukuna.

The two things you can never escape.

And now, they’ve become one and the same.

You should have run, should have fed elsewhere, done anything.

But instead, you lay tangled in fever-damp sheets that still smell like him, every nerve fraying, every breath dry with wanting.

You wake with a jolt—head heavy, limbs trembling. His blood still burns through your veins like venom, sweet and spoiled.

You're not just hungry—you're sick.

The room is quiet in the evening that has settled like a bruise.

He hasn’t killed you. Maybe he’s waiting—for you to crawl, beg, break.

You move slowly, swallowing your weakness and forcing your steps to be deliberate.

His scent draws you to the living room… and there he is. Sprawled out on the couch like a predator at rest. Shirt open, glass of liquor dangling between his fingers, looking completely at ease.

Like he’s not the reason you’ve been wrecked for the last twenty-four hours.

The wound on his neck is closed now, but the bruising’s deepened—an angry, violent purple. Evidence of your teeth.

Your throat still burns, your stomach’s a churning knot, but it's deeper than hunger.

It’s worse.

You feel like you're rotting without more of him—yet at the same time, your body is rejecting it.

“What the hell did you put in your blood?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, but steady.

Sukuna doesn't blink. Just tilts his glass, gaze lazily dragging down your body—your flushed skin, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“I didn’t take anything,” he says evenly.

You stare at him, trying to read the lie. But there isn’t one, and unfortunately you believe him. You tasted it last night. There was nothing foreign, just him.

How perfect, then. That the blood that’s rivaled yours for generations would be the one that makes you sick.

And the one you crave more than anything else you've ever tasted.

The irony would be almost funny if it didn’t feel like it was killing you.

But then, another thought pierces through the haze.

“…Not even antivenom?”

You fed from him enough that his mind should be bowing to your will. The average man would become obsessed with you from a single bite, and while Sukuna isn't the average man it's odd that there was no reaction at all.

He snorts. “Don’t need it for a sucker as weak as you. Wouldn’t do shit to me anyway.”

You grind your teeth but force yourself to stay neutral, prowling toward him with slow steps.

“I’m hungry.”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, more amused than anything, and lifts his glass for another slow sip.

“That so?”

You swallow your irritation, keeping your voice level.

“Yes.”

Finally, he looks at you fully—his eyes glinting with something sharp, yet cruelly playful.

“And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to do about that?”

Your jaw tightens.

He knows. Of course he does. He always does.

Sees right through you—down to the marrow, to the way your body hums with sickness and longing, wound tight with want.

“I need more.”

You don’t beg, don’t bother to soften it, just lay it bare.

His lips curl.

“Need?”

He leans forward slightly, the lazy shift of weight somehow predatory. “Didn’t take long for you to turn into a little addict, huh?”

Heat flashes under your skin as your fingers twitch.

You hate the way he says it, like this was always going to happen, like it was his plan all along.

“And?” You step closer. “Are you going to give it to me, or just sit there running your mouth?”

His brows rise, mock-surprised. “Oh? You want me to?”

You bite your tongue as hunger claws at you, tight and wild beneath your ribs. Your throat is dry, pulsing, the remnants of his blood still lingering on your tongue—something divine turned rotten by denial.

Sukuna leans back, head tilting as he studies you.

“Tell me, little leech,” he murmurs, voice smooth and dark. “Which ache are you really asking me to fix?”

Your stomach drops, a shiver crawling up your spine, slow as poison.

Because you don’t know. Not really. Lust, desire, hunger—they’ve twisted into something indistinguishable.

It’s all the same in the end. All a craving for him.

But you won’t flinch, won’t give him that.

Instead you sneer at him. “Why don’t you give me what I want and find out?”

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, I already know.” His voice dips, twisting with something cold.

“Bet you couldn’t even sleep, could you? All squirming, all wound up—” He leans in, voice low and cutting, “—fingers weren’t enough, were they?”

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

One moment, he’s lounging there, glass dangling from his fingers like a dare, smirking like he owns you.

The next, you lunge.

Hunger rips through you, primal and brutal as instinct blots out reason. You’re on him in a blink—fangs bared, claws digging for his jaw, desperate to rip it sideways, to expose the throb of his artery.

But Sukuna is faster.

He pivots—just enough to throw you off balance. Then his palm slams squarely into your sternum and he throws you.

Your spine hits the floor with a crack that leaves the walls shuddering, as pain detonates up your back.

You snarl, writhing, legs lashing out to knock him off and he just laughs.

“Poor little thing,” he sneers, voice honey-thick with mockery. “Left to take care of yourself like some neglected pet. And still—”

His knee drives up between your thighs, cruel and deliberate in the way it grinds into that one aching spot. You gasp—body reacting against your will as heat throbs through your core.

“—you came crawling back.”

You twist, head spinning, teeth snapping toward his throat. They clack as they close around nothing when he jerks back just enough to stay out of range.

“Tch.”

His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your mouth open, fingers digging into your cheeks until your breath shudders.

“What now?” he murmurs, low and cruel. “Acting like some wild animal? No pride left?”

You growl, chest heaving.

You despise how your body responds to his weight, how his scent drowns your thoughts, how his pulse sings in your ears like a curse.

You spit his own words back at him, poison-laced. “And you love it.”

His grin splits wider, something dark flickering behind his eye.

“Maybe I do.”

His lips brush your ear—just breath and heat.

“Did you cry for me last night?” he whispers. “Touch yourself to the thought of me?”

One moment of hesitation—just long enough for him to see it.

His grin sharpens, wicked.

“Ohhh… You did, didn’t you?”

Rage detonates.

You snap again, harder, fangs out, strength flaring wild as you thrust your torso upwards.

Impact.

Your back slams into the floor again with a crack loud enough to splinter the wood.

In your stomach, something lurches, your brain pounding with that toxic blood coursing through it.

Still, even in your feverish, sickened state, you can't stop.

You twist like a rabid thing, clawing and bucking, fingers slashing until he catches your arm mid-swing and twists.

The crack of your bone is sharp and awful, pain lancing up your arm like lightning.

You scream—but not from fear.

From fury.

He slams your wrist down, pinning it to the floor. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your air.

“Pathetic,” he breathes.

You manage a snarl through clenched teeth. “Fuck you.”

He laughs. Horribly delighted.

“You can’t even touch me,” he mocks. “What, all that hunger, and this is the best you’ve got?”

You lash out again, thrashing as much as you can with any free part of your body.

His hand tightens on your throat.

His voice drops lower, like he's talking in pity to some fucking stray. “You’re so hungry, aren’t you?”

You snap, flailing around again, this time with mild success when your long nails catch his cheek deep enough to draw blood.

There's just a flicker of satisfaction in you before his laughter deepens.

He licks the blood from his lip, eyes glowing with some kind of thrill. “Good,” he growls. “That’s more like it.”

Suddenly he lets go, and that's when you feel it—the pain in your arm, the bone he cracked—it's knitting itself back together.

You feel the muscle realigning, sinew fusing. The sound is low, wet, wrong, and then it’s done. You don't have to look to know bruises are already fading from other parts of your skin, scrapes sealing themselves over.

His eyes flick to your arm, watching the contorted limb revert back to its original state, and something in his expression changes.

Not surprise or fear. More like...intrigue.

Dark, vicious intrigue

You try to spring up again, feral instinct overriding thought, and that's exactly what he wanted.

He catches you mid-motion, spins you, and slams you down, face-first this time. The breath is knocked clean from your lungs.

Before you can recover, he’s on you again, weight crushing your back, knee digging into your spine. One hand knots in your hair, yanking your head back, the other twists your arm behind you—just shy of breaking it again.

You thrash, scream, curse.

He just chuckles.

“I should break you. You’re too stupid to quit.”

Your vision swims red. Maybe because he's partially right.

His knee presses harder into your back, then something cold brushes your neck.

Metal.

Click.

A collar.

You freeze; not from fear, but recognition.

The pressure on your arm eases slightly, just enough for your fingers to reach your throat as you claw at the cool metal. It won't budge.

Beep.

Your pulse spikes.

Sukuna leans close as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Try to take it off,” he whispers, “and I might just test it on you.”

You go still, but your eyes blaze.

He trails a slow finger along the edge of the collar. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

His hand tightens just enough to make you swallow, to make you feel it.

Something inside you snaps in panic, like a wild animal realizing it's been caged in and exploding. Against your better judgement, you try to go for him again.

Another mistake.

The moment your arm swings up, there's pain.

White-hot, searing, blinding pain.

The collar pulses with raw electric current, slamming through your body. You scream as your muscles seize, legs collapsing till your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Your back arches and every nerve burns.

And through the agony, you hear his laughter.

Finally the waves stop and he crouches beside you, watching the way your body twitches from the aftershocks.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” he purrs.

You shake, but you don’t cry. There's a cloyingly sweet smell, and you realize with disgust it's the smell of your flesh cooking.

Your teeth bare as you glare up at him, every breath a battle though your body is already regenerating.

“Oh?” he taunts. “Still got fight left?”

You snarl, body trembling, fangs glinting.

Click.

The second shock hits harder, the healing process interrupted as your whole body jerks, bones slamming against the floor. Your scream rips free, raw and ragged.

Light blooms behind your eyes, fracturing your vision.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking already?”

He watches your fingers spasm, watches the flicker of humiliation in your eyes.

Then, he caresses your cheek.

“Did you really think you could take from me?” he whispers.

You twitch under his touch—still burning, still raging.

But bound and helpless.

Suddenly, beneath the sharp, acrid sting of singed skin, you smell it. That same scent from last night — alkaline and musky.

Your stomach twists as your gaze drops slowly, unwillingly, and there it is — a bulge, obvious and undeniable.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but revulsion as you shudder.

He’s hard.

Your stomach roils. You want to claw his other eye out, rip his throat open, scream.

God, you hate him.

“You get what I decide to give you." His smirk turns into something heinous. "And tonight? You get nothing."

Then, just to drive it home, he pats your cheek and stands, leaving you there—collared, quivering, burning with humiliation, hunger, hatred.

You wake up seething.

Your body aches, your pride is in shreds, and worst of all, the collar is still there. A cruel weight around your throat, snug against delicate skin, mocking you with its presence.

You fumble with it for a few minute, to absolutely no avail as the lock holds, unmoving. No matter how hard you tug, no matter how raw your skin burns, it doesn’t budge.

Fucking bastard.

The door creaks. Footsteps.

You don’t need to look up; Sukuna’s presence is suffocating.

“Morning, pet.”

Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms.

His voice is too amused, too self-satisfied, and it takes everything in you not to lunge at him on sight.

He crouches, tilting his head as if examining you.

“Oh? No snarling today? No pathetic little threats?” He grins, eyes dancing with delight. “You’re not pouting, are you?”

You whip your head up, glaring daggers.

He laughs. Loud, open, unbothered.

“Ahhh. There it is.” His fingers flick under your chin, forcing your head up higher. “That pissed-off little glare. Always so mad.”

Your lip curls. “I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

Sukuna just clicks his tongue.

“Tch. More empty threats? Haven’t we been through this?”

Click.

Pain explodes through your body.

A sharp current crackles through your nerves, muscles locking, lungs seizing as you choke on a strangled gasp. Your vision whites out for a second, fingers digging into the floor you haven't even realized you've collapsed onto.

“You never learn, do you?”

The moment the current stops, your body collapses, gasping, shaking from the aftershocks. Every nerve is burning, but the rage—the rage is blinding.

“Fuck—you,” you snarl, voice ragged, barely above a growl.

Sukuna’s smirk deepens.

"See?" he breathes, trailing lazy fingers along the collar. "That’s why you need training."

Your body tenses.

“You—”

His hand clamps onto your jaw, cutting you off instantly.

"Shhhh." His grip tightens until your teeth grind together, his mocking amusement never faltering. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Fury churns in your chest, a wild, blistering rage—you lash out, but Sukuna’s already waiting for it. The moment you move, his other hand presses the remote.

Click.

Electricity rips through you once again. Your whole body convulses—a ragged scream ripped from your throat as the pain tears through your nerves.

It lasts longer this time. When it finally stops, you double over, chest heaving, limbs trembling uncontrollably.

You snarl, teeth bared, but your body still shakes from the shocks.

"You want me?" he purrs. "Then earn it."

His fingers toy with the collar again, voice dripping with amusement as you pant, catching your breath, feeling your cells renew.

“You do as I say. You behave. And maybe...maybe I’ll reward you.”

Sukuna pulls back, grinning.

“But if you don’t?” His thumb hovers over the remote.

His eyes are bright, thrilled, drinking in your rage, your helplessness.

“Then we keep doing this.” He chuckles. “Again. And again. And again.”

The next day is humiliating.

The collar is tight, an ever-present reminder against your throat. The remote is always in his grip, always a threat, and Sukuna?

Sukuna is having the time of his life.

“Go on.” He gestures toward the floor with a flick of his fingers, voice mocking. “Crawl.”

Your teeth grind.

You stay frozen, muscles coiled, every nerve in your body screaming at you to refuse. To tear him apart, to fight, to kill him.

His smirk widens.

“Oh?” he purrs. “You think you still have a choice?"

Click.

It lasts just long enough to remind you. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you pant through clenched teeth.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he breathes.

Your breath shudders, hands clenching into fists. Your pride screams at you not to, but the threat lingers, hot and buzzing under your skin.

Slowly, your fingers uncurl and your arms lower as you sink down to your hands and knees.

Sukuna grins, victorious.

“Awww,” he croons, eyes gleaming with delight. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Vitriol burns deep, scalding inside you like a toxin. Your hands shake against the floor, your body tense, humiliated, but you can’t react, not if you want to avoid the next shock.

Sukuna leans back against his chair, watching you like something he managed to capture.

“You know,” he muses, “I think I like you like this.”

Your head snaps up, glaring up at him.

His eye flashes, anticipating your outburst, enough to make you bite your tongue as your body tenses, practically able to feel phantom shocks running through it.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, thrilled. “You almost did it, didn’t you? Almost told me to go fuck myself.”

Your teeth grind harder, muscles locking.

Sukuna snickers. “You’re learning.”

Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black cloth, dangling it from two fingers.

“Put this on.”

You blink. “What—?”

“The blindfold,” he says, voice syrupy and cruel. “Now.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t even speak this time—just taps the remote with one nail, the silent threat making your gut churn.

With shaking hands, you take the cloth and tie it over your eyes.

Darkness swallows everything, amplifying every other sense. The sound of his breath. The hum of the lights. The subtle movement of air as he shifts nearby. The faint smell of his bodywash.

You're blind now. Vulnerable and open.

You flinch as you hear him move—closer, closer, until the heat of him is almost brushing your skin.

“Good girl,” he whispers beside your ear.

A hand slides along your cheek, then down—and then you hear footsteps, the noise of him sitting back on the couch.

Silence stretches.

You sit there, blindfolded, the floor cold beneath your knees, every inch of your skin crawling with unease.

A soft rustle, like he’s shifting.

“I should invite someone over,” he says idly, like he’s thinking aloud. “Let them see how obedient you are. How pretty you look when you’re quiet.”

He laughs softly at the way you stiffen.

“Relax,” he drawls. “Not today. But maybe someday.”

You hear the clink of glass and ice. A drink being poured.

“Spread your knees.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

Click.

A jolt of pain zips across your spine—sharp, fast, enough to make you flinch and gasp.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he murmurs.

You force your muscles to obey, sliding your knees apart against the floor.

There’s a long, deliberate pause.

You hear him take a sip of his drink, the clink of ice again.

“Hands behind your back.”

Another pause, but you obey.

Your breathing is loud now, uneven, as you sit there, nerves wracked in anxious anticipation.

Sukuna hums in approval as you sit, rage rolling off you in waves as you’re forced to kneel before him like some kind of god.

“Good. Just stay like that, alright?” he purrs, followed by the sound of a zipper being undone.

Your eyes widen beneath the mask of black, like they’re straining to see through the fabric.

“What the fuck—” You pause, reluctantly correcting yourself. “What are you doing?”

Another rustling and then the scent of his pre-spend hits your nostrils, stirring something in you, between your thighs.

“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The soft sound of skin being stroked.

You swallow, heart in your throat as you pick up gentle shucking sounds, followed by the sharp hiss of a breath sucked in between teeth.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, a little rougher.

“But pets don’t get to ask questions. They just need to sit there and look pretty.”

You keep silent, unsure how to feel right now.

You’re still entirely clothed — he could’ve made you undress, touch yourself, do anything at all to get off to. And instead he’s jerking off just at the sight of you helpless and compliant.

Bowed in submission.

“Tell me how much you hate me.”

You blink, straining to pick up any deception in his voice. Some kind of trap, surely.

“I don’t know what you mean…” you mutter unsurely.

A throaty breath escapes him as you hear his pace picking up slightly.

“Exactly what I said. I know you’ve got some nasty little things you’re just dying to spit out.”

You hesitate.

“Or—” The sharp click of his nails tapping on the remote.

Your breath stutters.

“I hate you,” you blurt, chest rising and falling too fast. “I hate everything about you.”

He hums, pleased, the slick sound of him pumping his cock becoming louder, more intense. “Keep going.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re cruel. Sadistic. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He says nothing.

You push forward, heart pounding, the smell of his pre cum flooding your keen senses, making you salivate even as you spit the venom you hold for him.

“You enjoy watching people suffer. You enjoy watching me suffer.”

A deep groan cuts through the air—low, filthy, pleased. It makes your stomach twist and your skin burn in humiliation.

You know he’s getting off on this, but you can’t help yourself, not when he’s finally given the chance for you to speak your mind.

Your jaw locks. “Ironic they call me a monster,” you snarl, “when a sick fuck like you gets to walk around free.”

“More,” he rasps. The sound of it is hungry, breathless. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“I wish you were dead,” you whisper, each word trembling with rage. “I wish you’d choke on your own blood, feel every bone in your body snap, scream until your voice gives out.”

His breathing deepens.

“I want to be the one who ends you,” you hiss. “I want to watch you die slow. I want to see the panic crawl across your face when you realize no one’s coming to save you. I want to be the last thing you see before everything goes dark, before you go burn in whatever hell you’re going to.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Filled only with the sound of him jerking his dick, slower right now.

You hear the couch shift as he leans forward, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“There she is,” he purrs. “My little monster.”

You flinch.

His hand slides along your jaw—gentle, almost affectionate.

“You hate me,” he murmurs, “but you’re still here. Still kneeling. Still obeying.”

His fingers trace the edge of your blindfold.

“Tell me why.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, blood roaring in your ears.

He tilts your chin up—his grip firmer now. “Tell me.”

“Because you’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

The word comes out as a growl, and there a second of stroking and low pants before you feel something splatter against your cheek, taking you by surprise.

Warm. Salty. Bitter.

His cum spills all over your face, some catching across your nose and lips, dripping down. It feels like bugs crawling on your skin, and you have to fight the urge to wipe off the virile fluid now painting you.

It smells like his precum, but stronger. Hotter. Alive.

Finally you feel no fresh spurts landing on you as the sound of his movement slows, replaced only by his breathing, heavy and satisfied.

You don’t realize your lips are slightly parted until some of the cum trickling down your face tickles the curve of your upper lip.

“I should really take a picture of you like this. What do you think, leech?”

You bite your cheek, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. “I think there’s something really fucking wrong with you.”

Sukuna snickers—no shame, no guilt, just cruel amusement. You hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of his fly. The sound makes your gut twist with something shameful. Your thighs press together instinctively, helpless against the dull, throbbing ache between your legs.

It’s sick. You feel sick.

He’s doing this on purpose.

You know he is.

“…Can I take this off?” you ask quietly, voice frayed at the edges. The blindfold itches, clings.

You want to be alone, want to fall into your sheets and do something—anything—to bleed the heat out of you.

He lets out a breath, bored now. You hear him lean back, the lazy clink of ice against glass.

“Mm. Sure. Whatever.”

A sip.

You fumble at the knot behind your head, fingers shaky. The fabric peels away with a damp, dragging sound, and the sudden light—however dim—makes you squint. Your eyes take a second to adjust.

And then you see him.

Sitting in that chair like a king—loose shirt, legs sprawled, drink in one hand. Still watching you with that unreadable, heavy-lidded gaze. Nothing about him says danger, and yet every part of you feels wired to flee.

Instead, you sit there, skin prickling, shame still thick on your tongue.

You expect him to say something cruel. Another jab, another reminder of who holds the leash.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze lowers to your mouth.

“You’ve been good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t beg. Didn’t bite.”

His eyes flash with something darker, something considering.

“You want a reward?”

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself, just sets his drink down, rolls up his sleeve and turns his wrist over, exposing the unscarred skin of his other forearm.

The knife appears like magic, you didn’t even see him grab it.

There's a clean slice, and a ribbon of red swells instantly.

He holds it out to you.

You freeze, contemplating, mind reeling.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Sukuna says, voice low but sharp now.

You hate him.

You hate him for knowing exactly what this will do to you. For how fast your fangs descend, for the way your pulse howls at the scent.

But most of all, you hate yourself—because your body’s already moving.

You crawl to him.

Every step feels like it costs something, like pride scraped off your ribs, dignity leaking out your eyes. Your knees burn on the floor as you inch forward, closer and closer to where he sits, arm outstretched like an offering from a throne.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

You pause at his feet, breath shallow. The scent is dizzying—copper and warmth and him. Your fingers tremble as they curl around his wrist, guiding it down. His blood drips slow, thick, a thread of red down his arm. Your mouth opens.

And when your lips finally touch his skin, something breaks.

The taste floods you instantly—hot and heady and so much more than it should be. Not just nourishment. Not just survival. It’s him, and it’s power, and it’s control, and you hate it. You hate that you moan softly, that your tongue presses hungrily into the wound, that your hands slide up his arm like you’re holding onto something holy.

And worst of all, he lets you.

You feel his fingers in your hair, slow and steady, as he watches.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your body shudders at the praise. You want to spit it out. You want to tear your mouth away. But your hunger is deeper than your shame, and right now you're starving.

You drink like he’s the only thing keeping your body from unraveling into ash and dust, knowing full well how ill you'll feel later.

The blood is hot, thicker than it should be, each swallow burning its way down your throat, and your limbs tremble as strength seeps back in—strength that comes from him.

But that’s not what breaks you; it's the sound he makes.

A soft exhale almost a sigh—and his grip in your hair tightens, not to stop you, but to keep you there. Like he’s savoring this just as much, the sight of you on your knees, mouth to his skin.

And something inside you twists.

Not with rage, not with grief, but something worse. Something wet and hungry and needy.

You’re not just feeding anymore.

You’re worshipping. The act changes without you realizing it. It’s not frantic or desperate anymore, the way it was before. The hunger is still there, but it’s become more—soothing, almost tender in its own dark way. Your lips are gentle against his skin, your tongue tracing the wound with a kind of reverence. The movement is soft, almost hypnotic, and it feels like a surrender, a quiet admission that you’ve already given in to him more than you care to acknowledge.

Because you’re already there—somewhere past the threshold of shame, in that liminal space where pain and power collapse into pleasure. Where your body has stopped belonging to your will, and now belongs to.

And finally you pull away, almost against your own will, as the blood continues to course in your veins, heightening every nerve, every sensation. But something about the intensity, the closeness, makes it too much.

The hunger in you, the desperation—it’s suffocating.

You let his wrist go, slowly, and your hands fall to your sides, trembling from the pull of everything you’ve just given away.

Sukuna’s presence hovers over you, almost tangible, his eyes never leaving you. It’s as though he’s waiting for something more—waiting for you to crack open completely. But you can’t. Not like this. Not yet.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you focus on your breath, on the way your body seems to react to the smallest movements. Heat simmers under your skin, traveling elsewhere, somewhere it shouldn't.

Something urgent, that will need to be taken care of soon.

The room feels too small now, stifling, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. His smirk hasn’t faded, but there’s something cold in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before.

“You’re weak,” he says quietly, but the words lack their usual bite... they sound almost measured, as though he’s seeing something new in you.

Or perhaps, you’ve shown him too much.

You don’t answer. You can’t bear to hear him anymore.

It’s not even two more days, yet time passes slower when every second feels like torture.

Every waking minute with that fucking collar around your neck, with him making you do whatever humiliating trick that he fancies at the moment.

There’s something uniquely horrifying about being a supernatural being with healing capabilities, yet the capacity to feel pain like any other living creature.

And there’s something unique about the pain of being electrified.

It isn’t like stabbing or burning, no, it’s an invasive type of pain that hijacks the entire neurological system, fires every pain receptor at once, inside and outside.

Put the two together and you get a body that can never adapt—because each time the nerve damage from the shocks is repaired perfectly.

Calluses, scars, numbness— these are adaptive responses. Things you don’t get.

So every click of that remote, every electrocution feels like the first.

No dulling, no immunity. The pain never gets easier—of having every muscle in your body seize, of feeling like your nerves are on fire, smelling your skin sizzle.

And though your body may reset, your brain doesn’t.

The end result is feeling powerless in a uniquely feral way, because the one thing you can’t regenerate is control.

So you bow your head, do what he wants. Endure the humiliation rituals. The demeaning words. You hate them, but you learn that to ignore them is self-preservation.

But then he pushes too far. Sukuna's always been good at finding what really makes you tick.

“God, you’re so weak it’s pathetic.”

And as usual, you don’t reply, keeping your gaze lowered. But it’s his next words, that spark something bitter in you.

“Probably runs in the blood. Mm, what happened to your parents again?” He scoffs as you stiffen. “Killed off by some amateur fucking hunters. Now that’s humiliating.”

There's a shift in you, but you push it down and just stare blankly, at the floor, the wall—anywhere but him.

Anywhere safe.

And yet it festers—that sound in his voice, that smirk you can feel even without seeing it. It grows like pressure behind your eyeballs, a dizzying sensation in your brain.

Because you’ve taken everything—every insult, every jolt, every order barked with that false, velvet calm.

But this is different. He doesn’t just want you obedient; he wants you small.

And for the first time in days, you feel it—a flicker of something wild, a heat that doesn’t come from the shocks.

At first it’s a twitching in your jaw, but then your fingers curl just slightly as it builds like a pressure throbbing in your skull.

You wish you could control it—keep pushing it down, stay smart, stay quiet—but it’s done. The dam breaks.

There's no warning when you abruptly pounce towards him.

He doesn’t expect it, but instinctively the button on the remote is pressed, and that now familiar pain overtakes your system.

This time however, by some streak of luck, you continue to swipe at him with your flailing limbs, aiming loosely for the remote held midair.

It falls to the ground, and in an instant the shocks stop, your body already putting itself back together.

There’s a single second, one of those few moments where genuine surprise flashes across his face.

A hint of worry even, maybe.

Too late.

Your heel stomps onto it, the material giving way with a brittle crack, and something inside you unhinges with it.

Silence. A flicker of eye contact, and a wicked grin unfurling across your lips.

Then you move, but Sukuna’s already calibrated then, adapted to the new circumstances.

The fight explodes—fast, brutal, feral.

No strategy, no restraint, just raw nerve and muscle and memory. The blur of bodies crashing against walls, teeth flashing, claws slashing. Your claws rake across his side, catching skin along with the cloth and peeling it back with a wet sound that makes your stomach knot, but you don’t stop. He blocks, counters, but you’re not the same thing you were moments ago, not when your blood sings with rage, your limbs moving faster than thought, all sharp instincts and hunger.

He underestimates how long you've been waiting for this, how long you've needed this, how much of your rage you've been collecting.

Your shoulder takes the brunt of a punch that sends you sprawling against the wall. Plaster explodes in a white puff around you, and a rib gives with a sickening crack. Pain lances through your spine like lightning—but you're already up again, fangs bared. Blood clings to your lip, not all yours. Some of it you can taste—copper and heat, familiar now.

Addictive.

No more snarky comments, no more clicks or shocks erupting from the metal around your neck, only the sound of fists hitting flesh, of bone cracking under pressure.

You drive him back, but he’s laughing. He’s grinning—if the borderline maniacal expression on his face can even be called that, something so exhilarated that it makes your own skin buzz, fueling you more.

You feel your body burning, every nerve awake, every injury healing almost as fast as it happens, but not fast enough to avoid pain. No, you feel everything.

But this time, the pain feels almost like catharsis.

You spit blood, swipe your hand across your mouth, and launch again.

You don't know how long you fight, but it must have been long, with the way your strikes start to lose precision. His too. Sloppier now, desperate.

Everything that could’ve been a weapon has been—shattered chairs, broken lamps, jagged pieces of the coffee table now scattered like shrapnel across the floor.

Half the room’s destroyed, maybe more.

Sukuna is a ruin—his body a map of fresh wounds and older ones split open. Bruises bloom along his ribs, one arm hangs slightly looser in its socket, his lip is split, nose flattened, and even the scarred hollow where his eye used to be is bleeding.

You don’t wear your wounds the same way. You heal, yes, but even that comes with a price. Your body screams with fatigue, not just from the blows but from the endless, greedy churn of regeneration.

It’s slower now. Faltering. Some of your skin still glistens with that pale, translucent sheen of half-healed flesh—sticky, pink, leaking the thin serum that comes before blood. Other gashes are raw and red, torn back open mid-repair by the next hit, or the one after.

You're dripping, and trembling, but not from fear.

Every time you think you've hit your limit, your body finds one more burst of energy. And so does he. You’re both running on fumes and fury now, nothing left but nerve and instinct and the memory of pain.

You don’t see it coming.

One second you’re lunging, the next—he catches your momentum, turns it against you. Your back slams into the edge of a wooden table with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through your body, but you barely register it; you're already twisting, half instinct, half calculation—until he’s there again.

His chest crashes into yours, and the next moment, you're pinned. His body drives forward, shoving you hard against the table, the shock collar biting into your throat.

Your breath stutters.

The position feels wrong, and yet, it feels like everything you want, have been wanting—his weight on top of you, something dangerous in his eyes, something hungry.

“Still fighting?” he growls, rolling his hips into yours, slow and heavy, a taunt made of friction. You hate the gasp it forces from your lips.

You bare your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He smirks, all teeth. “Not yet.”

You thrash, but his grip just tightens—like he’s daring you to break.

“You hate this,” he whispers against your ear, his breath electric. “But you’re shaking. Not just from anger, either.”

Your nails carve red into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins wider.

“I should kill you,” you hiss.

“You’ve tried.” His hand drags down neck, till your chest, giving one of your heaving breasts a testing squeeze.

“Fuck—Get off me,” you growl, breathless.

“Make me.” The challenge hangs there, hot and sharp, as he deliberately presses the hardness in his pants against you.

You snarl and buck, fury boiling up—but his voice drops lower, more dangerous.

“Mm, keep fighting. It just gets me harder."

A jolt of white-hot shame and arousal flashes through you. The shock collar burns your throat with every movement, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs, desire flaring despite every instinct telling you to resist.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as he leans in close, split lips ghosting over the corner of yours.

“Makes two of us then, I guess,” he murmurs with a dark laugh.

His lips capture yours in a hard, almost bruising kiss, and you try to resist, but the taste of him is overwhelming, the tip of your tongue automatically darting out to lick the blood seeping from the cut. It's sweeter here.

Your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs wrapping around his waist in spite of yourself, pulling him closer.

And Sukuna relishes it.

Every struggle, every breathless gasp, every moment of broken resistance only makes him more satisfied, more hungry for the fight, for the chaos, for the way you’re teetering on the edge of everything.

“Such a good little pet,” he whispers, his voice low and mocking as he grinds against you one last time.

“Su—kuna, please—” you choke out, unbearable heat burning you all over, more and more slick pooling into your panties as his bulge rubs into you. You hear him exhale when you tightens your legs around his waist further to match his movements with your own undulating hips, grinding your clothed cunt onto his erection.

“Please what?” He breathes, though you can tell he’s barely holding on himself, holding onto every last bit of his self control.

“Please fuck me.”

With those three words his hands are on the waist of your pants, ripping them off, sliding them down along with your panties in a borderline feral urgency. There’s almost a kind of relief when you finally get them off, falling to the ground, feeling your dripping cunt finally freed from the confines of clothing.

His gaze is ravenous—almost mirroring your own hunger—as he pushes you further onto the table, yanking your legs apart to forcefully spread them so he can see the sticky mess between your thighs.

You pant softly as he looks your pussy up and down, eye darkening as it roves over your puffy folds, your leaking hole clenching over nothing, his lip curling into a smirk.

“Aww all this for me?” he coos, before abruptly spanking your swollen clit with one hand. The impact makes you jolt, involuntarily letting out a small whine. “Does my pet need her needy little hole filled?”

You just sob in desperation — that burning, horrible ache only worsening with how close you are. “Y-Yes…”

“Finally honest for once, are we?” he hums, before pushing your legs up all the way to your chest and taking one of your hands to hook it behind your knee. “Here. Keep yourself held open like a good slut. Think you can do that?”

Anger pricks at you again, but you bite your lip and nod quietly, following his instructions to hold both your legs folded into you, exposing your holes to him completely.

Perhaps, if your head wasn’t spinning and so utterly lost in the need right now, you’d have some shame.

You watch with eagerly as he frees his cock, eyes widening and then dropping further in lust at the sight of it.

A trail of dark pink hair leads down to the tattooed base of his girthy length, though what really catches your eye is the glint of metal on the underside of his shaft.

Your mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he drinks in your reaction, smirking at you from over the bridge of his nose as he continues to pump his leaking cock at a relaxed pace. “Drooling just at the sight of my cock like a pathetic mutt, huh?”

Your lip curls back slightly as he provokes you again, clearly intent on not letting you live any of this down. But once again, you resist the urge to say anything back, knowing that if you open your mouth nothing good will come out.

The slightly alkaline smell of his precum hits your nostrils again, flaring up your hunger and the ache in your cunt all at once as you wet your lips, watching him with dark eyes.

Sukuna slaps his hard cock on your cunt once, then twice, humming in satisfaction at the soft gasps leaving your lips with each lewd wet smack.

With all your senses on edge, you become even more aware of the uncomfortable metal still wrapped around your neck.

It annoys you.

“Can you remove this thing?” You shift to show him the collar, slightly out of breath already.

He glances at it, unconcerned as he drags his cock through your slick folds, torturing you with the way his piercing catches on your clit. “Mmm, I don’t know. Seeing it on you turns me on.”

Sukuna flashes you a sleazy grin as the tip of his cock, oozing with pearlescent pre, smacks again on your clit. “So quit complaining…you wouldn’t want me to get that remote again, would you?”

Your mouth goes a bit dry, the threat snapping you back to reality just a bit as you obediently shake your head.

“Please.” You swallow. “I just need you in me, Sukuna…” You hold your legs apart a bit wider as you look up at him with pleading eyes, showing him that you’re willing to behave.

“Hm. Guess all that training did pay off,” he muses, flashing you a wicked grin as you feel something prod against the tight rim of your asshole.

Your jaw clenches as you flinch, trying to shrink away. “Fuck, n-not that hole—”

He leans over you, one hand planted firmly by your head as the other holds the tip of his cock, teasingly pushing a bit into your entrance.

“Oh? But didn’t you know?” he coos, breaching the rim just enough to make you squeak in pain. “Dirty sluts like you take it in the ass.”

Sukuna, who was probably expecting you to put up a fight or something, is evidently amused when all you do is pout in the most miserable, helpless way.

“I’ve beaten you up, cut you, drugged you, poisoned you, electrocuted you, and this is what you’re scared of? Anal?” he snickers.

“I can’t… I’ve never done it before, you’ll tear me apart…”

“Huh.” He grins deviously, rubbing his sticky tip into your rim, smearing it with precum. “I've seen how well you can heal yourself, though...”

Your eyes shoot open as you once again flinch, recoiling from the touch. “Sukuna!”

“Mm, fine,” he sighs, and you breathe out in relief when you feel the pressure lift away as he pulls his cock up to your other hole. “But misbehave and that’s where you’ll be taking it next…”

You frown at his dark promise but it’s soon forgotten when he begins to push into your weeping cunt.

Both of you inhale sharply as he breaches your entrance, pushing into the warmth of your plush walls, inch by inch. Even as aroused and wet as you are, you can still feel the stretch of your cunt around his thickness, a dizzying fullness that leaves you breathless when he finally bottoms out.

You’re given approximately one second to adjust to him inside you.

And then, the last of the restraints are ripped apart.

With a growl, Sukuna’s hips begin thrusting violently, making you squeal at the brutal pace he’s abruptly set, cock hitting you deep inside where you’ve been needing him, craving him.

Pleasure blanks your mind completely, eyes rolling back and pulling the most filthy moans from you as his cock rams against the sensitive wall of your cervix, over and over again, heavy balls slapping against your cunt.

“Oh shit, your cunt was made to be my cocksleeve,” he grunts as he ruts into you like a feral animal. “Good little pet, keep squeezing like that. Show me all that you’re—hah—good for—”

“Sh-Shut up!” you hiss between your own whines and the obscene noises of skin slapping against skin, his cock plowing into you like he’s trying to kill you with it. “I’m going to fucking murder y—”

Smack.

Sukuna slaps you for your insolent words, scoffing when you accidentally moan, and your cunt clamps down on him even harder. “Pathetic thing -fuck- you fucking love when I’m mean to you—”

He grips the back of your knees on top of your own hands in the crooks from where droplets of sweat trickle down, pushing down on your thighs to fold you further till your ankles are practically by your ears and it almost hurts. “—When I hurt you—”

“Y-yes, harder Sukuna!” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks, not even trying to deny his words.

What’s the point? Sukuna knows you better than anyone else on this planet.

“Filthy mutt!” he snarls, leaning down till his hot breath trails across your lips, cock hitting a tender spot in your silken flesh that makes you buck in ecstasy. “I hope that whole wretched bloodline of yours is watching me defile you!”

You bare your fangs, combined hatred, need, and every other twisted emotion culminating into just this, him buried inside you, dragging along your inflamed walls. And then the chain tucked into his shirt escapes. At the end of it, your broken fang, the one he kept, swinging against your face, suddenly feeling less like a taunt and something much more intimate.

You need him carnally.

With him fucking into you, your tits bouncing with each thrust, you lift your head, bared teeth attempting to latch onto his skin.

Sukuna notices what you’re trying to do and his hips halt suddenly, making you freeze mid bite too.

“I-I’m sorry…I can’t help myself…” you whisper.

The most puzzling part is you genuinely feel bad — which makes no sense. He’s hatefucking you, spitting vile words even when he’s balls deep inside you, and what should really seal in his sadistic nature — that damn necklace — it didn’t. Instead, for a split second you got a different glimpse of him, you, the complex nature of your entanglement with each other.

Maybe you mean as much to him as he does to you.

You wait, looking up at his unreadable expression, waiting for him to shatter the delusion, tell you how goddamn pathetic you are.

Sukuna stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark yet intrigued. His hips are still buried inside you, his body taut with tension, but for once, there’s no mocking words, no sneer on his lips. Just silence.

Then, slowly, his grip on your chin tightens—not cruel, just firm enough to make you look at him, to hold you there beneath his gaze.

"Didn’t mean to?" he echoes, cock still buried inside you. His eyes burn into yours, unreadable. "Since when do you apologize for wanting something?"

You shake your head slightly, breathless, your chest rising and falling against his.

"I—" you swallow thickly, ashamed, confused. "I don’t know. I just—"

Your eyes dart to his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin, calling to you like a drug you can’t resist. Your body betrays you, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

For a long moment, he just watches you. Studies you.

Then, to your shock, his lips curve. Not into his usual cruel smirk, but something slower, something almost… amused.

"You’re pathetic," he murmurs, but it lacks the usual venom. Instead, there’s something almost indulgent in his tone, like he’s pleased.

He shifts suddenly, pressing his chest against yours, his voice a low, taunting whisper against your ear.

"You really do need me, don’t you?"

Heat rushes through you, shame and hunger tangling together into something unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head no, but he only chuckles.

"Liar."

Then, to your shock, he tilts his head back, just enough to bare his throat.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers curl into his skin, your entire body aching, trembling with restraint.

"Go on," he murmurs, almost mockingly. "Take what you want."

He’s toying with you, you know that. But for a moment, just a split second, it feels like something else.

Like he’s giving you permission.

Your lips part—your fangs ache—

Then, just before you break, his hand yanks back on your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

His expression is unreadable.

"But if you do," he murmurs, eyes gleaming darkly, "then you admit it. That you belong to me."

You give him a long look, fangs aching, mouth dry, cunt leaking as the pulse under his skin taunts you, the promise of his taste underneath.

You want to believe you don’t belong to anyone. That you existed always as your own.

And still with an exhale you let go of your legs to hold his neck gently as you wrap them around his waist, pulling him deeper to where his cock is still in you.

Your fangs pierce his skin, and the moment his blood touches your tongue, your whole body shudders. It’s too much—rich, intoxicating, him. You whimper before you can stop yourself, burying your face against his neck, drinking deep, desperate.

He gasps ever so slightly, even stiffens a bit, but you swear you can feel his dick twitch in excitement. A low, broken laugh escapes him as his hips begin moving again, working in shorter but harder thrusts. "Fuck—look at you.”

Your hands tremble against his back, nails caressing the surface of his skin, letting out a moan of pleasure, drinking deeper, dizzy with need. And then you feel it, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand clenches at your waist, fingers digging in too hard, as if to ground himself through the sharp bloom of pain.

This isn’t the first time you’ve fed from him.

But perhaps all the fighting, all the blood he’s already lost, even the physical toll of fucking you is finally getting to him.

Still, you sink deeper, trying to ignore it, his blood coursing down your throat, and his body shifts against yours, a ragged thrust that pushes deeper, rougher.

But even as you feed, you notice the tightness in his jaw, his breath quickening, a barely perceptible shudder running through his body. His control is slipping, but his pride won’t let him break.

You can’t ignore it.

So you pause.

You draw back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes flicking over his clenched features, the tension in his body a stark contrast to the hunger thrumming between you.

“You’re in pain,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the accusation is clear.

You wonder how much if for the first time, the cracks in his armor are showing, if ever so slightly.

His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer, something reluctant beneath the bravado.

“Does it make you feel powerful?” he asks, but his voice cracks, betraying the effort it takes to remain in control.

You want to say yes, more than anything, but it would feel like a lie.

So, instead, you tell yourself that this hesitation, this sudden pull back, is simply the guilt of taking advantage of his weakness. This isn't about dominance. There’s nothing satisfying about an unfair fight. Or… well, whatever this twisted dance is.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers slide up the back of your neck, possessive, pulling you back into the crook of his neck.

“Take it,” he murmurs, voice roughened now. “If it means you’re mine, I’ll bleed for you.”

He must be delirious from blood loss. You can feel it—the faint tremor in his hands, the exhaustion creeping into his voice. But what’s your excuse? Why does your chest flutter in response, why does your heart race even as your body aches with hunger?

The sharp edge of his words has dulled, the venom slipping away as the heat between you grows. There's a rawness now, something unfamiliar even to you. Something that makes you want to take from him, just as much as you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there forever.

You hesitate, but only for a breath.

And then, with a flick of your fangs, you’re sinking back in, deeper this time, drinking greedily from the source, tasting his blood like a poison you can’t resist.

His body goes still, and for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. But then his grip tightens, his body jerking against yours, his hips snapping forward in a desperate push.

A muffles sound escapes you as you suck harder, the potent taste of him going straight down to your swollen cunt like an aphrodisiac, your combined juices dripping lewdly from where his cock fucks into you, down the curve of your ass and collecting on the table.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he breathes it out like a curse, but it’s coated with something darker than frustration—something deeper. Something that feels like acceptance. “Just takes it like its yours.”

You suck in a shaky breath as he pinches your hard nipple, sending another jolt through you down to your cunt, lips slick against the wound on his skin.

“It—It is…” you gasp as he keeps moving inside you, each thrust tighter, more deliberate, like he's forcing himself through the ache. Blood drips from his throat, warm on your tongue, and still he keeps his head tilted back like an offering. “It’s always been, hasn’t it?”

Your whole body burns, his blood already beginning to rot inside your veins and you can only cling to him harder, shaking, gasping. Sweat slicked bodies stick to each other as your tongue slithers out as you drink, laving over the swelling skin, and all that exists here and now is him, him inside you, on your tongue, in your nostrils—

He growls softly, almost tender, almost cruel. His fingers tighten in your hair and he yanks your head back, tearing your mouth from his throat.

“Look at you,” he hisses.

You glance up at him, barely. Lips slick with blood, eyes hazy with lust and shame and something unbearably tender underneath. He stares at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice ragged with possession. “No matter how hard you fight it or how much you hate it. You are mine.”

His hips speed up again, sloppily battering against your cunt, your garbled cries swallowed when he crushes his mouth to yours, tongue prying your lips open to taste his own blood on your tongue. It’s brutal, a bloody mess, sticky crimson fluid staining his lips as well, the scent of metal combining with the musk of sex permeating the air.

Him. His.

All his.

With a garbled cry and tears on your cheeks you cum as you tangle tongues, saliva mixing as warm liquid rushes from your hole. His own movements lose their rhythm, becoming erratic before with a final twitch of his dick he cums deep inside your cunt, the sticky white fluid almost as warm as his blood. It floods you till it starts seeping out as you pant into each others’ mouths, he keeps going, making sure to fuck his cum back into your spasming pussy.

Then, silence.

You lie there, tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked bodies cooling against each other, your breath still brushing against his punctured throat. His hand is knotted in your hair like he’s not ready to let go—no words, just the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Neither of you speaks.

The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the feral musk of sex. A healed wound on your ribs still seeps, and his lip is split, but the damage feels irrelevant compared to what’s left unsaid.

But then he untangles himself slowly, deliberately, stepping back. His brows scrunch slightly in pain, his shoulders stiff, his gaze avoiding yours.

You frown, confused. “What—”

“Get dressed,” he says, flatly, his voice an unreadable monotone.

“What?”

He stands, fastening his pants with a lack of care, not sparing you a single glance. “I’m letting you go.”

The words land like a slap.

You sit up, the sudden shock of his statement rattling you, the words caught in your throat. “You said—”

“I changed my mind.” And just like that, he turns back toward you, leans in close. You instinctively recoil, heart thudding as his hand moves toward your throat.

“Relax,” he mutters, his gaze never leaving the exposed skin of your neck. His fingers tilt your chin upward with a quiet precision, the other hand brushing over the metal collar locked around your throat.

Your pulse quickens. “The remote—”

“There’s a trick to it,” he says, his voice almost bored, like he’s speaking to a child. “You just never bothered to learn.”

His thumb presses beneath your jaw with firm pressure—a click, and a small hiss as the lock releases. The collar falls from your neck with a metallic weight, the finality of it making the air feel impossibly thick.

The gesture is disconcertingly tender almost, but a part of you stays still for some reason, still half-naked and leaking, blood drying in flakes around your lips.

“You have until dawn.”

Something twists in your chest. “Why?”

No answer.

You study his back, the rigid line of his spine, the bruises blooming under his skin, the flicker in his jaw. There’s no fear, only confusion—and something too terrifyingly close to hurt.

He doesn’t say it but you can see it now, in the way his hands shake slightly as he buttons his shirt. In the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He wants you gone because killing you would be too easy.

Because this chase is all he has left.

So you dress slowly, defiantly, watching him the whole time, waiting for him to change his mind again.

But he doesn't.

And when you finally reach the door, you pause. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Good,” he says, finally meeting your gaze.

You nod once.

Then you’re gone, into the dark, not looking back.

The forest is damp from earlier rain, the small unpaved road muddy and glistening with small puddles under the dappled moonlight, the sound of an owl hooting somewhere nearby. Blood stains your skin, hair clinging to your damp temples, yet you don’t stop to fix it.

The empty peacefulness of the forest at night feels too big.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that you’re free. That he let you go and that’s all that matters.

But something gnaws at you, a restlessness curling in your stomach like hunger.

You vaguely note you’ll be feeling unwell soon with his blood in you.

You could disappear. Vanish into the cities, into the forests, into the dark corners where even he wouldn’t follow.

But you won’t.

Instead you continue on, the only thought in your mind is a silent promise to take his other eye.

Time passes.

Not in peace—no, never that.

But in violence and whispers and blood-slick headlines and cold case files that gather dust.

You move through the world like smoke—harder, leaner, hungrier. A myth haunting cities that chew people up and forget their names. Everytime, you leave your mark with surgical precision—corpses with their right eyes missing.

Not just a signature, but an invitation. And he answers—sometimes in shadows, sometimes in person.

You’ve fought him more times than you can count.

Each time, it ends the same—broken glass, broken bones, someone limping away before the killing blow can land. Sometimes it's you, sometimes it’s him.

Sometimes the line blurs.

The one constant, however, is that it never feels quite finished.

Once, you kissed him just to buy time to stab him. Another time he held your bleeding body and whispered something you refused to hear.

Neither of you ever stays down.

Among vampires, your name becomes cursed—not because you’re feared but because wherever you go, Ryomen Sukuna follows and no one survives him.

Among hunters, it’s quieter. They understand something the others don’t, that no one chases what he’s claimed.

Still, you chase him and he chases you, like wolves in circles, like hunger gnawing at itself.

Until, one day, the pattern breaks.

The next body you find isn’t a vampire, but a young hunter. Sloppy. Killed quick. And this time, it’s not the right eye that’s gone—it’s the left.

It’s the first time he��s answered with something of his own.

And somehow, that's how you know that it’s time.

You straddle his torso, blade pressing into his cheek, panting. Even his own chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.

Both of you are smeared with grime, sweat, blood—your hair tangled, his disheveled.

It’s the dead of night, but the old train station feels like its own world, frozen in time. This place, like the two of you, feels forgotten by the rest of history.

You’ve been waiting for this day for years.

Sukuna’s face is torn up, more than a few of his ribs are broken, one of his legs is bent at an odd angle.

And yet, as broken as he is, he still watches you with that one remaining eye—unsettlingly lucid, like a window into the abyss of whatever terrible, beautiful thing lives at the core of him.

The eye you promised to take years ago. A promise handed down by blood. By centuries of hate and duty.

Your hand shakes as you raise the crimson-stained blade, your pulse pounding in your throat.

And he smiles. That maddening, blood-slick smile.

“Go on then,” he rasps. “Even score. You’ve always wanted it.”

You stare, intense with something unnamable as the blade hovers, ready to plunge in and leave him in a world of pure darkness.

This moment has been imagined, fantasized over. All the ways you’d carve it out, what you’d do with it. Once you even thought about pickling it.

But life never goes as planned, does it?

Revenge tastes sweet in theory, perhaps. Not in practice. Not now.

His eye, the last one, is fixed on you, unwavering. Like he wants to see everything—all of you—even as you hover at the edge of his death.

And in this moment, you realize you don’t want to destroy it.

Not out of mercy. Not out of weakness.

But because it’s the only part of him, maybe the only thing in the entire world, that ever really saw you.

And it’s hauntingly beautiful.

Feral. Fever-bright crimson, even as he stares down his death. Achingly human in a way neither of you were allowed to be.

“I—” your voice cracks. “I don’t want to. I want you to see me,” you whisper.

He exhales a shaky, rattling laugh, surprised. Then nods.

“Fine,” he says softly. “You’ll be the last thing I ever see.”

This day would have always come. Because however bright they may burn, humans only exist fleetingly. And one way or another, he would die long before you—the only difference would be that it wouldn’t be at your hands.

Something mundane, even. A miscalculated move, the slightest mistake.

You can’t bear to even think about him going out like that.

So it has to be you, and it has to be now. The only ending he deserves.

With trembling hands and stinging eyes you drag the blade down, touching it to his neck. Not deep, just enough for him to feel it.

And then he says your name.

The first time he’s ever said your name.

You pause.

“I’m glad it was you,” he whispers.

Something in you shatters unrepairably. Something that can never be put together no matter how many centuries you live.

Your throat tightens, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, and before you can think twice, you push the blade in. Slow and clean, but still he jerks slightly, though not with the strength he once had.

Blood spurts, spraying across your face before it begins to pour, running down his flesh like rivers of red. It smells as rich and alive as ever.

Instinctively his hands come up—you don’t know whether to stop or hold you. Either way, they falter halfway, dropping back down.

It’s too late now.

You can tell from the way he tries to breathe, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound that might be your name as a gurgle rises in his throat, blood bubbling at his lips.

Sukuna was, perhaps, the strongest man you’ve ever known. But death humbles all things. And in the end, he’s no different—just another body reaching blindly for breath, caught in that last, trembling moment of naked, undeniable fear

The realization that this is it. That you don’t know what comes after this.

What hurts most is that moment—his lungs struggling, clawing for air that isn't there.

Then his gaze snaps to yours.

And in it, a glimpse of the impossible—a life that might’ve been yours together, if the world had given you a different story.

Like he promised, he watches you till the very end. One single bright eye that stays locked on you, even when the light fades out like a dying star. Till it goes dull and glassy, still staring at you till it isn’t.

He goes still.

And suddenly it hits you—sharp and certain, like a stake through the heart, why your venom never worked on him.

Because he was always in love with you. Or something close enough to it that the body couldn’t tell the difference.

You feel hollow. Like when he died, a part of you went out with him.

Hunger and—

Just hunger.

That’s all the rest of your existence will be now. Wandering, empty, purposeless.

Time slows and thickens, like air turned to water. Your ears are ringing, but there’s no sound. No wind, no breath, no heartbeat.

You’re not sure who you are without Sukuna.

And now you know what you have to do, something implicit in your bones that knows, that’s already pulling the blade out of his neck.

You stare at the blade in your hand, wet with his blood. Still warm.

It glints in the dim light like it wants you to follow.

You don’t cry; there’s nothing left for that.

Just silence.

Just the ache of his absence pressing down on your ribs like a weight too heavy to breathe through.

Slowly, you lower yourself beside him, curling into the warmth that’s already leaving his body. Your forehead brushes his jaw, lips pressing against the blood-slick edge of his throat like a kiss goodbye.

“Don’t wait for me,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you mean it. You hope you do.

Then you take the blade and guide it up, not hesitating now. There’s no drama or fanfare, just inevitability.

The metal bites in just beneath your sternum, and it’s almost a relief. The pain blooms sharp, then dull, then distant.

Your body slumps forward into his, cheek resting against his chest as you wonder what will happen next.

And in those final seconds, heart slowing, vision blurring, you swear you hear it—a heartbeat.

Not yours.

His.

Or maybe… just the echo of it. A phantom memory to carry you into the dark.

Days later, only Sukuna’s body is found. Next to him, a mysterious pile of ash.

Together at last.

a/n: something something something abt ending generational cycles idk lol

taglist: @mistalli @latrotoxiins @maomimii @indiewritesxoxo

[devnmon]

undoing heat

Summary: Astarion feeds from you the first time and finds himself aroused. What he doesn't know is if you feel the same.

warnings: porn with plot and A LOT of feelings, blood drinking during sex, vampire feeding, grinding, needy, touch starved astarion, piv sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, bj, oral (r!receiving), fingering

a/n: listen. i could’ve made this nice and short but you all know me. can never be normal about This Guy ever. so have fun chowing down on the absolute meal of a fic i’ve cooked up for you all. enjoy mwah (also big big kiss on the forehead to my lovely moots @clericblood n @tillysketch n @bodythieves for all their pre reading n helpful editing they did. i love u <3 )

word count: 12.6k

A vampire feeding from one’s neck is intimate.

It becomes a degree hotter when it’s Astarion doing so.

—

Cold.

For many years, all Astarion had felt was an absence. One that could never be filled.

But warmth… that was something he’d longed for.

Beams of light from the sun, an embrace, a fire crackling before him. All these aspects of life he imagined would never be within his grasp again. Replication of any such gratification was far fetched. A myth, something he would never truly see again.

Then, the tadpoles, the mind flayer ship, and you.

Since the abduction, he’d been in a state less desirable and more disoriented than ever. Weakened from lack of blood— or the deprivation of it. For the first time in two centuries, he had a chance to find something different. 

Astarion has since lost track of the last time he’s had the sun on his skin and been able to freely roam under its blessing light. Vampiric ways of undead life never granted him such a thing.

Once he met you, everything changed.

The many fights that stood ahead of him along with a merry band of companions compiled by fate itself meant that kobolds and boars would no longer suffice. Thus came the shame of wanting to taste that crimson liquid running hot right under your skin.

Catching him staring at your neck was the first hint of his vampirism, the red eyes and fangs moreso a quite literal dead giveaway. He thought himself clever trying to keep that part of himself hidden. But you knew better. 

The first time he fed on you was very special, not only for him, but you as well. To even have the trust in him after you caught the elf trying to steal a nip from your neck while you slept opened his eyes to what kind person you truly were.

Willing to share a part of your life force so he could become stronger, that did a number on him drastically. It warmed his heart the same way it was physically; a spark in the dark, a flickering that soon burned to a roar.

Astarion is lucky in more ways than one to have someone willing to give him blood for no reason other than you wanted to. To find him- a vampire- worthy of something so personal, built an undeserving ache in his chest. 

You could’ve mistaken him for a cougar that hadn’t eaten in days by the way he was zoning out. His eyes dropped to the rapid pulsing of your jugular, so lidded he was almost drooling at the sight. 

Thanks to you, Astarion’s sanguine hunger had been satisfied for the first time in two centuries. Not only that, but the warmth it granted him, down his throat and in the tips of his fingers was so gratifying it had almost made him cry. 

At first surge over his tongue, it traveled through his system faster than light. Eventually coating his teeth, dripping down the sides of his mouth, transiting through every vein to warm his frigid body. 

Tasting it – mortal blood for the first time brought a tear to his eye the second it spread selfishly across his tongue. Each time it soared over his taste buds filled him more than the last, all his strength devoted to reining in the hunger most of all.

He had no words for how consuming it became, only satiating to the selfish desire of getting lost in it. For a split second he was there, floating in an ever so perfect ecstasy, falling deeper and deeper into its embrace. 

Your blood fulfills what he’s tried to do for years with animals. To be his first… he can’t believe you’ve offered yourself to him in such a way.

He’s buzzing as your blood – as you course through him.

Succulent, warm and thick, he forces himself to back off before getting lost in your taste.

“Ah! That- that was amazing.” His words are breathless from the taste of you, almost slurring against the warm slide down his throat. 

You watch as he stands, the sound he makes swallowing a depraved one. He almost looks about ready to lean in for another drink, eyes widening for a moment before focusing on you again. 

“My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel… happy.” 

Happy he was, the blood going straight to his head… and other parts of him. 

One drop hadn’t made it past his lips, swiping it away on his finger. You stare up at him while he stands, weakened from the loss of blood and open wounds on your neck. Afraid the image of him savoring your blood would make your knees falter, you remain sat. 

Even with his pale complexion, he was beaming— glowing in the moonlight. An exceptionally good look on him.

“I look forward to seeing you fight, Astarion.” 

“With you by my side, it shouldn't take long at all.” he says with a wink, curtsying as he continues, “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” 

As he turns toward the outskirts of camp, he pauses and turns back, sincerity filling his wine colored eyes when he speaks again.

“This is a gift you know, I won’t forget it.”

–

Immediately after draining a small animal, he’d noticed the lack of what mortal blood gave him; a rush so intoxicating. How long he’d survived in this world while missing out on such a thing, he would never know. 

Astarion gets overwhelmingly drunk off it all, a sensation he’s never gotten the privilege of exploring. To put it lightly, the man was overly sensitive and even the slightest touch across his chest sent his cock throbbing.

He’s not sure the last time he’s felt this type of arousal, not even sure of the last time he’s welcomed it. But he is aware of how much he wants to run his hands all over your body with his fangs in your neck. It makes him feel dirty, thinking of you in that way when all you’d done was give him a drink from your vein. 

He dotes on the image of you squirming under his touch a bit too long. Perhaps it was the blood talking, but accepting the image of you with your hands on his waist or anywhere else on his body makes a shiver run through him. For the first time it’s not out of frigidness, but one so invigorating he finds his eyes closed in sheer enjoyment. 

Astarion is warm all over, moreso from your blood he’s drank rather than the animals that helped satiate his hunger for the night. Thinking about the red liquid dripping from your neck when he pulled away– gods, the image was enough to make his vision hazy. He wasn’t aware of the raging hard on he’d gained from drinking something as luscious as your essence. It had never happened before when feeding on animals, but clearly this type was different. 

Was all mortal blood this potent? Would Astarion find the same hypnotisable taste in any of his other companions? Or was it you that was already affecting him in more ways than one that drinking your blood magnified? 

Either way, there was no containing it for the moment. What was he to do otherwise, walk into camp with a raging hard on? No, the embarrassment if someone– if you saw– might literally kill him. Better to sort it out in privacy while he still had some. 

Astarion freed his erection, dumbfounded at its warmth in his hand. Granted, he had not indulged in this sort of pleasure since… forever, it seems. The first full stroke down his length, he almost moaned too loudly, fingers gripping at the ruffles of his shirt, bottom lip caught between his pearlescent teeth. 

He was a sight, if you could’ve seen him then. Beads of sweat on his forehead, fangs glowing in the moonlight, cheeks pinked up just the slightest with how much he’s yearned for this sensation again. The elf’s high peaks quite fast, breath quickening as he attempted to stay quiet. 

Though he tries to picture anything else, the only image floating around behind his eyes is one of you. Your natural scent of sweetness, that pulsing jugular of yours, the kind hand you outreach towards all who need it. An inch further, just imagining your lips on his, is what brings him over the edge. 

 He’s not sure whether to feel relief or guilt when he spills over in his hand with a shudder. Once he steadies himself and cleans up, he’s quick to walk off as if nothing had occurred. How his mind and body ached upon his walk back into camp, observing you all tucked away in your separate corners of camp for the night. 

Astarion would just have to push down his guilt and hope to the gods it wouldn’t bother him in the days to come. 

–

Most nights afterwards were spent getting a control on the high your blood put him on. His first time though– had his body tingling in every possible way. Mortals truly underestimate the power that crimson liquid has over his kind. Astarion did not choose to spend two centuries draining animals. When the opportunity presented itself to him, truth be told he was a little nervous as to how he’d react. 

Your blood ran through his veins like lightning. Warming. Shockingly filling for once in his life. It’s up in his gums, behind his eyes, in the very essence of his being.

That night he realized how lucky he is for fate to have brought you to him. For you to trust him not to kill you upon his first taste of it. He’s elated, relieved, and knows for the first time, that he truly has someone who trusts him for the person he is. Not the vampire he happens to be.

He’s quite doting when he checks on you the next morning— a gesture that warms not only your heart, but your cheeks as well. You’ve never heard of his kind to be so concerned towards where their source of blood came from. A regular vampire would have taken what they wanted without care. 

But then again, he wasn’t so regular, was he?

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

Astarion’s eyes seemed to dart across your entire figure, looking for any sign of your current state. 

“I’m fine, I just feel a little woozy.”

“It’ll pass. I’m so glad last night didn’t end badly. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, though. Your blood was… so filling.”

“End badly? Wait… have you never fed on a human before?"

“Well, yes… We needn’t get into the gritty details as to why right now. I’ve had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told? You were my first.”

The vampire almost presented bashful when admitting this to you, as if it were a secret he’d never spoken aloud. 

“Wow, I’m not sure whether to be surprised or impressed to still be standing.” 

"I fed on animals for the better part of two centuries. Rats, cats, boars, kobolds... anything and everything except mortals. Since drinking from you, I feel at my best for the first time in my life. Apologies again, I should have told you about what I am.”

“If you needed blood, all you had to do was ask.” 

“I- Really?” 

You nodded. 

“I’ll let you have my blood. But only if I come to you first. Alright?”

“Of course, you needn’t say any more. Thank you.”

“Like you said, blood makes you strong. We’re going to need that on the road ahead, wherever it takes us. Have you got my back?”

“Always, my dear. Lead on.” 

–

It took an enormous amount of strength for him to resist his bloodlust turning to a feeding frenzy, even when he was consuming animals. But the ecstasy that came with mortal blood, especially for the first time, was more overtaking than he thought.

Apparently it had awoken another feral part of him. He’d savor your taste, reminisce about it whilst alone at night. Not only did it go to his head, but it focused him like nothing else. So much so that he can’t think of anything except you. Any attempt to keep his eyes off your jugular resulted in something much too overwhelming entering his system. Thus, when he wasn’t out on the road with you, his nose was stuffed in a book to keep his mind focused on the task at hand. 

Many more nights passed with you suffering a woozy morning as if you’d drank one too many glasses of wine. Luckily, a certain druid had joined your party with just the spell to cure you of the disadvantages your bloodlessness came with. 

Astarion noted the way you immediately trailed over to Halsin’s tent in camp the mornings after he fed, almost letting jealousy creep over his shoulder. Once he found you were only doing so to keep a level head on the road, that pinch of guilt became harder to push away. Not just its surge as if he was taking advantage of you, but the notion of something more stirring inside him when he tasted your blood. 

Was it only that you deserved more than what he was asking of you? Or perhaps the appreciation that at least one person in his life cared about how he was doing after so long of being disregarded in that manner? 

When a particularly rough battle left you all drenched in blood and limping back to camp, Astarion was hesitant to reply enthusiastically about feeding on you that night. He’d done so for the better part of all the past nights since his first time. 

You only stared at him, reluctantly confused that he said no. 

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you just for your blood. You’ve been kind to give me anything thus far. I’m grateful for it but… you don’t deserve me taking something so personal as that without anything in return.” 

“So, you don’t want to feed from me anymore?” 

If it weren’t for him being so godsdamned caring and sweet towards you right now, he would’ve picked up the hint of disappointment in your voice. 

“No– gods, no. I wouldn’t be here today without your generosity,” Astarion places his hand on your shoulder, “I’ve just… grown fond of you, and it would be wrong for me to continue taking advantage of how kind you are for my personal benefit. I want you to know I mean that and, well, you deserve something more for what you do for me.” 

His hand leaves your shoulder, the warmth of your body already infecting his ability to think straight while his gaze averts to your neck. 

“Astarion… I wouldn’t be giving you my blood if you didn’t need it. It makes me glad to have you by my side through all of this. If I have to bug Halsin every morning to cure me with a spell, then that’s a sacrifice I’ll make for you. Besides…” You trail off, noticing his eyes have left your face and are now locked on your neck. “Astarion!” 

“Wh-What? I’m sorry… It's been such a long day. What were you saying?” His hand scratches the back of his head nervously. 

“I was saying that what I do for you isn’t because I pity you or some other reason you may have thought up. You’re not forcing me to do anything I don’t want. But, if you’re sure about this, I won’t stop you from hunting for animals tonight. If that’s what you really want.” 

“Well, I don’t want to drink from animals. Their fur gets stuck in my teeth and it tastes awful. Your blood is much more filling,” he states, ignoring the way his chest heats up, “But today has beaten all of us down a peg and I think your neck could use the break. Wouldn’t want a bruise to tarnish your skin. Gods forbid. I’d never forgive myself. What I’m saying is I don’t have to feed from you every night, even though you generously offer it to me.” 

“If you insist… you know where to find me if you change your mind.” You replied, sighing lightly. 

“Indeed I do, darling. See you in the morning.” He bids you farewell with a wave and stalks off into the forest, the usual swagger in his walk making it even harder for your eyes to turn away. The way his tongue curls around the words he speaks throws your mind into a frenzy, wondering what it would be like with his tongue curled around something of yours. 

Astarion had been lucky enough to drink from you the past couple weeks on the road, dissatisfied at how much more hungry he felt after two small creatures. 

Gods, how much more is it going to take to be full again?”

About three animals for him to have the same fullness when drinking from you, but nothing compared to the warmth of your body. That was something he knew could never be replicated, you radiating a forge’s level of heat below him. Though perhaps it was only because he’d been deprived of such for so long. 

Resting against the log of a tree, he took a moment to catch his breath before the blood he'd ingested traveled south. Even when he wasn’t drinking from your neck, his mind went to you nonstop. Innocent thoughts like ones by your side during battle turned to reminiscing about how your body reacted to him when his mouth was against your neck. 

He wasn’t aware of it at first, too caught up in the less than satisfying taste spreading across his tongue. As the nights continued with him feeding from you, Astarion became more aware of your heartbeat pounding significantly faster whenever he neared you in proximity, how your breath shuddered upon his fangs in your neck. Of course you were nervous, what else was he to expect? To welcome some red eyed, pale skinned creature jamming its fangs into your jugular nearly every night without dismay?

Astarion tried his best not to ponder how your blood tasted, rich and succulent when flowing across his tongue, on his lips, down his throat. Unfortunately for him, the more he tried to push those thoughts away, the more you’d wriggle your way into his brain. He had missed his nightly taste of it, how much more full he became after a few sips rather than having to kill a few helpless small animals to even get close to how you made him feel. 

Your scent, your blood, you. 

Once again growing hard under his trousers to the point of frustration, pulling himself out in the cool air. It’s so unsatisfying to feel warmth under his skin that wasn’t from you. Not in the one simple way that got him high faster than light. Especially not when your blood shot through him, lingering at best and he couldn’t take how less buzzed he felt without it. 

Was he an addict for your blood, or just obsessed with you?

It all combined in his frenzy of getting himself off, hoping and praying he wouldn’t moan too loudly when he came. 

Vision hazy and body growing warmer, he stroked himself at a slow pace, relishing in every moment of the electrifying thrill. Every pass down his length makes him grow harder and much more inclined to indulge in thoughts he’d been pushing away. Swallowing the thought of you on your knees for him, his cock in your mouth. He wonders just how warm you are, whether it’s your tongue along the veins of his shaft or your heat sucking him in. 

Gods– he shudders at the vision apparating in his mind. 

Astarion’s hips stutter relentlessly as he comes in his hand, cleaning the warm liquid off with a rag before heading back into camp for the night. His gaze caught your figure before he shut his eyes, relishing in the luck of your presence. 

He woke the next morning drenched in guilt at remembering what he’d done the night before. Taking your blood, selfish as it was, for his own benefit. Then to run off to the woods of all places and deal with the complicated feelings arising because of it?

How fucked was that, he thought. 

How dare he get aroused at the thought of you squirming under his touch with his lips pressed against your neck. Fangs under your skin, sucking out the very liquid that kept you alive. 

That thick, rich, liquid. Running along your veins and pumping through your heart, keeping you standing before him. Quite literally your life’s essence, and he was the only individual out of all the others in your life to have a taste for it. 

It was foreign to him, this pull towards you traveling over his entire body. A thing he wouldn’t have given a second thought to before this whole mess. Now with the control over his own actions, things were much different. He felt if he was ever going to do something right for once, it would be with you. 

Time passed whilst keeping up your little routine; he would only feed from you when you told him so, attempting to rein in his obsession with how you tasted. He was sure the fangs in your neck was a less than desirable experience, which had him shuffling off awkwardly afterwards most times. Truth be told, he didn’t want you to see how floaty and giggly your blood made him, better to keep up his stoic vampire appearance than let you see how drunk he got off your blood, to keep that mask of his up than let himself catch feelings. 

That same mask was becoming heavier with each moment he lingered too long on you inside his head. The only question was, would its slipping result in something catastrophic? Or life changing? 

–

On the road ahead with that certain vampire at your side proved plentiful, finding yourself walking near him more often than not. Astarion became the first person you turned to when in need of a second opinion, reassurance, or for when you just wanted to be in his presence until your eyes couldn’t stay open any longer. You find comfort in his voice softening when you’re troubled, talking his pointed ears off about your past and if you’re truly capable of leading this group. 

“Your self doubts… They’re nothing to what you’ve gotten us through so far. You can do it, even if you think you can’t. And I’ll be here to make sure you get through.” 

He’d pushed your hair out of your eyes and made sure you were thoroughly hydrated after crying so much into his shoulder about it all. You thanked him with the promise to wash your tears out of his shirt the next morning, overly fatigued from all your sobbing. He shushed you while stroking your hair, only telling you to let yourself rest for the night. 

Upon waking the following morning, your head ached from the lack of hydration, finding yourself curled up into his chest, softly breathing as he slept. To avoid any awkward conversations, you managed to slip away before he woke. 

From the darker moments to the happier ones, Astarion was there for all of them. Finding the nicest wine for the celebrations you rarely had at camp, saving the best bottle for him as a gift. For his endless support of your endeavors, having your back in all the fights, and stealing you things without anyone noticing. 

All the softer times in passing, glancing towards him when he wasn’t looking, were when your eyes lingered. Beyond just his physical attributes, which were distracting enough, you felt a warmth in your chest getting up every day, knowing he’d be by your side. How you ached to see him smile or laugh as often as he was using those daggers he’s quite skilled with. His true beauty, the moments of happiness he found with you. Something about him looking as if he’d taken the place of the sun with the way he beamed. 

–

Choosing you to feed from rather than any of your other companions was special. It meant a great deal to you that it was your blood he was drinking- not Wyll’s or Gale’s- yours. 

His protective nature became much too obvious, as he’d place himself in front of you whenever someone stepped too close or became hostile towards you. Growling a threat towards said person always had your mind going someplace different, along with being thankful he stepped in to de-escalate the situation. 

Meanwhile everything Astarion does for you is out of his own growing affections. Ones he’s kept pushing further into himself. He wants to worship the ground you walk on for everything you’ve done for him. Not only do you make all the hard decisions and bond with others around you as easy as breathing, but to do so with your head held high, taking all the hits whether physical or mental. He adores you with all his being. 

From feeding him to supporting his endeavors with a smile, it’s the mental gymnastics he’s doing to keep himself sane that have been a pain in his ass. Getting off in the woods every night without fail has made the resentment of guilt a lump in the back of his throat. The filth that washes over him as he’s realized the desire to have you doesn’t just extend to your blood. Astarion wants to take in every inch of your body, its warmth with his fangs in your neck, how intimately his lips press to your skin while he sucks.

To extend your blood’s warmth to him, understanding how your body responds when he puts his hands in the right place. On your waist, between your legs, down your torso, around the lengths of your hair. Holding you softly while he drinks, the little death being shared between you two. His dreams are filled with his imagining of how you’d sound squirming and whimpering below him, waking up from how vivid they become at times. 

Soon as he’s come with you on his mind again, it’s back to keeping his feelings undercover. 

That is until one night, observing Gale let you taste the camp stew he was in the process of whipping up one night. An aching ball forming in his stomach at the sight of you indulging the wizard. Your batting eyelashes when you looked up at him as your lips dragged over the spoon. Sickness filled him, unlike anything he’d felt before. It made the bile in his stomach begin to churn, slowly shoving its way up his throat with distaste. 

Your actions were innocent on the surface, but he knew Gale had been in relations with a goddess. 

Seriously, the wizard? Who couldn’t shut up for more than five minutes even if his life depended on it? He probably doesn’t know how to be with a mortal after so long. Too caught up on that astral plane nonsense. At least I don’t need to project and want to be a god to get off.

He couldn’t be the object of your affections, surely… 

Whatever his intentions were with you, innocent or not, they would have to stop before he got too confident. Before you slipped right through his dexterous fingers to that fool. Of all the things he’s failed to stop from happening, he had to make sure this didn’t happen the most. All Astarion knew was that he was desperate to be close to you more than ever. 

His voice grinds the vampire’s gears from across camp, like nails on a chalkboard. Why was his laugh so boisterous? Ever heard of subtlety, Gale? 

He doesn’t deserve your kindness, doesn't deserve your opinion on his fucking stew. 

But himself? The gentle vampire who has only ever been by your side, stepped in front of you when people got a bit too threatening? Much better than a human who couldn’t even go five minutes without talking about properties of the weave or something along those lines. Astarion always tuned those tangents out for his own sanity. He’d much rather laser focus on something like your sweet voice. 

Perhaps it was irrational to think he was the only one deserving of your time, but there was nothing else consuming his mind. To even think about someone as talkative as that wizard was trying to insert himself into your close circle when he’s been there from the beginning? He had to stifle the laugh in the back of his throat. 

Just give me a reason, wizard. 

Astarion huffed to himself and walked away from the sight before he did something unsavory he wouldn’t forgive himself for. 

Camp had settled down for the evening, everyone quietly going about their nightly activities. Peeking his head out of the red clothed tent, Astarion glanced over to see that Gale had retreated into his and wasn’t coming out until the next morning. 

Perfect timing for him to visit you for his nightly feed, but the nudging concern of the plethora of words he wanted to get out to you tonight wasn’t fit for the confines of your tent. 

The heat that flushed through his chest upon nearing your tent made him take a deep breath, to which he regretted the moment it was too loud for his liking. 

“Astarion? Is that you?” 

Your sweet, muffled voice sounded out from inside, and before he could even reach out to open the flap, you’d stepped out into the night to greet him. 

“Well, good evening to you too.” he answered, “Eager for my arrival? Or were you expecting someone else?” 

He grinned cheekily, making you smile in return. Who else would you be expecting this routinely?

“We’ve been traveling together for how long now? I always know to expect you over anyone else. If it wasn’t you, I’d be worried.” You move to the side to grant him entry to your tent, but he stands still. 

“Actually, would you mind taking a walk with me? I’ve got to get out of this camp for a while.” 

You agree, letting Astarion lead you down a path to quite a lovely view, one he’s frequented as a moment of peace before heading back to camp from his hunts. 

He stops short and from how closely you were walking behind him you bumped into his back, breathing in his scent of bergamot and brandy for a moment before backing away. When he turns towards you, a soft chuckle left his chest.

“I… have something to tell you, and I wanted to not be in camp when I said it.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Wrong? No, I–” he sighs, “There’s just something I need to get off my chest.” 

You looked up at him with those kind eyes, already feeling the heat in his stomach, churning his insides into goop. He took your silence as his cue. 

“Your blood, which you’ve been kind enough to grant me, helps me focus, yes. But you have an entirely more powerful effect on me. You’re selfless, kind and generous to those around you. Even to me, when I might not have deserved it.”

“Oh, Astarion…” 

He puts his hand up to stop you, so much more he has to say.

“You’re, well, everything to me.” 

The vampire’s voice breathily skirts over the word, as if it’s the first time he’s admitted it to himself. 

“You… you’re a vision. Everyone’s favorite, clearly. The one they all run to when there’s problems they can’t solve on their own. I… adore you for it. For being resilient even when the world may not have been so kind to you in return. You deserve every good thing that’s happened so far.” 

“No, I… I’m just doing what anyone else would have.” 

“Do you really think that? That me or— gods forbid, Lae’zel would’ve made the same choices?” 

“I… don’t know.” 

“For a fact, we wouldn’t. I don’t say things like this if they aren’t true, darling. I’m not a man of many words… unlike someone we both know. But that’s not the point. What is, is this. I’m fond of you in more ways than one, and I’m tired of keeping it bottled up. It’s become suffocating ever since this routine became regular for us. I’ve not been sure how to go about telling you all of it, but if I didn’t sooner or later, someone else would take the places I desire to be in. All I know is that whenever you’re not around, I worry, and I think about you constantly.” 

He looks relieved upon letting his words settle in the air, wringing his hands together nervously. You’re silent before you take a step closer to him, brushing a curl behind his ear and cupping his cheek. 

The stoic, unbothered vampire persona he’d been putting on had slowly worn away upon spending more time with you. It warmed his heart to see you not turn a blind eye to those in need of help, after he’d done so many a time. From reluctantly going along with whatever you said, to taking pride in being part of the ones who brought joy to less fortunate people, he found himself for the first time in two centuries, glad he had found such a soul. 

“You’re so…” you sigh, “I’ve been thinking about you too. So much.. I wish you had said something sooner. Then I wouldn’t have spent so many nights wondering if you felt the same. Worrying that I served no other purpose to you. But now…” you trail off, his rubies catching the light, as if they were filled with stars. The rest of your words escaped you, except, “Oh, just kiss me, you damn fool.” 

Astarion’s eyelashes fluttered, softening at your words, immediately feeling welcome to step closer. His cold palm cups your cheek as you’ve done to his, bringing you in close to touch your lips with his. One kiss sets him on fire, then another, and he’s pressing further against your mouth. It was almost as if he’d been waiting twice as long to do this with you, as you’ve been eager to do it with him. Your arms wrap around his waist, pulling him into your chest; his natural coolness fills the air between you. 

His hands, anxious as they are, softly place themselves onto your waist for the first time. Your lips are warm against his, your everything is warm against him. Intimately and gentle over all.

You pull back from him breathlessly, gods are his lips ever so addicting. Some of his saliva is left on your bottom lip as you do, but it’s not unwelcome. Nothing about him is. 

Your foreheads rest against each other, both of you grinning in the moonlight. There’s a light pink tinge to the tips of his ears, Astarion feels weightless in the grasp of your arms. 

“Somehow you’ve managed your way into my heart. I wouldn’t want anyone else intertwined so deep. I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Astarion. You mean the world to me.” Your words coat his skin like honey, sticking to him as they echo in his mind. 

“You’re such a gift. One of the things in this world I treasure more than anything. Above any gold or trinket I could ever steal.” His thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, your skin tingling under his touch. Astarion could feel the heat in your cheeks from his simple but sweet contact. 

“Gods, you’ve always been good with words. Not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” 

“None of your past lovers have had such great hair either, I know…” He turns to the side, showing off his profile and the silvery curls adorning his head. 

You giggle. Of course he would take a sincere moment to talk about how pretty he was. “Well yes, that, and none have been at my side as diligently as you without second thought.” 

“You don’t have to. You make it so easy to show up for you and be by your side… that I don’t even have to try.” 

“My sweet star,” you cupped his face now with your palm, “No one as loyal has ever been in my life before. I’m so grateful to have you.” 

Astarion’s pearlescent fangs glistened in the moonlight as he grinned, pulling you in for another kiss. You could feel the vibration of his groan on your mouth as he leaned in further, a firm grip on your waist now. He was almost in disbelief of the luck he’d come about, yet here he is, combining his lips with yours and getting to relish in the warmth of your mouth for the first time without that lump in the back of his throat. 

You pull back, breathlessly, a string of saliva connecting the two of you before you speak again.

“Wait, do you…” you swallow his taste down, “still want to feed from me tonight?” 

“How could I say no…” he replies, “Your blood is so very tasteful. Decadent.. Almost as good as my favorite wine.” 

“You don’t need to flatter me, you already own my heart.” You roll your eyes dramatically, but your cheeks reddening just proves how much it actually meant to you. 

“Even better in that case, now I can watch you blush without worrying if you feel the same.” 

Leading him with your hand in his, the two of you made your way back to camp, taking your sweet time giggling and kissing him while you walked. As you laid down in your tent, Astarion’s hands trailed up your torso, sensitive ears tuned in to your heart rate picking up its pace. The canvas of your neck was too pretty not to kiss, which he took liberty in doing now shamelessly. Each press of his lips against the flow of your blood under your skin only made his hunger grow, but he hadn’t wanted to bite you yet. No, he’d take his time, painting his way across softly. 

Upon his third kiss, you began to giggle again, such perfect music to his ears. Not knowing what came over him, his lips attached to your neck again, desperately. Kissing and sucking and nipping ever so lightly with his teeth, that you whined. 

“Astarion… you whispered, “You need to feed.” 

“I know, my love. But, everyone needs to know you’re mine.” He purred, the tone in his voice making it clear he was not above marking you up. 

You giggled again, “Okay, well when you’re done, it’s my turn.” 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time…” he flirted, eyes lidded as he looked down upon you. 

So you let him continue, marking your neck up with several bruises, before pulling back and gazing at his masterpiece. 

“Gods, I tried to be gentle… but I might have gotten carried away a bit. You know how I get around you.” 

“Oh, shut it and come here.” As if the two of you couldn’t get closer in proximity, Astarion leaned down to give you access to his neck. You decided on leaving the area with his scars alone, but wrapped your hands around his nape for even more contact. When his body reacted to your soft kisses, his thumbs pressed circles into your waist, breathing became heavier. His forehead dropped onto your shoulder as you continued, sucking and laving on his skin with your tongue, almost rasping with how his hunger surged. He could smell your hot blood just beneath the surface, singing in your veins. His mouth opened, scraping the tops of his fangs against your skin with a light scratch. 

“Do it…” you whispered, hearing the growl in his breathing. Without another word, Astarion sunk his fangs into the spot they frequented. What surged over his tongue was decadent, sweet, so thick and familiar that it danced across his tongue with every swallow. 

“That’s a good vampire…” One of your hands reached up to stroke the back of his hair, its soft curls sliding through your fingers with ease. A very prominent whine vibrated through the skin of your neck. 

Meanwhile the hands on your waist never stopped their soft rubbing up and down as he fed. Within his palms stirred a warmth, something he had been itching to do upon his first feed, it became so overwhelming. That sea of ecstasy he wanted to set adrift in seemed so much nearer now. With you, it would never cease. 

He released your neck with a gasp, blood dripping down his lips. Before he could clean himself up, your other hand reached up to swipe it away and let him lick it off your thumb. As he did so, you could’ve sworn his eyes glowed for a second. 

“Thank you, my love. For always feeding me so diligently.” Astarion drops a kiss on your cheek, moving himself to lay next to you.

“How else are you supposed to be big and strong for our battles, hm?” 

“Certainly not without your beloved blood, that’s what I know. Now, let’s get some rest. Today’s been long enough, no use in making it longer. Although I could stare at you forever…” 

“Oh, shush. Goodnight, Astarion.” 

“Goodnight, love.” 

He pulled you in close to his chest, so you’d fall asleep in his arms, listening to every heartbeat. 

Morning came with warm coffee and fresh bread that Gale had picked up before anyone woke. He offered you some along with a nice jam spread he’d made. Before he started along another spiel of talking his head off just to be near you, you moved your hair to the side, exposing your neck littered with red splotches from the night before. The wizard, rendered speechless, was even more surprised when Astarion made his way over and slinked his arm around your waist with a kiss to your temple. He then rushed off, almost dropping his own cup and getting to whatever business he’d be up to in camp. 

Across the many days that passed, from the goblin camp, eventually to Baldur’s Gate, your relationship with Astarion became so much more. He was devoted and kind, everything you expected him to be, not just spitting flirtations at you without care. The man knew which names you preferred to be called, ones he knew would have you bending to his every whim. 

You didn’t have enough gold to purchase a new knife for him? There he was, whispering into your ear, Darling, the store manager is slowly going over all the different potions with another customer. She won’t even notice its disappearance. 

So when you slipped the knife into your pack, he knew he’d gotten what he wanted. Perhaps not the best use of your time, but he took a little joy in corrupting your usual honest self. As a treat to lighten your conscience though, he’d had a necklace engraved from the same shop with his initials. It looked so delicate around your neck, the shine of its metal mirroring the glimmer in your eye. 

The soft mattresses of Elfsong Tavern were a blessing; not only did Astarion persuade the barkeep to give you the rooms for free, but the top floor was also all private. Everyone finally got their own space, save for the ones who decided to pair up together. 

He would feed from you almost nightly again, save for a few days here and there. Taking his time to kiss your neck, helping clean you up afterwards after he was done. Always using his lithe fingers to rub a healing salve into where he’d bitten. Though it became a guilty pleasure for him to see your eyes closed when he did so, ending up indulging in each other’s lips more often than not. Along the way, your desire for him simmered under your skin, desperate hands traveling across the expanses of his back, across the ridges of his scars ever so gently. 

One night you quite literally began grinding up against him, his thigh pressed under yours for a little tease. It was even before he started to feed, that you couldn’t resist him any longer. Your kissing quickly became more feverish, dotting your lips across his face and his neck with wild abandon. It was when you flipped Astarion over to straddle his lap that he caught the ravenous look in your eye. 

“What’s gotten into you?” He inquired, hands finding their place on your waist. 

“Astarion, has it occurred to you that we haven’t had sex?” You asked in reply, hastily moving your hair out of your face. 

“Well, of course it has. I just never wanted you to feel obligated to, if that wasn’t something you were ready for.” 

“I wasn’t… not at first. But I trust you much more now than I ever did, and… I don’t think I can hold back anymore. I want to do this with you.”

“You do?” 

“I dream every night about how it would be to feel you in that way. To cry your name in pleasure as I…” You trailed off, already recognizing the growing arousal for him stirring. 

“Oh… I see my love. This is something you’ve thought about for a while, isn’t it?” 

Astarion’s voice borders on genuine concern and his purr-like tone, almost as if he’d been thinking about it as well.

“I’ve thought about it and thought about it to the point where I can’t take the fantasies anymore. I have to have you…” Your voice dripped with desperation, as he noted your scent pricked with desire. 

His eyes go lidded, wrecking the image of that sweet vampire persona you’ve come to know and love in a second’s time. 

“I’d love nothing more. But if you get uncomfortable, we can stop whenever you’d like. Promise.” 

“I promise. I love you, Astarion.” 

“And I love you, too. My precious darling.” 

Your lips attached to his again, ever fervent than before. You so proudly moaned into his mouth, tasting his tongue swirling around yours. His breathing became heavier, growling into your mouth as his hands slid down to the soft padding of your ass and gripped firmly. The wet sounds of your lips moving together so perfectly sparked the filthiest of desires in his brain. 

Pulling apart from him with a gasp, you swallowed before thinking again. 

“Wait, there’s one more thing I have to tell you.” 

“What is it, pet?” 

“That night when you fed on me, it… did something to me. Something I didn’t understand at first, but now I do. It turned me on… and I liked it.” Astarion noted the scent of your lust as you spoke, and the way your heartbeat jumped. 

“Oh, you filthy devil. And I thought you were nervous about me feeding from you… When really it was turning you on… making you crave me, hm?” 

“I... yes.” 

Astarion bit his lip, dragging his eyes down your torso slowly before meeting your eye again. 

“And…?” 

“And… I would love nothing more than to honor you with my blood once more while we make love.” 

Astarion’s fangs make an appearance when he smiles oh so wide, eyes glowing with how much he is relishing in this moment. 

“You’re serious?” 

“Astarion, take whatever you want from me. take my love, my blood, my body. I trust you. Wholly.”

"You have no idea how much those words mean to me, thank you.” 

He pressed his lips to yours passionately, before pulling away to speak again. 

“May I confess something, this time, love?” 

“Of course.” 

“I felt the same when I fed from you.”

“You…” 

“Well darling, I can’t lie, I watch your blood slide along your veins whenever I’m close to you. It’s just part of my vampiric nature, but I can’t help it. Not when you’re this addicting,” 

“Tell me more…” your hands cupped his cheeks, playing with the stray curls that threatened to fall in front of his face. 

“From the first bite… it was such an aphrodisiac, and I couldn’t resist what power it had over me. It felt so wrong at the time, when we weren’t together. To think of you like that, I mean. The blood… took on a life of its own inside me. But now that we’re together… it seems right to tell you.” 

“That’s… gods. I don’t blame you at all. I would’ve done the same if I were in your place.” Immediately after your admittance, your cheeks pinked up right quick. 

“Oh, really?” 

“You’ve got me there, it seems.”

His hips grinded up onto you from below, noting each time his breath hitched between kisses. A hand scraped through his hair, sensation heightening what arousal was already beginning to simmer throughout his body. 

“You know… not once did I think you were too rough with your bites. You never even left a bruise… When you were close enough to breathe in my scent, you always made sure it never hurt. And I guess that… along with so many other things… is what made me fall for you. I enjoyed being close to you, I always will.” 

“I had to. I couldn’t take something so precious from you without care. I would’ve hated myself if that happened.” 

“I admire the strength you had… even for your first time drinking from a human. What an honor.” 

“The fact that you continue to bless me with your blood is just another testament to our bond. Thank you for trusting me.” One of his hands slinked its way down and interlocked with yours, thumb rubbing the top of your hand delicately. 

“I always will,” you replied, bringing his hand up to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to it. 

“May I ask for just a little taste before we… dive head first into each other? A petite one, at that.” 

You smiled. As if he’d ever have to go hungry again with you. 

“Anything you want, my star.” 

“Perfect…”

His eyes closed in bliss at the sneaky idea he’d just thought up. “Turn around for me, I want to try something.” 

You sat with your legs sprawled out, with Astarion out of your view. 

 “Close your eyes, darling.” 

You did as you were told, awaiting his first move. Astarion’s contact began with one of his hands running up your back triggering a flurry of goosebumps to rise across your skin. You exhaled shakily, intrigued by what he had in mind, but also the aching need for him continued to grow. 

That same hand moved to the right side of your neck, resting his fingers over your pulse point to take in how fast it was pumping that rich blood through your system. 

But he wouldn’t bite you just yet. 

His second hand wrapped around your waist, doing the same motion of small circles after slipping his hand under your shirt. You felt his breath turn to a low snarl against your neck, running his left hand across your stomach to your midriff and down the cloth of your pants. 

That hand rubbed over your crotch as he finally sunk his fangs in, leaning into his chest. Sharp coldness of said bite turned to pleasurable and warm quicker than you could expect. 

Your whole body warmed under his touch, the same heat filling you as it did on the night of his first bite. Except there was no shame or reason to hide it this time. So you welcomed it, along with the filthy desires that followed. 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, moaning low in his ear as he drank, with your head tilted to the side. His cold hand on the cloth of your mound only made matters worse, lifting your hips up for more friction. Gripped firmly under his hands, you could tell Astarion was smiling by the way his lips moved over where he had bitten. 

He lets up quickly after a few gulps, satisfied with his little drink. 

When your head falls back onto his shoulder, glancing upwards to the red lipped vampire, he catches the glimmer of your hazed eyes. 

“Oh, there’s the spark.” 

“Astarion…” you whined, unwilling to keep your desire for him under wraps. There was no point in doing so, he had you right where he wanted you. 

“Ah, you don’t have to say another word. I already know, darling.” 

His lips, stained with the crimson of your blood, press against yours again, moving his left hand to the waistband of your pants. 

The other that’s cradling your neck travels downwards, fingertips sliding over your shirt to grasp at your breast, nipple hardening under his light touch. All he has to do is rub over it once, before it made an appearance through the cloth. 

You aren’t wearing anything else under your shirt. Cheeky, he thought. 

“Your whole body’s been waiting for me to take you since that first day, hm?” A soft, massaging grip from his hand continued on the plush of your breast. 

“Mmnh… yes,” you whisper, “Please…” 

“Shh, sh sh sh. It’s alright. I’ve got you right where I want you.” 

You look to him, buzzing with eagerness in your eyes and plead again silently for him to touch you. The eager hand at your navel slips into your underwear, inching towards where you truly need him. To find you completely soaked wasn’t much of a surprise. 

Two of his fingers part your drenched folds apart, licking his lips at the knowledge of how much slick is gushing from you. With his fingertips, he ghosts over your aching clit once before traveling downwards again and pressing into your wet entrance ever so slowly. Not only do they slip inside almost immediately, but the sound that leaves you is incomprehensible compared to the ones you were making before. 

His digits are welcomed with no resistance, as if he couldn’t tell how alight your body became under his touch. Even through your clothes, the squish as they drag against your walls is enough to make him groan appreciatively. You gasp, the intrusion of such a different temperature compared to your own, noting the undeniable pleasure when he finally manages to find that sweet spot inside you.

Letting them rest against it for a moment before curling to his leisure stretches you out so nicely for him. Any upper body strength holding you up faded faster than light, falling against his broad chest with ease. 

You moan his name without a single thought, the apples of his cheeks pinking up from your glorious sounds that no one else was lucky enough to experience. It was music to his ears. How desperately he let the electricity form, tingling its way around on his skin. Slowly letting his own enjoyment build out of dragging his fingers in and out of you, he attuned to the hammering of your heart against his chest. 

Astarion took pride in every whine you let out upon the motion of his fingers, letting his thumb rub circles into your clit while he did so. 

“Gods, I want to undress you with my teeth… take my time with you… forever if I could.” he purred in your ear, earning him another breathy moan from you. 

“I can hardly resist you. Don’t make me–” 

“Beg? Oh, but that would be such a nice look on you…” 

“Astarion…” 

“Relax, darling.” 

You melt under his touch at the command, eliciting a proud smile from him from the knowledge that you’re wrapped around his finger. It’s not surprising how you already feel your arousal peaking from his simple touches, his heavy breath in your ear only urging you on further. Already eager to feel you clench around his fingers as you come undone. 

“You’re so close already, pet. Want to come on my fingers so bad, hm?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “Please…” 

“Then come for me.” 

The next circle over your clit sends you soaring over the edge, breathing heavily and whining with a blinding release. Astarion’s lips peck and lick softly over your neck as you do so, relishing in the scent of pure ecstasy you emit. He’s already itching to be inside your walls, but desires to savor your taste on his tongue beforehand, as if he could be sustained from only that. 

He knows the way you write underneath his hands is only because of him, which only makes him grow harder tenfold. As his fingers pull out of your underwear, the sheen of your slick is such a sight to his eyes. Astarion is quick to bring your fingers to his mouth, letting your aroma fill his nose before indulging himself with you on his tongue. His eyes close upon your taste, almost as good as your blood, but nonetheless, one that takes hold of his mind so strongly, he can’t think of much else. 

“Your taste is like nothing else…” 

He crawls around you to your front, pushing you back onto the pillow behind him. 

“I must have more of you…” 

“Take whatever you want from me.” 

Astarion’s nifty hands pull both your pants and underwear down in one motion, not before noting how soaked your garments were and discarding them behind him. Between your legs was such a mess, one he undoubtedly caused; seeing you like this though, in the shallow wake of your high coursing through you, was where he found himself entranced. 

As if that wasn’t enough of an image to sear into his brain, you discarded your shirt off to the side, tired of the confining layers that kept him from seeing all of you. 

“I knew you were a vision, but this… not even the gods could find enough time to worship at your altar. You’re perfect.” His last compliment is admitted almost breathlessly, as if he’d walked in on a painter sculpting their muse. 

“Stop with the flattery and get up here.” 

Astarion compiled, meeting your lips with his while his hand grazed down your chest, fingertips like drops of cool water in between the sensitive skin of your cleavage. The stark difference in his body temperature made a chill run up your spine, turning on the most sensitive parts of you so easily.

Your lips intertwined moan after moan with his, while the touch of his hand traveled to your nipple. Another trails feather light across the expanse of your thigh. One flick of his thumb against it, and you were rutting up towards his body again. 

“Do you like that?” he murmured, too entranced with how you look below him. 

“Mhm… do it again.” 

He needs no further encouragement, diligently placing each way you like to be touched into a perfect little spot in his mind. Your mind is empty of anything else other than his hands on your body, exploring every inch. The echo of your voice in his ears does more than enough to spur him on. His subtle flick over your hardened bud is like a switch, setting your whole body off. 

You grip at the hair atop his head, pushing him down towards the apex of your legs. What you don’t expect is his lips to travel with the movement, pressing a path from your jawline down your neck, not before stopping to kiss and lick once or twice over each hardened peak and soft skin surrounding them. It then follows down your stomach to your navel before his tongue comes into play, laving over them the slightest bit through each kiss. 

When he comes face to face with your core, Astarion can’t control the way he begins to salivate at the sight. He’s breathing so heavily still, your scent of lust and sweat wafting around his head. He leans down, expecting to feel his tongue on you, but instead he kisses your pubic mound with appreciation, hooking his arm over your thigh. 

“Astarion…” 

He knows what you want, what you need from him, and he’s quick to indulge. He leans further down to your sensitive parts, and can’t help but run two fingers through you again to see how you shine. That ecstasy he took from licking you off his fingers would be nothing compared to diving in head first to your joyous arousal. When his eyelashes flutter and go hooded, it’s no surprise that he finally leans in, tongue first starting from your dripping entrance and all the way up to right over your sensitive button. His tongue laps at your opening, swirling and darting around to collect and devour every drop of your sweetness. 

The tip of his nose prods at your clit just enough to make you clench, each of the rogue’s movements calculated and determined to relish in how you spread across his tongue. When he swallows, a moan of content vibrates through you and your head falls back in gratification. It made his nose against your clit much more hypersensitive and your hips almost began stuttering upwards for more. 

Astarion’s multi talented tongue threatened to send you over the edge once more, but you nudged him a certain way and he let up. 

“You taste so good, I can’t get enough of you. My love…” His hand stroked your inner thigh softly, an action of comfort that only sent another jolt through you. 

“You’ve already made me come once and I haven’t even gotten the chance to touch you yet…” you whined, knowing all this pleasure taken should be given in return. Especially for a man such as himself. Your mouth watered thinking about it. 

“Oh, darling,” he laid a kiss on your heat, “You don’t have to do a thing for me.” 

“You’re very sweet, but if I don’t get to have you as you’ve had me, I will lose my mind. Now…” 

The assertiveness you commanded over him did nothing but command him to obey, unwrapping himself from your thighs before sitting up. Your eyes immediately traveled down to his crotch, where his pants did very little to obscure his tenting beneath the fabric. Without another thought, you push him back onto the bed to straddle him, grinding your bare cunt against his cock. The friction is incomprehensible, but you must stay focused; this was about him now. 

Your hands lock around the nape of his neck, only letting one of your wrists trail over his lips. His first instinct is to kiss it, but then he remembers why you both are here. Your blood continues to pump loudly in his ears, its aroma still prominent in his mind. 

“Go ahead, I know you want to…” you spoke in a low voice, goading him on to sink his fangs in. His head lowers, red eyes lidded and locked on yours. He abides, the quiet squelch into your wrist paired with the sting of his teeth’s sharpness a minor pain at this point for you. 

The slow pulls he takes immediately pink his cheeks and tips of his ears up so much so, you thought he might’ve been feverish if he wasn’t of vampiric nature. Out of curiosity, you ran your fingertip over the pinkness in his ear to find it warm– hot, even. Astarion released your wrist with a whine, gasping at your sudden contact. 

“Sorry, did that hurt?” 

“N-No… do it again, please…” He whispers his last word, the alluring persona washing away with every small rub, whining even louder this time. Within your teasing, Astarion takes liberty to heal your wrist and kiss it once the puncture marks faded away. 

His head falls back in bliss, feeling the warmth of his blood travel down his throat with your hand. It lightly trails down his jaw, your thumb lightly ghosting over his adams apple as he swallows down the rest. Astarion whimpers something pathetic, the weight of you over his cock making it throb unnecessarily harder than it already was. 

“Did my blood just… do that?” You glanced downwards at the erection you straddled. 

“I think so,” he replied breathlessly, passionately connecting your lips with his. 

“Let’s get these off you. That does not look comfortable and… I want to make you feel so good…” 

“That sounds delectable, pet.” Astarion replies, letting your greedy little hands find their way to the bottom of his shirt to discard it. 

You paused a moment before going any further, taking in the picture of him below you. What a vast expanse of his chest that has your eyes glowing, as his rubies look upward to you. You kiss him once more, peppering kisses down his sharp jawline to the sensitive skin between his pecs and flitting your tongue across his nipples in the same nature that he’d done to you. 

“Hah-” you hear him gasp, knowing you’re doing something right. He intently listens to your heart rate and how fast your blood is pumping through your body while you travel down his own. Kissing your way to his navel and licking softly, pulling the cutest little moans from him. The strong ridges of his torso are next for your lips, letting your tongue drag across it from time to time. Your hands tug his pants down over the length of his prominent bulge. 

You discard them ever so quickly, his cock springing up eagerly, as pretty as the rest of him. His pink tip throbs in the cooler air, finally freed from his tight clothing. 

“Gods damn…” You muttered in disbelief. Of course such a pretty man would have a pretty cock to go along with the rest of him. 

“Look at what you do to me…” Astarion whines, biting his lip and tossing his head back. He doesn’t have to say anything else before you’re lowering your mouth and kissing his tip, lightly dragging your tongue over his slit, desperate to please. His cock twitches, standing even more upright against his toned stomach. 

“You’re perfect… in every way.” You comment, looking up at him before wrapping a warm hand around his base. It’s as if you could feel all of the blood he’s consumed pumping through him while in your hand. You inch up his shaft, letting your palm cover his tip completely to hear him whimper again. 

“Ah–” 

What makes him grow even harder is the gaze in your eyes as you continue to fist him, the way your lips are parted and your tongue threatening to escape again. Astarion doesn’t expect your other hand to massage his balls, only earning you an even higher pitched moan from him. 

Before he knows, you’re bending down again, flitting your tongue over his slit to taste the salty precome. Your soft lips roam down his length, leaving the sweetest of kisses as you continue. His chest heaves, whole body firing up in response. When your hands are replaced by the warmth of your mouth and your tongue down the side of his cock, he almost cums right then and there. 

But he indulges you, letting your movements continue and swallows down what noisy sounds he would’ve made. The moment he does, you lift off him with a knowing look. 

“Let me hear you, please,” you ask, your vampire nodding before raking one of his hands through your hair. Your warm mouth continues, before his hips begin stuttering and his curses switch to unintelligible whining again. After all the teasing and pushing all the right buttons on his body, you’re seemingly about to send him barreling towards his release with the consistency of your mouth on him. Licking the side of his cock as you move up and down, lips red and swollen from the friction. You look a perfect mess with your saliva covering him and doing so willingly on him like this. 

“Gods, I’m going to–” 

“Come…” you plead, “for me…” 

That’s all Astarion needs to hear, hips stuttering as he bucks into your mouth, spilling down your throat with a groan that tapers off into a content whimper of your name. You swallow every drop of his spend and ease him down from the peak of his high. Chest heaving, you release him with a pop, cock twitching in the open air, dripping and still half hard. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, glistening in the light of the room. 

“Thank you, my darling.” Astarion leans down, cupping your cheek with his hand and kissing you, tasting himself on your lips. 

“You look so pretty when you come…” you reply, wiping the extra saliva off your mouth. 

“Not as pretty as I’m going to look when I fuck you.” His voice lowers to a purr, immediately bringing you closer to him with his strength. “You'll take every inch, won’t you?”

“Mhm,” You whimper in reply as Astarion crawls over you, dragging his fingers ever so lightly over your torso. 

“Now tell me, did you touch yourself while thinking about me?” Your face is too quick to give you away to deny it, feeling your cheeks heat up. That’s enough of an answer for him. 

“You did, didn’t you? Don’t be shy. I want to hear that dirty little mouth admit it.” 

“Yes, I did. I… fucked myself with my fingers wishing it was you. I got off on the high your bite gave me. Gods…” You cover your face in embarrassment, but there was no admitting that to him with a straight face. 

“It’s alright, little love. No need to be embarrassed. I did too. My mind said no, but my body, filled with your blood, might I add, said yes. I dreamed of you laid out like this for me, so many damn times before I ever thought about it being real.” His hand pulls yours away from covering how much your cheeks are pinked up at the admittance of such a thing. 

“My tongue still remembers the way your blood tastes, you know. I can’t wait to fuck into you and taste you again.” 

“Please… please, please…” you whimper, finally at the crux of your fantasy where it becomes reality. All the nights you spent forcing yourself to be quiet, coming with a whisper of his name, were your real life now. 

“Please, what?” 

With the way he hovers over you now, his cock rests just over your navel, almost perfectly lining up with how it’ll fit inside you. 

“Bite me– drink my blood as you put your cock inside… I want to feel it grow.” You mewl, and when he growls with that all knowing smile, you know he’ll give you what you want. 

Your lips smash together this time, ever so hungrily, almost bordering on needy. Astarion pulls back for a moment, before letting his eyes drop to the pulsing point on your neck to lean down and meet it with a kiss. 

There’s nothing like the cold sharp sting of his fangs that soon melts into the purest form of euphoria as he slowly drinks, tongue greedily sweeping over the marks he’s made. The way he murmurs little strings of praise upon his approval against your throat, with blood covered lips. 

His tip prods at your entrance, pushing in slowly but with no resistance to the hilt before he’s consumed too much. Between the pulls he takes from your neck, he’s groaning with each swallow. Your blood sings inside him, truly feeling the aphrodisiac that is your essence of life. It consumes him, taking over the vast inches of his pale skin. Astarion’s grip on your body becomes the thing he clings to, letting his hands find your waist and back of your neck again. He pulls you closer to him, attempting to override the high he’s been put on, but he falls short just the slightest bit. 

From this point you were overjoyed to finally feel the drag of his cock against your walls, going from filled to the hilt to somehow even deeper, your blood filling him as he has filled you. It was poetic in a sense, erotic, and if you weren’t so lost in the high his bite was giving you, you could have cried at this ever so perfect moment. 

Finally he releases your neck with a gasp, apples of his cheeks pinked up, and eyes shimmering. Astarion is grinning ear to ear as he looks down on you, triggering a blissed out smile from your own lips. 

“How do I look?” you ask, slurring your words a little. 

“Beautiful. Like you always do.” When he asks, “Did you feel it?” in a low voice, you know he’s growing so impatient. 

“Mhm… fuck me… fuck me so good, the way you know how, Astarion.” 

Your moan again as his lips collide with yours, the first few thrusts of his cock slow and methodical. He angles his hips in such a way to hit that spongy sweet spot inside of you without trying, relishing in the friction of your walls. 

“So ready for me, and still so tight. Fuck, you were made for me, weren’t you? Hah–” 

His voice drips with lavishness, a devoted tone and desperate to please. 

“Astarion… faster, please…” 

He says no more, only growling in agreement as his hips pick up the pace. He smiles blissfully while his thrusts find a steady pace inside you. It’s even harder to not lose himself like he has in your neck several times before, soaked in happiness as his pace evens out. What a mistake he makes as he looks down at your neck, becoming so much more difficult not to lose all control and rut into you like a cat in heat. 

You moan out his name, every thrust a commitment to giving you his all each and every day he’s with you. 

“Again,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Astarion.” his mouth is on you again, eager for another taste, snagging your lip with his fang. 

“Again.” 

He commands in a tone that leaves no room for second thought. The friction of his cock against your walls, swallowing him in repeatedly, as if it were what your body was made for, brings you barreling towards your release. It’s when he reaches down where the two of you meet in the most intimate way, that you lose all train of thought. Your mind goes fuzzy as his fingers swirl at your clit, your combined fluids doing enough to lubricate the way he circles over your clit. 

“I’m going to…” 

“Come for me… Please darling, gods, please…” 

The ruthless pace he keeps up in order to come with you will definitely leave you sore in the morning, along with bloodlessness and at much too many disadvantages. But in this moment, you just don’t care– sharing this pure hot bliss and pleasure with Astarion has tied your souls together for eternity. 

So when his hips stutter again, holding himself inside you as he paints your walls with his warm cum, is when you know he’s yours forever. You shatter around him, clenching uncontrollably that he almost comes a second time. Both your movements slow to a halt, catching your breath as your heartbeats continue to pound in your ears. 

“I love you, thank you…” Your voice is hoarse, but appreciative, as you speak

“I love you, infinitely more…” He returns your sweet words. 

When Astarion lays down next to you, he can’t quite help the throb of his heart in an endless river of warmth. You’ve put him there, not just physically, but spiritually and mentally. Within his heart he knows he can love and trust you like this till the end of his days. 

[wolfish-trickster]

People pleaser(s)

Astarion x f!reader/Tav

Word count: 5.8K

Summary: Astarion pleased people to survive, you pleased them to keep them with you. What happens when one people pleaser meets another? Trauma is what.

Warnings: angst (like heavy amount), trauma (lots of it), typos, grammar mistakes

A/N: based off of this. A random 3am motivation hit and i thought why not write the whole thing myself 😅

Observe, listen, learn, use, lure. Those were the tactics Astarion used while under Cazador's reign.

Observe: go into a crowded space, usually a bar or a tavern, look for people, preferably lonely or loners.

Listen: sit close to them, listen to the conversations they are having, either with their friends or bartender.

Learn: if his new target is a regular and a hard nut to crack memorize every detail about them for future use.

Use: talk with them, compliment them, tell them what their heart yearns to hear, use his aquired knowledge from previous steps to his advantage, mold himself into the person they desire

Lure: give them a night of passion, promise them more, and while they're still drunk on the pleasure he gave them, take them back to Cazador's palace.

This was the regime he lived under for around two centuries. A flawless plan no one was able to escape nor evade. Until one fateful night he got kidnapped by mindflayers. Those retched tentacled beasts. And yet he was grateful. Even death or changing into one of them was better than his life so far. But fate had other plans.

It lead him to you, among other people. You were sharp, aggressive in just the right amount, but soft and caring when needed. It was obvious you were the leader of the group he stumbled into. This new status quo gave him a new perspective of life, of his situation. He was still undead, still tormented by sanguin hunger, but he could walk on the sun now. He could cross rivers and enter buildings without needed invitation first. Small things, but they made him feel much more powerful, more in control of his life. Once he realized it, it made his head spin. For the first time he was free.

And he could be even more. If only...

If only he played his old tricks on you. To get you to like him, love him even. You'd aid him greatly in defeating his former master.

And so, reluctantly but partialy out of habit, he fell into his old ways.

Observe: some days it seemed like you were everywhere at once, helping everyone with everything and yet no one has done the same for you

Listen: there wasn't much listening on his part. You were the one to listen to your companions. Whatever bothered them, their opinion, their life story, the topic varied but you always listened, never spoke.

Learn: from his observing he has learned, well, practically nothing about you. You never talked about your past or your interests. And yet that has told him everything he needed to know.

Use: when you walked up to him and asked him anything, he always turned the conversation back to you. Oh him? He's good today, how are you doing? Late at night when you volunteered to keep watch (of course you always did) he kept you company and gave you the space to talk your heart out. It was to make you see him as a trustworthy companion, someone all he sees is you. And even though it was all part of his plan, very deep inside he has started to quite enjoy the alone time he had with you

Lure: it didn't take much convincing to take you to his bed. Or rather to take you to a forest. True, you've refused him the first time, no doubt playing hard to get. But the second time he only needed to use a charming word or two and, even though an expression he couldn't quite put a finger on flashed through your face, you agreed. You came. Several times in fact.

And that was it. Nicely wrapped around his finger. Or so he thought.

"You will come to my bed tonight, won't you?"

You took a sip of the wine he so generously shared with you and shook your head. "No, sorry. Too tired."

"Come now, don't be coy. Or do you need a bit of enticing?"

You pondered a bit. With a held breath he waited for your answer, already preparing some of his favourite lines that would definitely work on you in case you insisted on your previous answer. The last few days you have been spending more and more time with everyone else rather than him. Astarion found it quite odd, people like you usually get attached to people like him. Nevertheless, he needed to remind you what he can give you. In return for your help and protection, of course.

Eventually after looking around a bit, most likely checking if your companions were asleep, you nodded with a sigh. Not an enthusiastic one, as he observed.

"Is something the matter?" He asked.

"Huh? Oh. No, nothing. I'm just really tired. But, I mean, you want to, so..."

"Oh my sweet," he took your chin between his index and middle finger and tilted your head up to look at him, "trust me, after some time with me you'll fall asleep faster than a babe. You'll never have a better rest than in my embrace," he purred.

*

Paradoxically after that night you avoided him even more. And Astarion has put such a work into pleasing you! What went wrong? Will you not sleep with him anymore? Not that he'd complain, but to think about the consequences it could bring him. Any misstep, any minor inconvinience and you could chase him off the camp. Others merely tolerated his presence, none of them would stand up for him if his exile was ever brought up. Well, maybe Karlach would, but she seems to mindlessly love everything and everyone, like a huge beastly looking puppy. A true enigma, that woman.

Since sex was no longer working he tried to at least be useful to you. However every help, every assistance, every chance of him spending even a minute longer than needed in your presence was met with a "no, thanks Astarion, I can handle it."

His position? Hopeless. His skills? Useless.

As he was drowning in despair he didn't even hear the conversation with a drow you've discussed some potions with. Until the word spawn was mentioned.

"What's your name, spawn?"

"Astarion," he said.

"Astarion," the woman repeated. The way she prolonged the wovels in his name made him shudder. Even more when he finally registered the stench that has been enveloping them and which his mind was ignoring for the past few whiles. It was coming from her. Her blood. Astarion surpressed the need to gag.

"I can give you a potion of incredible power. It isn't for sale, but it's yours," the drow told you and then turned her head towards him, "if you bite me."

"What? You want to be bitten?" He must've hit his head. Or has Gale put a spell on him to make him a complete fool?

He glanced at you but your face remained emotionless. No indication of what you wanted him to do. Or if you even wanted the potion at all. Though, he promised himself to win you over by any means possible, he simply couldn't push himself to drink that foul excuse of a blood in that drow's veins.

"I would have to decline," he tried. It's been a long time since he had said similair words to anyone. It felt foreign, but powerful in a way. He liked it.

"Excuse me?" She exclaimed. "This is a chance of a lifetime."

"I gave you my answer," he growled. This, the ability to say no. To finally be the one shaking their head and declining. It made him higher than any passionate night ever did.

"Ugh, can you talk some sense into him?" The drow turned to you.

You blinked at him and he finally could read your expression: confusion. Well, better that than anger, right?

"I kinda thought you'd jump at the opportunity there."

"Can you give us a moment?" He said way too sweetly as he took your shoulder and fully turned you away from everyone to have some privacy with you.

"Are you seriously asking me to do this?" He asked and prayed to all gods you'd tell him no, just like you always did.

"Why? What's going on? You're not hungry?"

"It's her blood. It's," he inhaled to get a better grasp at what it actually reminded him of, "rotten. Drinking it wouldn't kill me, but it certainly wouldn't be pleasant."

You shrugged. "It's your life. Your choice. Do as you want."

"Really?" He was taken aback. Do you even realize what you just said? What amount of power you just gave him? After nearly two centuries he was given his will to choose for himself. Free of consequences, with no conditions or threats of violence. "Thank you," he told you before turning back to the drow and releating his proud no.

As all of you were leaving back to the camp Astarion couldn't surpress the smile blooming on his face. He has done it. He said no. He declined someone access to his body. Granted, only to his fangs, but even that's a wonderful start.

Then his thoughts went back to you, as it was a custom since he joined your group. It was some weeks since the two of you layed together the last time. Even longer since he was usefull to you in any way. Even in battles the one with the most blood on their hands was Karlach and not the charming rogue. He hasn't given you a reason to stand up for him like that. Or to care for him in any way. He was almost sure you've even grown to hate him. And yet your actions proved otherwise.

He observed you again. You still helped wherever you could. Still listened and played therapist for everyone. Wait, that's it!

"Y/N dear," he aproached you one night, "can we talk?"

He took in your doe slightly startled eyes. How the stars twinkled in them. It made his chest twist in this unknown way.

"Sure, what do you need? You don't want to sleep with me again," you took a small defensive step back," do you?"

"What? No, don't you worry. Even masters of the horizontal tango need some rest. I wanted to ask you," he wasn't even sure what is it he wanted to know. "I wanted to ask..."

You waited patiently for him. No interuptions, no hurrying him to just spit it out. As if you were the immortal one with plenty of time on your hands.

"Do you hate me?" He spat out almost as a one word. There, it was out.

"What? No. How did you even come to think of that?"

"Do you want it alphabetically or chronologically?"

"No need for that," you halted him. "Just... did I do something you didn't like? Was I annoying? Just tell me and I'll stop."

"What? You think you've done something to me?"

You nodded.

He laughed. "Oh my, how funny you are. No, you haven't done a thing I didn't find absolutely indearing. It might've been me who overstepped. But no need to nitpick about the past. You don't hate me and that's all I needed to know. Have a pleasant rest of the night, dear," he waved you goodbye but before he could go back to his tent you called out for him.

"Astarion wait," you tugged at his sleeve to stop him, "can you at least tell me what I did to make you think so low of me?"

He was quiet for a while. Now that he thought about it, the reason was quite silly. Or maybe that's just his mind playing with him. "You weren't spending as much time with me anymore," he admitted and now that it was said outloud he cringed. He sounded like a whiny teenager with a crush rather than an experienced rake.

"Oh," you let go of his sleeve. "I'm sorry. It wasn't on purpose."

"I know, how can anyone neglect this wonderful bastard on purpose after all," he ran his hand through his curls and made them a bit more puffy.

You chuckled and bid him goodnight. Back in his bedroll he kept replaying your chuckle in his head. Was it just him or did it sound sweeter than usual? And what is this twisting in his chest again? It must be just delusions from his hunger. Even though he has sucked dry one huge deer an hour ago he must've become hungry again. But even when hunting for a new prey he barely focused. His mind kept doing what it did since he joined your group: thinking about you.

*

His feelings grew from minor twisting and turning into a full body reaction whenever he was close to you. Which is all the time nowadays. You must've taken his complaining about your lack of companionship to heart since you've practically become his shadow from that night forward. Not that he minded, of course. You fed his ego wonderfully and at times Astarion had difficulties remembering he was supposed to be doing that to you, not the other way around. He was supposed to make your heart sing for him, your hands itch to be on him, your eyes stealing glances at him and shyly turn away once you notice him staring back. How dare you reverse the roles he planned for the two of you!

Then again it wasn't so bad. Waking up and having thoughts of anything else rather than survival was a nice change, especially if those thoughts were of you. Especially now that the two of you spend so much time together. It felt like getting to know you all over again.

He was more than sure you were discussing your mutual fear of snakes with Gale a few months back. Now you excitedly tugged on his arm and pointed at any legless reptile you spotted on your path. Maybe he had a therapeutic effect on you.

Nearly everything he learned about you before was wrong. But that made you that more exciting. And that more easier to care for.

He couldn't bear it any longer. He needed to tell you the truth. You were much too good of a person to be left in a lie. Even though the loving words he told you before as a lie became true. You still deserved to know.

"You see I had a plan. A nice simple plan. Seduce you, slelp with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me. It was easy. Instinctive. Two hundred years of charming people kicked it and all you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was not fall for you. Which is where my nice simple plan fell apart."

Throughout his whole confession he closely studied your face. It changed from curiosity to shock to sadness. But never anger. A good sign to continue.

"You deserve something real. I want us to be something real."

Your expression was still sad. How come? It was supposed to turn into hapliness. He just opened up before you, poured out all his feelings and gave you his heart on a silver platter. Then again he should've seen this coming. You were much like Karlach. A fearsome fighter but pure as a lilly. And what he has done to you, what he has just confessed to... you truly deserved something better than him. He wouldn't even hold it against you.

"Well, since we're admitting to secrets and all that, I don't want to leave you hanging," you nervously played with your fingers, "I also have something to confess to."

If Astarion still had a beating heart it would sink to his feet upon your next words.

*

"People come and go. Some decide to stay, some don't. That's life, Y/N. You just have to accept it and move on. Someone great will show up for you soon, I'm sure of it."

Those are the words your parents used to tell you everytime a friend of yours distanced themself from you or outright left you. When you were little you believed their words and always held hope that someone will show up and finally stay. To fulfill your dreams of a big friend group, fooling around under the summer sun, talk spooky stories around campfire. Things you saw other people do, living your dream.

But no matter who came across you they always left one way or another. It started to seem like athe whole world was against you. Once you couldn't bear the unfairness and you outright asked a friend who started to avoid you for a reason. Why they all started to avoid you.

"If it smells like shit everywhere you go maybe you should check under your shoe," they snickered, as if they haven't spend the past few momths with you, as if you were a pest.

But they were right in a way. Compared to your peers you were quite odd. While others steered clear of corpses you had no problem poking their eyes out, no matter what species or size your macabre plaything was. Most people would stay away from fights with people twice their size, but once you got riled up enough you weren't affraid to throw a punch yourself, even tricking bigger oponents so you weren't the only one with a busted lip. Your fashion sense and taste in music wasn't much better.

Over the years you perfected your abilities to see through people. Look for what they wanted. If a soft spoken friend was what they desired there you were, telling them flowery words you studied night before in a cheap romance novel. If a drinking buddy was needed you experimented with different types of alcohol to see which one can your body tolerate the best and then off you went to the pub with your new friends, making youself look like the biggest expert. If any as much as glared at something you found utterly indearing, whatever it was, you completely agreed with them. You even had to stop wearing some of your most favourite accesories. It broke your heart but it was a neccessary sacrifice.

As years passed you learned even better to expect people's needs ans fulfill them before they even voiced them. You even found a bit of a fun in it all. Putting up different masks depending who you were with. If birds of feather fly together was literal, your flock of friends was the most diverse in the nature. You had obtained friends of any kind, size, personallity, race, rank, gender, sexual orientation, quite everyone to be honest. You never had this many friends. None of them knew the real you but you couldn't care less. None of them left you. It was all that mattered. You swore you have forgotten what being abandoned even felt like.

Until Astarion.

When he first joined you didn't feel much about him. Blood thirsty, flirtatious, most likely dark past. You've had at least three people like him and they all became your friends in under a week. Getting him would be easy.

And it was. Few compliments here, some ego strokes there and he was happily sitting by the fire with you, even right next to Gale if you arranged it so.

You seemed to go up a level in his eyes when you offered him to drink from you. Despite all your instincts yelling at you to get the hell out of there you pushed through it and gave him as much of your life force as you could. He became tamer than Scratch after that day. Not that you've used it against him. You were just glad he took a liking to you. So what if you were dizzy the whole day afterwards.

But then it all changed when he asked to bed you. In all your life you've had friends who mistook your kindness for flirting but you've always turned them down. By the time they even worked up the courage to ask you've built yourself into such a good friend to them that even a romantic rejection wouldn't make them leave. Pleasing them and telling them what they wanted to hear was one thing but being intimate, letting them close to your body, was completely different. Even you had rules and boundaries you simply refused to change.

His first request was met with a harsh rejection. He was sulking for couple of days but you were sure he'd be like before in no time. He still fought with all his might and joked around but more often than not you've felt his piercing gaze on you. As if he was studying you. For sure trying to figure out why you've rejected him. He looked like the type that wasn't told no often after all.

Then you noticed how closer he grew with Karlach. Of course he did, she was the most lovable person you've ever met. You could even be yourself around her to a degree. Her ruthlessness in battles always came as a whiplash to you though. The duality of her, a true mystery she was.

She started to gush about him more too. No doubt viewing him as a quirky little guy since he couldn't harm her at all. Even enjoying his stupid jokes the most.

By the time Astarion's second proposition came you've been trying to make up your mind. No doubt if you refuse him again he'll grow bored and leave. He's too proud to stay after being rejected. When his question finally fell you glanced around and took a sight of Karlach. That huge warm ball of pure joy. If her favourite jokester left the camp, you couldn't bear the sadness on her face. So you agreed.

You drank a whole bottle of wine on your way to the agreed place in the forrest. Far away from the camp. You couldn't figure out why. Was he a loud lover? Would you be? Only one way to find out.

Or not.

He kissed you and that's the last thing you remember. The next thing you know you were laying on the grass, naked and sweaty, with Astarion standing afar, taking in the morning sun. Was it morning already?

Without a sound you gathered your clothes and sneaked off. You passed a small creek on your way, in it you've washed away the previous night. Despite the cold water bringing you back to reality you still felt touched, tainted. Your brain couldn't remember a thing but your body did and it disgusted you. But Astarion was apparantly happy. He wouldn't leave. All was good.

*

It was all a mistake, you told yourself. Of course now that he has had a taste he wanted more. Even though you gently turned him down and even suggested someone else or outright offered to go to the nearest town and search for a brothel, hells you'd even give him some of your gold if needed, he still only asked you. Why? It was beyond you. The same scenario played out again. He asked, you declined, he insisted, and even though you were quite curious about his was of enticing people you caught a glance of Karlach again, reenacting some funny scene from her life for Shadowheart. The smile on her face...

You agreed, again. This time you at least wanted to feel good. You didn't drink in hopes of remembering at least the pleasure. That was what the sex was about right? Pleasure, climax, a feeling most of your friends quickly got addicted to and gushed about infront of you.

You felt nothing. Mentally you were there, but more like an autopilot. He kissed your neck, so you tilted your head to give him more space. Not because it felt good being kissed there, becuase of how he moaned while he licked up your pulse. When he made a sound so did you. When he caressed you, you caressed him bacm. You mirrored him as best as you could to make him not suspect a thing. However there came a moment when you just needed to cry. You quickly pulled his head into the nape of your neck so he didn't have to see and question what kind of a weirdo you were. Crying during the most pleasurable part. Truly weird beyond belief.

The next morning you couldn't even look him in the eye. He did nothing wrong and you knew it. It wasn't worth it. Torturing yourself like this. Not for Karlach, not for him. You were done. If he ever asks you again you'll reject him. You didn't care if he stayed or left anymore. He must've had his fill of you. You won't give him anything more.

*

"Do you hate me?"

That question was like a punch to the gut. Completely out of the blue too. "What? No. How did you even come to think of that?"

Your own thoughts were racing as well as his. You did most of the chores around the camp, even those you agreed would be his. Just becuase you won't let him use your body as he pleases doesn't mean all your people pleaser instincts will leave completely. If you can't give him your body you'll at least gift him your own free time. Still even after that he tried to come and take som chores off of your hands but you wouldn't let him. You had to keep on moving, it distracted you from what he did to you. Or rather what you did to yourself.

Even later at the drow you stood up for him when she just treated him as a peace of meat. You just didn't have the heart to let her.

"Do you want it alphabetically or chronologically?"

"No need for that," you halted him. "Just... did I do something you didn't like? Was I annoying? Just tell me and I'll stop."

"What? You think you've done something to me?"

You nodded. What else could be the reason? It was always your fault others left. Maybe you've slipped up on accident and showed him a part of you that annoyed him. For some reason keeping up a mask around was harder and harder with each passing day.

He laughed. "Oh my, how funny you are. No, you haven't done a thing I didn't find absolutely indearing. It might've been me who overstepped. But no need to nitpick about the past. You don't hate me and that's all I needed to know. Have a pleasant rest of the night dear," he waved you goodbye but before he could go back to his tent you called out for him.

"Astarion wait," you tugged at his sleeve to stop him. You needed to know. "Can you at least tell me what I did to make you think so low of me?"

He was quiet for a while. Then he spoke. "You weren't spending as much time with me anymore."

"Oh," you let go of his sleeve. "I'm sorry. It wasn't on purpose."

"I know, how can anyone neglect this wonderful bastard on purpose after all," he ran his hand through his curls and made them a bit more puffy.

You chuckled. He must've figured out you loved his hair. It looked even better under moonlight. You shook yourself from admiring his hair and bid him goodnight.

How could you have been so careless? Neglecting him like that. You felt hurt, true, but it was your fault you felt like that, not his. He didn't do anything wrong. None of them ever did.

After you were done beating yourself up over your stupid mistake you promised yourself you'll spend more time with him. Hells, you'll become his tail if needed.

And as you were falling asleep you thought to yourself that maybe being that close to him won't be so bad.

*

Astarion was truly weird. But in a good way.

First you halt all intimacy after he has had a taste of you. Then you avoid him to the point he thinks you hate him. And yet he's still there, every single morning you expected him to be long gone he still greets you and compares your hair to a birds nest, offering his hair taming services for you.

You started to ease up a little around him. Being with him all the time was a bit overwhelming in the begining but the more time you spent together the more slip ups you made. And the wider his smile seemed to become.

Sooner or later you've dropped your mask completely around him. Told him what you thought, freely got excited about anything you encountered on the road, talked endlessly about topics most found boring. But Astarion? No boredom ever showed itself in his eyes. He only looked at you as if you were his whole world. Even when you were in a city negotiating something you could still feel his gaze on you.

His touches began to linger too. Before you just bit your cheek and let him touch you as he pleased. As long as his hands didn't wander you didn't exactly mind, if he wanted to you let him. But something has changed about him. Or rather the way you see him. His touch was less calculated and more... friendly? Sort of shy? When he was trying to get inside your pant the first time he usually brushed his palm along the small of your back with a wink but now, all he needed to slightly blush was for the backs of your hands to make a contact while you walked. Did you misread him in the begining?

The answer came like a lightning from clear blue sky.

Here you were now, listening to the rogue vampire who you grew to love despite how much pain you suffered through just to keep him from leaving, telling you about he was forcing himself as well all along. At first you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but you could only feel sadness and sympathy for him. He never truly talked about his master and what he had to go through under his rule, but whatever he decided to share with you should've concidered more carefuly when coming up with ways of pleasing him. You should've known he was trying to manipulate you, just like you were him.

"I also have something to confess to," you took a deep breath. "I never wanted to sleep with you. I only did that becuase you would've left otherwise."

"Wha-" he took a step back, bewildered. "What are you saying?"

"I never wanted to do it with you. After you asked me the first time and I rejected you I noticed how Karlach grew to like you and I thought you would've left if someone didn't fulfill your needs. Since nobody really liked you back then, well aside from me and Karlach, and you only ever asked me I felt like I had to. You would've left otherwise and Karlach would be sad to see you go. Me too in a way... It is quite funny if you think about it," you chuckled a bit.

"Funny? In what universe is this funny?" He said with a slight anger in his voice.

"Just think," you tried to explain, "you manipulated me and at the same time I was kind of manipulating you back. You were right, this group really is full of wierdoes."

He didn't share the same humor as you. What was on his face was a mix of anger, disgust and horror. But he quickly hid those feelings away. "Well, seems like we are truly fated to be together then. If you'll have me that is."

You smiled up at him. The past is past now, you only focused on the fact that he grew to truly care about you, despite his plans. "Of course I will Astarion. But I do have a request."

"Anything, my dear."

You smiled at the pet name. Many people gave you cute or silly nicknames but this was the first that felt genuine. "No sex. For now at least. Please?"

He nodded. "Even though it would almost be a challenge, I would greatly appreciate it as well."

You smiled at eachother like two idiots in love, which you believed you were. Two broken people as well, but now you have eachother.

"I also have a request: no lying, no telling me what I want to hear. Only truth from now on," he said.

You agreed. He then extended his hand to you and you gladly took it. The feelings you held towards him from the first night you slept together still lingered but not as strongly as before. You could see the situation more clearly now. The world broke both of you in different ways, but together you could heal again.

That night you dreamed of what could be. After his master is defeated, after you're both freed from those worms. For the first time in your life you had someone by your side who wouldn't leave. And for the first time in your life you were excited for the future with him.

The same couldn't be said for Astarion that night. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing your face, your lovely innocent looking face, telling him how you forced yourself to be with him. You were even pure enough to find humour in that. Maybe that was the way you coped.

He felt disgusted in himself. What was supposed to be a romantic bonding moment, changing your lives for the better, became an ugly memory.

Night after night he talked with you, truly talked. Admitted to everything Cazador has did to him. He also pried out the truth from you, how you came to wearing hundreds of different masks for hundreds of different people. You were right in a way, it was a bit funny how similair the two of you were. But while he wore those masks to survive you wore them to not be alone. He understood regardless.

However, on the nights when his racing mind wouldn't slow down he saw all the pain and suffering he caused and now with your face added among them all in the worst way possible. Making you do as he asked, you not being able to decline. How was he any better than Cazador?

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Three: sanguine hunger

tw: violence

It has been a long time since Simon last tasted blood, and like the bad dog he is, he craves it more than anything. 

His parched throat screams as his fingers curl around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the pedal, car hardly keeping below the speed limit as he weaves throughout London’s streets. Countless photos of you stare up at him from the passenger’s seat—they scream. Wail worse than a motherless child. He feels your gaze on him, heavy even through the film. It’s betrayal—it’s why couldn’t you save me? 

It’s then that Simon realizes that he’s failed before he even began. This notion of protecting you, of saving you—it’s always been out of his grasp. He’s failed for years since. You, clad in your school uniform, baby fat still in your cheeks, eyes wide enough to see the world and all its shining glory—it’s gone. Dead. Smothered. He never got the chance to see you like that, and now he never will. 

Marco robbed you of that. 

You were so young—only a child. 

It all collapses and crumbles into razor shards that rip him apart from the inside out, bowels spilling in his abdomen, spoiling the meat of his muscles, forcing him to rot before he’s ready. Everything he’s suppressed—his anger, his ache for vengeance—solidifies into a solid stone he can’t purge. It weighs within him. He’s hated Marco since the day he met him. Since the day he threatened his brother. Since the day he chuckled at him as he huffed, covered in blood, an innocent boy’s teeth engraved in his knuckles. 

Since he hurt you. 

Tommy had to pay. 

You have to pay. 

When is it Marco’s turn? 

Simon has known from the very beginning that right and wrong rarely coexist separately in this world. The lines are blurred. Rusted with dried ichor and smudged with tears and anxious fingerprints, but the growing want that bites in the pit of his stomach feels right. He knows it is—this anger is righteous. Even still, when he pulls into Tsar Trading’s car park, he does not feel more just than he usually does—but he does know that when he leaves, he will be cleaner. 

Cracked asphalt slithers along the earth, leading Simon right to the front doors covered in peeling stickers and sunbleached signs blabbing about interest rates and vague threats about non-payment. The hinges squeak like jail cell doors as his senses are quickly smothered with stale nicotine and rotten marijuana. Wasted hard work lies behind glass display cases, locked tightly, and paid for in blood. He passes cases of jewelry, family heirlooms, and unimportant trash as he walks up to the front counter. 

A woman with hair fried from bleach carelessly puffs away at her cigarette as she watches him approach with dull eyes. Lines settle deep in her face, leaving creators along her lips as she puckers them, draws the smoke between her teeth, then exhales with a sigh. A smoldering pile of ash sits in a tray on top of the glass case. She rests her vice against the rim but refuses to smother the embers. 

“Can I help you?” Bored—her voice carries a hint of an accent. 

“I need to speak to Marco.” Simon’s words are sharp—piercing through the air faster than a bullet, worse than a blade. 

“Who’s asking?” 

“I’m asking.”

The woman tilts her head as she leans against the table. Her low cut shirt shows her collarbones; dainty, fragile, pushing through her skin as if her skeleton urges to break free. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“I don’t intend to take up much of his time,” Simon mutters, fingers curling. 

Pausing, her eyes slowly drag along his body, looking him up and down, before settling on the ridge of his nose. “Sorry. No appointment, no visiting.” 

“Look, love, I’m doin’ this to be courteous to you. That’s it,” Simon snaps. His arms cross, shoulders broadening, old scabs on his knuckles fully on display as they rest against his biceps. “I’m not leavin’ without talkin’ to him, so either you’re gettin’ him for me, or I’m breaking the goddamn door down. I’ll let you choose how much of a mess you wanna clean up.” 

She pauses. Mulling his words over, Simon watches the way a sly smirk tugs at the corner of her lips before she straightens herself. Waifish fingers snatch her still burning cigarette from the tray before puffing away once more. “Wait here.” 

Simon’s arms uncross as she vanishes behind a door. Every muscle in his body goes taut—ready, on standby. He’s an animal waiting to lunge, a predator yearning for blood, an attack dog ready to do his job. 

When his prey strides into the room, all Simon can see is red. Indignation clouds his vision like the thick fog of an impending storm, and it only deepens when he sees the smile on Marco’s lips. Happy—content with himself and his actions—he greets Simon with an ostentatious flair of his hands. 

“Simon Riley. To what do I owe the-” 

Marco’s words die in his throat as the sound of tearing fabric echoes through the smoky air. Fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, Simon yanks the man forward before slamming his spine against the wall. Cranium cracks on wood, and still, Marco’s smirk endures as he chuckles. 

“I take it you got my letter, then?” he goads. 

“I knew Makarov worked with human filth but I never thought he’d conspire with a nonce,” Simon spits. 

Another hearty chuckle bleeds from Marco’s lips, flashing his too-perfect teeth. Simon wants to break every single one of them. “Bit of a strong accusation there, Riley.”

“You better cut the shit, I’m not in the fuckin’ mood to play,” he growls. His grip on Marco’s shirt only tightens, but Marco’s lack of reaction is beginning to eat away at his resolve. It would be so easy—he realizes—to end it all right now. To snap his neck and be done with it; to free you from the monster that’s been terrorizing you for years. “I know what you did to ‘er. You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ yourself if you think I’ll let you get away with it.” 

“Guess those pretty lips of hers finally loosened up some.” There’s a short pang that echoes across Marco’s face, but he still keeps a level head as he reaches a hand to grip Simon’s wrist in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his chest. “You know, I gave her an easy way out. Could’ve had all this settled a long time ago if she wasn’t such a prig.”

“She was sixteen,” Simon barks. His voice cracks, malice bleeding into every syllable, and his fingers scream. They want to curl—they want to feel the way cartilage pops beneath a simple squeeze. 

Marco laughs, and it’s horrisonant. It scrapes over flesh like dull teeth and greedy nails. The red in Simon’s vision only deepens. As does his desire for blood. 

“Look at you, pretending to be all high and mighty,” Marco goads. “If you saw what I saw that day, you would’ve done it, too. How could you resist? Have you ever seen her cry, Riley? Her eyes get shiny, like stones. Or the way her skin trembles when you touch her? It’s better than any drug, better than-” 

Simon’s knuckles split along the marred scabs that have yet to heal—blood flows from his skin, but the pain is muted. Dark eyes train on Marco’s face as he watches his neck snap to the side, head bouncing against the wall, lip splitting as the tender flesh kisses the edge of his teeth. Finally, he is no longer smiling. Stunned, he watches the sage green of his eyes go blank, thoughts muddling in his mind too much for him to catch his words. 

But the callosity that hangs in the quirk of Marco’s lips leaves him reeling, and once more Simon finds his arm pulling back; fingers curled, knuckles dripping. The moment his flesh makes contact with Marco’s again, he feels something tear. It rips like a butcher’s blade through pig meat, but more crass. Undisciplined. Once more, Marco’s neck snaps, but Simon’s the one to feel pain blossom. 

Looking down, he sees the way Marco’s blade slices past his abdomen, glancing off his ribs, sloppily cutting the side of his torso. Ichor seeps through the gash, wetting his stomach, soaking into the cotton of his shirt, but Simon doesn’t care about the pain, or the florid color painting his pallid skin. 

“Easy, Riley,” Marco taunts. He smiles, porcelain teeth stained pink, unable to halt the blood gushing from his nose. “Everyone always says you’re a dog, but I didn’t expect for you to come in here acting like one.”

“You keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, ya hear me?” Simon seethes. “You don’t talk to ‘er, you don’t send ‘er any more of your shitty fuckin’ letters, you don’t do anything. You keep your filthy fuckin’ mitts off of my girl, yeah?” 

Acidulous laughter cuts through the air as Marco is no longer able to hold back his titter. He pulls his knife away from Simon’s side, who hardly grunts at the sting. “Your girl? Is that what this is? Some great love story? Do you really think you can save her?” Pausing, his face softens. Head tilting to the side, he sighs, tongue swiping across his teeth, swallowing down the blood. “Yeah, that’s what this is. You’ll save her, just like you did your pathetic brother, right? Does she even know what you did? Because, I’m sure if she saw what I saw that day, she wouldn’t be too keen on fleeing to you for protection.” 

Rage dwindling, Simon’s teeth grit as his grip on Marco’s shirt loosens. There’s no real way for him to win this battle—not here where there’s no doubt ten men waiting behind that door, armed with illegal weapons. There’s not much use for him to leave himself as a useless corpse—something too dead to protect you. He steps back, ignores the way his mind rages in defiance, and Marco hums as he closes his switchblade and stows it back in his pocket. 

“How does it feel? Huh? Knowing that could’ve been her? That day, when you paid off that debt?” he continues to exhort. “Would you still have done it? Anything for Tommy, right?” 

Shaking his head, Simon’s eyes hold a searing flame that he doesn’t bother to extinguish. “This is the last time I’m talkin’ to you. Next time you pull shit like that, I’ll just kill you.” 

Simon wanted blood, and now he has it. All over his hands, staining his steering wheel, smothering his tattered shirt. No amount of pressure will stem the bleeding—it soaks through every packet of gauze in his first aid kit, now sitting in a sopping pile in the passenger’s seat. He wanted blood, and now he has it.

It won’t stop coming. 

He thinks of his time back in the butcher’s shop when Tommy rushed in, tailed by Marco’s boys, and the subsequent bullet he took because of it. Muted pain seared through his skin before embedding in his shoulder—there was so much blood running down his arm, streaming to his fingertips, pooling on the ground. Despite his brother’s cries and desperation, he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. But now, he thinks of you, and what your face would look like if he doesn’t come home, if he were to lose himself over this petty flesh wound, and he knows he has to be concerned.

So he goes to the only place he can think of—deep within the heart of London where the buildings tower high and the streets are cleaner. Pampered pedestrians adjust their coats as they enjoy the evening’s dying sunlight. Lovers pack tightly into highly acclaimed restaurants for their Valentine’s Day supper, and love hangs heavy in the air on speakers outside department stores, but Simon does not feel any of the cheer as he awkwardly slides into an apartment complex. 

The receptionist calls out to greet him, but the chipper bite in her voice vanishes the moment her eyes settle on his face—on the blood staining the first aid kit he keeps clutched in his rigid fingers. When he enters the lift, he takes care to press the buttons with his elbow before settling in for the short ride. He knows he’s arrived on the floor he needs when his ears pop, and he stalks out of the lift and down dimmed hallways until he reaches a thick door padded with every security system known to man. 

It takes two minutes for Kyle Garrick to answer his door half dressed and dotted in smudged lipstick marks. There’s a faint sheen of sweat that glistens along his bare chest and collarbones, but it suddenly vanishes as Kyle’s eyes widen. 

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, opening the door wide. “What kind of trouble did you get yourself into, mate?” 

“You said Lucy was off today, didn’t you?” Simon asks, ignoring his question. “Think she can patch me up?” 

Kyle huffs—exasterbated and caught off guard—but eventually tells Simon to sit tight and not get blood on his new sectional. As he waits, he eyes the empty take-out boxes that line the kitchen counter, and the strong smell of cologne and perfume that wafts through the air. The scent makes him nauseous, and the clamminess plaguing his palms does not aid his spinning head and thoughts. 

“Wow. You’re quite the sight.” 

Lucy struts into the living room donning nothing but a black robe. Her mussed hair sits in a ratty bun held by nothing but a claw clip, and her tired eyes are further outlined by the smudged eyeshadow and mascara that sits beneath her waterline. He tries not to take note of the dark marks that line her neck—love bites bleeding into her skin—but they scream at him anyway. Her eyes quickly find the source of Simon��s ichor, and she’s already picking him apart with her gaze. 

“Sorry to bug you, love,” he sighs. He turns his first aid kit over in his hands a few times before holding the bloodied bag for her to take. “I’d do it myself, but I can't quite reach it.” 

“Well, I’m no surgeon, but I’ll see what I can do,” she says, waving her hand. 

She has him strip his shirt off, though the fabric sticks to his skin and only lets go with a wet smack. Laying on the floor on his side, Lucy gets to work stitching his marred skin back together with hands as delicate as a chainsaw. Each time the curved needle bites through his skin, Simon’s molars grind together. He breathes. Huffs like a bull. His skin tightens with each suture made, but the pain only worsens—raw skin against raw muscle, pressing together, holding too tight. 

“Who did it?” Simon hears Kyle’s footsteps echo through the floor he lays on, and when he walks into view, he notes how he’s cleaned up the side of his neck and donned a shirt. 

Closing his eyes, Simon exhales through the next set of sutures. “Just some punk.” 

“Bullshit,” Kyle snaps. “No punk gets the better of you like this. It was one of Makarov’s men, wasn’t it?”

Simon doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Sighing, Kyle situates himself on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head hanging low as he watches Lucy work her magic. The laceration is long—slicing deep along his ribs like an untrained butcher. Blood flows through the open skin and onto the floor, but no one makes any comment on the mess. 

Before the conversation can continue or derail, Simon’s phone begins to vibrate. Lucy stops her sutures long enough for him to fish it from his pocket, and he’s already stained the screen with his mess before he can fully make sense of your name illuminating it. His heart stills, moving muscle turning rigid as stone, and he tries to steady the tremor in his hands before answering. 

“Hey, baby.” 

“Simon!” Your voice drips with desperation—an odd relief and something more incensed. “You had me worried sick! You weren’t answering any of my texts, and you- I just- You promised me you would come straight home! You promised me!” 

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I just got caught up with somethin’ that’s all,” he attempts to assure. 

“Marco was there, wasn’t he? Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea,” you continue. Lucy’s hands move, sharp, steady, pinching Simon’s skin together, and his wince bleeds through the speakers like the hiss of a snake. He catches the pause in your breathing. “Are you hurt?” 

Simon swallows, and it’s thick enough to choke him. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart. I couldn’t let him get away with it, and he won’t.” 

Your sniffle hardly makes it through to Simon’s phone, but he catches the tail end crackle of it. “You promised me you’d come straight home.” 

Another pinch, skin sewn together, blood stemming, wound mending—Simon squeezes his eyes shut. “I will, baby. I’ll be home soon, yeah?” 

Then, there’s your hesitation. He can envision it in his mind—lips turning down, eyes glossing over, trembling skin trying to keep yourself from spewing. “Okay.” 

Simon’s hands ache for you the entire drive back home. 

It radiates from his knuckles, up his metacarpals and down his phalanges; hairline fractures carving his very desire into his bones, etching them with want. Pictures of you stare up at him—ones he can’t stand to look at—and he shoves them in the glovebox, but the reprieve amounts to nothing. Lucy’s handiwork leaves his skin raw and burning, as if someone holds coals against his bare skin. The only thing that haunts him worse than the pain is her parting farewell to him as he cleaned himself up in the kitchen sink. 

You better do something nice to make it up to her, Riley. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day. 

But his mind buzzes too much to think about begging for forgiveness. An angry wasp burrows deep into his brain, rattling every neuron until all he can think about is you, and Marco, and how much he wants to snap a neck. His hands unsteadily unlock the front door. The house is quiet when he enters—not even the television hums in welcome. There is only you, quiet, sitting on the couch, cheeks still wet and eyes just as glossy as Marco would have him believe. 

“Simon? Is that…” Your voice fades as your eyes fall low on his body. Torn shirt, cotton stiff with dried blood, grey fabric now dyed a deep russet that won’t ever wash out. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, but he pulls his arm around his body, hiding the wound peeking through. “Just let me clean up, then we can talk.” 

His answer is poor, and so is your response. You follow behind him to the bedroom like a fawn on wobbling legs, arms crossed and brows narrowed, frustration seeping through every pore on your body until you’re soaked in the noisome aroma—the scent stings your eyes. “How did it happen? Simon, what did he do?” 

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, let me breathe,” he snaps just as his hands settle on his dresser. 

Your throat tightens. Constricts to the point of asphyxiation. Your arms pull closer around your body, and Simon can feel the way you shrink behind him. How you cower. Sighing, his head lowers, fingers tapping against the wood before him, he can’t bring himself to look at you. 

“He had pictures of you. Bad pictures,” he admits. There’s a warble in his voice you’ve never heard before. It sounds like the rippling of water—the fracturing of glass. “Shoved ‘em all inside of a nasty fuckin’ card addressed to you. I wasn’t gonna stand by and let him do somethin’ like that. Went straight to Tsar Trading and talked to the cunt myself.” 

Anxious feet shuffle behind him, and he feels every muscle along his back tighten. 

“Simon… let me see you.” He doesn’t move. Still as a statue, he’s motionless for so long you fear you’ve lost him. “Please, Si.” 

He turns—slow. Steady. Scared. When his eyes land on you, curled forward, hugging yourself, thigh resting against the edge of the bed as if you might fall without the support, he begins to crumble. He trudges forward like a wounded dog, limping from a lost battle, unable to look his owner in the eye. Your fingers twitch as you push his arm out of the way, soaking up the wound that taints the side of his torso, sutures peeking through the rip in his shirt. 

Your bottom lip begins to tremble as you shake your head. “I told you not to do anything stupid,” you say, sussurus breaking against your vocal cords. 

“I couldn’t let him get away with it. He can’t keep hurtin’ you like this, I’m not gonna stand for that shit,” Simon defends. 

“No, you can’t do shit like this, Si!” Your hand clenches, fingers clutching the tattered remnants of his shirt in your palm. “I can’t keep losing people! My dad, my mum, Aelin’s dad—I’m so sick of it! I’m so tired of people getting hurt because of me! I couldn’t handle it if I lost you! Seriously, Simon!” Your anger quells just as quickly as it began, and it dies in a fizzle. Not even the smoke remains. “What am I supposed to do without you?” 

You stare up at him, eyes wide, deep, searching. Poking and prodding, you’re looking for the answer in his gaze, but you don’t like what you see. That devotion. The dangerous kind that gets people killed. 

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but I love you,” he says, voice low. Knocking your hand away from his chest, he cups your cheeks in his palms, thumbs caressing over your skin, tender from the tears that have nettled where they shouldn’t. He refuses to let you look anywhere but him. “I love you, and I can’t just stand by when someone hurts you like this. I’d do anythin’ for you. Fucking anything. But… but I am sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, baby, I just… I love you too much to not do stupid things for you.” 

Duteous as ever, your Simon Riley has baffled you by words alone. Closing your eyes, a few more stray tears dribble down your cheeks where they’re instantly caught and brushed away. When you open them, he is still there. Still staring. Still holding you as if he holds the world. 

Somehow, you find the strength to smile. It cracks across your lips small—faint. “You’re an idiot.” 

When Simon’s lips fall on yours, palms still cradling your face, his appetency for blood suddenly vanishes. It’s quenched. So far out of his mind he can’t remember what the hunger pain feels like. That beast quells until it’s so small he can’t feel anything else anymore—he only feels you. Warm against his lips, sourdough bread still on your tongue, tangible in his grasp—his. His girl. 

He tries to pull away, keeping the kiss chaste, but you won’t let him. Arms snake up around his neck like a noose he wouldn’t mind dying to, constricting, holding him tight, keeping your bodies bound. His avaricious hunger returns with near bruising force against your lips, drawing a hum from your throat before you’ve even made sense of the building pressure in your core.

It hurts. It swells enough to swallow you whole, and still you don’t push it away, not even as Simon digs deeper. Neck twisting, knees bending—he steps forward, sending both of you tumbling on top of the bed. The mattress springs beneath your back, Simon’s hands now digging into the duvet; his weight sinks into you. 

Eventually, he pulls away. Legs on either side of your body, he stares down at you as his bruised, bloodied knuckles rub against your face. Your lips part, eyes fluttering—you reach for his shirt. Finger hooking into his collar, you gently tug. A simple request. A quiet plea. 

When your eyes meet, both of you know that there is nothing—not a single thing in this treacherous world—that can hold either of you back from what happens next.

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[dmbakura]

slave to sanguine hunger

[mothhball]

SANGUINEOUS

JONATHAN CRANE X VAMPIRE!FEM!READER

summary Jon takes the time to feed his pet

warnings SMUT!! PET PLAY, sub!reader, p in v, unprotected, dom/sub themes, injury, blood drinking, pet names for reader (pet, good girl), death mention, reader kinda ate (literally)

notesI had Nolanverse in mind while writing, but there's not much description of him lmao. Also, this was supposed to be the pet play entry for kinktober but 😬 my bad, whoops

! MINORS DNI !

event masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 1.6k

The floor felt cold beneath you, sending a shiver down your spine as you watched him with bated breath, waiting for a command, a word of praise, anything.

There was a fire in your eyes, never waning, never dying. You’d outlast his life tenfold, and he knew it as well, but that wasn’t a conversation for nights like these. No, on nights like these, he’d make you crawl, gloved hands and stockinged knees. A predator, adorned with lace and silk and a collar around your neck.

Two truths made up the foundation of this peculiar relationship.

Firstly, both of you knew that you could easily destroy him. Tear him to pieces until he'd be little more than disassembled flesh and bone. Until the sweet essence of his body would cover you in brilliant, scarlet rivulets.

But secondly and more importantly, you both knew that he'd trained you well enough so you wouldn't.

As much as you held the power of life and death within your palm, Jonathan held the leash that kept you tethered to his side. A snarling, exotic pet that bent to his will.

And exactly this predicament was what got you addicted in the first place.

The sensation of kneeling; of obeying. The delicious humiliation of submitting to what was supposed to be prey. The lust in his eyes always mirrored your own, because as much as he liked to lead and own, you desired to follow and be possessed.

“Jonathan,” you rasped, fixing him with gleaming, insatiable eyes from where you knelt before him. The clicking of his tongue betrayed his disapproval, but there was no ire in his eyes. No, the icy blue of his irises was almost completely eclipsed by his blown-out pupils, darkened with a need that only you could satiate.

“Pets don’t speak, do they?”

Your jaw clenched at that, lips pulling down into a frustrated pout, which only caused him to chuckle lowly. His pointer finger flexed, silently commanding you to get closer to where he was seated on the edge of his workbench. Of course, you knew what he kept in those sickly green vials and syringes. You knew from the second he stumbled upon you that fateful night, mistaking you for a helpless little thing he could use to test his latest concoction.

It was only when you revealed your nature that the tables turned instantly. In hindsight, you were happy that you didn’t rip his throat open; that you took the time to see him for what he was. Now, you were monsters of two different kinds, toying with each other in ways that made your skin crawl delightfully.

You followed the gesture of his finger, breath hitching as he hooked it into the metal ring of your collar and yanked you even closer and up on your knees, cheek resting on his thigh.

“You’re famished, aren’t you, pet?” he said, regarding you with a haughty smile that caused your insides to shiver with need. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Jonathan knew the telltale signs of your vampiric hunger; could tell by your posture, the lacking health of your hair, and dull skin.

He hummed, thumb caressing your jaw as he kept his eyes on your ruby ones. Then, he patted his lap with his free hand.

“Up.”

The bell on your collar jingled as you got settled in his lap, straddling his thighs and shifting to get comfortable. Jonathan allowed it, surprisingly patient for a man who adored the marks that a little rough treatment would leave on your body. But for now, he just watched as you got situated, his fingers idly tracing patterns over your hip, which caused goosebumps to spread beneath his touch. Once you were finally settled, he brushed the back of his hand over your cheek and then higher up to adjust the plush cat ears on the top of your head. Something you used to pretend to hate. Fortunately, Jonathan was stubborn enough to insist on them time and time again. Until you gave in and openly started to enjoy the little accessories and trinkets.

“Good girl,” he praised softly, grabbing the back of your neck.

Your eyes were fixed on his nimble hands as he undid his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt. Instantly, your attention was caught by the steady thrumming of his pulse beneath his skin. The mere thought of his velvety blood on your tongue already made you salivate. A willing morsel.

“No. Focus.”

His voice and the tightening grip on your nape released you from your momentary trance, and you swallowed thickly. “You know the drill.”

His cock was already hard by the time he freed himself from the confines of his slacks. Obediently as ever, you raised your hips and allowed him to pull your panties down and carelessly toss them aside.

With how quickly you were complying, one might’ve thought your years of immortality were about to catch up to you. But it was the hunger that drove the urgency of your movements. Hunger that felt like a black hole in the pit of your stomach. A hole that only the rich, sanguine lifeblood of your master could fill.

Jonathan’s free hand crept up the inside of your thigh at an agonizing snail’s pace, taking far too long for your liking until his fingertips dipped between the glistening folds of your pussy. Fleeting pleasure. Far too little to please, yet too much to stay still. Your needy whine earns yourself a tug on your hair.

“Behave,” he warned, rubbing slow circles around your clit. Jonathan let go of your hair again, unbuttoning his shirt more and more to properly expose his shoulder. You almost bit your own tongue at the sight. The faintest visible throb of his heartbeat, the healthy flush on his pale complexion; arousal, excitement.

And a hint of fear.

Terror beneath rose-tinted glasses.

It was an exercise of restraint as he made you sink down on his length, stretching you open around his cock. The appetizer to the impending main course.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, breath heavy and hands grasping onto the flesh of your hips as he looked up at you. Eyes full of need. Of reverence and trepidation.

And then, Jonathan dipped his head back to bare his throat to his most favorite pet.

“Feed.”

Your mouth was on his throat within seconds as you pounced like the predator you were. Tongue lapping at his skin, you felt the steady beat of his heart as you licked a stripe up the column of his neck. And then you sunk your teeth into his flesh. Deeply.

The man beneath you flinched, his grip tightening on you as a pained groan slipped past his rosy lips. The initial bite always hurt. But what followed was the sweetest pleasure. His eyelids fluttered shut as you began to swallow gulps of his blood, drinking him like the most exquisite wine.

Jonathan had to pull himself together, gritting his teeth to focus as he began to thrust up into you, fulfilling his own carnal desires. Quickly taking the hint, you followed along to his rhythm, meeting every roll of his hips with one of your own.

Moaning with a mouthful of blood, your hands found their way into his hair, desperately tugging and pulling as your mind started to blank. Debased, bouncing in the lap of your master, you were less than and more than human at the same time.

A creature tamed by pleasure.

As Jonathan slowly started to become light-headed, his fingers curled into the back of your collar to pull you off of him, and after one more flick of your tongue against the wound, you released his flesh from between your fangs.

Both of you were panting and whimpering, working up to a desperate climax that was rapidly approaching. Jonathan’s blood was smeared across your parted lips, rolling down your chin and throat in beautiful runlets, and disappearing in the valley between your breasts. If this were the last thing he’d ever see, Jonathan was sure he could die a happy death.

But not now.

Right now, he was alive, and his thrusts sped up as he neared the edge. Despite the loss of blood, his pulse sounded even louder in his ears, and you could hear it as well.

Gritting his teeth, he reached down your bodies to rub your clit with his thumb, determined to push you over the edge first. It’s what any good owner would do.

The filthy moan he got from you in response was reward enough for him, and even in this state, he still managed to grin up at you as your face twisted with pleasure. Grabbing onto his shoulders, your back arched as you came, whimpering and choking out noises with your face tilted towards the ceiling.

Jonathan’s pace only quickened, emboldened by the sight of your trembling form and the exquisite clenching of your slick folds around his cock. Even as you began to squirm, his thumb kept circling your clit.

“No. No, don’t pull away. Don’t be greedy, pet. Let me have this– “ His voice was strained, hissed out from between bared teeth as the bucking of his hips grew more erratic.

One more thrust. And then another. And he finally, finally succumbed to the bliss of his own climax. Jonathan cursed under his breath, pulling your body flush against his to get to your shoulder, where he sank his own teeth into your skin. Or, well, tried to. Aside from the dull pain, he didn’t do any damage.

His bite would leave a bruise; yours would leave a scar. One of many.

And neither of you would ever want it any other way.

@ellebellebarnes @harrystyelsgf @mcumorningstar @mandies24 @detroitbecomevenom

@pretty-bluebird @calicoartie @vampmary1411 @ashdrinksoatmilk @sillycillyforlife

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@vegasisthinking @ilovedottore @cillianslvt @ddawgg1 @tkappi

@humbuginmybones @jordyn-yeager @chaengist @ryecosse @strangeobsessed

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: About Time

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Movie night with the Thunderbolts leads to old memories. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic depictions of a panic attack, vague descriptions of vomiting, references to past trauma. Word count: 2.4k A/N: There is now a chapter count for this work. There will be 10 chapters in total. Thank you for all the love on this; it means the world to me.

The common area couch was large enough to fit all of you, but somehow never felt spacious enough when everyone squeezed together. That was how you found yourself on the floor in front of the couch instead. Your shoulders were crushed between Bob and Walker; your back slumped uncomfortably on Bucky's knee. He was lucky enough to grab a spot on the couch first.

Yelena’s bleached blonde hair obscured your view of the screen slightly. You stifled a sigh; mentioning it started another bickering session.

“What are we watching?” Bucky asked, his leg dug further into you. The remote lay abandoned on the couch’s arm, waiting for someone to claim it. Alexi reached for it before anyone else could grab it.

“Hand it over,” Walker demanded, setting his plate down and lunging across you and Bucky. Alexi yanked the remote away, holding it out of reach. “Please, you’re gonna make us watch some old Russian movie.”

You used one hand to lift Walker’s elbow away from your plate and the other to stuff a bite of food into your mouth. Your left side dug into Bob as John fell further atop you. You hissed in discomfort, your body twisted awkwardly to avoid Walker’s armpit.

“Children, please,” Bucky grumbled, yanking the remote from Alexi’s grasp. “Let’s just see what they have.” Walker reluctantly sat back, dropping his hand from your knee, which he had used as leverage. Bucky flicked through titles with the intensity of someone personally offended by bad movie covers.

“Jesus, can you just pick something?” you spat, dipping your soft taco in sauce. Bucky kicked you in reply, just enough to annoy, not hurt. “Fine. What if we close our eyes and see what we land on?” you suggested, placing your empty plate down. Surprisingly, the room went silent.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Yelena said, flopping her head back and covering her eyes. One by one, the rest of the group followed suit, mostly begrudgingly and with heavy sighs.

“Ava, count to ten, then Bucky hits select,” you directed, slapping a hand over your own eyes. Ava began counting, theatrically slow at first, until ten seconds suddenly felt too long. Her voice sped up until—“Now.” A soft click followed, and you opened your eyes to see what fate had chosen.

“About Time,” Bucky announced, his tone confused. The title screen appeared, the Netflix ‘bad-dum’ barely audible over the team’s collective groan.

“No way,” Walker protested, immediately reaching for the remote. Yelena smacked his hand down before he could start another wrestling match.

“Rules are rules, Walker. We agreed to this system.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Bob admitted, his body relaxing beside you. You tilted your head toward him, close enough that your whisper wouldn’t carry.

“Me neither. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Bob tipped his fries your way with a smile. You grinned and grabbed a handful. “If it’s not, though, it’ll be good to point and laugh at.”

“Shut up,” Ava hushed, surprising you with her sudden interest. “I can’t hear it.” You raised your eyebrows in amusement before settling your eyes on the screen.

As the movie progressed, the team's reactions went from protest to enthusiastic engagement, filled with the occasional chime in from someone asking ‘why doesn’t she just kill him?’ or ‘I hate this man,’ which was immediately met with a unanimous hush. It wasn't until the credits rolled that the trance seemed to break.

Alexi was sniffling, desperately trying to hide his face behind a throw pillow. No one spoke; the room was blanketed in a thick cover of sad tension.

“That was…” Ava began, scratching her head as she tried to think of the right words. Bucky nodded beside her, head settled low.

“Terrible.” Walker finished, his voice trembling despite the clenched effort to steady it. Yelena furrowed her eyebrows upon hearing him, snapping her head around.

“You’re literally crying.”

“There’s something in my eyes.” Walker swiped at his face with a rough, hurried gesture.

“Yeah, tears.” You added, turning to the side to see Walker's reddened cheeks.

You were just as affected; love had never been kind to you. Before the snap, when the Avengers still felt like home, there were more chances. You had been so close to Bucky for the few years you spent together in Wakanda that if Thanos never erased everything you once knew, a fragile almost could’ve bloomed.

Those five years alone transformed you, hollowed you out entirely. You swore never to kill again after the night your powers first manifested. Fate had other plans, and you found yourself covered in blood, clawing animalistically at anything that got in your way: alien gore and sweat sticking to your tainted skin.

Maybe if you had won the battle, you could have justified what you did, who you’d become. Then Bucky crumpled to dust in your arms, and whatever remained of your old self went with him.

You tried to reconcile after the final battle with Thanos. You held Bucky so tightly that your nails dug their own crevices into his skin, carved out where home used to be. But watching Tony, the only father you had left, sacrifice himself for the betterment of the world solidified the truth into you: you were always meant to be this. 

Bile swarmed in your cheeks as the thoughts poured out of you, from the deepest pits you shoved them down. You jolted up, standing shakily like a newborn deer. You placed one foot in front of the other, tiptoeing through the symphony of limbs.

Bob lightly tugged at your arm, and you found yourself leaning into it, but the comfort itself was what terrified you. How easily you could depend on it. How easily it could be taken away. You jerked away with more vigour than intended, immediately regretting it when hurt flickered across Bob's face. How could you explain that you were terrified of the possibility of loss that came with caring?

“You ok?” he asked, his blue eyes piercing into yours. He looked so small on the floor, body huddled into himself, as if trying to curl himself into a tiny ball no one would notice. You nodded, mouth tightly wound together. You stumbled out of the room, hardly noticed by anyone else now that conversations had started again, but you could feel his eyes still following you.

The room spun around you, and blood pounded in your ears. You could feel your heart drumming beneath your ribcage, as if begging to be let out. You gripped tightly at your shirt, hand shaking relentlessly; your heart continued pounding painfully against you. Am I dying? You thought, vision narrowing as you stumbled down the stairs. I must be dying. 

A drop of sweat crept down your spine; the air blew against it, and the clash of heat and cold stung painfully. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed to leave. You continued down the empty hallway, hands stumbling for anything to ground yourself. You clutched against the door handle for the bathroom, pushing it in with the rest of your body. You pulled yourself up against the bathroom sink, facing your bitter reflection in the mirror.

Acid crawled up your throat again, and you couldn’t stop the influx of sickness that washed over you, a wave of shame and rot. You could hear his voice in your ears, Tony's voice. You wound your eyes tight; you could almost see the blue hologram playing in front of you, his voice clawing at your skull. 

‘You’re not the monster they made you.’ The thought slipped from your grip as you hurled yourself over the sink, lungs spasming as you heaved, body violently punching each breath from you. Warm tears slipped down your face, creating a rhythmic tapping against the porcelain sink.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. You could taste the faintness of blood and were unsure if it was yours or just the memory of it. A soft knock on the door broke through your thoughts. “Hey,” you tried to respond, but your throat constricted. The tears came faster now, and you pressed your palms against your eyes. Another knock, this one more insistent. “Can I come in?” 

You turned on the sink, letting the cold water shock your system; you splashed your face once, then twice, until the reflection in front of you didn’t look so wrecked. Your eyes were still red, bloodshot. How many times had you seen this face staring back at you? How many nights had you spent washing blood from your hands, wondering if you'd ever be clean again?

“I’m fine,” you said, voice cracking in a telltale quiver. Not even an idiot would believe you. Your knees crumbled from beneath you; you fell down into a squat, using the sink to keep your weight up.

You couldn’t face Bob. You knew he’d see right through you. There was no reply other than silence, a part of you was relieved, but that familiar sting of loneliness nipped at you. Your brain ached, a sharp headache furrowing its way into your skull. You took a deep breath, holding the heavy air in until it burst out of you like a dam. With shaking hands, you quickly tugged the door open.

Bob stood across from you; when he saw you, he didn't crowd you. He just remained there, offering you the choice to come closer. You stood in front of the closed bathroom door, arms crossed. Your legs gave way beneath you, and you slid down the door, crumpling to your knees with a humiliating surrender. 

Bob surged forward, hands outstretched to catch you, but you stopped him with a trembling hand. Unable to lift your head, your body folded in on itself, and you sank further to the floor, the bottom half of your back pressed against the cold bathroom door. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, stepping back and slinking back onto the wall in front of you. You shook your head, waving your hand vaguely.

“I’m fine.” You swallowed hard, throwing your head back, resting it against the wall. You felt the steady thrum of your pulse begin to calm. He gave you a closed-mouth smile, one that said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ “I don’t need your pity.” You spat, rolling your eyes. You pushed your hand against your forehead, trying to will the headache away.

“It’s not pity.” The words came slowly. “I’m not good at this. Saying the right thing, finding the right words.” He took a shaky breath. “But you, you’ve been there for me, even when I hurt you. You still chose to save me, so let me do this. Let me care.” His words lay heavy between you, a desperate plea—no, a vow.

“It’s stupid.” The silence stretched, your hands trembling as you pressed them firmly into your lap.

“It’s not stupid,” Bob said gently. “It’s not stupid if it hurts.” You let out a hollow laugh.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to be hurt. I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I’ve been alive for a century, but I can’t handle a stupid movie?” Bob watched you with those gentle eyes of his, peeling back every lie you’d told.

“It wasn’t about the movie, was it?”

“Tony. It made me think of Tony.” The name felt foreign on your tongue. “And Bucky. And everything I lost. Everyone.” Bob nodded, giving you the space to continue. “That whole time during the Snap, I…” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “I became someone I swore I’d never be again. I killed, Bob. I killed so many. I hunted them down like animals.” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You were lost.”

“Stop,” you shook your head, words tearing out of you. “No. I had a choice. I could have stayed with the Avengers. I could have helped people. But I was so angry, so empty.” You ran a trembling hand through your hair.

Your fingernails dug into your palms, anchoring you to the present as the past threatened to drag you under. Your jaw ached from clenching it so tightly. Bob shifted his weight, the soft rustle of fabric against the wall echoing in the empty corridor. His patience was another form of torture, giving you time to reveal the inhumanity hiding beneath your skin. You shut your eyes. Faces flickered. Strangers. People you’d ended because Valentina pointed and said guilty. Because you’d stopped asking why.

“I mean… we all suck.” Bob said, voice low. Your eyes snapped to his. “But we’re trying.” The hallway light flickered above, casting shadows across his face.

You’d seen it personally: his regrets, his past, all the cruel truths that made him who he was now. You could still feel the way his skin felt gripping tightly on your throat, how the floor felt as your body collapsed on it. Now those same hands dried the dishes beside you, offered you comfort and warmth when you needed it most.

Those hands weren’t the Sentry’s, nor were they the Void’s. They were Bob’s, cracked and scarred. Just like the rest of you were.

You’d all killed; none of you denied it. None of you had the luxury of pretending to be anything other than what you were: broken things trying to be better. You both sat in comfortable silence, the Tower quiet around you except for the distant sounds of the team still gathered in the common area. “We should go back,” you said, though you made no move to stand.

“We could,” Bob agreed, equally still. Somewhere above, a muffled crash echoed. “Or we could just… not.” Another beat of silence passed before you spoke again.

“We’re starting the garden.” He hummed, gaze drifting to the dust swirling in a sunbeam. “Is there anything else you wanted to do?” Bob thought for a moment.

“Yeah.” He admitted, a small smirk flickering. “I’ve never been camping. I’ve been homeless, though, so yeah… I’d probably hate it.”

“Glamping, then?” You offered. “Or a remote cabin, make it a bonding exercise with the rest of the team.”

“That sounds amazing, but we’d never have the time.” He snorted, but his eyes softened.

“You’d be surprised.” You pushed yourself up from the floor, offering a hand to help Bob. He took it, his grip solid and warm. For a heartbeat longer than necessary, you held on, feeling the rough calluses of his palm against yours.