#amavia

A new fledging is always a handful. Most sires find it can take several years full of tantrums before ever being able to hold their child in their arms. The rage that results from the burning pain of transformation, and the overwhelming bloodlust, means that even the most timid humans often become totally incapable of reason. Sires are frequently forced to chain their poor fledging down, to wrangle their child off of them once they’ve eaten their fill.

It is with this presumption that she entered the room of her child, filled with anticipatory love but prepared with a firm hand. This was her first child, but she heard many stories from her fellow vampires. However, her dear fledging was quite odd in their transformation, as they merely went limp during the agonizing process and slept the past few days away.

You feel like your veins are on fire. Your eyes haven’t even opened yet, but you can sense the pain radiating from where your shoulder and neck meet, surging down to the tips of your hands and feet. The soft surface you’re on, silken sheets that slip around your form like water, is shockingly cool. Your detached mind notices that despite this chill, your body doesn’t feel any warmer than the sheets. Everything is so cold, despite the burning pain, you aren’t even sure if your heart is beating. Your blood feels stagnant in your limbs.

At the sound of a creaking door, you force your eyes open. The weight on your lids feels equal to that of the old wooden door. As your weighted arms try to rub your eyes, you realize it is to no avail. Your hands around completely mummified in a thick layer of fabric, the same strange silk that covers the bed. Regardless, the weakness in your limbs leaves them limp, you can’t lift them past your waist. Trying to kick the bedsheets off, you notice your ankles are similarly bound.

Through the thick fog of fatigue and pain, your brain attempts to understand the situation, as panic tries to trickle past your mental block. Tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes as you begin to process the surrounding room. The bed appeared like an endless ocean for your small form huddled against the pillows. It seemed built for giants, as it easily dwarfed a king-sized bed. You could barely see past the sheets.

Your eyes dart to the first movement you see, the source of the creaking door. The first thing your mind processes is that she’s tall, extremely tall. Suddenly, this giant room makes sense.

Your vision is blurred at the edges, and it’s hard to make out her features in this haze. A mass of dark hair surrounds her head. She has some sort of long gown on, similarly dark. As this towering shadow approaches you, you let out a noise of distress, something between a whimper and a gasp. You curl into yourself, in too much pain to do anymore. You squeeze your eyes shut.

The woman smiles, letting out a breathy laugh, pleasantly surprised at your reaction. You hear the rustling of fabric and feel the mattress dip down with a new weight. Another strangled whimper leaves your throat when you feel a frigid hand ghost over your cheek, her sharp nails tickling against the minuscule hairs of your face.

She coos at you, “Sh, sh, sh.” Like one does to a toddler, or a dog. She cups your jaw with her freezing hand, her thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. Your eyes crack open at the sensation. She fills the entirety of your vision, as she leans over you, her hair forming a dark curtain around you. She has a serene smile on her face but her eyes—you notice they’re a bright red—are tinged with a manic joy. Her eyes are dilated, they shake slightly, as she stares down at you. She doesn’t blink.

Your eyes dart towards movement, as her other hand snakes towards the top of bodice, easily unbuttoning it with one hand. She notices your lapse of attention and tuts to get your attention, pulling your head up, to refocus your eyes on her face. Her eyes still don’t blink, she feels like an animated statue with her freezing limbs and unmoving expression.

As she meticulously unbuttons her bodice, she continues to rub circles on your cheek, pressing slightly more against your teeth. She’s checking for…something? In your haze you notice the soreness of your gums, your mouth feels as though it were filled with cotton. It’s dry and burns like the rest of your body. An ache runs through your jaw. You’re too tired to question it, letting out a shuddering sigh at the uncomfortable prodding. She just continues to smile at your reaction, her eyebrows arching slightly in mock sympathy. It makes you feel like a dog with a cone on its head, as she acts as though she knows something you don’t, that this discomfort is for your own good.

With restrained excitement, her hand stops at the last button of her bodice and gently pushes her top to one side, the fabric falls off her shoulder slightly. It drapes around her exposed breast like an opened curtain. Even in your state, the sight feels wrong as you focus your gaze on her eyes, afraid to see her naked chest. Your body freezes up as she stops rubbing your cheek. The hand that was unbuttoning her dress moves out of your sight, her nails tracing the curve of your spine, causing you to shiver, before planting itself at the base of your head.

Her eyes scrunch in delight, as her serene smile opens into a grin. It’s a chillingly human expression for the statuesque woman. Her teeth don’t feel quite right; you can’t identify what’s wrong in your discombobulation, but they’re too perfect and sharp.

She presses down where your upper and lower jaw meet, the tender area goes limp under the harsh sensation. Your mouth opens slightly. Without a moment to pause, she pulls you towards her with the hand on the back of your head. She rests your mouth against her nipple, your nose is awkwardly mushed against the cold expanse of her chest, your chin is similarly anchored to her body. You can feel the force is too much for you to even push back, as she glues you against her body.

You suck in a breath of air at the sudden sensation, eyes closing in fear. Your limp hands twitch in their restraints, unable to push her away in their silken binds. Your tongue is pushed against the back of your teeth, as you move it away from her breast as much as you can. Your lips try to cover your teeth, to prevent scraping your teeth against her breast.

She tuts again, pleased at your unusual reaction for a fledging—who would normally attempt to maim their sire for their first meal—but she desires more than your timid struggle.  Her hand moves from your cheek, the other still firm against your head, and cups her breast, pushing it into your mouth. The hand against your head begins to scratch gently against your scalp.

A few drops of fluid escape her nipple, despite your passivity. The moment the fluid hits your tongue, the pain searing through your body dissipates. The fluid is warm, you aren’t sure what it is, but it calms the burning pain that has blinded you since you woke up. A whine of relief escapes your throat, as your body relaxes at the sensation. Your mouth unconsciously latches onto her nipple, still very tentatively, in more of the manner of a kiss than a bite. Your tongue gently laps at the bead of her nipple, desperate for the sensation of relief.

“Shh…Shh. It’s ok…I know.” She whispers sweetly to you, massaging your scalp. You feel her lips kiss the crown of your head. Your soft suckling doesn’t result in much substance, but you can’t seem to care as the few drops satiate you. She’s still so cold, despite the softness of her skin, it feels like you’re suckling upon marble statue, surrounded by the freezing abyss of the sheets below you. Your body doesn’t warm, quite the opposite, as the pain disappears from your body, so does the burning sensation. The only warmth you find is in the fluid on your tongue.

You feel surrounded by her, the sheets feeling like an extension of her, as the expanse of her gown and the sheets weigh you down. Her hands keep you anchored to her body. Even your mouth isn’t free, as you are reminded by every drop that crawls down your throat. Her soft hair blinds you from the outside world whenever your eyes crack open, you feel surrounded by a black void.

As you drift into a state of half-sleep from the soothing sensation, she cradles you against her. Her hand in your hair pauses a moment, debating, before sliding down to your binds. She cuts through the silk on your hands with her sharp nails in one smooth movement.  She cradles one of your hands, before leading it to rest against her body, before doing the same with the other. The weakness remains in your limbs, but you instinctively follow her lead, clutching onto her torso like a stuffed animal. Your hands get lost in the folds of her velvet gown.

As you regain consciousness, you can feel yourself rocking back and forth, pressed against what felt like a cold marble slab. Your senses begin to return to you, and you can feel yourself being propped up by her arm, as she carries you on her hip.

Her hand is at the base of your neck, pushing your face into the slope where her shoulder and neck meet. Your nose is smushed against her collarbone and her hair blinds you from the outside world when you try to open your eyes. The black curtain leaves you unable to even discern if it’s night or day. You let out a confused hum as you begin to move your limbs, trying to regain any sensation in them.

She shushes you as she notices you waking up; her hand snakes down to your back and pushes your body even closer to her. With the shadow of her hair and your limited vision, due to your proximity, you can’t tell where her body ends and yours begins.

You try to gain some autonomy, shifting your legs—you notice they’re ice-cold, though you can’t tell if its due to numbness—only to realize that she has once again bound your feet. Your legs are tied at the ankles, with the fabric coiling up the length your legs, under your bottom and around her torso, supporting you like a sling for a baby. Your bottom half feels completely mummified, as you’re unable to move your legs out of their bent position. Your blood feels like it’s solidified in place, as if you've been stuck in this position for several days.

You try to twitch your fingers, only to realize that they’re similarly immobilized, tied at the wrists to keep you in this perpetual embrace. Your limp wrists rest against the back of her neck. As you wiggle, she tuts at you, speaking in that soft, condescending voice, “Go back to sleep honey.” You can feel her hip shifting against you and realize that she’s standing, occupied by some task that you aren’t privy to.

You attempt to make some noise of protest, as confusion and weariness still plague your conscious, but your throat is dreadfully dry. A crackled sound escapes from it, and you realize that your breath is no longer warm. The air that hits her neck is frigid; a shiver rolls down your spine. She pays little mind to your vocalization and runs a clawed hand through your hair; her nails scrape against your scalp.

As you awaken, the pain of your transformation returns to you. Your teeth ache, they don’t sit correctly in your mouth. Your canines are too big, too sharp. Small scars have developed on the inside of your mouth from repeatedly puncturing it with your new teeth. As you move your hands to massage your aching jaw, you feel a razor thin cut form along your face. You hiss at the sharp pain and notice that your nails have formed into long pointed talons.

You let out a noise of distress, and before you can even draw your hand back down, Amavia appears before you. It feels as though she teleported in the room. You blinked and suddenly her towering form is before you. She gasps, letting out a soft “oh, honey,” before opening the drawer of the bedside table. She shuffles through the drawer, pulling out a pair of nail clippers.

She holds them out before you and you feel an inexplicable sense of dread, like a dog at the groomer. She sits on the bed, holding one of your hands in an iron grip before you have time to protest. As quickly as she grabs your hand, there’s a deafening click as the clipper slices through your nail.

You wail as pain radiates up your arm. It feels as though she cut off the tip of your finger, despite your hand being perfectly intact. The cut sends the vibration all the way up your arm, and your nerves are screaming. You thrash, trying desperately to pull your hand back.

As soon as the sound escapes your lips, she drops the nail clippers to hold your hands in place. “There, there.” She mutters, rubbing circles onto the palms of your hands. She slowly moves one of her hands, like you’re a spooked animal, and gently grazes the scratches along your face. You hiss slightly at the sensation, as your nerves are already on fire.

“This,” she pauses for a moment as emphasis, “is why we need to cut your nails, little lamb.” You feel closer to a wolf than a lamb with these nails and teeth, but you don’t have the ability to vocalize this.

The mixture of her frigid hand rubbing against your face, her nails pricking the open cuts, and the tenderness of your jaw causes tears to bubble up. You can’t articulate yourself, so it feels like the only option. She becomes a dark mass in your vision, as the layer of tears blinds you. You dip your chin down towards your chest, tugging in vain to reclaim your hands from her, to stop all of these overwhelming sensations.

She tuts, a frown beginning on her lips. She grabs your shoulders, with more force than necessary, as you feel her anchor you in place. Your head shoots up, tears trailing down your face. A hoarse whimper escapes your lips as you stare wide-eyed at her blurry silhouette, unable to read her expression.

She slowly maneuvers you, as if you’re a porcelain doll, laying your head in her lap. As you attempt to shift, moving your head up, she immediately stops you, pushing you down by your chest. Your breath stutters, your body feeling trapped, and you let out another sob. She shushes you, holding your hands in your lap to prevent you from accidentally hurting yourself.

Even the candlelight of the room feels too bright now, the sheets you’re laying on are too soft, the hems of your clothes are too scratchy. You turn your head to the side, burying your face in her stomach, blinding yourself with the black velvet of her gown. You lay on your side, curling up.

She begins to hum a tune; one you don’t recognize. Her voice is rather deep and hoarse.  The vibrations are soothing, as you can slightly feel them through your proximity. She absentmindedly plays with your hands, massaging your palms, gently wiggling your fingers.

“Later…later…” she whispers to you. The nail clippers are left on the bedside table.

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I’m not sure how clear the implication is in this, but vampires don’t cut their nails; they have nerves in them like how many animals do. I think it’s called a “quick.”