MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS HUMANS!!!!!!!!!!!!

AS MY GIFT TO YOU ALL FOR BEING SO WONDERFUL THIS YEAR, HERE IS A VERY SPECIAL PACKAGE!

FOR EVERYONE:

– 3 CHAPTERS OF AIASTHLYN (THIS CHAPTER IS 2/3)

– A COUPLE Q&A WITH NIKOLA AND HAGEN (on my website, in my notebook – https://tippysuniverse.com/2025/12/25/hagen-and-nikola-take-a-lie-detector-test/)

FOR SUBSCRIBERS ON PATREON AND MY WEBSITE:

+ THE FINAL 4 CHAPTERS OF VIRION

+ MAX AND RUBEN GO ON A DATE

ENJOY AND PLEASE REMEMBER TO COMMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Aiasthlyn

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“A bodily response”.I do not think I have ever loathed three words more.

When he had spoken them, I had been too stunned to react, especially when they accompanied a set of other tugged-together phrases that, in short, decided that what had occurred between us had been an uncharacteristic accident for him.

The exchange—which represented the singular moment of personal weakness in my life—was reduced by him to an ill-suited mistake.

… I wanted to kill him.

Malcolm hums to himself, maintaining some quiet tune while he dusts another shelf, the finishing touches of returning his home to its alleged former glory. He wears a loose shirt and equally accommodating trousers. He also wears a smile on his face. A bright one.

My teeth grind from having to witness it.

My torturer remains unaware of my presence, a true blessing, because should he become aware, I would either kill him or have him. I want to kill him, to skin him alive, only I know if I risked touching him again, I would forget punishment for pleasure because while it had been a mistake and ill-suited, uncharacteristic for me too, and accidental, it had awakened in me something I never once encountered but knew was always there.

I did find pleasure in my realms, and often. I was young and able-bodied; it was only right. But I never pleasured myself in the ways my mind and body settled on, on particularly quiet and lonesome nights.

It was not that I would be shamed, for there were many who would prefer to indulge in bodies that only existed to ensure another’s pleasure, and others with delicious personal desires that would surely please. I simply had never allowed myself the treat.

Not in the ways Malcolm had offered in that one moment.

He had been so willing. Even with his shame and his attempts to seem anything but, he had wanted— enough to do as I said, when I said it, and how I said it, all at the expense of his shame.

That was the best part— how he loathed what he craved since he clearly found his desires debauched for a being of his stature, especially when I showed such little care to him. But the most alluring part was that he loved to be reminded of it— how he debased himself willingly.

I only needed to show him that his self-hate was misplaced, and without disruption, I would have. And I did not doubt that if I had told him to strip himself bare for me, he would have done it with the same compliance as if I had shoved him to his knees and forced myself between his lips.

But then, he took it all back.

He spurred this in me, left me in the open with it, asked for forgiveness— he would not have it, would never have it— and now, he acted as if nothing had happened. I think that was what grated the most. His ill-considered pursuits to return us to normalcy when such things could never exist between us again.

He tried to reignite conversations, presented his bright smiles when he saw me, and followed me like a lost babe, all the while, I warred with my mind and my desire not to punish him with a cruel command for what he’d done.

Malcolm continues his dusting, and I continue my hateful observation.

Malcolm.The thorn in my side. A scorn to my Charge. My most dangerous foe.

He descends from his stepping ladder, a tune still playing behind his lips, and I leave before he can see me.

When I was still a childling, before I knew I would take the throne, my wona introduced me to the most ancient monarchs of our realm— our trees.

They surrounded us, in different forms and hues, yes, but they were all transcendent and keepers of time. Their roots recorded history, and as their leaves passed, and they bore new fruit, those memories of time lived on.

I approach some of this realm’s monarchs now, the ones that once guarded the entryway of Malcolm’s manor, likely strong and beautiful, now dried husks sitting atop withered roots.

My heart aches, and it takes a great deal of effort to continue my approach without mourning such awful treatment. I do not only because the takers of this world are forever watchful and greedy, and I did not want to plate my culture for their gluttonous hands.

I stop before the aged and abused remnants of time, wondering if they had suffered too much for this to even work.

No part of Ythene’s Realm ever truly passed, not when we all shared our lives equally, but would it be the same here? I hoped, for if I could reawaken these monarchs, they might just share with me what they had seen in the centuries past, and maybe, just maybe, something in there would boost my efforts to leave this place successfully.

I stare at the largest before me, wondering how best to begin, when I feel him.

In truth, I felt him from the moment he turned in my direction and began his approach. He was deep within his abode, and yet, the moment I became his priority, he became mine. It is as if my senses have gathered beneath him, pulsing to life every time his try to do the same.

I consider leaving or blocking him. He remains an obstacle where progress in my Charge is concerned, but I also wonder if he somehow knows what I aim to do and means to stop me. He says he has the gift of foresight but has only revealed it once.

I tell myself that is why I remain where I am until he fills a space some paces behind me.

His gaze is weighted and focused entirely on me, even when I do not acknowledge him. I refuse to at first, but I am only so strong, and he is so close. I relent.

He has no right to look so handsome. Absolutely no right, and yet, he does.

He basks in the sun, his dark skin glistening beneath it, with bright eyes and that cruelly hopeful smile of his. He looks as if he has just sprouted from the ground with all the nutrition this realm so desperately needs.

And he looks at me as if I am the reason he is so.

I can not help my glare.

His smile wavers as he takes a step back.

He thinks I am still upset with him, that I think his ‘bodily response’ was unforgivable. If only.

I return my gaze to the monarchs with only withered roots to tell the tale of their past lives— roots I hope will share those tales if I can bring them back.

I tread forth, and Malcolm follows, keeping his distance.

My fingers touch the sapless bark, and it is cold and brittle. My chest clenches tightly. Malcolm says nothing, simply watching on, until I speak. “They are dying.”

“Okay.”

My head almost breaks from my neck as I turn to him, appalled. He skids back, eyes widening. “I’m sorry?”

“You show them no care,” I spit, enraged by his nonchalance, and offended on nature’s behalf.

He looks away, or rather, down. His gaze drops to the ground as one of my liegemen might, only here, I am no king. I am a slave and he, the Master… in name. We do not heed such roles now.

A shudder races through me.

He shifts as if discomforted, but then he takes a deep breath and straightens himself to look me in the eye. He is making his stand— a babe trying on an elder’s clothes.

I blink at him, and it is a struggle not to laugh.

Malcolm had confidence, but not here, and not with me. Pretending he did was only an invitation for me to absolve him of such delusions.

“Fetch me as much water as you can from inside,” I say as I focus once more on my task. “I need to revive them.”

Dismissed, Malcolm disappears inside to do as instructed, without sparing even a moment to realise that his stand had barely survived a minute. With his speed, it is not long before there is a rather impressive collection of pots and buckets surrounding me, each brimming with water.

Malcolm attempts to smile at me. I take the latest pot from his hands, but I do not look at him as I turn and refocus on the largest of the forgotten trees. Quick and nimble, Malcolm steps forward, pressing on his toes to watch.

He did not know what was happening then.

I think of sending him away, but the thought fades like every consideration to leave.

Instead, I ignore the pesky, beautiful vampire and dip my hand into the rusted pot to begin the river’s dance.

This is no river water, hardly even fresh, but it has enough life in it to mimic what I need, if taught how. My magic slithers from my fingertips, travelling down into the water to flush it with life and love until energy sparks within. It begins to carry out the dance on its own, and does not lose its way as I lift my wet palm and rest it flat against the centre of the tree bark.

Eons ago, I imagine this is the spot from which it overlooked the world. I imagine it carries lifetimes’ worth of stories, and try to remind it of such, to encourage it to see again. And as the energy of the water from this world wets its bark, I offer some of my own lifeforce.

It takes only that, care, attention, and an offering for this beautiful beast to claim life again.

It starts at the branches that stretch out and fill, sprouting leaves anew before the trunk straightens and fills with life and colour. It finds itself with my spark, roots wiggling free to dig deeper for nutrients that help it do the rest.

Dipping my hand back into the pot, I circle the tree and trickle the water from my fingertips. Arid, it takes it in, thanking me with the song of its unfurling branches as it regains time by claiming seasons in mere moments.

Then, it blooms.

White shining flowers like nothing I have ever seen before— a touch of light that immediately brightens this monotonous world. And I quickly continue onwards, wanting to help the others so it is not alone.

I play my part, sharing life where I can, and Malcolm, without instruction, does his. Every time a pot empties, he is there and ready to offer the next. He stood close but did not invade the trees’ space, and he did not speak.

He simply served, and happily so, if the warmth of his presence is anything to go by.

I do not know how much time passes before the blue of this sky becomes a backdrop to the overarching white petals that shadow every corner, but by the end, I am drained and can only muster the strength to smile.

Nature was a precious, beautiful thing. I stare, amazed, for we had no trees like this in our realm, with such small petals, even at adulthood. I marvel at them, memorising each detail, especially of the ones that line the back path.

Those bear a large flora of some kind that has not yet bloomed, but is thick and round, and wears a deep purple hue like none I have ever seen before.

“It’s a fruit.” I look to Malcolm, and he wears a soft smile as he looks between me and the fruit. “They’re called passion fruit.”

“Passion… fruit,” I repeat carefully, before I pay another glance at the alluring purple. My stomach grumbles now with the knowledge of what it is. Depleted as I am, it might as well be Ythene’s Nectar.

“Passion,” I repeat as I walk towards it, Malcolm right behind me. “Why is it…” I stop myself, glancing back with caution.

Malcolm and I had a habit of tossing questions back at one another and guarding answers, and if we did so now, I might do something untoward.

“It is just a fruit,” he replies, his gaze amused.

I huff, but ask it anyway. “Why does it have such a strange name?”

“Is it strange?” There he goes.

I look away from him and resume my trek toward the tree. “The other fruits in this realm mostly have unique names,” I say over my back. “Apple, lemon, papaya, and so on.” I come to a stop in front of this new tree and frown up at it. “Why then does this one have a name with a noun attached to it?”

Malcolm does not reply with a question, only the answer I seek.

“Because of the flowers which the trees bear,” he explains quickly, and he sounds ecstatic to share the information stored in his mind. “Passiflora, or Passion Flower— that is the name, and so the fruit that follows has the same name.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” I allow as I glance at another blooming tree that holds flora. “Apple blossoms are the name of their flowers, and their fruit is an apple.” I mull it over before I nod at him. “It works… I suppose.”

It is as if I offered him a hug.

Malcolm, too, blossoms with joy, brightening from the inside with such force that my heart lurches. I look away. Again.

I examine the fruit from below, trying to determine if it is one I can eat. According to our reports, no natural fruit in this realm should hurt me, but those reports proved not to be as reliable as I had thought.

Before I can decide, Malcolm steps past me and scales the tree like a sand wraith. He disappears into the folds and returns just as quickly with two armfuls of the fruit.

I manage my smile behind my glamour as pleasure rattles through me.

So competent when he wanted to be. So competent with me.

I step towards him, and like a soldier holding his post, he stands perfectly straight, the fruit held in an offering. I survey them all before picking the largest of the bunch. It is heavy, and the casing has a waxy texture that caresses my fingertips like nothing has before.

I balance it between my palms, trying to stave off the reaction, but it does not go away.

A small sniff forces my gaze up to where Malcolm fails to bite back his laugh.

“It may be poisonous!” I snap.

Malcolm smiles prettily. “It is not.” He promises it as if he himself made this fruit just for me.

“Poisonous for me,” I clarify, paying it as close an eye as I can.

Besides the outer texture, it does not feel off, and I have not once suffered an episode in this realm. Still, one could never be too careful. I examine it with my magic, being thorough, but nothing comes from it but this world’s weakened energy.

I glance at Malcolm. “If I grow unconscious suddenly or start regurgitating uncontrollably, lay me in a full bath of water until I am submerged, and I shall be fine.”

“Um…” he says, panicked.

“Do as I say, and it will be fine,” I instruct, and he immediately nods.

I break the fruit open between my palms and allow myself a glimpse inside.

My eyes widen to the point that they strain as I stare inside. It is the complete opposite of its outer skin. Inside lies a rich yellow that encases greened seeds. Both are outlined by a solid white perimeter. It is the most audacious fruit I have ever seen.

“Incredible,” I whisper as I turn it in my hand, meaning to examine the fruit, but then the seeds begin to slide, and a jolted hiss slips from my lips. I laugh, startled, glancing at Malcolm to see that he witnessed it too, and I am sure he has, for he is smiling at me once more.

I toy with the fruit, moving its slippery seeds around with uncapped fascination. Mother would want a whole garden’s worth just to play with if she saw this. Ciradyl too, if it tasted as piquant as it appeared.

“Do you eat it whole?” I ask with sudden excitement. “The rind included, or just the inside?”

“Only the inside—” Malcolm answers quickly, adding, “we can juice it if you like, so you can drink it down and try it both ways.”

I nod, wanting to consume this treat in every possible way.

In the kitchen, I take my preferred stool, and Malcolm is there a second later with a spoon held high for me. When I frown at it and him, he explains.

“You scoop the inside out and eat it.”

Suspicion rises, fresh, but as my stomach churns with longing, I abandon the caution and steal the spoon from him. I fill the utensil and barely raise it before I clean it with my mouth.

The texture startles me as forcefully as the taste, which is bitter, but not in a terrible way. Only a new one that requires some getting used to. I chew slowly, letting myself grow accustomed until the taste is too wonderful to ignore.

As I swallow, something reverberates through me. It is as if the flavour itself has shocked my nerve-endings, a vapid sensation I do not loathe. In fact, it is rather nice.

Humming, I take in another spoonful and then another until it is all gone.

It is hardly filling, but it is stunning— world-altering— and I immediately want for more.

Malcolm, again, is already seeing to it without my say-so. He is making the promised juice for me, and he does it as if this is all he could ever dream of.

I stare at the length of him as I lean against the countertop, my perfected posture dismissed for the time being. He is tasking, so I am free to look and think of what I should not.

I take in the lines that outline his arms, especially as they strain, and my glamour wavers.

“Do you like it?”

I shake my head, blinking quickly as I straighten. A frown forms quickly. What in all the realms was that?

The world is as it should be, but the heavy filter that had brought a warmth over my bones shakes free.

“Yes,” I answer quickly, trying to find myself, but it is as if my very being slips through my fingers, leaving me lax. “I may have a new preferred fruit.”

The words come leisurely, and while my mind does falter on why, I do not feel panicked. I feel rather good, actually.

Perhaps I drained myself more than I realised.

“Is it that good?” Malcolm asks, looking over his shoulder as if that question needs any true answering. It seems that it does, for he keeps staring at me.

“It is marvellous,” I declare, and it comes as a shout, which I did not intend, but it makes Malcolm laugh as he frees an empty glass, so it must be alright. Everything that is happening suddenly feels just fine. “I have never had anything like this in all my feens. The sweetness and texture, I love it.”

“You can have it daily,” he offers, sounding eager, as if he wants nothing more than to pick this fruit for me each day.

I feel my lips spread at the thought and wonder if my glamour hides it as it should.

Juice made, Malcolm fills the glass with the liquid version of this passion fruit, and I watch him closely as he does, as I have with all else lately. Only I feel no pressure to pretend otherwise when he turns to me.

In fact, the only urge I feel is to make sure that he keeps looking at me.

He sets the glass down, offering a smile, so I offer him something else.

“Thank you.”

Malcolm’s lips fall open, the bottom one hanging loose. He has such lovely lips, and he keeps them all to himself, like he does his desire. The greedy thing.

I frown, trying to unravel that line of thought, but I lose my footing before I even begin and find my way back to observing him. Malcolm.

Ythene be good, he really is gorgeous.

Malcolm blinks at me, expectantly, and I realise he is waiting for me to try his juice.

I take the glass, lifting it in this realm’s gesture for a toast, and then drink it all down in one go. I hum, pleased as I find this version of the fruit just as lovely as its raw form.

Malcolm steps closer to the counter, to me, as if to test me, or perhaps tempt me.

I look up at him from under my lashes, but from the way he peers at me, it is as if he is the seated one and I am the one above him. My cock pulses.

“This is even better,” I say as I set the glass down and lick my lips clean. Malcolm’s pupils grow, following. My body warms. “…I love it…”

He clears his throat, gaze falling again until I offer him my glass for another. “People turn it into all sorts of things,” he says as he pulls away from the counter to find more of the juice. “Purees, cakes, bread, fillings, jam.”

He moves quickly, using that vampiric speed of his, but my eyes are fast enough to follow, to see it. He is hard again.

“You are torturing me.”I frown, alarmed for a moment to hear my thought vocalised by my lips, but then Malcolm laughs, misunderstanding it.

“We can try a few things,” he says, acting normal again as he returns to the counter and hands me the refilled glass. I stare at it, wondering if I should have more when I already feel so… loose, but I find myself sipping before I can stop myself. “If you’d like, I can make different things with it for you to try.”

He stammers the last of that, the words falling from his lips as if he barely had the strength to free them. Arousal stirs inside me, but arousal I can ignore. What I can not ignore is the pure desire that rises in me as I watch this large man fumble to speak to me like a foal on ice.

I place the glass down, carefully, but keep my fingers on it.

The quieting part of my mind tells me to ignore it, and his incessant fumbles for attention. The last time I had let myself chase this one, he had claimed ignorance of what we both knew he wanted.

If he tried again, I might lose my honour to prove him wrong.

I know this, and yet, my fingers move around the glass rim, circling it slowly, suggestively— purposefully— guiding his gaze to focus on how I would touch him, from his nipples to his hole, before I opened it for me.

Malcolm’s fingers tighten where they hold on to the counter, the bone beneath pressing cruelly against skin, while the rest of his body warms to my eyes. He did not know it, but his body told on him often, and it tells on him now.

My lips pull into a terrible smile.

It was not a one-time bodily response.

It was Malcolm, a hungry, subservient vampire who had never allowed himself to serve another, but that could be amended.

Would be amended, and shamed or not, he would serve me.

——————

AIAS SAID TURN IT UP!!!!!!!

GOOD LUCK FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER PEOPLE 🏃🏿‍♀️