#but i just can’t seem to fire it the same way and it ends up slightly ashy on the surface from the soot
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The Vow Spoken Through Time
Daemon x Rhaenyra x Wife!Reader
Warnings (for the series): MDNI, general filth, threesome, smut, dirty talk, oral (both receiving), and more!
Warnings (for this chapter): MDNI, mild smut (at the end)
Tags: marriage, poly relationship, Daemon being hopelessly in love with his wives, Queen!Rhaenyra
Words: ~1.9K
Description: You fall through worlds and wake up in our favorite blondes’ bed. SHAMELESS “reader falls into HOTD world from our world” trope (I’m sorry, I CANNOT help myself, I’m a sucker for them). There’s not really a *plot* plot, but Part 1 is getting us acclimated before the filth can really begin. (Read - Part 2)
“God my head fucking hurts,” you whine, sitting up to rub your eyes. “That wine really hit out of nowhere.” Your head pounds, it has to be part of a hangover. The last thing you remember before drinking yourself to sleep was getting fired. Your boss hadn’t even had the decency to let you know face to face. An HR representative and your manager requested a zoom call at the end of the day and politely told you to ‘clean your desk.’
After nearly three years of work with the same accounting firm, it was weird to not wake up early and head into the office. The worst part really was that your performance was still stellar, the firm was just hemorrhaging money after several questionable expansions.
Despite the pounding headache and sensitivity to light, you force yourself to open your eyes. “What the fuck?!” Glancing around the room frantically, you panic as you realize you weren’t waking up in the comfort of your room. You had to be the subject of some prank reality tv show because the decor was undoubtedly some renaissance festival shit. The walls were brick with large tapestries decorating the stone. You were laid in the center of a giant four poster bed, black and red canopies flowing.
Slipping from the tangle of sheets and blankets, you pad towards the door. “Okay,” you call out, “you got me. Very funny.”
Silence.
“This is so weird” you murmur, pushing the door open as gently as possible to peak out. A woman rushes by you, dressed in some kind of drab linen and an apron. “Excuse me!” you shout, attempting to get her attention.
The short woman slowed down, stopping to curtsy quickly at the sight of you. “My lady, forgive me. I didn’t you see you there!”
“My lady?” You asked. “What are you talking about? This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny, my lady,” she replied quietly. “Please don’t tell your wife I was making jokes! I swear I meant no harm-”
“My wife?!” Everyone has officially gone off the deep end. First this medieval times shit, now apparently you have a wife.
The woman’s eyes go wide, “Your wife, Queen Rhaenyra. My lady, are you unwell?”
“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I have no idea what’s going on. I lost my job. I don’t know where I am or apparently who I am. I just want-” You choke off into sobs.
“Let me help you back to your room,” she offered, taking your elbow. “I’ll let the Queen know you’re unwell.”
You nodded, letting her lead you back into the room. The woman helped you into a steaming bath and left you to soak while she fetched your wife. “Can’t believe someone made an honest woman of me,” you laugh.
At some point, the entire situation stopped feeling like a prank. Maybe it was watching the maid fill the tub painstakingly bucket by bucket, or the significant lack of electricity. Either way, your situation was beginning to feel more and more real. You grab the bar of soap and lather up a cloth, scrubbing furiously at your skin.
“That’s weird,” you murmur as you notice that your skin seems far too perfect. You usually had a couple scars littering your arms and legs, leftovers from frequently crashing your bike as a kid and general clumsiness. They all seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but perfectly smooth, supple skin behind. “Okay, I’m officially going crazy.”
You see a small mirror on the ledge next to the tub, and reach out with shaky hands. You sigh in relief as you glance into the mirror and see that you look the same. At least you have something familiar here.
“Admiring the view? I know I am.” A deep voice purred from behind you.
Tossing the mirror back, you swiftly cover your chest and pray that the water obscurs the rest of you. “What the fuck?!” You yell, turning to confront whatever pervert decided to interrupt your bath. A tall man towered over the tub, his white hair practically glowing as the candlelight reflected off of it.
“I’m trying to have an existential crisis in here,” you hiss. “Can you come back later or something?”
He snorted a laugh, stalking forward to grab a brush from the side table and sit behind you. “And miss this opportunity? I should think not, my love.” He gently began detangling your hair and brushing it out.
“My love? You do know I’m a married woman?” You retort.
“You never let me forget,” he replied, kissing the top of your hair.
“I mean I have a wife, asshole!” You twist around to snatch the brush from his hands, but he lifts it out of your reach.
“What a coincidence,” he purrs, blatantly staring at your breasts. “I do too. Two, if I’m not mistaken.” His eyes dart down to your left hand, as if he knows something you don’t.
You glance at the ring that’s been there since you woke up. The black metal has a dragon insignia that looks awfully similar to the embroidery on this man’s shirt. “Fuck.”
The man’s brows furrow, “what’s wrong?” He sets the brush down, grabbing a sheet and pulling you from the bath. He wraps you up and sits you in his lap. The warmth seeping into your skin feels so familiar and you feel yourself begin to break. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you burrow your face into his neck to hide them.
Warm hands rub up and down your back soothingly. “My love, I cannot fix whatever is wrong if you don’t tell me.” He hums. “You don’t even have to tell me. Just give Rhaenyra a name and I will ensure whoever made you cry will never breathe again.”
You laugh at the irony. “I don’t know who Rhaenyra is. I’m not sure I even know who I am.”
Before he can respond, a door slams. “Daemon, thank Gods you’re here. The maid said y/n was acting ill and didn’t rememb-”
Your head peaks up over the man–Daemon’s shoulder to see the woman who ran in. Her hair is just as white as Daemon’s and her clothing adorned with the same dragon insignia. This must be Queen Rhaenyra.
“Y/n?!” Rhaenyra rushes over, kissing your cheek before she hugs you tightly.
“My queen,” Daemon greets, leaning in for a kiss. You find yourself pressed between the two, and as much as you don’t want to admit it….the warmth and pressure feels comforting…like home.
“I hate to break this up,” you say, wiping the last of your tears away. “But can someone tell me what is going on. The last thing I remember was being fired, getting wine drunk, and going to bed early.”
“Fired?” Rhaenyra looked confused and immediately started inspecting every exposed inch of your skin. “Did you try to feed Caraxes again? He’s a temperamental old man, just like his rider.”
“Who is Caraxes? Do ya’ll have a dog or something?”
“Dog?!” Daemon sounded almost offended. “A dog?! Rhaenyra we should fetch a maester. Our little dragon is either begging for a punishment or in need of a healer.”
Rhaenyra attempts to cover her laugh. “Caraxes, Daemon’s dragon? You insist on telling him a goodnight story at least once a week.”
“He’s a dragon of war for fucks sake,” Daemon mutters. “You’ve been making him soft.”
“Dragon?!” Your eyes go wide. “You’re joking. You’ve gotta be fucking me right now.”
“We are most definitely no-”
“We certainly could be-”
Daemon and Rhaenyra spoke at the same time. You would have laughed, but the implications of Daemon’s words were starting to settle in.
“Wait,” you being. “So if Queen Rhaenyra is my wife….and Daemon has two wives…and you two seem to be close…that means-”
“That you both are all mine,” Daemon purrs.
“Daemon, we must call for the maester. This seems serious, she doesn’t even remember us.”
“What year is this?” You ask, not sure if you want the answer.
“125 AC.” Rhaenyra responds.
“And where are we?”
“The red keep.”
“What, is that like England or something?”
“We are in Westeros.” Rhaenyra feels your forehead. “Daemon, put y/n to bed while I have the maids summon the maester.”
You yelp in surprise and Daemon stands up, holding you close to his chest. He carries you to a vanity, setting you gently on the bench before rummaging through some drawers. “Arms up, love.” He says, pulling a white shift over your head. You stare of into space as Daemon gently braids your hair.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” You ask as he ties a ribbon at the ends of the braid.
“You and Rhaenyra are quite the demanding duo when you want to be,” he snorts. “The staff might revolt and establish Rhaenyra’s cunt of a half-brother as king if I bothered them everytime you both needed your hair done.”
“Language,” you chide. Daemon rolls his eyes before he sweeps you back up into his arms. He carries you to the bed, depositing you in the center before he climbs in. Daemon sits up, back against the headboard as he pulls you in to lean against his chest.
“Do you really not remember us?” He asks.
“How long have we been married?”
“Five years. We were married in the old ways. Your High Valyrian wasn’t as good back then though.” Daemon laughs. “But it was perfect, and I wouldn’t trade you both for anything.”
“So if Rhaenyra is queen, what does that make you?” You ask. He had to be King, right?
“A lucky man.”
You laugh, and lightly hit his chest. “No, really. I don’t remember anything. Help a girl out here.”
“Prince consort.” Daemon answers. You nod, so Rhaenyra must be in charge around here.
“So how’d I end up married to Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Consort Daemon?” You ask in the poshest British accent you can muster.
“You threw yourself at my feet saying ‘Please Rhaenyra, I cannot live without you! You are the sun that brightens the sky and the stars that guide ships home!’” Rhaenyra teased. You sit up to see that Rhaenyra isn’t alone, she brought back some balding man with her.
“I didn’t say that-” You protest.
“Really?” Daemon laughs. “My queen, it’s not proper to toy with someone who is ill.”
“You’re one to talk,” Rhaenyra says, raising a brow. “You seemed rather close when I came in earlier.”
You groan. How did you manage to survive these two for five years.
!!SMUT BELOW!!
PREVIEW FOR PART TWO
“No,” Daemon scolds, clasping your hands together in his larger one and wrenching your body into his. “You’re not in charge here. You’re going to listen and obey like a good little girl.” You whine in response, nodding furiously in agreement. Suddenly, Rhaenyra’s warm body brushes up against your back. She nibbles lightly at your ear before kissing and licking her way down your neck.
“No need to be cruel,” Rhaenyra purrs. “Our little dragon is just begging for attention the only way she knows how.”
You whimper, canting your hips into Daemon’s. He slides a thigh between yours, pressing it up against your cunt. Your eyes roll back and you moan at the friction. “Please,” you breathe out, your teary eyes meeting his.
NOTE: Hey all! I'm not dead, sorry for disappearing! Life happened (new job, had to travel home for a funeral). But, I got my shit back together after taking some time for myself and I'm ready to give y'all the stories I've been cooking up. I have some steamy and inspiring requests I'm working on for Feyd Rautha (so if you requested...they're coming). Glad to be back and BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR PART 2!!!! - Lacie <3
#house of the dragon#hotd#daemon targaryen#daemon x reader#rhaenyra targaryen#rhaenyra x reader#daemon x rhaenyra#daemon x rhaenyra x reader#married life#isekai#game of thrones#reader insert#fem reader#hotd daemon#hotd rhaenyra#hotd fic
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I have this tea cup I made in highschool (it’s really cute and was designed more like those Japanese ones without a handle than it was those fancy English style with even more elements to them) but I never actually asked if the glaze we used was food safe (we all used the same glaze on those cups specifically because the teacher glazed those ones in particular and I don’t remember checking. I glazed and painted every other project but only one of them was something you would use for food and that thing broke a few years ago and was honestly more decorative) and this has haunted me ever since. It’s a super cute cup and I adore it, but I have no idea if I can use it for its intended purpose and while I could buy a lead testing kit I’m not sure how I would check for anything else that might have been in that glaze. I know the color used but not the brand, so that’s not really a help either. The teacher I had left the district after that year because our school district paid art teachers a shit wage and we rotated through them like elementary school kids needing new shoes every year. I’m not entirely sure how I would contact her, but even if I did track her down (something not entirely impossible from what I know about her life outside of teaching us for a year, I would feel slightly weird about it though, even though she was my favorite art teacher) but I highly doubt she would remember something like the glaze she used on one project her students made at a school she taught at for one year. I’m not sure what other testing kits I would need besides lead to confidently say it’s safe enough for my personal use, and it’s annoyed me for several years now.
#emma posts#it was peacock. peacock green I believe#and do you have any idea how many brands produce a peacock named glaze?#I could maybe narrow it down by looking for one that tended to be more forest green to dark blue#but that’s not really a great way to get a definitive answer#I also wish i could make more ceramic stuff right now! I’ve been hooked ever since yhat class#polymer clay sculpting isn’t quite the same (though better than nothing) and air dry clay often feels crumbly#neither of those could be used for cups and stuff#but even just making clay sculptures (my favorite) hits different with clay#I miss the smell and the feel and the way it worked#the closest I’ve gotten to the experience was digging up clay near my parents house and trying to fire it in the bonfire#it was only a half success#I tried to learn how ancient people made stone wear with raw clay and other materials added#but i just can’t seem to fire it the same way and it ends up slightly ashy on the surface from the soot#it’s also a bit more prone to cracking and I know I can’t expect the same as what it’s like working with the good stuff#and I know the clay on the farm is at least decent but not modern quality#also it doesn’t get fired all the way so if I get water on it it starts to dissolve a bit again#I should try to study ancient clay methods#it would be really fun to try to recreate some stuff in the area behind the lilacs#but it isn’t as good as modern clay#I’m getting really side tracked though#art problems#I wish I had an actual studio. I don’t see that happening any time soon though#my dream is to live on one of those houses in the woods north of town and have an art studio and room for more pets and gardens#i don’t think that’s ever gonna happen though#right now I’m just trying to figure out the local buses and stay in government housing#I can’t drive. I dropped out of college because of health problems. I’m living on disability and foodstamps. my health inssues make my#schedule and availability unreliable for a regular schedule#keeping up with the dishes is my worst enemy (aside from everything else)#i just don’t see myself doing much outside of my desk in the corner of my small living room any time soon
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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. trying to get your cold boyfriend to crack a smile !
tags. toji fushiguro x female reader. fluff, suggestive at the end. reader gets called ‘girl, doll (face)’
“you should smile some more,” you comment unexpectedly as the television runs in the background. toji raises an eyebrow, amused yet curious at the way you interrupted the peaceful atmosphere.
your sluggish lover looks down at you as you sit up on his lap. his arms loosen up around your waist, though his manly hands don’t leave their favorite spot—your ass. toji gives it a squeeze, huffing at the way you’re blocking his sight with your head, “what ‘re ya on, girl?”
he figures it’s just you trying to strike up a silly little conversation again, for the sake of entertainment. he tilts his head to the side so he could continue watching the show playing on the big screen.
your hands come to cup his face. your palms are actively being prickled by his stubble, the man not having bothered to shave this morning. not that you’re complaining. you love it when toji leaves that stubble on his face. it gives him a more manly look.
“smileeeee,” you exclaim and use both your index fingers to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. his lips are morphed into an awkward, forced smile that makes you frown.
you secretly hoped that toji would go along with your request, but he doesn’t. that same expressionless face stares right back at you. his ‘smile’ instantly disappears the moment you drop your hands to your sides.
the black-haired man runs his fingers up your waist. and arms. he eventually pinches your cheeks for a second, properly positioning your body so he could watch the television in peace. toji places his chin on your shoulder, half lidded eyes lazily following the people on screen.
“i wanna see you smile again, c’mon,” you whine and try to push toji’s head back, but he stubbornly refuses. he easily overpowers you and pins your wrists down against your sides, nearly crushing you in a ‘hug’.
he takes a deep breath and sniffs your perfume. he places a quick kiss on your throat, thinking it’d pacify you for now.
“i would if y’ could make me laugh, doll,” toji answers in a gruff voice. he falls silent again as he’s too focused on the show playing.
you frown at his comment and can’t help but feel slightly offended. you roll your eyes and push back from toji’s tight embrace, if that’s what you can even call it. you pout and cross your arms over your chest. you stare at him, his green eyes glancing back at you for a second.
seeing you get all sulky because of what’s supposed to have been a lighthearted comment, is adorable. though toji doesn’t say that stuff out loud.
“you’re saying i’m not funny?” you ask. it’s more of a rhetorical question. your partner shrugs and yawns, one hand of his sneakily slipping under your shirt. his meaty fingers glide up to your bra, tracing the outline.
it’s another action of his in attempt to distract your mind from this entire conversation. however, it fails as you swat his hand away. toji clicks his tongue and gently swats you back— resulting into a mini fight between the two of you.
your slaps against his biceps may seem hard to you, but to the bulky man they’re child’s play. it feels like nothing, while you’re trying your best to stand up for yourself. toji’s revenge smacks are light taps against your bum and hands.
he’s clearly not putting in any effort unlike you.
“if that’s how you wanna take it, then yeah, y’ ain’t funny,” toji adds fuel to the fire, amused by how upset you’re getting. he doesn’t mean anything he’s saying; he’s simply interested in your adorable reactions. you look cute—thinking you’re doing something to him while you slap his bicep as response to his sneaky remarks.
you huff and roll your eyes. the little unserious tussle between toji and you continues. “bastard,” you answer and stick your tongue out to him. your lover lets out a puff of air through his nose at your weak attempt of insulting him.
he indulges you again.
“what’ddya say there?” toji questions in a low tone. he easily grips your wrists and flips you over until your back hits the soft sofa. your hands are gathered above your head and his face is close to yours.
that doesn’t stop you from being bratty, however, no matter how intimating toji tries to act. his black bangs brush against your forehead due to the proximity between you both.
“bastaaaaaard, you’re an asshole,” you shamelessly continue, your voice echoing in his ear. the black-haired man stares at you with a blank stare for a couple seconds, letting you blow off some steam.
you don’t know how cute you are right now to him. toji could just eat you up right then and there. having his girl try to act fierce around him is such an endearing sight.
without knowing it, toji’s scarred lips curl up, a faint smile appearing on his face. he doesn’t bother moving or setting your hands free.
“heh, right—i am, aye?” your lover nods and places a chaste kiss against your jawline, biting that same place not a second later. he lifts his head up and stares down at you with that same subtle smile.
you’re a bit shocked by the fact that he actually smiled. you love seeing toji show hints of happiness, which he rarely does. but when he smiles, you know it’s going to be a beautiful sight.
and it sure is now.
you’re too caught up staring at his handsome face to realise that that cherished smile has turned into a teasing grin. toji’s free hand slides up to grab your bottom lip, pulling back and letting go to watch it bounce back in place. his warm breath gently hits your cheek and you feel a shiver run down your spine;
“y’know if y’ want to, i can show ya how much of an asshole i really can be, doll face.”
#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader#toji x reader#toji fushiguro x reader#jjk x you#jjk x y/n#toji x you#toji x y/n#jjk fluff#toji fluff
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ok ok but imagine being simon’s gf and könig just being so infatuated with u :( he likes you so so much, believes you deserve better than simon and just pines after you ^_^
very im on fire of him
könig’s never been one to be discreet about his feelings, especially toward you. he doesn’t owe simon anything, much less loyalty. his crush has become an inside joke amongst the crew, has gotten dirty looks thrown at him by simon too many times to count for being just slightly too touchy to be friendly, too intense in his yearning. tuning in intently whenever you talk, doing small favors for you whenever he gets the chance, asks after you when you’re gone. too close for comfort, oughta get himself in trouble, simon says.
its hard to ignore a stare that burns a hole in the side of your head, weighted like a caress on all the exposed parts of your body. könig gets some sort of satisfaction out of watching you squirm under his intense gaze, eyes trained on you most of the time he’s around, because at least he makes you feel something. he wishes to sliver underneath your skin and infiltrate your thoughts just as you’ve done to him, sending his emotions into haywire just by way of existing. smiling at him so brightly, extending a fraction of the warmth and kindness that comes naturally to you, craves it when he’s alone at night. your boyfriend can’t blame him.
simon’s weird, quiet coworker, helplessly infatuated with you, his too cute, too sweet, too soft girlfriend. could only dream of experiencing the parts of you that are exclusively for simon — wonders how someone like you even ended up with a man like him. looking far too out of place under his tattooed arm, bottom lip tucked between pearly teeth bashfully while he chats to the group of guys in typical boyish manner. the occasional ducks of his head to kiss your forehead when he remembers you’re there is not enough attention showed to such a pretty, doting thing like you, in könig’s humble opinion. it’s not even that he believes he’s better than him, but a selfish part of him would rather you end up in his calloused hands than anyone elses. his mind strays the longer he observes you, imagines all the ways he’d treat you better, take care of you like you deserve. would’ve probably already proposed to you by now given the chance. you might seem happy enough, but that doesn’t stop him from searching for cracks in the polished porcelain. always waiting for a spot to slip in.
he finally gets you alone one night, finds you where you wandered off into price’s basement to fetch more beer. coming behind you to grab the case from your delicate hands like lifting a feather off the ground.
“boyfriend not here to do this for you?”
after you regain your composure from the startle, you scoff, peering up at könig through your lashes. “just thought i’d do something nice for him.”
“sweet. does he always allow you to do a man’s job?” sarcasm bites at his words.
“allow me—?”
“do you think he even noticed your absence, maus?” he presses a bit harder, his face holding the same indifference it always does under his mask, tone flat around his accent. “as i did?”
his eyes search yours for a second, looking for any sign of reciprocation for his feelings, and somehow you can tell he knows you don’t know how to respond. as a show of mercy, he steps to the side to let you squeeze past his frame and up the stairs leading back inside the house, heavy footsteps following slowly behind. he watches as you so easily slip back into simon’s side, how his arm finds its home around your shoulders without effort. concern knits your boyfriend’s eyebrows together as he leans down to peck your lips, never breaking eye contact with könig over your shoulder, a petty display of ownership. he watches.
#bella writes⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚#this might’ve been a smut request but my brain went <3 unrequited love <3#simon x reader x könig#konig cod#konig x reader#konig call of duty#könig cod#könig x reader#konig x you#konig x y/n#könig call of duty#simon riley x you#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#könig fanfiction#könig x you#könig x y/n#könig mw2#ghost x reader#ghost cod#cod#cod x reader
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The long-awaited part 2 for ragdoll!reader.
I’ll be honest, I never intended for there to be another part, so I hope this is alright! I might add more in the future if the worms demand it, but for now let’s consider this the last part. Sorry!
If Price had any optimism that Ragdoll’s reaction to Konig was just a fluke - or perhaps some sort of initial, fleeting interest - he’s quickly proven wrong.
She’s utterly infatuated with him.
Constantly pressing herself close, rubbing her cheek against him and his clothes, bumping her head against his. She chirps and chitters and purrs at him, pupils blown out. Never seems bothered that he has trouble verbally responding; or seems to, though Johnny mentions they might be communicating at a frequency only cat-hybrids can hear.
Price has the briefest notion of keeping them separated. After all, Konig is a big combat placement that doesn’t seem much indulgent of his non-violent instincts. More human than cat - a complete opposite to their sweet companion kitty. It seems inevitable that something goes wrong and someone - likely the 141’s precious girl - gets injured. So naturally they try to keep the hybrids apart.
Try to coordinate schedules to keep her and Konig from passing each other, ending up in the same rooms or at the mess hall together.
It’s futile.
For one, she may be the sweetest little thing around, but she’s still a cat (or cat-hybrid anyway). There’s really no stopping her from going somewhere, especially on a base she’s had free run of for over a year already. Closed doors are blasphemy, and locks are a personal attack against her.
For two, her only job is to be a companion. She is not beholden to most military protocols like rank, SOPs, schedules, or duty. Meaning that, while she usually keeps to the 141’s routines out of desire to be with them, there’s nothing forcing her to follow along. Even as an emotional support placement, she isn’t required to be around them at any time; she always just wants to be. It’s why she’s so good at it.
And finally, mostly importantly here, there’s really just no telling her “no.”
Not with those big eyes that get so watery so fast. That sad curve to her mouth. The fucking mournful cries when she’s been denied and she doesn’t understand why - nor does anyone really have a good reason.
(“He’s twice your size” is apparently not a good reason. Neither is “he could crush your skull in one hand.”)
Worse still, it’s not even that she’s misbehaving as a reason to keep them separated.
While she does present more cat than human in a lot of ways, she understands English perfectly. She can read and even write if needed. Vocalizing human speech is beyond rare, but she has once or twice.
So she knows the hard and fast rules. Understands that she can’t interrupt drills or exercises. That there are regulations for the range should she ever venture out there. That she has to be quiet during briefings. And she does all of this - just while also being as close to Konig as possible.
She sits in the grass or on a perch watching the boys run and call to each other. And as soon as they’re done, she’s up and flitting to his side, head tilting this way and that. She shifts into her full-cat form during briefing to sit on his lap. Even follows him out to the range, lying in the grass next to him with tail swishing and headphones on, while he fires the rifle.
Never mind any free time.
Members of both their teams keep finding them cuddled up together all over the place. In the rec room on a couch, in patches of sun beneath windows, in the grass by the running tracks, even in Konig’s room on base. Most often with Ragdoll lying on him, plumed tail curled around his arm or leg while he rubs her back or ears.
Sometimes they hear him talking to her, low and quiet. She meows back on occasion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the lack of verbal response while he rambles.
And the first time anyone sees them wrestle is nerve-wracking. They hardly make a sound the entire time, rolling around on the floor in a tangle of limbs and fluffy tails. Konig always lets her win - even laughs when she gets her sharp little teeth in his arm. (It’s the first anyone on his team has heard him laugh like that and they’re a bit startled.) The entire 141 pretends not to be on high alert - except Johnny, who watches with ears perked, eyes darting between the two cats.
Price doesn’t know what to make of it. Of course he’s not upset that she’s connected with another hybrid. Johnny is usually the only one on base, and while they’re close, Price knows it probably isn’t the same as her own species.
That she’s so… preoccupied with Konig is, well.
“Is she… ya know…?” Gaz asks at one point.
When Price arches an eyebrow, he makes a vague, nonsensical gesture.
“In heat,” Gaz mumbles awkwardly.
“Shouldn’t be,” Price answers. “She has an implant.”
A hormone implant keeps a hybrid from going into mating cycles or getting pregnant - but it doesn’t stop them from bonding.
Kate is the one to bring up the possibility after speaking to her sister in law. Ragdoll spent time around other cat-hybrids before she was placed with the 141, but never reacted to them like she does to Konig.
It’s confirmed when TF-141 and the KorTac squad deploy for their mission. Ragdoll is near inconsolable. Not actively crying (most of the time) but lethargic and sad, with low appetite and lots of big, long sighs. Her ears never perk more than half-mast for the month they’re gone. Even taking her off-base back to Kate’s sister-in-law for a little while doesn’t seem to help.
The day they come back, she’s the most lively anyone’s seen in a month. Bounces between her four team members incessantly, checking that they’re okay, making little noises in the back of her throat. They happily drop kisses on her head, let her nuzzle up beneath their chins, hug her close. Rub at her ears and squish up her cheeks. Price even picks her up, rubbing his bristly cheek against her temple.
Then Konig steps out.
She wiggles, making a nervous, upset noise. Price sets her down and she bolts into Konig’s arms, crying loudly and pawing at his hood. And to everyone’s shock, he lifts it enough for her to wriggle under with him.
If there was any question that he felt the same way - it’s answered.
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It's a Match! || 141 x reader
[ Chapter 5 ] || [ Chapter 7 ]
Pairing: Price x gn!Reader || 141 x gn!Reader
Words: 1.4K~
cw: firing guns, i guess (but John's teaching you).
Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?
Chapter 6: John.
You crossed the entrance to the small pub, head held high, in your most honest attempt at feigning confidence.
After you had accepted, jokingly, to meet with this ‘Captain John’, only as an opportunity to roast the three men behind the account some more, Kyle had reached out to you, through John’s account, saying he also accepted and wanted to meet you today, Friday night, at 8 P.M.
You almost backed out.
Keyword, almost.
Because when you went to your groupchat to ask for support from them, your girlfriends encouraged you.
You almost set a Siri reminder to get better friends.
Either way, you have to admit that it feels… better to meet up John. Your heart is still a bit sore, the wound of heartbreak still struggling to swell closed…
Meeting with Simon or Kyle or Johnny would’ve meant rehashing it. You couldn’t risk getting attached to them after a night of casual sex. But there’s no expectations here… John is older than you, than them. This is just drinks, according to Kyle. He had insisted, in fact, that it be just drinks.
It felt more comforting to know you weren’t expected to go home with him at the end… Even though he’s handsome enough that you wouldn’t exactly refuse had your heart not been in its current state.
So, here you are. You keep his Tinder profile open on your phone, like it has been since you left the house, trying to memorize his features so that when you spot him, you recognize him instantly.
In a way, this feels like a blind date… And it’s strangely exciting.
You spot him from the door the moment your eyes scan the room. He’s at a table in the far corner, his back against the wall, taking up a bar stool. You stop by the bar before making your way over, getting yourself a drink.
You’re not sure if he’s spotted you, if he knows who you are. So you take the time to get a proper look at him that isn’t through a grainy picture on your phone.
He’s about as wide as he is tall and his forearms are covered in hair (“built like a bear”, check.). He’s got a tumbler of ambar liquid in front of him, you can infer it’s whiskey (“likes Whiskey”, check.). His beard is a bit thicker than in the pictures you were sent, and he looks knackered, his eyes surrounded by heavy dark circles.
He sits with his back straight, however his head hangs low and he keeps looking around through his eyebrows like he’s suspicious of everyone. His legs are spread, heels hooked on the footrest of the stool, the jeans he wears clinging tight to his strong thighs. His hands hang limply between them. He’s wearing a maroon button-up atop a white crewneck t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show a black watch on his left wrist.
In short, he’s handsome. And does not look his age.
Stopping in front of the table, you offer him a smile. “John?” You ask, as if you don’t already know it’s you.
He seems to finally notice you, and his harsh face softens with a smile that scrunches his nose.
“Hi. How are you?” He asks politely as he pulls back the stool on his right side for you. You take the seat, squirming a bit as you look for a good position.
“Can’t complain. You alright?” You return and you catch how he looks at you, up and down, his head hanging low, as he glances at you.
“What are you drinking?” He asks.
“Oh, just… a Sprite.” You answer as you keep glancing at him.
He goes quiet and nods, looking away for a moment, giving you every indication that he’s not interested in being here.
“I get it, you know.” You say after a beat of long, strenuous silence.
John’s blue eyes immediately flitter over to you, eyebrows raised in confusion.
“Get what?” He asks with a mix of confusion and disdain in him.
“Being forced to go out… Meet someone.” You explain as you sip your Sprite through the black straw the bartender gave you.
“Oh, really?” He retorts as he leans his left elbow on the round table and swivels to look over at you.
“Oh, yeah.” You say with a nod. “Recovering from a break-up.” You tell him. “My friends put me up to the whole… dating app-get laid thing. So, I get it. It’s… awkward.” You add.
“Hm.” He says with a nod and presses his lips together a bit, as if conceding to you.
“We don’t have to make this a whole thing, if you don’t want to.” You tell him and smile a bit. “I can leave, if you’d like. Or you can.” You offer, noticing how his eyes soften a little.
“No… it’s alright…” He tells you. His eyes slip away from you and he looks down at his lap, blinking a little. He seems… a bit lost in thought. He goes quiet again.
“Okay, then.” You say simply. “I just figured you needed a distraction, you know… Your lads were complaining about you being stressed…” You add, your eyes stuck on him, to try and spot his reaction.
He curls his fists closed and then uncurls them, running his clammy palms over his jeans for a moment. Then, he inhales sharply before slapping his hands on his thighs and turning to you swiftly.
“You ever shot a gun before?” He asks you, causing your brows to raise in surprise.
“No?” You answer, watching as he downs the rest of his whiskey and jumps down from his stool.
“C’mon. I’m teaching you.” He demands as he contours the table and helps you down, guiding you back out of the pub.
-
“Bend your arms about 10 degrees at the elbows.” John tells you from behind you, his big rough hands adjusting your shape with tender but determined touches.
John’s driven you to a firing club’s range just outside of London. You’ve been at this for an hour now and it’s… surprisingly fun.
You’ve yet to land a proper shot, your arms always shaking a little out of aim… But you’ve landed them in the target, which is more than you thought you were going to succeed.
“How the fuck do you handle this every day? This damn rifle is heavy, my arms hurt and we’ve only been practicing for an hour!” You tell him after firing another shot that did not land.
“Lots of practice, love.” He replies, his tone amused. He stepped up behind you, once more fixing your stance, giving little taps to your hip with one of his large hands to force you to stiffen.
John’s been trying not to snicker every time you fire. At first it was because you were flinching, but now it’s because your aim is that bad. But you don’t mind the mockery. He’s got a smile on his face, his smile lines and nose all crinkled.
“Go on, again.” He demands as he helps adjust you, his breath brushing against your ear, the warmth of his torso against your back, and his eyes above the rifle, to try and see if you’re in target. He makes some last second adjustments and then you fire.
This time it was a bull’s eye. “THERE WE GO!” You cheer for yourself and shimmy your shoulders a little while holding the rifle steady. This time, John doesn’t contain himself, and fully laughs. Deep and rich, right next to your ear, making you shiver a bit, your skin covered in goosebumps.
“Good job.” He praises you and gived you another little tap on your hip, this time, sort of catching the side of your ass. Your eyes widen a bit in surprise and you bite your lip before looking up at him.
“You’ve had enough yet?” He asks you with a cocked brow as you lower the rifle into a safe handle, pointing down and to the side.
“Depends.” You find yourself saying as he takes the rifle from you to return at the rental counter.
“On what, love?” He asks you, eyes locked on yours as you turn to face him fully. He seems to be in a much better mood.
“Me having enough of shooting…” You trail off. “Will that end the night? Are you going to drop me off at home?” You ask him.
His eyebrows raise for a bit, but then they lower and his eyes narrow as a ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Oh no, I’m taking you home, but not dropping you off. I’m spending the night with you.” He assures you.
Then, he walks off out to the armory counter, as if he hasn’t just said that.
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#ikea writes 💚#it's a match! fic#cod modern warfare#cod fanfic#captain john price#john soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#text story#cod x reader#call of duty x reader#john price x reader
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i can't talk to you when i'm like this
steve harrington x fem!reader
word count: [2.1K]
warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, reader has a history of shitty ex's, steve accidentally makes reader cry, a lot of angst regarding past relationships (feelings wise), steve's shitty childhood & terrible dad (brief), fluff at the end (yes because i am a softie)
summary: steve never raises his voice at you, but the first time he does, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him what's really bothering you when you’re seconds away from breaking down.
You hate how the tears coming springing to your eyes the second Steve raises his voice a little too loudly beneath his already apparent annoyance.
Your brain blanks out the second it bellows against the walls and comes hurtling down to your eardrums. It feels like glass shattering in a million different ways, cutting you open and killing you with a thousand cuts.
He’s frozen in front of you, blinking with a look of oblivion on his face because he’s waiting. His arms still held wide open after he asked a question: one that was posed with a tone too sharp for your liking.
“Why are you making it such a big deal?”
His usually sweet and gentle tone was long gone, or at least that’s how you heard it. Instead, it dribbled with irritation and resentment meshed all in one. The kind that sounded like he was fed up and wanted nothing to do with you anymore.
He was just trying to do a sweet thing by picking you both up some coffee and yet here you were starting an argument — you always had to ruin a good thing.
Your teeth dig into your gums, trying to find any way to hold off on the waterworks that you know are about to pour any second now. Cloudy orbs shoot down to your bare feet, trembling against the floorboards while you excuse yourself from the kitchen.
“I’m g-going to the bathroom.”
Your voice is delicate yet not the kind that Steve knows like the back of his hand — the one where you keep it so quiet like an oath when you whisper you love him when you think he’s asleep and no one else is around to hear it.
This time the oath is broken, cracked, just like your voice, torn at the seams between fear and panic. Its edges are frayed and tattered, and its tenderness that is usually formed out of affection is long gone as it cuts through your chest and causes your back to heave as you walk away.
He knows he messed up.
It’s stupid. You shouldn’t be so worked up over the barista leaving her number on Steve’s cup. But you are. You’re worked the hell up and you want him to understand why it is such a big deal to you.
It’s upsetting because you shouldn’t be this wound up and insecure. You know Steve would never even dare to dial the numbers left on the cup, let alone remember the name she left on there. He’s head over heels in love with you the same way you are with him — yet you just don’t get it.
You don’t get the way this makes your insides turn and the thoughts to start whirlwind in your head. At first you were just upset about the number, maybe even just mildly irked — but then the second Steve’s voice came to you like that… that’s when you entirely forgot how to even tell him how you felt.
Now you just felt stupid for making it such a big deal and turning it into this.
“Breathe….” you murmur to yourself jaw trembling as you try not to tense.
The tears finally roll when your back collides with the bathroom door and your shaky fingers lock it shut. Your heart feels like it’s on fire, one that consumes your entire being and engulfs you in the bluest blue instead of the blazing red.
The only thing keeping you from collapsing is the door that’s holding up your weight and it’s not long after that the person you love yet are avoiding is on the other side making it more difficult for you to attempt to make it seem like it’s not a big deal.
“B-baby… I’m so sorry.”
The apology comes in an instant, and you could almost feel his breath hitting your neck from behind the wood. You know it’s genuine…Steve has never ever made you cry. You feel now like you’ve taken everything out of proportion — you should’ve just giggled and said ‘oh that’s cute! too bad you’re my boyfriend!’
All of the things you wished you would have said play in your mind like punishment for the way you’ve acted. How you know you’ve turned the tables on him and made him look like the bad guy when he was far from that.
He was just shocked to come home and hand you your favorite drink only to be asked about the barista he barely gave his attention to. Your accusing voice after he did something nice wasn’t something he was expecting.
Your throat tightened, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to cover it up and make it seem like you weren’t upset. You shuffled from the door, towards the sink, turning it on yet making no move to put your hands under the water.
“I’m fine! I—I just had to wash my face!” You lie, trying to cover your tracks as if Steve doesn’t already know it.
There’s been times when things have upset you, not things that Steve has done, but things that life throws at you and most of the times you hate how wound up you get. Without failure, you sneak away, just wanting a moment by yourself to cry without anyone feeling bad for you or asking questions because they’ll never get it. They don’t understand that the littlest things can trigger something inside of you to completely shut down from the rest of the world.
No one gets it… but Steve does.
“Baby,” His voice is stronger this time, yet tender, “please, can I come in? I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean…”
Your fingers finally come in contact with the frigid water, dabbing the droplets over your eyes attempting to get them to settle instead of looking like you were just crying. There’s a sniffle that comes from you as you clear your airways and a pathetic smile that you press onto your face to try to hide how you’re really feeling.
The water shuts off and you’re opening the door, cutting his apology off altogether.
“I’m fine, Steve!”
Your voice isn’t swaying even with the volume it carries and neither with the faint laugh you give him when you meet face to face. Your lashes still bear the droplets of salt and your cheeks tinted red with the path they’ve traveled down.
He can feel the pain in your voice and see the wobble of your chin as you hold back everything inside. He hates that you feel like you have to mask how you’re really feeling when, in actuality, you should be furious at him for what he did.
“Baby,”
Sadness joins his concern, and he doesn’t bother to hide it — he’s not sure he can when his eyes leak the same emotion, “Baby, you’re not fine…I know you’re not fine.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes unconvincingly. “I literally am, babe… it’s cool. Everything is fine.”
He knows that now you’re trying to reassure yourself rather than him. Trying to play it off and make it seem like everything was okay. Like he’s just supposed to accept it and let you hold everything inside like torture when that’s far from what he wants.
Your attempts to brush past him are futile when his hands come out to hold your shoulders, his fingertips kneading your tense skin. He can feel the blood rushing from under your clothes and it’s not the kind of warmth you usually carry — you are blistering and if he looks hard enough, he can see the way your chest is trying to level itself out as you hold back.
It takes everything in you to not draw your eyes away from his because you don’t want him to know that you’re still feeling it. Feeling stupid and at the same time nothing at all because you don’t know what to feel anymore. There’s a whirlwind of emotions and none of them you can put a finger on because you’re just lost.
You just don’t want him to think you’re crazy… like you reacting to him raising his voice like that was something that would daunt him away.
One of his hands stops its movement on your skin, raising up to your cheek and cradling you gently. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes seep with regret and guilt. His lips part and the words that leave them come in whispers and fragility — croaks and cracks guiding them.
“Everything isn’t fine… I acted like an idiot and raised my voice at you. I’m sorry baby, I—I never meant to do that on purpose. It just came out, but that isn’t an excuse.” He shakes his head at himself disappointingly because he knows better.
Steve was far from perfect in his own eyes, but he knew better because all his life if there was one person he didn’t want to be like, it was his dad. The dad that used to scream at his mother, and scream at him, and scream at the world when everything went wrong, and didn’t know how to talk if it wasn’t screaming.
He’d never forgive himself if he made you feel that way or even became a smidge of what his father was. But it wasn’t him who he was blaming for this — this was all Steve himself, and he knew that. Accountability needed to be taken from himself because the only person he was hurting was you and it was going to be okay.
Not in the heat of the moment, not ever.
You hadn’t even noticed you had tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the faint taste of iron trickling onto your tongue when you realized you were biting down on the skin too hard trying to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby, please just—just tell me how to make it better.” His voice pleads and reasons, wanting to make it right with you anyway he could.
You close your eyes, letting the tears fall as you feel his thumbs wipe them away. He’s done this times before, wiping away your tears that had spewed from another’s doing. Never did he ever think he would be the cause.
“I-it’s nothing… it’s stupid, I’m stupid and dramatic.” You swallow thickly, sniffling and twisting your fingers in your hand to fight off the lingering feelings.
He shakes his head. The obvious look of disapproval for your words covers his face because this was far from your fault. Sure, he was bewildered about the whole incident, considering he didn’t even know the number was left there until you brought it up, but for him to not know how to convey his frustration better was the real issue at hand.
Not the accusation, not the stupid number, not the oblivious girl who left her number: it was him, Steve’s idiotic actions that got you both here.
“Stop, don’t talk to yourself like that.” He insists, staring deeply into your eyes, searching for a reason why you were blaming yourself,
Your jaw shakes roughly before a sob rips through your mouth. Tightening your eyes to try to get the tears to stop, yet they don’t cease no matter how hard you try. Frustration builds inside of you because you should be over it by now. The fact that he apologized and was here trying to comfort you should be enough.
But something inside of you won’t let it die. The silence is filled with the memory of his voice shouting at you and the face that he stared back with.
“I—I don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with me.” You croak, covering your face and turning away from him to save you the embarrassment.
But he strays to where you are, sticking beside you with a comforting hand resting on your back, “Sweetheart, nothing is—”
You sob one more, this time with a grunt that is direct to yourself. Stomping your foot against the cold tiles, your hands come down to grip the edges of the counter tightly. Your reflection in the mirror is only half of what you feel, and when Steve steps behind you, all you can see is guilt, but at the same time patience knowing he’s ready when you are.
You try your very best to at least keep your sobs at bay just enough for you to speak through them and for him to understand.
“You’re not gonna wanna be with me anymore knowing I can’t—I can’t talk to you when I’m like this! I don’t know why, but I can’t… it makes me feel stupid, like I’m crying over something so tiny and now I’ve totally forgotten why we were even arguing in the first place.”
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and reaching in front of you to bring your hair back and away from your face. His eyes keep yours in the mirror, watching at you with such a gentleness that even now doesn’t falter.
“We weren’t arguing. I was just dumb and raised my voice when you were asking me about it.”
You move your sights from his to the bottom of the sink, shaking your head, “No, b-but I shouldn’t have reacted like that and made you look like the bad guy when yo—”
Your voice is traveling faster than you can think, spewing out words so hastily like you have to make him understand that it’s not his fault, but yours. It takes your breath away, hiccuping and coughing between a sob that leaves your mouth and bobbles in your chest.
Steve’s instantaneously rubbing your back, shushing you and trying to get you to calm down knowing you going on and on like this wouldn’t do you any good. He understands that you feel a lot of things very deeply and sometimes it isn’t an easy task to get them all out at once: he knows it and he’ll spend forever with you until you got it all out.
“Hey, hey, baby, c’mon… breathe,” He coos, his palm never stilling on your back feeling the deep breaths in and out, watching the tears fall down your cheeks and drip onto the counter.
It’s a kind of scene he hates to see, the one he wishes he could take from you and shoulder instead because watching you in such a state breaks his heart more than he could imagine. And this time it stings a little more knowing that he not only cannot shoulder your pain, but was the one creating it this time.
“Talk to me, please. What’s going on? Why’re so you upset at yourself and not at me?” He begs, trying to get a glimpse of what you’re feeling so he knows where the root is.
“B-because… I made it such a b-big deal.” You hiccup.
When you swipe angrily at your eyes with a ferociousness, that’s enough to make Steve step in and take it from here now that he knows where you’re coming from. A warm hand comes down onto your shoulder, pulling at you just enough for you to face him completely, weakly hanging your head low not knowing if you were strong enough to see him just yet.
“You didn’t make anything a big deal. I promise, we’re okay.” He whispers quietly, cupping your face in his hands, and bringing you face to face, “You’re not stupid and I could never think that you were. You’re human honey. It’s normal for you to be upset by things.”
“B-but I…I don’t want you to think you did something wrong—“
He stops you with a shake of his head. “But I did. I did something so wrong. I yelled when I shouldn’t have, and I made you feel like shit.”
Steve desperately needs you to know it. That this was his fault and no one else’s. That him making you feel like crap was the worst thing he could have ever done, but he was willing to man up to it and try to make things better, and at the same time he would understand if you wanted nothing to do with him after this.
Still, even after his words, you’re somehow even angrier at yourself, mind blaring at you for being such a dramatic person for making him go out of this way with all of this. That this was surely your fault and yours only, and if you didn’t take it off his plate, it was just something he would use against you one day to realize that he didn’t want to be with you anymore.
It’s what they all did — held it over your head and made you feel like you were wrong for feeling how you felt, so instead it was best not to feel anything at all. To hide it away and hope that being noncombative meant that everything was going to be okay and it wouldn’t give them a reason to run.
“I-it’s my fault—” You pinch your eyes, gulping back a cry as you shake your head in his hands.
His brows pull together, eyes squinting at you, not completely understanding why you’re doing this.
“Hey, stop, it’s not your fault. Don’t do that. Don’t take the fall for me,” Steve assures you with a sternness to his soft voice, continuing to wipe the seeping tears.
Somehow you can’t let it go, “But—”
“But nothing.” He starts, his voice composed yet unyielding in his tone.
He can’t stand it, clutching your face a little firmer, hoping that you would peek your eyes open to see him because he desperately needs you to. The second you do, your face twists again with heartache, praying that he would just let you go and walk out already, because by now, he probably thinks you’re insane — there’s no way he’s not thinking it.
His lips part, trying to find the right words to say, needing the perfect ones to get through you because he hates how you won’t let him take the fall, the one he so rightfully deserves to come crashing down on. You are everything to him and in some ways the feelings that you feel hit him right in the heart, and right now is no different, but there’s a wall between you both and his only goal is to knock it down completely.
“I—I don’t know why you feel like you have to protect me, but I promise you don’t.” He whispers, watching as you try to calm yourself, little sniffles going in and out and broken cries leaving your mouth.
His thumbs rub back and forth across your cheeks, soothing your withering skin. Slowly but surely your cries die little by little, eyes fixed on his, trusting that he means everything that he says, because Steve isn’t like the others — something that you should’ve known judging from his character alone.
“If I do something that makes you upset or sad, you should be able to voice that, not keep it in. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me when I’ve done something wrong. I—I want you to feel safe and okay around me, enough to know that my love for you isn’t gonna change, just because you bring something up. You have every right to be upset, and angry, and disappointed, everything.”
He says it like he means it and you know it’s because he does. He lets every word hang from the stars as if he put them up there, and points them out just for you to know that they are there and true, because that’s all he ever wanted. For you to know that every word he speaks comes from his heart, and no matter how many times he needs to repeat it, he’ll do it over and over again, just so you know it’s real and until you believe them and know he won’t ever break them.
“Don’t ever blame yourself for me, please? I-I don’t want you to do that to yourself because I’m here and…and every time I fuck up or make a mistake, I swear I’m gonna own up to it and try to fix it. But I’m not gonna let you take the blame, okay?”
Being with Steve for so long still feels so new, especially when you know he isn’t like the rest of the boys from your past. He’s patient and kind with a big heap of understanding. Like everyone else in the world, he’s guilty of his own poor moments, but he’ll be damned if he takes that out on you or makes you feel like it’s your responsibility.
“I’m so sorry, baby.” He murmurs, letting his hands fall away from your face, letting you decide what the next move is.
The tears that escape are more so in between the remains of the sadness being washed away with tears of love and gratitude. Your arms wrap around his torso, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his chest where the tears soak through his chest. Without a second thought, his arms envelop you, rocking you both back and forth as he presses kisses on the top of your head.
It mends your heart not merely because he’s just sorry, but because you didn’t get plenty of sorries before. Left only with sweeping things under the rug and pretending like nothing ever happened — it never solved anything and never gave you much.
But Steve gives you everything and so much more.
A big chunk of you feels like you don’t deserve him because he seriously is the best person with an even better soul wrapped up into one and yet he chooses you — every day. He sees you through all the good and the bad and never makes you feel like you’re alone even when you could be a distance away when you’re right beside him.
When you talk too much, say too little, or sometimes say nothing at all — he’s there giving you a listening ear and comforting shoulder to lean on whoever you need it. And on the days when you can’t talk to him when you’re like this… he’ll wait until you’re ready and show you that he’s always going to be there every step of the way.
He’s everything you could have asked for and more.
You pull your face away from hiding, resting your chin up on his chest as you stared up at him.
“I’m sorry too. I—I shouldn’t have been so indifferent earlier and just told you what I was feeling from the get-go.” You sniffled, rubbing your hands over his back, smiling faintly when he nodded understandingly.
He knows that sometimes he might not quite get it, might not see things in the same light as you, but he would never try to dismiss your feelings. He would sit beside you through the storms and sunshines, knowing that he was learning more about himself and you with you in his life.
That because of you, the younger version of himself got to heal his deepest wounds and open himself up to a love he only through he could dream up. You were here making him a better version of himself, all while he was doing the same for you. Showing you that the scars and fears of your past didn’t have to live in the next person you met — that you could let it go and open yourself up to the love you deserved.
His love.
“I forgive you only if you forgive me,” Steve grinned, swiping away at the dampness on your cheeks.
You grinned, nodding up at him. “Of course, I forgive you.”
“I love you so much… nothings ever gonna change that.” He hummed, cupping your face, taking you all in for the person he loved so dearly.
You closed your eyes blissfully before a kiss was placed on your lips.
“I know, I love you too.”
💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌
a/n: hi all, I hoped you like this little one-shot/imagine... i had this one sitting in my wips for awhile and it was nearly finished but I didn't have the inspiration to finish it until now. I don't usually write angst bcs i am a fluff girl, but this concept just came to me bcs like a lot of people when someone raises their voice at me...i just freeze and i don't know what to make of it and i just start crying. i think steve would be super apologetic and i wanted to write this bcs i needed some stevie!comfort so yeah... i hope you all enjoyed!!!
taglist: @translatemunson @kennedy-brooke @manda-panda-monium @tvserie-s-world @givemeth @steveharringtonswife @astolenkiss @loving-and-dreaming @awkotaco24 @engenelxver @elfiaaaa @pbs-theundeadmaggot @johnricharddeacy @gaysludge @keerysfolklore @micheledawn1975 @ihatepeanutss @bakugouswh0r3
#munsonsreputation#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington angst#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington fic#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington drabble#steve harrington stranger things#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington comfort#steve harrington#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n fluff#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#stranger things#stranger things imagine#steve stranger things#steve x y/n#steve x reader#stranger things imagines#stranger things x reader
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part one here. ze part two to touch-starved stevie that absolutely no one requested hehe <3 but i gots to let my boys have a wee kiss :")
So, hugs with Eddie become… well, a thing.
Not a thing. They’re not a thing, Steve and Eddie. It’s totally the same as when he gets hugs from Robin. Eddie’s doing him a favour as a friend. It’s got the 100% platonic energy of getting a hug from a friend — a hug that usually melts into some form of a cuddle, limbs all tangled together until they can’t tell whose are whose.
Except, Steve doesn’t really do that second part with Robin. Like he hasn’t done it ever with Robin.
So, it’s an Eddie thing.
But they’re not a thing. Not matter how much Steve would actually very much like for that happen. Okay, maybe Steve’s overthinking the whole thing a bit, but he just can’t tell.
Where’s the line? It’s infuriating not being able to discern between platonic and more, just because Steve wasn’t held enough as a fucking baby. Out of all the things he resents his parents for, Steve’s surprised that this is so near the top.
Because, sure, Steve’s had more than his fair share of hookups. He knows that sort of touch. He knows the shape of lust; the scrapes of fingernails down backs, the tight grips over skin, the push and pull of the heat of the moment.
And this thing with Eddie… is not that.
So, really, Steve knows that it’s all friendly. Eddie is just being nice. He’s being a decent dude and helping his friend out — by catapulting himself into Steve’s arms at every opportune moment.
(Steve’s only dropped 3 mugs of coffee because of this so far. It’s only because Eddie says good catch, big boy with a devilish grin every time that Steve manages to catch Eddie that Steve hasn’t completely told him to knock it off. Just yet, at least.)
And he’s different in other areas. He’ll always seem to choose the seat next to Steve on movie-nights now, content to snuggle right up to him. They get thigh to thigh, arm to arm — and Eddie only needs to get about 20 minutes in for him to do a big sigh, like an old dog, and slump over, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.
Steve notices though. He always notices.
It’s impossible not to— the skin, even if there’s 3 layers between them, burns blazing warm. Eddie’s hair drapes over his arm, a curl inevitably tickling along Steve’s collar. He can feel the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the little shake of when he laughs.
It drives Steve a little insane— insane in the way that makes him think about burying his fingers in those curls again, about pressing his lips against Eddie’s pretty mouth just to feel the smile against his skin, about digging into his chest so he can climb into his chest and live there.
Yeah, it’s— well, it’s safe to say that the effect of Eddie’s touchiness has sent what was once a fleeting thought of a crush into mind-melting levels of affection.
But he can’t fucking tell.
-
To Steve’s credit, neither can Eddie.
Which is not surprisingly considering sometimes he catches himself wondering how the hell he ended up here; in a close-knit friendship with band-geek Robin Buckley, princess Nancy Wheeler, and King Steve Harrington.
Okay, the Robin one sort of makes sense. He thinks that if no matter when their paths crossed, he and Robin would’ve always even some sort of strange friends - her snark complimenting his bitchiness. Also, the whole super queer thing helps too. Even the friendship with Nancy works, in its own weird way.
Steve though? He’s the fucking curve ball.
It works though, the two of them. Surprisingly well, actually — the two of them get on like a house on fire, bitchy quips back and forth. Even better, is the quiet that they can share. Steve loves to come around and do… nothing. Do nothing with Eddie, though.
So, even though Eddie had noticed the tension in Steve with touch, little moments where he turned rigid when Eddie’s usual wandering hands got too comfortable — Eddie chalked it up to the usual. Guys bring too uncomfortable with him, too weird about another guy being touchy. It didn’t matter than Eddie wasn’t even out to Steve yet, he was still might be that type of guy.
Well, Eddie had certainly thought so. Sure, Steve might not be one of those jocks who smacked around boys who looked too long in the locker room, but if he knew a smidge of the truth, who really knows. It would explain the tenseness at least.
But then— ‘Can I… have a hug?’ There had been a dozen things Eddie was thinking that Steve could’ve asked for but that? Wasn’t even in the ballpark. It was so left-field it left Eddie speechless for a whole moment. And Steve had been staring at the ceiling, his hands curled up tight again like- like he thought Eddie might say no.
A ridiculous thought, honestly. Anyone who knew Eddie well enough knew he was touchy; loved giving it, loved getting it. Like an overly affectionate cat, Wayne had once called him, just 11 years old, because Eddie’s need for affection seem to never be sated.
After that night, Steve’s lack of touch became far more obvious. It’s always hair ruffles or high-fives, yet never hugs. Normally, Eddie would keep to that boundary; some people are less touchy other than others, he knows that.
But… “Sometimes I realise it’s been awhile, since I’ve had some touch.” That’s what Steve had said, his words. Eddie doesn’t even think he meant to say something so heartbreaking. In fact, the guy seemed embarrassed.
It had thrown Eddie for a loop— because Steve gets around. He’s nearly notorious for one-night stands and failed flings, as Robin loves to drone on about considering she’s subjected to all the flirting. What had originally been a point of envy for Eddie, just saturates the bleakness of Steve’s words. Sex but without a moment of intimacy.
So, while Eddie is miles away from being the person who gets into Steve’s pants — not for lack of want, mind you — he does try hike up the touchiness. Little things. Lingering when he taps him on the arm, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peer over it, leaning up against him when they’re side by side watching a film.
It’s good. It helps Eddie release the pressure of his stupid monumental god-awful crush he has. Yeah, yeah, it’s laughable, even to Eddie. It’s like Gay 101; don’t get crush on straight dudes, especially the ones you’re friends with. And yet…
Steve lets him. He lets Eddie give him touch, more than he lets anyone else. He still tenses; there’s still always a moment before he can remember to relax, like he’s trying to shake off bad thoughts but then he melts. He always melts into Eddie’s touch eventually — in a way Eddie knows Steve actually loves it, drinks it up as much as he can.
And maybe, Eddie is the biggest fool to grace the Earth to let that fact give him some hope. Sue his gooey heart, he’s a romantic. It’s a quiet hope but, it’s there.
Tonight, it seems relaxing for Steve is been harder than usual— several times has Eddie traced a quite long along Steve’s arms, a subtle point that they were far too tense for someone who was wrapped up in cuddles on the couch. ‘Cos that’s 100% what they are now. Eddie will still call them hugs, but usually, when it’s just the two of them, it becomes this.
Steve, tucked up into the corner of the couch, one leg flush along the back of the couch and one hanging off the edge. It’s the prime position for Eddie to crawl up, wind his arms around Steve’s middle and give him a good squeeze and then settle there. Head on Steve’s chest, lying in the cradle of his hips. Safe. Warm.
It makes him warm, oh very warm to know that he gets this. That Steve doesn’t give this amount of trust to many, if any, other people but Eddie — he trusts Eddie.
“Y’know,” Eddie says, cheeks smushed against the plain of Steve’s pec. It feels deliciously warm and Eddie’s fairly sure he can feel how toned it is just through his cheek. Hot bastard. “I’m actually real glad you asked for that hug all those weeks ago.”
He leaves it there ‘cos he knows Steve will ask. Eddie’s eyes stay on the buzzing tv-screen even as Steve’s head shifts, turning to peer down at the boy slumped on his chest. Eddie’s pretty sure he can see Steve’s mouth twitch up into a smile.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” Eddie affirms, giving a nod and his eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for just a moment. “Think I’ve had some of the best hugs in the world.”
Okay, that was maybe more honest and sappy than Eddie was going for. He is just letting Steve know he isn’t just doing it for Steve — that he enjoys these moments just as much. He lays it on thick, tries for a smarmy angle.
“Swept up in these pillowy arms?” He croons, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze, making the other chuckle softly. “Who wouldn’t think so? I’m a lucky guy.”
Despite the joking tone, there’s no quick comeback from Steve. That’s alright. Eddie’s quite happy if this is one of the times Steve just takes the compliment; let’s the word sink in and hopefully, believes them, even if it’s just a little bit. He watches the film and doesn’t read into the silence.
Not even when Steve says, “Eddie?” all soft. Nearly shy sounding. It doesn’t quite register to Eddie’s ears.
“Mm?”
“Eddie.” Steve says again, a little firmer and that catches Eddie’s attention. He turns his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest, his brows drawn together in silent question.
But the moment he makes eye contact, Steve’s doing that scrunched up face again. Is studying the ceiling instead of facing Eddie. And just like all those weeks ago, his hands clench up tight. Twists up the fabric of Eddie’s sweater in between his fingers and uses it to ground himself.
Last time, he asked for a hug. Considering he’s currently just about squishing Steve beneath his body weight, Eddie can’t fathom what he might be worked up to ask for. Unless he was going to ask for something more than a hug— which, well, just wasn’t going to happen, even if Eddie really wanted it to.
“Can I-” Steve starts. He sucks in a breath, almost like he’s gathering courage. But he’s not, because he’s not about to ask for what Eddie hopes for, he’s not, he’s—
Unless…?
“Can I… have a kiss?” Steve asks, barely audible. The sentence is murmured, soft words that hit Eddie like a gentle kiss in itself — imprinting right onto his heart. Steve Harrington wants a kiss — from him!
“Oh.” Eddie says, in a breathy delightful way. He’s fairly certain the little monkey in his brain is clapping its cymbals at double-speed as the words process; or maybe it’s his heart, which feels like it’s leapt up his throat.
“Oh?” Steve echoes, a smile already playing at the edges of his mouth, because he can see Eddie’s want. Because he knows him.
“Yes.” Eddie says suddenly, with a frantic nod, pushing up closer so their faces are aligned. “Yes, absolutely, you can.” He affirms.
Steve huffs a quiet laugh at the eagerness and then his arm that had been slung around Eddie shifts. It moves up til his hand caresses along the line of Eddie’s jaw, tilting him just how he likes.
Eddie holds his breath. Counts the freckles he can see this close. Tries to feel Steve’s heartbeat through where they’re pressed so closely together; can Steve feel his? Thundering and hurried, beating so hard Eddie thinks he might bruise the inside of his ribs.
Then Steve kisses him. And shit, Steve’s lip are better by ten-fold than every daydream Eddie’s ever had about them. They’re warm and so soft — plush and pressing against his own and Eddie is freezing. Fuck, wait, how does this go again? Right, Eddie’s never… well, kissed anybody before.
Steve pulls back and Eddie screws his eyes up — not ready in the slightest for the disappointment of his own shoddy kissing skills. Fuck, did he really just freeze? Steve — Steve Harrington — asks for a kiss and Eddie decides to stab himself in the back by not figuring out how to fuck to kiss back.
“You call that a kiss?” Steve teases and Eddie’s well aware of the parallel — of the irony of Steve repeating his own words back at him. But he can’t make himself laugh even though it’s funny. Instead, a little groan wiggles out his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, earnest. He forces his eyes opens — he needs to see what’s Steve’s thinking. Where he’s expecting disappointment or perhaps regret, is only patience. Maybe a touch of concern. Eddie continues, despite the humiliation that makes his throat sticky.
“I haven’t- I don’t do this often.” He coughs awkwardly clearing his throat and hoping it hides the next word. “Ever.”
There’s a jump in Steve’s eyebrows, a moment of surprise in his eyes that lets him know he did, indeed, hear that final word. It makes Eddie feel… well, it’s nice that Steve had expected him to have been kissed by now. Even if he hasn’t. He tries to take it as a compliment.
“That’s okay,” Steve assures. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs soothing along Eddie’s jaw. It makes Eddie shiver, some outrageous amount of joy clawing into every nerve. Steve likes Eddie. He wants to kiss Eddie.
“Do you want to try again?”
Eddie nods before the questions even out of his mouth. Steve smiles, all sunshine. This time when he draws Eddie in, he notices the way Eddie holds his breath — the rigidness in his body.
Steve kisses him again, another short and soft one and then whispers against his lips, “Relax.”
‘Cos isn’t tonight just full of the parallels, Eddie thinks. He listens, tries to focus on how sweet Steve’s kiss is than his panicky heart, forcing out a breath between the kisses. His hands along Steve’s sides find a grip, grounding and good, and by the fourth kiss, he begins to feel a bit melty.
It’s good. It’s really good. Kissing Steve is top 5– nay, the top moment of his life so far. Somehow, it’s made all that much better knowing the build-up behind it. Knowing that Steve knows he isn’t just kissing him for a heat of the moment — that Eddie wants kisses here, kisses before bed, in the morning, on dates. Eddie wants Steve.
And with the way he kisses, Eddie’s pretty sure Steve wants him just as bad.
It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach what Eddie decides is an ultra pretty fuckin’ state; lips swollen from kisses, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed up. He bets he looks no better. The thought makes him grin, enough they have to break the kiss ‘cos Eddie can’t stop his stupid happy grin ‘cos shit— he actually gets to have this Steve.
“What?” Steve asks, somehow half heart-eyed and half suspicious at the mischief in Eddie’s eyes.
“Can I... have a hickie?”
now with a part three !
#at this point call this the 'can i' series#sweet boys asking each other for things they most certainly would be given <3#but don't think they will <3#tried to flip it and make it so even tho eddie is used to touch. the romantic touch? he's got none! that's where he's touch-starved#ALSO EVERYONE'S TAGS WERE SO NICE ON THE LAST ONE#trust i am. not feelin so bad nowadays (me saying this like 4 days later lmao)#but <3 thank u all#gay ppl in my phone.... you know what to do#ruby writes steddie#steve x eddie#steddie#steddie fic#steddie ficlet#touch-starved steve harrington#not rlly anymore hehe#does anyone notice that it ends with yet another 'can i?" question? HEHE#yet again stib gets kisses where ruby doesn't but alas <3 dis is way fluffier this time#nearly went the angst route! and went hmmmm naur#ok ok i'll be quiet now
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I can’t get it out of my head. You cannot tell me that Yan!Boothill wouldn’t make you dance with him.
💥 This man just loves to show off in front of you, whether it’s his gunslinging skills or the various ways he can move his body. His flexibility isn’t just useful in the bedroom, he tells you with a wink.
💥 And still, the first time you see him dance, you’re shocked. This is the same man who kidnapped you, who has to use voice messages on his phone? Who thinks first with his gun instead of his neuro chip? Where in the hell did he learn those moves?
💥 You don’t think he notices you gawking at him, but oh, the stunned look on your face is priceless. He can’t wait to grab that irresistible waist of yours and spin you until you’re dizzy.
💥 So imagine one of his favorite songs comes on the radio, one that he used to strum on the guitar around the fire, under the stars on his home planet. It’s an upbeat tune, fast-paced and twangy. You’re unaware of the effect the music has on him until it’s too late; he’s pulling you up from your chair and immediately drops you into a dip.
💥 You cry out in protest, but Boothill spins you around so quickly you can’t escape, flashing his pointed teeth all the while. You’ve never been much of a dancer, but he doesn’t allow you to make a single step out of line; he’s in control of your entire body, your every movement, just like he controls your entire life. You spin around him like the planets around the sun, for that’s exactly what he wants you to be. The glowing moon orbiting his celestial body.
💥 “That’s the forkin’ spirit!” He laughs as he scoops you up and tosses you into the air effortlessly, followed by another round of circles that has you reeling. The swing dance finally ends when he spins you in towards his body, your back against his metal chest. You’re panting from the effort, yet he seems unfazed. His nose nuzzles into your neck, teeth nipping at your ear.
💥 Without warning, he seizes your chin and angles your face to his, devouring your lips. You gasp in disagreement, but he only groans into your mouth.
💥 Pulling away, you notice his devious smirk as he bares those dangerous canines. “I think I’ll make you my permanent dance partner, whatdya say?” He laughs, then, a husky thing filled with dark promise. “Not that ya have any choice in the matter, darling.”
#yandere boothill#boothill x reader#boothill x you#hsr boothill#boothill honkai star rail#boothill headcanons#boothill hsr#yandere headcanons#yanderecore#yandere x y/n#yandere x you#yandere x reader#yandere imagines#yandere#yandere male#honkai star rail boothill#yandere honkai star rail#honkai star rail#yandere hsr#hsr
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STREAM IN PROGRESS. mdni. 18+.
pairings: streamer ! wanda maximoff + f ! reader
summary: surely working your girlfriend up while she's on stream won't be too bad, will it?
warnings: dom!top!wanda, sub!bottom!reader, reader has long hair for the plot, hair pulling, mommy kink, this is pretty soft tbh, slight dacryphilia, exhibitionism
wc: 1.7k~
"You guys want my girlfriend on stream?" Wanda laughs as she reads comments, the sound soft and melodic. "Are you getting tired of me already?" Her tone is teasing, and it's part of the reason she's gained such a following. Her change in demeanor over the years has allowed her to gain a bit of a loyal following, going from stoic and cursing under her breath while playing games such as Valorant and Apex Legends to joking around and being more carefree while playing, sometimes those same games, but also some not so competitive titles like Resident Evil and Outlast.
(Occasionally Fall Guys, but she thinks that might ruin her image).
She turns her head to look at you, raising a perfectly manicured hand and motioning for you to come closer. "Well, let's give the audience what they want. Though, we don't have another chair, so you're going to have to settle for my lap. What a pity." She tilts her head slightly and a small smirk graces her lips.
Another thing that's helped her gain popularity is just how bold she's willing to be. Well, that and her audience seems to love her girlfriend and how cute the two of you are together.
"We really should get another one, considering how often I have to 'settle for your lap',” you hum, settling down sideways in your girlfriend's lap, legs thrown across her thighs and arm around her shoulder so as to not completely block her from the camera.
"Well, let's not be too hasty,” Wanda murmurs as she leans up to capture your lips in a soft kiss, smiling against them. You're interrupted by the sound of Wanda’s character dying and she pulls away with a groan, "look what you did, you little brat," she teases, "distracting me like that..." She clicks her tongue in faux annoyance, “you guys ask for her to come on stream and the first thing that happens is me dying. Do you all like to see me suffer?”
The stream continues on like this, with Wanda’s teasing and banter between her and the audience as well as between you and her, until Wanda is bidding goodbye to the audience and turning off her camera in favor of focusing on you. Unbeknownst to the audience, you had been teasing your girlfriend almost since the moment you appeared on camera, the webcam doesn’t show anything below your girlfriend’s chest, so what’s the harm in having a little fun? Sure, you’d probably get punished for it later, but that was something you could worry about when the time came.
-
It had taken every ounce of patience and self control that Wanda had not to just end the stream early when your fingers somehow found their way under her shirt, nails raking across her skin, and then beneath the waistband of her sweats, playing with the band of her panties and slipping even lower, lower, until she grabbed your wrist and dug her nails into your soft skin. A warning to behave yourself, and so you did, for a few minutes anyway, and then you were back to the teasing touches. It wasn’t your fault she wouldn’t scold you on camera, and if you got her worked up enough maybe she’d skip the punishment altogether.
And you were right, because right now all she could really focus on was your weight in her lap and the fire that your fingertips left behind, the teasing touches getting bolder now that the camera was off. And then she feels your hand slip beneath the waistband of her sweats and she sees that look in your eyes, the one that tells her you think you’ve gotten away with something you wouldn’t usually. Your eyes are almost shining, it's actually quite cute, she thinks. Perhaps she should punish you right now, she’d given you a clear warning to behave yourself, it’s not her fault you just can’t listen to her.
Wanda catches your wrist once more, “Do you never learn?” Her tone is calm as she takes your arm and twists it behind your back, using it as a means to turn you around and push you over, barely giving you enough time to react and catch yourself against her desk with your free arm.
Luckily you do, bracing yourself against the hard surface with your forearm, a bloody nose for that reason would be quite embarrassing. “Do you take pleasure in disobeying me like that? In disobeying Mommy, hm?” You bite your lip as she stands from her chair, watching her movements through her reflection in the now blank computer monitor as you shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So if I checked right now you wouldn’t be making a mess of yourself? Of course not, you’d never lie to me,” she answers her own question and laughs as if she’s waving the idea off, of course you wouldn’t, and then her fingers are tangled in your hair, harshly tugging you upward and leaning down just the slightest bit, “Would you, baby?”
You let out a whine in response, her other hand is still holding your arm behind your back, keeping you pressed down and making your back arch. The strain on your hair wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t unwelcome either. “Stop it, that hurts,” you huff, avoiding the question, but it just makes Wanda tug harder, clicking her tongue, “that’s not what I asked you.”
Wanda revels in the whimper you give her in response, looking down at you in the reflection of the monitor like you were prey she was waiting to swallow whole. She wishes she had the resolve to properly punish you, to keep you tied up and unable to touch her as she busied herself with household chores, perhaps even running out to get groceries while she has you begging for her not to leave you alone. She almost frowns at that last part, when did she become so terrible that she’d do anything to see your pretty eyes filled with tears?
Instead she takes pity on you, the way your eyes are beginning to gloss over, tears stinging at the edges and threatening to fall from the harsh grip she kept on your hair has her starting to feel dizzy. She just can’t help it, you looked so pretty like this. She lets go of her grip on your arm and you immediately move it to aid your other arm in bracing yourself against the desk, easing the strain on your hair just the slightest bit. She slips a hand beneath your panties and palms your ass.
One of her favorite things was that you never felt obligated to wear pants when it was just the two of you alone, simply opting for a long sweater or shirt with your panties.
Her hand wanders down, pinching the fat of your thigh and laughing when it results in a yelp. “Wanda, just touch me already!” You whine, trying to push back against her. “Patience.” she hums, letting go of your hair and you let your head drop, hair falling down and framing your face. Though she does drag her fingertips over your clothed cunt, cooing when she feels the wet spot on your panties. “Is this why you’re being a brat, hm? Need Mommy to ease the ache between your thighs?” Her tone is teasing, but her fingers rub soft circles against your clit, just enough pressure to pull a soft moan from between your lips.
“So sensitive…” Wanda muses to herself, using her free hand to pull your panties to the side. She'll skip the teasing for now, wants to work you up first, have you drooling all over her fingers before she pulls everything away. She runs her fingers through your folds, gathering some of your slick and dipping a finger inside of your drooling hole. “Please.” your tone is pleading, wanting nothing more than for her to sink her lithe fingers into your cunt.
It feels like Wanda had been teasing you for hours even though she had only just started touching you, and wasn’t teasing at all. Perhaps thinking about your girlfriend fucking you throughout the entire stream was not your brightest idea, your attempt to tease her had accidentally gotten you all worked up.
You push back against her, trying to get her to sink her finger deeper. “So impatient.” she chuckles, pulling her finger out altogether, resulting in a whine of protest from you, before suddenly sinking her middle and index fingers into your tight heat.
You gasp in response, biting down on your bottom lip to stifle your moans, hands curling into fists as you support yourself on your forearms, having nothing to grab onto. “You really are sensitive, did all that teasing today get you worked up, baby? Did that silly little brain of yours start thinking a little too hard?” If you were in any other position you’re sure you’d bite back with a snarky comment, but you just can’t, not with the way Wanda’s fingers are thrusting into you, curling to hit just the right spot and make you see stars.
Wanda almost rolls her eyes, bringing her free hand up to fist your hair once more, gripping it at the end and looping it around her wrist, tugging harshly near your scalp and bringing you flush against her front, ”I believe I asked you a question, sweetheart.”
You whimper in response, the strain on your hair making tears prick at your eyes, threatening to fall. When your girlfriend prompts your response once more with a slight tug, the tears spill over no matter how hard you try to stop them. “T–Technically, you asked two,” you bite back weakly.
“Brat.” Wanda rolls her eyes, pushing you down and letting her tight grip on your hair fall looser. She feels you clench around her fingers at the harsh treatment and she grins, predator-like, before pulling her fingers out and swiftly landing a slap to your sensitive clit. “Mommy!” you choke on a moan, jolting forward, torn between begging her to hit you again or for her fingers. Your fingernails dig into your palms as your fists tighten around nothing.
“Do you think you can be a good girl for me?” Wanda asks, starting to grope you and leaning down to press a tender kiss to your cheek before using the hand in your hair to properly gather it into her fist, holding it in a makeshift ponytail and finally relieving the strain you were feeling. “Because if you’re not,” she tugs harshly once more, causing you to whimper, “I have no problem giving you a proper punishment.”
#alice's fics !#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff imagine#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x female reader#wanda maximoff smut#scarlet witch smut#scarlet witch x you#scarlet witch x reader
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it’s so sad to me that nico like never learned how much percy tried to help him yk
like percy literally rounded up his closest friends after being the only one to find out nico was the son of hades and decided to at least try to give nico a chance to live his life when the kid literally just tried to kill him, his sister just died, and through everything percy knows hates his guts - like he took all that info and decided to make a suicide pack with his closest friends in order to protect nico when giving nico the prophecy would’ve been the most logical and honestly understandable thing to do
like genuinely do ppl realise how EASY it would’ve been to just give the prophecy to nico his ONLY living relative (other than hades) just DIED they could’ve been like “listen you take this prophecy give it 6 years you’ll be dead with your sister and literally everyone else you know and you’ll be a hero for it” instead even though percy has an entire life, people who love and care for him, and a future wife infront of him he takes it upon himself to DIE in 3-4 years how fucking BONKERS is that
he also almost abandons a WHOLE OTHER QUEST putting himself and annabeth in danger just bc dumbass nico is out doing god knows what in the labyrinth and ends up getting caught (he was doing smth i’m being dramatic but still)
could you imagine being percy your going to war (and from your perspective you’re going to die in the next week or so after methodically doing everything in your power to keep this other random kid who you think hates you from suffering that fate) that kid comes up to you with a plan so you trust him just do be stabbed in the back bc that kids father wants him to be the prophecy child even tho you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to die for the past like 3 years?? id jump that kid too if he randomly came into my deep dark prison cell trying to break me out and then shun him after all that
like i read the way nico talks abt percy and he just seems bitter all the time he’s like “psh percy and his fake friendship what a dweeb can’t believe i had a crush on THAT guy🙄” like you’d be dead if it wasn’t for his friendship gay boy
i want like 5 years into the future annabeth is sitting with nico one day and is like “lol yeah i remember that one time percy made us all pinky promise to keep you safe and we all thought he was dumb bc you hated him sm but he really just wanted you to have a good life and now look at you!! :)” and nico to slow turn to her “…what”
like to this day i get that nico was mad at percy for not protecting bianca and bc of his internalized homophobia or whatever but why not hate on the actual people who sent her on that quest rather than a random kid you just met who said he’d try WHICH HE ACTUALLY DID DO and not idk literally any adult figure who sent her into the fire to begin with
i just want nico to realise that percy is simply just a boy who literally wanted nothing to do with any of this and was trying his best to free nico of that same burden sigh (;_;)
like those two are the fattest example of a miscommunication held together by misunderstood betrayal
disclaimer this is obv dramatic and the prophecy definitely doesn’t work like that but like think abt it ok
#hoo#pjo#heros of olympus#percy jackon and the olympians#percy jackson#hoo fandom#pjo fandom#hoo text post#pjo text post#nico di angelo
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Perfect Fit
Fic Summary: Since the first time you let him bite you, Astarion knew seducing you would be easy. What he didn’t anticipate were the feelings that came with it.
Fic Rating: 18+
Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Drow!Monk Reader
Word Count: 11.7k
Warnings: Biting, Blood Drinking (Vampire and all that), Male Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Oral (Female Receiving), Sex, Grinding, Cuddling
A/N: I’m really glad I took my time with this one because I absolutely love how it came out. Enjoy! I don’t know if I’ll write any other Astarion fics but we’ll see.
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Just a taste, that is all he needs.
Boars and wildlife will not suffice, not if your little troop of weirdos keeps going at the same grueling pace. Since the moment he had been snatched up and that damn tadpole shoved into his eye it has been one battle after another.
The diet Cazador forced him onto had already weakened him. And Astarion knew that if he did not do something soon, if he couldn’t keep up with the others, you will turn your back on him.
After all, why keep him around if he isn’t useful?
No, he needs to stay in your good graces. More than that, he needs you to trust him, to care for him. It’s the only way he can ensure that when his former master comes knocking, because Astarion is not naïve enough to assume he is completely free, you will be there shielding him, to knock back.
Which you are obviously capable of doing. He’s seen you fight enough times to know you have a quick temper and an even quicker right hook.
You are the defacto leader, the one who always seems to do the talking even though you’re not the most charismatic of the bunch. Yet, when you open your mouth, the others listen, take your word as law even when they don’t agree.
Astarion finds himself falling in line along with them. Then again, he has two hundred years of conditioning to contend with. He wonders what excuse the others have.
Regardless, the plan remains the same. Seduce you, get you on his side, save his spectacular, frankly tight, ass. Simple. He’s played this part more times than he can count and can do it in his trance.
Of course, none of that matters if he starves to death. The gnawing hunger deep in his belly is distracting and has been for days. He’s used to ignoring it, even in the thick of combat. But he can’t, not tonight.
Tonight, it’s bad enough to get in the way of hunting. He can’t keep up with a lame doe he stumbles across. It bolts before he is even close enough to lunge. Not good. He returns to his tent frustrated and desperate.
Red eyes scan the still camp, predatory and sharp. He told you all he would keep watch because he needed time and space to think, which is partially true. However, that was when he hoped to catch dinner.
How in the Hells can he bloody think when he’s starving?
There’s a rustling near the fire, immediately drawing his attention. His gaze falls on you while you shift, your back to him as your body rolls towards the warmth of the campfire. A breeze glides through their encampment, bringing your tantalizing scent towards him, beckoning, teasing.
Astarion takes a deep inhale, eyes closed as he unwittingly gives into his instincts. Hunting pushes them away. But with no wildlife to sate him, his feet move on their own, dragging him closer to your prone body. When he opens his eyes, his vision blocks out everything that isn’t you.
The hunger is all that matters and right now, the hunter has finally found his prey.
His steps make no noise as practice and skill take over. He’s close enough to see the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the dim firelight framing you with its eerie glow, leading him like a beacon in the never-ending dark.
Astarion takes a knee, arms out for balance and eyes closed as he moves purely on instinct. He opens his mouth, fangs dripping with saliva at the promise of a meal, a real meal…
A second later he feels you move and his eyes snap open, only to find yours staring up at him. Cold realization slams into him like a heavy maul, making him blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Shit.”
Immediately, he backs away as you quickly rise to your feet, eyes narrowed in distrust. You don’t even have a chance to speak before he launches into an explanation, trying to keep his voice hushed to avoid waking the others.
“No, no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he insists. “I wasn’t going to hurt you I…” He pauses, taking a breath to ground himself. The bloodlust isn’t satiated, not by a long shot but it is tempered by a furious-looking monk. “I just needed…well…blood.”
It sounds lame even to his own ears. Not his best work but, then again, he isn’t at his best.
You swear, burying your face in your hands. “Fucking unbelievable!” you exclaim in a harsh whisper. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it! We even found the boar you snacked on. And you were so quick to brush it away.”
“It’s not what you think!”
Astarion’s voice goes up and you motion for him to be quiet. A quick glance confirms the others are still fast asleep.
The next thing he knows, you’re grabbing his sleeve and tugging him away from the fire, away from the others, which is not at all what he's anticipating. He doesn’t even have a chance to register you’re touching until your hand is already gone, leaving a phantom of its warmth.
“I’m not some monster,” he persuades. “I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds, whatever I can get. I’m…I’m just too slow right now. Too weak.” He pauses, the hunger taking hold once more. “If I just had a little blood, I could fight better. Please.”
There’s a sharp pain between his eyes, the familiar trigger of the tadpole lodged in his brain. He recognizes the sensation, knows it’s you reaching out, asking, and after a moment of hesitation, he lets you in.
Unlike your companions, you’ve embraced the new connection, used it to convince others to move out of your way or do as you say. Not within the group of course. He suspects you’re too noble for that.
Astarion hasn’t had much time to practice himself. No time like the present. He needs you to see, needs you to understand that what he says is true.
The trust he is trying to build is at stake, no pun intended. You need to see that this is an anomaly, an unfortunate side effect of the intense fighting you both had to endure the last few days.
So Astarion shows you, lets you see fleeting images of what he’s hunted in the woods. But this is all still new. He does not know how it works, does not anticipate the flood of other memories, personal ones he isn’t ready to share.
A dark street, a willing mark, a soft supple body for Cazador’s dark needs. They flicker one after another, a blur of faceless victims he’s lost count of. Yet, none of them with his fangs at their throat or their blood on his lips. It becomes too much too fast.
He gathers his strength and throws up those mental blocks, the ones he’s had for decades yet seem to be crumbling in an instant. With a mental shove, he pushes you out.
While Astarion's body reels from the onslaught, you remain stoic, arms crossed as you stare at him with that intense gaze of yours. The only indication anything is amiss is a head tilt.
How? How are you already so used to these damn tadpoles? You don’t even blink, and with the shadows of the night wrapped around the both of you, he can’t read your expression even with Darkvision. But he can assume and right now, he’s sure he’s fucked up. All he needed was you to trust him and because of this insistent hunger, he’s failed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
This is not the question he expects and he blinks, taken aback. You don’t sound angry, hells it would be easier if you were. Anger he’s used to, can handle with poise. But Astarion thinks he can work with this, whatever it is.
Because it’s not pity, it’s not empathy, it’s something he does not have a name for.
“At best, I was sure you’d say no, more likely you’ll run a stake through my ribs,” he explains. “No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”
Of course you can’t. Anyone who ever put their trust in him came to bloody ends. Yet, he’s seen you drop a gnoll with nothing but your fists and an insane high kick, so he feels you may be sturdier than most.
You study him closely, and Astarion does everything to appear docile and properly chastised, hunching his body to make himself smaller. There’s a beat where neither of you blink or speak. However, he catches the subtle slump of your shoulders and a sigh escapes your lips.
“I believe you,” you say. “And I do trust you.”
Astarion slowly exhales his own sigh, this one of relief. “Thank you,” he says.
Then, because he can’t help himself, because his empty stomach twists, because you’re still close enough for him to inhale your scent, he pushes his luck.
“Do you think you could trust me just a little further?” he asks, a hopeful lilt to his voice as he bats his eyelashes at you. “I only need a taste, I swear.”
He fully expects your refusal and wouldn’t blame you in the slightest. As much as this hunger is driving him to madness, he is fully prepared to slink away with his tail tucked between his legs if it means he lives to seduce you another day.
Yet the next words out of your mouth throw him off his game.
“Fine, but not a drop more than you need.”
There’s no hiding the surprise on his face. He knows you see it yet you don’t gloat or react, only smile.
“Really? I—” He clears his throat and recovers, swagger in place as comfortable as a well-worn mask molded just for him. “Of course, not one drop more. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
He motions towards your bedroll with a bow. As you brush past and turn towards the fire, your smirk is wider, as if you can tell how much excitement is building within him. Then again, with the tadpole and your uncanny ability to read people, you probably do.
The others are still silent and sleeping as you lay back on your bedroll. Astarion’s chest heaves and he licks his lips as the prospect of blood, humanoid blood, becomes all he can focus on. He’s salivating again, red eyes drawn to the smooth expanse of your neck.
At first, all he can hear is the crackling of the fire. But when he leans in, the steady beating of your heart breaks through the noises of the night. Bloody Hells, he can hear the blood rushing through your veins. It hypnotizes him, draws him forward as you roll your head to the side.
White fangs pierce dark skin, sliding clean through to find a thick, pulsing vein. Underneath the rush, he almost misses the soft gasp push past your lips.
Almost.
But he doesn’t have time to process it because the first drops of blood touch his tongue and nothing else matters. Not mind flayers, not tadpoles, not Cazador, nothing but the sweet, red liquid that is sliding down his throat carrying your scent.
Everything else before pales in comparison.
There’s no fear. When he hunts he can taste the deep fear of his prey in their final moments. But this is different. You are different.
It’s such an onslaught of emotions he can’t process them right away. It’s secondhand, like trying to grab a rapidly fading echo in a dark cave.
Astarion doesn’t anticipate it and can’t recognize half of them at first. Sensation is what he does recognize. Pain is immediate, followed by warmth leading into heat in his cheeks and stomach. So much heat. He’s been cold for two hundred years, he’s forgotten what it’s like to have body heat, to be hot.
His body naturally curls around yours, one hand sliding under your head to cradle it close. The fingers of his other hand dig into the packed soil, gripping for something solid yet finding nothing.
Your body arches into his, breasts pressed to his chest and for the briefest moment, he imagines how better this would be if he could feel your bare skin to his.
Then another splatter of blood hits the back of his throat as your heart rate increases and the thought is lost.
Instinct wins out once more and Astarion groans, sucking at the wound with renewed fervor. This is better than he could have imagined. You’re better. All robust and tantalizingly smooth, finer than the finest wine he’s ever sampled. He licks at your skin, gathering as much of the precious liquid as he can. He knows it’s supposed to be a taste, but he needs more. Wants more…
A hand on his shoulder draws him out of his stupor and a firm shove has him breaking free with an orgasmic gasp. Life now drums through his veins, yours and his comingling into a surge of energy that has his dead heart thrumming harder than he ever remembers.
“Enough,” you say, your voice gruff and small, though still commanding. He thinks for a moment you might have actually cast Command on him, until his addled brain remembers you don’t use magic.
Astarion pulls himself together, comes back into his body in a way that’s far more pleasant than it has been in the past. He’s sure he’s made a mess but when he looks down, all he sees are two small puncture wounds with the barest hint of blood. Small specks of his spit glint in the firelight.
He resists the urge to kiss them away, instead stumbling back onto his haunches to give you space.
You slowly sit up and he catches you wincing. It’s the brief flash of pain that helps him reign himself further in. You said you trusted him, let him drink from you, he will not, could not, betray that trust, the gift you’ve given him.
“Of course,” he says, voice breathless as he tries to remember how to speak. “That was amazing.” He smiles wide, feels a droplet of blood slip away from the corner of his lips as he does. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel…” The faintest hint of emotions still lingers. “…happy.”
You both sit quietly for a moment, air thick with tension and a hint of copper. Your scent is even stronger now and Astarion thinks he could track you from miles away if need be.
“I look forward to seeing you fight.”
Right, the whole reason you did this. To help him be stronger, useful. It’s those thoughts that ground him once more, snap his head out of the clouds and onto the hard forest floor.
Astarion stands while you remain right where you are, watching every move he makes. He wonders if you are waiting for him to pounce, waiting for the monster he assured you does not exist. When he speaks again, it’s the light, easy tone he’s perfected, like sliding the mask back into place.
“Shouldn’t take long so many people need killing,” he says, flippantly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating but I need something more filling.”
Nothing will escape him now. He swears he can take down a bear should he be lucky enough to find one.
He turns to leave, yet something stops him from taking the next step. When he glances at you over his shoulder, for a moment, the mask slips and he allows you to see the genuine gratitude he feels.
“This is a gift, you know,” he tells you. “I won't forget it.”
Not staying for a response, he turns away and stalks toward the darkness of the waiting forest. When he’s sure you can’t see him, he swipes that drop off his chin with his thumb, sucking it into his mouth to enjoy the final taste of your essence.
He is content for this to be a one-time thing, a special circumstance he is lucky enough to experience. And though he already longs for more, he enjoys the heat while he can, letting it carry him through the night as he hunts his next prey.
So imagine his surprise when you approach his tent only two days later, wounds barely visible under your collar. Astarion is readying his weapons, preparing for yet another trek through the wilds.
You’re in your vestiges, your arms free say for the thin bracers protecting your wrists. Your stance is sure and confident, eyes alight with something he hasn’t seen in them yet.
“We’re ready to head out,” you say. “Got everything?”
“Prepared and ready for the inevitable descent into violence.”
“How are you feeling?”
For anyone else the question wouldn’t be so loaded. He gathers you’re probably wondering if he’s going to try to steal another bite at some point.
“Fit as a fiddle. Your donation was much appreciated and helpful,” he says, sliding his daggers into their scabbards. “The effects are mostly worn off but such is life. I’m not weak if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not. But, if you need to, you can feed on me tonight.”
Astarion can barely contain himself, thrilled at the prospect of another surge of power, and that his seduction skills are working, though not entirely as he expected. Still, it’s an opportunity he will not squander.
“My sweet, there’s nothing I’d like more,” he purrs, stepping in close. He catches the darkening of your cheeks and lets himself smile in triumph. “I’ll come to you tonight, when you’re snuggly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy. And this time,” he drops his voice for added effect, “I’ll make sure I’m quiet. We don’t want to disturb your rest.”
It's not lost on him that the night after his first taste you took to sleeping in a tent rather than under the stars. The added privacy had him wondering about its purpose.
Now he knows.
Taking another step closer, he drops his voice even lower, keeping the moment between you two. “Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up,” he promises. “Just enough to give me strength and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”
Your breath catches in your throat and he knows right then that he has you. Even as you smirk and roll your eyes, his pleased smile never falters.
“Great line,” you say, walking backward towards Karlach and Shadowheart, who are waiting for the two of you. “Has that ever worked for you?”
“Numerous times. And trust me, you haven’t heard half my lines.”
“Is that what you do in front of the mirror now that you can’t fawn over yourself?”
“Hurtful!” he gasps in mock outrage. “Also, need I remind you, you came to me just now.”
“And you came to me the other night.”
“Fair point,” he begrudgingly admits, slinging his bow onto his back. “Although, I did ask for just a taste. If you’re wanting another nibble, that says more about you than it does about me. I’m a vampire spawn. What’s your excuse?”
By you’ve turned your back on him and though he can’t see your face, the middle finger you aim his way lets him know he’s won the argument.
The anticipation of his next feeding carries him through the day.
It’s ever-present in the back of his mind, fueling his hunger and drive. He fights harder because he knows that come nightfall, he won’t have to hunt for his meal. You’ll be there in your bedroll, ready and willing.
Astarion can’t suppress the shudder of longing every time he thinks about it.
Waiting never felt so long.
You’re moving closer to the goblin camp with every step, picking off stragglers as you find them. Shadowheart asks the corpses for information and you’re able to narrow down the location of the druid right down to which building he's in.
When you make camp, you’re only half a day’s travel to your destination. Everyone is exhausted and moody, with little talk this time over the campfire. It doesn’t bother Astarion, who felt you all were becoming far too chummy for his liking.
He waits and watches from his tent, taking note as one by one, the others peel off to their respective spaces. You’re one of the last, your eyes straying across the camp in his direction, meeting the gaze that has been transfixed on you the entire time.
As if to tease, your scent finds your way to him on the wind, making his head spin. He gives you a wink and a smirk. You smile back and quirk an eyebrow before disappearing into your tent like the others.
Astarion bides his time, waits until everyone stops rustling and the collective silence of sleep washes over the camp.
Wyll is on watch tonight, though his back is to your tent. Astarion keeps to the shadows and easily dodges him, making no sound as he slips past.
You’re fast asleep, buried in your bedroll with a blanket loosely draped over you.
Astarion feels that familiar tug low in his belly, lets his feet guide him closer. He doesn’t need the fire to see you there, peaceful, almost angelic. You changed into a looser tunic which has slid down to reveal a shoulder.
And the faded markings he left on your throat the other night.
Astarion kneels and then crawls up behind you, slow and careful. He said he wouldn’t disturb your rest and he meant it. No need to wake you when you’ve given your consent.
Besides, as sneaky as he is, Astarion wonders if you’re that light of a sleeper, considering how easily you awoke the last time. He lays behind you, gently peeling the blanket away. Your tunic slips lower when he does and at this angle, he catches just the faintest glimpse of the top of a breast.
It makes him pause, give an appreciative glance, before your neck beckons him.
The hunger urges him forward, begging, pleading with him to drink. You’re so close and warm and vulnerable. He does his best to lean over without touching you, but you automatically tense in your sleep when you feel the coolness of his body draw near.
Leaning down, he lets his lips brush your ear as he whispers, “It’s just me, darling. Go back to sleep.”
You hum and relax once more, dropping your shoulder in the process. The angle is too good and he is too famished to wait any longer.
Astarion bites down, his fangs lining up exactly where they pierced before. His mouth fits against your throat like it was made for him.
A perfect fit.
There’s no need to rush and he is able to savor the experience. This time, a sense of calm washes over him, making his eyes droop closed as the now-familiar yet no less exquisite rush of your blood fills his mouth. Deep down there’s a sense of injustice for being denied this experience for so long.
However, he wonders if it would have been the same without the anticipation and thrill of the chase. Without you in the equation. After all, you’re a powerful person, unyielding in your convictions.
Yet, here you are, offering your blood to him. Giving him power.
He keeps his fangs buried for a moment longer, holds himself there until his mouth is brimming with the taste of you.
Only then does he retract them, sucking softly on the reopened wound to drink his fill. You’re fast asleep, which means that he has to stop himself this time. You’re not aware enough to do it for him.
When he wanted to earn your trust, he did not think you would give it to him so freely. What else will you give him? What else can he get away with? Questions for another night.
Thankfully, he can force himself to stop once that welcoming heat spreads through every part of him.
Every part.
Fucking Hells he is hard as a rock.
It catches Astarion by surprise and he immediately draws away. He finds himself panting, his lips still coated in red as he glances down at himself.
Is it the act of drinking blood or the blood itself? Feeding on animals certainly never drew this reaction.
His head is spinning from bloodlust and arousal, and he feels the need to leave your tent as soon as possible. You signed up to be his meal, not to get him off.
Not yet anyway. Shame, if you were awake he could make his move. He briefly considers rousing you with honeyed words and lustful promises but he decides against it in the end.
Maybe next time.
As he cleans up the mess he’s left on your throat, licking away the remaining drops of blood, he can’t help palming himself at the same time. He’s barely able to contain a hiss at the sensitivity.
Fuck, if this is just from feeding on you, what’s going to happen when he gets to have you another way?
Astarion reluctantly withdraws, readjusting your tunic before draping your blanket back in place. Your breathing never hitches and remains steady, even when he slips out into the night.
With fresh blood pumping through his veins, his body is strong and alive. He feels so fucking alive. He barely takes a few steps before the hardness in his trousers proves too distracting, forcing him to rest against a tree.
If he turns his head, he can still see your tent through the bushes and trees. It surprises him that he wants to go back. Then again, you are the most interesting prospect around and a part of you is within him now.
Soon, a part of him will be in you, he promises himself.
Astarion unties the laces of his trousers and pulls his cock out, finally allowing the hiss he held back earlier. It throbs persistently, begging for him to do something, anything for release. He gives himself an experimental squeeze, wondering if he has the mind for this right now. But it’s too good and he’s too worked up to deny himself.
His eyes never leave your tent as he strokes his cock. Slow at first, but that quickly proves not enough and he speeds up.
Astarion has had too many lovers to count but it has been some time since he’s had to take matters into his own hands. And yes, he plans on seducing you and may even find you attractive, but this is not in the plan.
It certainly didn’t happen the other night.
Moving purely on urges, Astarion lets his head fall back against the tree trunk, and his eyes close, picturing himself back in your tent.
If only you’d been awake, he could have pressed against you, let you feel the length of him as he drank his fill.
Would you grind back? Would you gasp? He’s more than sure that he can get you to do both. When he finally gets you where he wants you, when he finally has you writhing and moaning his name, he's not going to let you cum until you beg for it, beg for him to fill you as he drinks from that delicious throat.
With a strangled moan, he cums onto the forest floor, his knees buckling under the sudden onslaught of sensation.
Putting his full weight against the tree for support, he takes a moment to catch his breath mind, and senses hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves and gust of wind. With his lust now stated, there is an overwhelming sense of fear and guilt.
What the Hells is with all this wanting and desire? He is not allowed to want. Seducing you isn’t about desire. Neither of those emotions should be there and yet they are.
Let’s just push those way back where they belong, he thinks as he tucks himself back into his trousers.
His head is clearer now, his focus as sharp as it was the previous night. Brushing the incident off, Astarion switches into hunting mode, his grin wide enough to verge on the side of madness as he bolts into the forest, with nothing but the thought of his next kill.
Your offer of blood becomes a regular occurrence.
Not every day but often enough for Astarion to notice a significant change in himself, his power. He is faster and stronger than he has ever been. There is still the situation of becoming immensely horny when he does feed on you, but he looks on the bright side and accepts it as an unexpected bonus.
On days when your party runs into a fight, he finds himself drained but not enough to impede his hunting.
A fact he brags about one night when he stumbles back to camp, brimming with excitement and pride.
“Guess what I just did!” he exclaims, plopping beside you on the ground by the fire that seems to have your attention.
It’s your night to keep watch which means he is out of luck for his midnight snack, as he’s taken to calling you. Much to your chagrin.
You chuckle and motion towards his mouth. “Judging by the blood I’m assuming you caught a nice dinner,” you say.
Astarion impatiently wipes it away. “Not just dinner, a bear! A whole bear!”
“Gods, you drank a whole bear?”
He nods proudly, grin wide and sloppy. “Now, it wasn’t as good a vintage as Drow,” he concedes with a wink your way. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I was able to kill it all by my lonesome and nary a curl out of place.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Kind of,” he slurs.
In truth, he is euphoric, untouchable. Between proper feedings and the tadpole, Astarion feels he is the strongest vampire spawn there may have ever been. Tonight, like the first night he bit you, there is no Cazador, mind flayer, or other threat. There’s only him and the blood of the black bear that he’s taken for himself.
And you, of course.
You smile in amusement, turning your attention to the fire.
Astarion leans back on his elbows, his body wonderfully loose and relaxed for the first time in decades. He takes the time to study your profile, his delirious mind focusing for the moment. He is acutely aware that it is only the two of you, a rarity considering the size of the camp.
Between the adrenaline of the hunt and the opportunity that comes with privacy, Astarion shifts closer, not enough to touch but enough for you to know he’s done so.
“You know, darling,” he drawls. “I don’t think I’ve told you how devastatingly beautiful you look by firelight.”
You don’t respond and at first, he wonders if you heard him. When it becomes apparent you haven’t, he clears his throat and tries again.
“The way the flames reflect in your eyes is hypnotizing,” he continues. “I can get lost in them, have been lost in them ever since we met.”
Still nothing. Astarion feels you’re miles away, which his pride will not stand for, not when he feels as good as he does and is throwing you all the signals.
He sits up and waves a hand in front of your face. “Helllooo? Devilishly handsome roguish vampire here giving you compliments. The least you can do is acknowledge me.”
You blink and tear your eyes away from the flames, giving him a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ignore you. I’m not very good company tonight, I’m afraid.”
Astarion shrugs and sits up, interest piqued. “That’s alright, darling. We don’t need to talk. There are plenty of other ways we can enjoy each other’s company.”
You roll your eyes as you look back at the fire with that amused smile you seem to reserve only for him. “Hey, if I could turn my brain off for the night, I’d take you up on that,” you admit.
Finally feeling like he’s getting somewhere, Astarion leans in closer. “You’re in luck because I happen to be a delectable distraction. All you have to do is say the word.” He pauses before adding. “I’m talking about sex of course. We should have sex.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of what you meant.”
Astarion grins, reaching out to walk his fingers up your forearm, playfully tugging at the sleeve of your tunic. “So what are we waiting for?” he purrs. “A midnight snack is all well and good, but I wouldn’t mind sampling what else you have to offer.”
As full as he is, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in another nibble. There’s something special about your blood, enticing. When he’s this close to you it becomes all he can think about and he has to stop himself from nuzzling your throat. At least until he knows he has you.
“I want to,” you tell him, finally meeting his gaze. “I really really want to.”
“Then what’s the problem? I am ready, willing, and certainly able.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not.”
Astarion frowns, confused. This has always worked before, there’s no reason for it not to work now. He doesn’t get it. You’re clearly attracted to him and he’s doing everything but presenting himself on a silver platter. By now you should be throwing yourself at his feet.
And there’s no way he’s lost his touch because that would be like saying the sky is no longer blue.
You take a deep breath and when you start to speak again, it comes out in a rush, like you’ve been holding the words in for far too long and can’t any longer.
“There is so much at stake and so many people are depending on us, on me. It’s all I think about. I can’t focus on anything else. For days it’s been one crisis after another. On top of that, everyone keeps saying that we need to get rid of the tadpoles and that we should have turned already. We rescued Halsin but he can’t do what we hoped he would and I’m just…”
You let out a noise of frustration and Astarion is back to grinning because this he can work with. This he understands.
“Aren’t monks taught to still their minds?” he teases.
“I didn’t become a monk to still my mind. I became a monk because I like punching things. It’s honestly my favorite thing to do.” You take a deep breath before falling onto your back to stare up at the stars. “But now everyone keeps looking to me for answers and I just don’t have them. Nor do I want to be the one to figure all this shit out.”
Perfect, a new angle.
Astarion leans over you, forcing you to look him in the eye. “It’s just as I feared. You need me more than I thought.” He bends his head, delighted when you instinctively present your neck. He places the gentlest of kisses to bite mark, nuzzling into your soft skin like he’s been wanting to do since he sat down. “If you need your mind on something else, let it be me. Let me touch you, taste you. Let me bring you to such unbearable peaks that you forget everything that isn’t my mouth, fingers, or cock.”
You moan softly, shuddering at the warmth of his breath. “I don’t know if you can.”
Astarion draws back, a wide smile showing off his sharp canines. “Trust me, darling, I can.” He slides a hand up to cradle your head just like he did the first night he bit you. But it’s kisses he lavishes your throat with, with the occasional scrape of his teeth.
A gentle hand on his shoulder has him pulling away.
“You seem pretty confident about that,” you say, eyes searching his.
“Because it’s true.”
He knows what you’re searching for and does everything he can to make sure his gaze speaks for him. Lust and desire, mixed with a touch of hopefulness. Disarming and endearing, exactly who he needs to be for you.
“Here is what we’re going to do,” he continues, putting all his weight on one hand so he can use the other to take yours. “Tomorrow night, once everyone is asleep, I’ll slip into your tent, and I will make it so that pretty little head of yours can focus on something else. Something much more pleasurable.”
He punctuates each word with a kiss, first to your fingers, then your bruised knuckles, and finally to your inner wrist where he can feel your pulse racing. The sound of your rushing blood makes his own body thrum with desire. His hunger returns, but not enough to distract him.
But enough to make him twitch with anticipation.
At this angle, he knows you can feel it when his cock hardens. Your eyes widen and you bite your lip to stifle another moan when he teasingly grinds down against you.
“I…” You try to speak but need to take a second to catch your breath. “I would like that very much.”
“Good.”
Astarion leans down and captures your lips in a harsh kiss. It’s meant to be quick, a tease, a way to continue the seduction and leave you wanting more but it immediately becomes something else. You match his energy perfectly, your tongue slipping past his to explore. He isn’t expecting such a hungry response after the way you seemed so controlled, fully expecting it to take time for him to get you to this level.
Apparently, you’re closer to the edge than he thought. But it’s more than that. Kissing you makes him feel…something. He just doesn’t know what in the Hells that is. It makes it difficult to pull away, to stop, and make you wait.
So he indulges, deepens the kiss by leisurely licking the inside of your mouth once you actually let him. It’s good, really good. Enough to lose himself for the moment, to cup your cheek and hold you close.
His head is spinning and in his excitement, one of his fangs nicks your bottom lip.
A drop of your blood is enough to snap him out of it. Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to ruin everything. He’ll either fuck or drain you and right now he’s not sure which.
Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss, not before his tongue at your lip to steal another drop. “Until tomorrow night,” he promises.
He leaves you there, dazed and staring after him as he casually strolls back to his tent. Leaving you wanting more, just like he planned.
And definitely not because of any other reason.
Needless to say, trancing doesn’t come easy that night. Every time he closes his eyes, all he envisions is you in the firelight, looking up at him like he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Granted, he knows he is, but that’s beside the point.
If he’s honest with himself, there may be a small, tiny part of him that feels bad for deceiving you this way. Granted, he is attracted to you and the idea of having sex sounds incredibly appealing.
So what if there is another motive? You both will come out on top in the end, metaphorically speaking. Although, the mental image of you riding him is quite good. Body rocking, breasts bouncing, wet heat enveloping his lap…
Astarion needs a distraction himself at this rate.
The next day he maintains his distance for both your sakes. For one thing, he knows being apart from your object of desire only makes the chase that more thrilling. And for another, he is dealing with a storm of emotions he is not prepared for nor interested in.
On occasion when he can’t help but slide his gaze your way, you seem thoroughly focused every time. He doesn’t catch you looking longingly his way, not even once, and finds it frankly insulting. How can you be so engrossed in what you’re doing even though you know he will be in your bed later?
Unacceptable.
When you both find yourselves set upon by cultists, Astarion is relieved. He needs a good bloodbath to pull his shit together.
His daggers get quite the workout, slicing enemies left and right.
Lost in the thrill of the kill, he forgets about the weird feelings and the way his seduction of you seems to be more complicated than he thought it would be. He forgets about his hesitations or questions.
Nothing is weird and nothing is wrong.
A familiar scent breaks through the gore that stops him in his tracks. Your scent. Your blood.
You’re bleeding.
Like a hound, his head whips in your direction. He sees you across the battlefield, knocking a man to the ground. But one hand is pressed to your side, bright red visible even at this distance.
Shit, you’re further from him than he realizes and he has to scramble over a few boulders to be able to close the distance. His sharp eyes catch movement in the trees, and before he even has a chance to grab his bow, the hidden archer takes aim.
Everything happens so fast.
The arrow fires, Astarion eyes land on you, knows you don’t see it and as he raises his hand towards you, has your name on his lips—
Your hand snaps up, catching the arrow an inch before it hits your temple. With a glare, you look up at the archer, swing around, and throw the arrow right back at him.
Astarion watches the archer fall from the branches, landing in a heap on the ground.
Dead.
You grin in Astarion’s direction, face smattered with blood and he wants nothing more than to fuck you on top of that corpse. But then you stumble and concern takes over. If you fall in battle then he’s shit out of luck and he can’t let that happen.
“Whoa now, none of that!” he scolds, rushing to your side to catch you. “Where the Hells is that cleric when we need her?”
“Did you see me catch that arrow?” you slur, grinning. “I didn’t know I could do that.”
“Yes, yes, it was very hot, now hold still, you’re bleeding everywhere.”
“Even better, gives you a free meal.”
It’s Astarion’s turn to roll his eyes as he helps you lean against a tree for support. “I prefer the more intimate approach we’ve established.”
Once he’s sure you’re not going to collapse, he digs through his pack for a healing potion.
“Shame to let all this blood go to waste but to each his own,” you say.
He uncorks the potion with his teeth and holds the bottle up for you to drink. It’s not until it’s empty that he allows himself to calm down. You slowly remove your hand and the two of you watch the wound start to close. Not all the way, you’ll need Shadowheart for that, but enough to stop the bleeding.
Astarion spits the cork aside and throws the empty bottle. “There, almost good as new. Maybe don’t get stabbed again.”
“There go the rest of my plans for the day.”
“Lunatic.”
Something comes over him, making him grab the back of your head and yank you into a kiss, too wrapped up in his bullshit to overthink or consider his actions. With one arm around his waist, you kiss him back and it’s sloppy and messy and everything he needs it to be.
Nothing happened. You didn’t die and you’re still able to be seduced. Good.
When you draw back, gasping for breath, he grabs your wrist and brings your hand to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sucks your fingers into his mouth, one by one, swirling his tongue around the digits to gather every drop of blood he can. You’re right. It seems silly to let it go to waste.
Your pupils dilate, your breath coming through your lips in a rush as you watch, transfixed.
He doesn’t need the tadpole to know what you’re thinking, or imagining. It’s a precursor to what he plans to do to you later. But with your thighs squeezing his head as he brings you over the edge.
Astarion releases your finger with a pop and a smirk. You lean in to steal another kiss when you’re stopped by the heavy thud of Karlach’s footsteps. You just manage to pull back when she bursts through the foliage.
“You guys alright?” she asks, also splattered with blood. “We just got jumped by some assholes.”
Astarion gestures to the bodies littered at your feet. “Welcome to the fucking club.”
“Where’s Shadowheart?” you ask.
“Right here,” Shadowheart speaks up, approaching from a different direction. “One tried to run away but I took care of it. Shit, are you bleeding?”
“Not anymore, thanks to me,” Astarion says.
When you wince and stumble towards her, Shadowheart catches you. Her hand glows with radiant light as she casts a healing spell.
“Easy there, soldier!” Karlach says. “You stay put. We’ll deal with these.” She gestures to the bodies, where Astarion is already digging through the pockets.
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to let good gold go to waste, and definitely not because you two were interrupted. Not because being close and alone with you makes his head spin. Not because he doesn’t know why he kissed you like that. And certainly not because the brief taste of blood is threatening to send him into a frenzy.
By the time the bodies are searched, Shadowheart is done with her healing and you’re able to stand up straight.
“Let’s get back and tell the others,” you say. “With these guys gone, we should be good to keep our camp for one more night. But tomorrow we have to move on.”
Astarion is starting to feel peckish and welcomes the chance to be alone. “I’ll do a little scouting to check for stragglers,” he offers, tossing you the heavy bag of coin he collected. “You know, make sure there isn’t anything lurking before dark.”
“You sure? You really shouldn’t go alone,” you say.
He’s already headed in the opposite direction and turns to face you as he walks backward. “If they hear me, they deserve to catch me. You don’t need to worry, darling. I won’t be late for our date.”
Your cheeks darken and he watches Karlach break into a wide grin while Shadowheart raises her eyebrows. He’s already gone by the time they bombard you with questions.
That moment you two just shared plays over and over in his head. With the taste of your blood still on his tongue, he gives into baser instincts.
Tonight, he will fuck you, and you’ll be so enthralled by his talents, he’ll have you eating out of his hand in no time.
Astarion’s mission turns up no more cultists. And after a brief tussle with a boar, he’s recharged and ready to seduce the pants off you.
Literally.
Night has already begun to fall when he returns to camp. At first, he doesn’t see you anywhere, but then you emerge from the brush, in a clean tunic and trousers with your freshly washed clothes under your arm.
He sneaks up behind you as you lay them out on a nearby patch of grass to dry.
“If you waited we could have had a little dip together,” he purrs, only half teasing because bathing naked with you sounds enticing right now.
“That wasn’t funny,” you glare over your shoulder, although he doesn’t sense or see any real malice on your face. “They gave me shit the whole way back.”
“I’m fairly certain they knew something has been going on. You haven’t exactly been hiding the mark.”
You tug on your collar in a vain attempt to do just that. “Still.” You turn to face him and cross your arms, a neutral stance that conveniently highlights the muscles in your arms. Not that he notices.
“Darling,” he gasps, “are you ashamed of me?”
“Of course not. I just don’t like people knowing my shit.”
Astarion glances around and can see multiple pairs of eyes on you both. So rather than close the distance, he settles for eye-fucking you instead.
“Tonight, all you need to worry about is relaxing and letting me take care of you. Thoroughly. Properly. Until the only thought in that pretty little head of yours is my name.”
Even from this distance, he hears the rush of your blood and it makes him grin wider. You shake said pretty head at him, turning away under the pretense of fixing your clothes.
“So long as you bathe beforehand. Blood may be your thing, but it’s not mine.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
He’s got you flustered and can’t help laughing as you shoo him away. After a brief stop at his tent for fresh clothes and soap, he finds a secluded spot by the nearby lake and takes time to pamper himself.
This part of the seduction ritual he likes, finds comfort in. Washing away the grime and viscera from his skin and taking the time to wash his hair puts him in the proper mindset. While he can no longer see his reflection, you can and that’s all that matters. He knows his looks are unparalleled.
So he primps and preens, cleans himself thoroughly before stepping out to dry off. The full moon casts the world in an otherworldly glow and he stands for a spell, taking in the night. Less than a week ago he was scrambling for rats in the dark, trying to sate the ever gnawing hunger. Now he can stand in the sun, sample the delicious blood of a thinking creature.
What a difference a few days makes.
Closing his eyes, he takes a deep inhale to steady himself, to focus. And by the time he exhales, his eyes are open and he’s ready.
Camp is still very much buzzing with activity when he returns, bare-chested with loose trousers. Your scent wafts his way, making him subconsciously turn in your direction. His eyes meet yours over the fire, and he throws you a wink. You smile and duck your head, something he never found endearing until that moment.
Just like all the other nights, he waits for the activity to die down, waits until almost everyone is asleep, before sneaking into your tent.
Except, this time you’re awake. Your back is to him as you sit, still and silent. At first, he wonders what you’re doing, until he recognizes the steady breathing that comes with your meditations.
Silently, he ties the tent closed before kneeling behind you. He sees your pointed ear twitch, knows you’re aware of his presence.
Astarion lays his hands on your shoulders and leans down to nuzzle your temple. Your body is tense. He can feel the knots even through your tunic. Carefully, he digs his thumbs into them, rubbing in circles which forces a soft moan out of you.
“You are far too tense, darling. I don’t think the meditations are working,” he says with a low chuckle, smirking at the way the skin of your neck raises with goosebumps.
You lean back against his chest, making it harder to keep massaging you. So he slides his hands down your arms to hold you instead.
Astarion isn’t one for hugging or cuddling, but this feels nice, having your weight on him like this. It only lasts a second. You lean forward once more, this time with your face in your hands. He lays a hand on your back, recognizing that you need a minute, and more than happy to give you such.
He feels slightly out of his element. Normally when he arrives for the seduction, it’s hasty and eager, with the mark throwing themselves at him. You aren’t doing that, you haven’t even turned around to face him.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you tell him, your voice muffled. “If you’re looking for something carefree and light, I’m sure you can find someone with less baggage.”
Astarion can’t help bursting into laughter. He pulls your arms down and leans around to look you in the eye. “Have we been traveling with the same companions?” he asks. “If you can find this mythical baggage-less person then I salute you because from where I’m sitting, we’re all a bunch of fucking weirdos.”
That breaks the tension in you. Laughing, you lean into him again and he savors the closeness, recognizing that it stirs that same unknown sensation within him. He kisses your neck not only to move things along but for another reason.
Yours is the first thinking-creature’s neck he’s ever sampled and the novelty is fairly potent. He’s left his mark on you, not once but several times. It’s enough to drive him to distraction. The scent of your skin causes his body to react, his mouth already salivating while his cock twitches with interest.
Astarion finds you relaxing while the time slips away, and it isn’t long before his hands are reaching for the laces of your tunic. He unties them with deliberate slowness, giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t.
In fact, your hands join his to help, and when they are finally undone, you draw away to lift the tunic over your head.
Now you’re both shirtless and when your warm skin touches his it’s like a pleasant balm to his cold flesh. He continues lavishing your throat while his hands cup your breasts, thrilled at the way your nipples pebble under his thumbs. He kneads and tweaks, pinching until just on the edge of pain before backing off.
“Astarion?” you ask, voice already breathless and husky with desire.
“Mmm, yes?”
“If we do this, I only have one request.”
He’s not surprised at this, even anticipated as such. There’s always a request or demand of him and he will dutifully oblige. Anything to keep this going, to seal the deal.
“And what’s that, darling?”
“Stay with me after? At least, just for the night.”
That…is it?
Astarion draws away, prompting you to turn to face him. Your eyes are hooded, lips wet from being swiped by your tongue. But there is a vulnerability he has never seen before that has him answering immediately.
“I will stay,” he promises, and means it. “For tonight, I am yours and you are mine. Nothing else outside this tent exists. It’s just us.” He gently cradles your face. “Just this.”
You lean in and he captures your lips.
The kiss is slow, deliberate, meant to reassure you that your humble request will be fulfilled. But as it continues, it switches, changes into something else entirely. One of his hands drops to your trousers, yanking at the laces with the same fevered energy that’s taken over your mouths. He is suddenly filled with the urge to touch, to make you shudder and moan not for his sake, but for yours.
Astarion sees in his mind’s eye every choice, every decision you have had to make. Always for others and never for yourself. Hells, do you do anything for your own well-being?
He hasn’t seen it. And if this night with him is it, if being with him is how you want to indulge, he’s going to make damn sure he makes it worth it.
When his hand slips below your waistline, his fingers slide through the mound of curls to the petal-soft flesh waiting for him. Feeling the wetness on his fingertips makes his eyebrow raise as he breaks from your kisses.
“Already, darling? I’m flattered.”
You huff, flustered. “It’s my neck,” you mumble, prompting him to latch his mouth there once more. “It’s really sensitive.”
You gasp when his fingertips stroke through your folds, spreading your arousal with practiced ease.
Astarion has a realization. “All these nights, when you knew I was going to be paying you a visit,” he says. “Did you by any chance feel aroused?”
“Every fucking time.”
He slides a finger into you, relishing the low moan and how eagerly your body pulls him in. That explains the intense hard-ons and need to get off immediately after feeding on you. He was unknowingly drinking your arousal, which he plans to do in a very different context tonight.
You’re warm and wet, and the sound of your rushing blood is making it so difficult not to seek his—your marks. The ones he feeds from every time, the ones that never seem to fully fade even with healing magic.
Sliding his finger out, he presses firm circles around your neglected nub while his free hand reaches for your breasts again. Your chest heaves and your hips begin to rise and fall along with his ministrations. When he pushes two fingers into you, your head falls back onto his shoulder.
“Astarion!” you gasp.
“That’s it, darling. Let go of everything else. Just think about me.”
In this intimate moment, he becomes acutely aware of two things: one, his name has never sounded sweeter, and two, this is going to be different for him.
Astarion doesn’t find himself slipping away like he’s done in the past. Prior, his body would go on following the script while his brain retreated elsewhere. It was a part he knew all too well and had perfected over the centuries. A moment of disgust at himself then powering through just to get it done.
Yet, it’s not happening. Tonight, he is very aware of where he is and who he is with. Somehow having you be the one to moan his name is keeping him grounded, in the moment.
And he doesn’t want to lose that.
His fingers speed up, alternating between rubbing your nub and burrowing deep into that addictive warmth he wants around his cock. You’re gasping and moaning, seemingly uncaring if anyone hears.
Let them hear, he thinks. Let them know I’m the one making our fearless leader cum.
Suddenly, this angle isn’t right. It won’t serve his needs.
Because now that he’s aware of them, aware that he needs your body, needs your little gasps and moans, he won’t stop until you’re both in a breathless, mindless heap of body and limbs.
Astarion tries to draw his hand out of your trousers but you scramble to keep it there, until he nips at your ear and says, “Shh, shh, it’s alright. We just need to get a little comfortable.” Only then do you let him pull away.
He maneuvers you onto your back and is able to fully take in the delicious image you make. Eyes glassy with desire, lips parted, breasts moving as you try to catch your breath. Without warning, he grabs your throat, not hard. Just enough to angle your head up so he can steal a few more kisses.
Then his attention falls to your trousers and he has them off your legs a second later. You’re not wearing underwear, never bothered to put them on after your bath. Hooking his hands under your knees, he spreads you wide, takes his first look at all of you, and promptly descends.
Astarion doesn’t try to put on a show or warm you up with a few practiced licks. You are more than ready for him and he finds himself starved in a completely different way.
A welcomed way.
His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks greedily, humming with satisfaction when your thighs clamp around his head. It keeps him exactly where you want him, not that he plans to leave any time soon.
This taste of you is so different from your blood yet equally addicting. Heady and sweet, invading his senses until nothing else exists but you. His tongue snakes long your seam, parts your swollen lips, and seeks the hole he teased earlier.
When he finds it, your hips shoot up and he tongue-fucks you, eyes drifting up to meet yours as he does.
You’re propped on your elbows, watching his every move. The vision you make is breathtaking and as he watches your head fall back and your arms buckle, he smirks because he is the one making you feel this way.
Astarion slides a finger into you, this time deeper than the other angle allowed. Your thighs are already quivering and the moment he crooks his finger in just the right way, your arms finally give out and you lay flat on your back.
Hands tentatively find their way into his curls but instead of pulling like he anticipates, they stroke and burrow, holding on for the sake of staying grounded, not for control.
A second finger joins the first and his mouth returns to your aching nub, sucking as greedily as he wants. You’re shaking and moaning, your hips starting to grind against his face the longer he goes on. With the tadpole, he can sense you’re still holding back, still not entirely lost yet. He tries to get you there, increases the pressure of his mouth, and rubs harder against the special place inside you he’s found.
With every twitch, he feels you let go a little more. And when you’re almost there, he switches tactics. For the second time, he reaches for your mind, tries to show you images. This time of yourself, of what he is seeing right then and there.
A beautiful, wanton, deity of a person whom he worships. At least for right now, in this moment. One whose legs fit perfectly over his shoulders and whose shining eyes have him transfixed.
But then what happens next fundamentally changes Astarion and turns his world upside down.
Because, now he isn’t seeing you. He is watching a pale elf with glowing red eyes whose mouth is devouring your slit. Whose cheeks are ruddy with fresh boar’s blood and whose white curls are wrapped around dark fingers.
Astarion is seeing himself for the first time in two hundred years.
And bloody hell he’s magnificent. Not just because he’s beautiful but because he can feel what you’re feeling when you look at him. He can sense the warmth, affection, lust, and fierce protection you’re experiencing here and now, with him.
He’s already achieved his goal. Now he can move on to more important things.
He draws an orgasm out of you only minutes later, not needing you to beg. Not when you’ve given him yet another precious gift.
What a breathtaking sight the two of you make. You, bowing your back into a beautiful arch, and him, sucking greedily at your clit while his fingers stroke deep inside you.
Astarion comes up for air only when your sweaty legs glide off his shoulders, leaving you spread and satisfied.
“How’s that mind of yours now?” he asks, licking your slick off his lips.
It takes a moment for you to answer. “Fuck, you weren’t kidding,” you gasp, a hand pressed to your forehead as you try to collect yourself.
Astarion smirks and pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully slipping his fingers out of you. He can feel your walls clench, automatically trying to keep him there. He’s tempted but has a better idea.
“I told you, I’m quite good.”
While you lay there, watching, waiting, he makes a show of unlacing his trousers. By now his cock is desperate for attention, straining against the fabric. Each move he makes is purposeful, each look calculated, letting you know exactly what he plans to do next.
He thinks of the previous nights when he crawled into your tent and slid up behind you. And once his trousers are gone and his cock is free, full and leaking at the tip, he nods his head.
“Turn on your side, darling.”
He strokes himself while you do, using your arousal to make the glide of his hand easier, better. He lets every lustful thought invade his senses, lets his eyes shamelessly rake over your body as he realizes this is a fantasy he will get to live out.
Astarion knows this night is about you, should be about you, but he can’t help but feel that it’s now also about him. About having something, even if it’s for a night, that gets to be his.
He spoons up behind you, tucking his cock snug under your backside. His hand comes around and slides between your legs once more, picking up right where he left off. You gasp at the sensitivity, your body tensing for only a second until you manage to relax again.
This time with the added bonus of you rocking against him.
Time loses all meaning. He can not be certain how long you both lay this way, grinding and moving together while his fingers make you cum for a second time. It takes longer but absolutely worth every moment. His mouth is permanently attached to your throat lavishing it in kisses and love bites, leaving even more marks. Not as deep as the mark. He'll only drink from you once he’s good and ready.
And when neither of you can take it anymore, when the friction of your skin isn’t enough and you’re positively soaked, he whispers into your ear.
“Lift your leg.”
You do and he takes hold of himself, coats himself in your slick again, then pushes into you with a smooth, quick, thrust.
A perfect fit.
Being inside you, having his cock enveloped by that fucking heat is better than he would have ever thought. After that, he can’t take his time, won’t until he’s emptied every last drop into you.
Your moans are constant, muffled as you bury your face into your thin pillow, your hand twisting the bedroll, reminding him of how he twisted the soil when he had his first taste of you.
Taste.
Gods does he want to taste you again, drink you as he continues pounding into your eager body. As if struck by the same thought, you reach back to slide your hand into his curls.
“Bite me,” you urge. “I need you too. I can’t…”
He hears the rest of the thought in his head.
I can’t cum again if you don’t.
Astarion bites down on the mark, having half a mind to press down on your swollen nub at the same time. You cry out this time. Loudly. Properly. Not his name yet even more beautiful, a cry of pure ecstasy.
Your blood seeps into his mouth just as a fresh wave of your slick coats his cock, and he is done for.
Thrusting wildly, still rubbing your sore clit, Astarion spills himself into you, lost in a frenzy of blood and lust. He’s aware enough to yank out his fangs but after that, it's a blur as he sucks at your throat while his cock spasms and fills you with his seed.
It's too much and coats his lap and your thighs while trickles of blood dribble down your neck. He’s aware of you pushing his hand away from the overstimulation. So he grabs your hip for leverage during his final, weak thrusts. Spent, you both cry out a final time and then grow still.
Eventually, you roll onto your stomach while Astarion collapses onto your back, crushing you against the bedroll.
You don’t seem to mind in the slightest, letting him lazily lick away any remnants of blood. Only then do you hum with satisfaction stretching underneath him as much as the position will allow.
“Fuck, Astarion.”
“That you did, love. That. You. Did.” Each word is punctuated by a kiss or a nibble.
“You were right,” you purr, sounding infinitely more relaxed than he’s ever heard. “I needed that.”
He places a final kiss to the mark before rolling onto his back. “Mmm, me too.” He tucks his hand under his head, staring up at the canvas of the tent with a lazy, satisfied grin. Like a cat who’s just found a sunbeam.
You roll to face him, draping yourself across his chest in a graceless heap. Your face is glowing with post-coital bliss, eyes still shining as they take him in. You reach up to wipe away a spot of blood from the corner of his lips, which he sucks off your thumb.
Astarion is aware you both should clean up but he can’t bring it in himself to care. Your scent hangs around him, not just your blood but your arousal and release. When mixed with his own, it stirs something primal inside, a sense of claim he’s not sure he has a right to feel.
But he’s far too satisfied to question it.
“That was amazing,” you slur. Already your eyes are drooping and your breathing evens out.
Astarion draws you close, feels around for a blanket he manages to drape over you both. “You’re amazing,” he responds, and is surprised he means it.
Even he is ready to trance, the normal rush of adrenaline after feeding is gone, channeled into the thrusting of his hips during those last precious seconds before utter bliss.
For once, no thoughts or machinations enter his mind. Unless it’s your soft body atop his, he has no interest, lazily stroking your back until you fall asleep.
And as he lets his trance carry him away, he has one final thought, an observation his waking mind will remember vividly the next morning when he finds you in the same position, curled around each other even in sleep.
Having you in his arms seems to be another perfect fit.
---
Taglist: @frankie-mercury @miniminx
#astarion#astarion ancunin#astarion x reader#astarion x female reader#astarion x you#astarion ancunin x reader#astarion ancunin x you
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the way you bend, the way you break (c.bg)
so i did a poll for this a couple of days ago, and it had about 90% of you guys say that you guys wanted me to post this sub!beomgyu fic!!! sooooo… here it is. i am so embarrassed to post this but ill be fine omg, here’s yall food!
MDNI OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.
smut warnings: sub!beomgyu x dom!femreader, pet name usage (good boy, puppy), reader gets called mommy, masturbation (m), handjob, piv, sex flashbacks, borderline mindbreak on beomgyu’s end i can’t lie, dacryphilia/crying during sex, beomie so needy fr, nothing more i think.
word count: 1,197 i think. pretty sure
song i wrote this to:
smut is under the cut!
beomgyu just couldn’t seem to help himself. his brain was working overtime. god… the thought of you—naked, sitting above him looking down at his shivering frame—floods his mind. the blankets discarded to the sides of his bed does nothing to help his body stop feeling as if it’s on fire, his skin hot to the touch all over. his breathing becomes much heavier, nearly beginning to pant as he feels cock twitching in his pajama pants, slowly getting more hard and heavy the more he thinks about you.
you, oh my god.
an absolutely sinful memory plays back in his hazy mind of the last time you had your pretty hand wrapped gently around his swollen cock, letting him fuck up into your fist in such a desperate way that it was almost pathetic. “my my…. so needy my puppy….” he can hear you say so clearly, although it’s just his thoughts tormenting him.
he sighs heavily and whines. fuck, he’s so hard. it hurts. poor baby is so deep in thought that he can nearly feel it, closing his eyes, reliving it.
his vision was so fuzzy but he still managed to make out you looking so sinfully up at him, eyes half-lidded from the sight that is unfolding in front of you, tears pooling at the bottom of his glassy, empty, blown-out eyes. he was meer seconds from the tears building up so much that they down his pink blushed cheeks. you hum in approval when he realizes you noticed he was tearing up, earning a twitch from his poor cock.
“cry, puppy…”
sniffles and pants seep into the atmosphere of the empty hotel room, he can’t take this. his cock was throbbing. his shaky hands that were gripping at the hoodie he was wearing now started to make their way down to free his cock from the confines of his pants. he hisses at the contact, “p-please do something…”
he wraps his long fingers around his length, slightly squeezing it, imagining your fingers were the ones around his cock instead. he subconsciously squeezes a bit tighter, but he doesn’t think about how it’s because it feels a little bit more like how you grab his cock. god he remembers it too well. beomgyu begins moving his fist up and down his length at a slow and steady pace, cock jumping at his own ministrations. trapping his swollen bottom lip between his teeth, making it match the blush spreading across his cheeks.
he’s so overwhelmed, his mind wandering helplessly.
he’s now dizzy, flashing back to when you had him against the sofa. so gone, aching cock pressed up against your clothed cunt, your hips desperately grinding down to spread your wetness over his cock that was begging to be buried in you. “please l-let me put my cock in you p-please…“ beomgyu barely gets out. you laugh, he’s cute. his cock throbbing under your clit just felt too good. “so so so fucking good- aaaah-aah… like that…”
beomgyu begins to pump his leaking cock faster, his eyes rolling back. his hand subconsciously going up and down the whole length as the beads of his precum dribble down into the small space between his hand and his pulsating cock to make the glide a lot easier. “f-fuck…”
he can feel his balls tightening as he remembers more from that same memory, and what it was like when you finally let him shove his cock into your warm, wet cunt after teasing him for so long. losing yourself in the way he gasped out your name weakly, but oh so prettily for you. your soaked velvety walls dragging against your baby’s cock so nicely. beomgyu let’s out a pained whimper at that thought, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open at the memory, spit glistening his bitten lips.
beomgyu can so clearly recall how you immediately started moaning when he was able to let you use his cock, hips noisily slamming down onto his. your hands grabbing at his arms as you try and grip onto his triceps, nails digging into his flesh, leaving deep imprints, making him hiss. using his hand he moves it up your chest to mindlessly grab onto your breasts.
you were getting increasingly wetter each time you lowered all the way onto him as your juices pooled down his cock, dripping onto the sofa at this point. you were “s-so f-fucking wet…” and you could hear it. loud. and the sound only turned him into a braindead puppy, spurring him on to letting you use him as hard as you needed to cum. “feels so g-good..” you growl out, you’re staring down at him in awe like he’s the prettiest boy in this world and he’s going to fucking lose it.
“f-fuck mommy… th-that spot feels so good.” beomgyu moans out just like he did with you. his fist matching that same hard and fast pace you were taking him at in that memory. but, fuck, it will never be as good as your tight cunt creaming all over your puppy’s cock when he hits that exact same gummy spot he’s imagining slamming his cock into right now.
fuuuuck…. he can feel his orgasm coming. fast. hard. s-so hard. his brain is becoming mush. he starts to become a lot more desperate, whimpering so loud that anyone can hear, and throwing his head back as he lets his hips fuck into his fist, now decorated with his precum. he wishes it was your soaked pussy dripping down him instead.
he feels the euphoria of his orgasm get closer, hes pathetically gasping for breath, his large palms gripping the sheets that are now mangled around him, trying to ground himself as much as possible. “aaah fuck… ’m so… close m-mommy….” his head pressing backwards into the pillows, his hair messily spread over his eyes, as your hips fuck back down onto his cock to use his swollen, leaking, dark red cock— but it’s his fist, he remembers.
beomgyu’s eyes screw shut and his eyebrows knit together as he remembers the feeling of his mommy cumming on his cock, clenching so tightly. the way your legs close and quiver around his also trembling body. the way you become even tighter, cunt suffocating his overstimulated cock, milking out all of your pretty puppy’s cum into your cunt.
“g-god.” he shakily exhales again as he cums, hard. tears finally breaking free down his flushed cheeks and his cum shooting out wildly as he points his cock upwards to let it land on his hoodie, one of his favorite oversized ones that you let him borrow when he goes away, the last of the cum that he works out of his sensitive cock puddles around his shaft and down his hand.
“so messy puppy….“ you hum, collecting the cum leaking out of you on your index and middle fingers and bring it to beomgyu’s mouth to clean it off. “good boy….”
beomgyu shudders. he has to sit there for a second trying to control his uneven breathing.
fuck, he can’t wait to see you soon.
#hwadess fics#hwadess beomgyu#txt beomgyu smut#beomgyu smut#txt smut#txt hard hours#txt hard thoughts#sub!beomgyu#sub!beomgyu smut#sub!txt smut#sub!txt#txt fic#txt x reader#beomgyu x reader#smut#kpop smut
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Touch Starved
Pairing: Noa x Mae
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
A/N: First chapter of a series of 3 or 4 one shots I have planned. They take place after an alternative ending to the movie, in which Noa and Mae decide to travel together back to the human base in an attempt to foster human/ape relations. There's really no plot, just a few scenes of some intimate moments. I hope you enjoy!
Smoke from their campfire curled into the air, joining the hoard of clouds that kept the stars from view. It had been a while since Noa and Mae had been allowed the luxury of a fire. A few days prior they had encountered a fractured remnant of Proximus’ clan. For four nights they had remained in darkness, taking shifts so one could rest while the other kept watch. There had been a few close calls, but by some miracle the pair had escaped the gang. After so many tense hours and sleepless nights, the campfire was a welcomed reward.
The warmth of the flames was calming, the silence comfortable. Mae and Noa had grown used to one another’s companionship. There was still trepidation due to their recent past, an unsteadiness about their relationship. But trust was beginning to form again, fueled by their agreement to try and foster human and ape relations. They had a long journey ahead, and Mae wasn’t sure it would even bear fruit. After all, humans were weary of apes, to put it mildly. Many even flat out hated them. But still, something in her had to try.
As the evening wore on, the fire began to dim. Mae was growing tired, but before she would rest, she needed to try and fix her hair. The once neat braid has become knotted from days of neglect. She had hoped keeping it in a plait would help lessen the mess, but her efforts had been in vain. She removed the tie and began to unwork the strands, but found she was met with tangle after tangle. From the corner of her eye, she could see Noa watching her, and his gaze only made her more flustered.
Eventually the semblance of a braid turned into a rat’s nest, and Mae couldn’t stand it any longer. She reached down into her boot, retrieving a knife, and brought it up to the matted knot. She only got a few strands in, before his voice stopped her.
“What are you doing?”
Noa’s voice was confused, maybe even a little concerned. Mae lowered the knife, the few severed hairs falling to the ground. “I can’t untangle it.” She spoke as if it was an obvious solution, and in some ways it was. Long hair was a nuisance at best in this world, and a danger at worst. An enemy could easily grab her braid, and she would be finished. In truth she had thought about cutting it for a while, but had been unable to go through with it. Her mother had worn her hair long, and doing the same reminded Mae of her.
“Let me…try.”
The offer took Mae by surprise, and to be honest, Noa was surprised by his own words. But the thought of the woman cutting her hair saddened him. When she chose to wear it down, he enjoyed the way it danced in the wind. When they had the luxury of rest, he enjoyed watching her run her fingers through the strands before deftly braiding them back. Something about it was beautiful to him.
Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Noa worried he had crossed a boundary. After all, the act of grooming was intimate for both human and ape alike. So he was relieved when Mae finally nodded her head, sheathing her knife as he made his way over to her. The ape positioned himself behind the human, gently moving the braid off of her shoulder. He let the knotted mess slide over his palm, surprised by the softness despite the matt.
Standing so close, Noa was keenly aware of his mass compared to Mae. He was so much stronger than her, than all of her kind. One wrong move and he could seriously injure her. Even though he was only touching her hair, the thought made him nervous. With a new resolve he began, his large fingers easily managing the delicacy required for such a task. He was mindful of Mae’s breaths, how they seemed to quicken as he worked. Was she scared? Was he hurting her? He attempted to be even softer, his fingers working on small sections at a time, making sure not to tug or pull at her hair. He tried to ignore her small movements, how delicate the curve of her neck was, how he could hear and almost feel every breath. He told himself just to focus on the task at hand, but still, every small thing distracted him.
Mae felt warm, her skin flushed. She told herself it was embarrassment about being unable to handle such a simple task on her own. But there was something more to it than that, thoughts she dare not explore. Not yet.
She was amazed by how soft his touch was, how he barely tugged at the tangled strands. The feeling would have been calming, had she not been so tense. As he made his way from the tips towards the roots, his fingers began to occasionally graze against the skin of her neck. She could feel the callouses, the strength of the digits. The first time it happened she shivered, and Noa paused for a moment, making sure she was okay before he continued. The second time she nearly did the same, but forced herself to remain still. The added tension only caused her heart to quicken. Why was she reacting so strongly? She was no longer scared of Noa, he had proven time and time again that he would not hurt her. No, the feelings were pleasant, enjoyable. Which was terrifying. The only explanation for her reaction consisted of two words: touch starved.
Mae couldn’t remember if she had read about it in a book, or if she had heard the phrase from a fellow human. It didn’t matter. Those two words had to be the reason for her strong reaction. She had been without contact for so long that her body was craving it. This was just a physical response to loneliness. It meant nothing.
That didn’t feel entirely honest, but Mae refused to think of any other explanation.
All too soon Noa had come to the end of the knot, freeing the last few hairs. He had completed his task, but still he kept going, unwilling to admit he was enjoying the task of grooming her. He told himself he was being kind by continuing on. He would braid her hair as well, but not because he enjoyed the softness of it. Or the way the brown color seemed to warm in the firelight. He would do this as a way to help a tired friend care for herself. Just like he would help groom any close friend. He ran his fingers through the base of her hair, ghosting along her skull, trying to ignore the way the woman shivered again. He wondered if she was somehow cold? No, Mae’s ears were slightly pink, and her skin was warm beneath his hands. She felt hot, yet still she trembled.
Gingerly, Noa worked his fingers from root to tip, turning his thoughts to how similar yet different it was tending to hair rather than fur. The technique was almost the same, but the length of hair was almost overwhelming. When he was satisfied her hair was tangle free, he separated it into three even sections, beginning a new braid. At first he felt clumsy, he was used to braiding vines for rope, not silky thin strands. But soon enough he was able to adjust. As he worked he could almost feel Mae wanting to speak, her body practically vibrating beneath him. Yet she remained silent, as she often did when unsure of the perfect words.
Once he reached the end of the braid, he moved to hold it together with one hand. With his free hand, he reached over her shoulder, palm up, silently asking for the tie. Mae startled slightly from the movement, and he gestured to the string in her hand as an explanation. She understood, placing it in the palm of his hand, her fingers lightly grazing his skin. It took Noa a little time, but after a few attempts, he had tied a secure but simple knot. One he was sure the human could easily undo on her own. He let the fresh braid slip from his hand, watching as it fell back onto her neck.
After he finished his task Noa gave Mae her space, though his eyes lingered on her form. He watched as she moved the braid over her shoulder, fingers running along its length. She was surprised by the smoothness of it, by how tightly woven he had made it. “Thank you.” She offered, and Noa grunted in response.
They did not speak the rest of the night.
#kingdom of the planet of the apes#planet of the apes#noamae#noa#mae#nomae#mae x noa#maenoa#nomae fanfic
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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
HOUR TWENTY THREE
in which you never make it past the stairs.
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, single use of 'Y/N', upside down does not exist, minors dni
→ wc: 5.4k+
masterlist.
spotify playlist.
◁ previous part, next part▷
23:00 ──────────────ㅇ─ 24:00
“Be honest with me, Eddie. Do you like her?”
Eddie feels pathetic when all he can do is hum in response to Nancy’s voice over the line, mind moving in slow motion as looks down at you. You’re here, in his apartment and curled up on his couch. You’re here, and you’re his for twenty four hours, if he can just stop fucking it all up.
He should have known the hum wouldn’t satisfy his best friend.
“No. I want a real answer,” she scolds, and he can imagine her frustrated scowl she wears as he gives her nothing. But he just feels defeated – he’s at a loss for words right now, “Don’t over think it – do you really like her?”
No. No, I do not just like her. I fucking love her. And I really shouldn’t, but I do, and I can’t change that.
“I… I think I do.”
“I just said to not think about it. It’s a yes or no question, Munson. Don’t… Fine, don’t be honest with me. Be honest with yourself. So I’m going to ask you one last time, and I recommend you don’t think about it, because every time you do, it seems like all you do is push her further away. Do you, Edward Munson, like Y/N?”
“I do. I really fuckin’ do.”
More than Nancy could understand. More than even he understands. He likes you, more than just in the sense of what Nancy was referring to. He likes you as a person. He likes the way you challenge him, that you won’t take his shit. He likes the way you keep up with him even if you are motivated by a fire of hatred he’d built with his own two hands. He likes the way you clearly care about people, evident with how you treat everyone else. He likes the way you never cease to surprise him. He just… likes everything about you. Every single part of you he has been gifted with witnessing even when he’s undeserving, he fucking adores.
He never stood a chance. From the moment he first met you in that bar, it was always going to end this way for Eddie. All you had to do was lay your eyes on him, and his fate was sealed.
So, yeah. Eddie Munson likes you. Eddie Munson loves you.
—
HOUR TWENTY THREE - 3:00 PM
You don’t even make it outside the apartment building.
You make it down the hallway, sniffling the entire way and ignoring the curious glances from the neighbor that walks past you. Clearly, the entire building must have heard your fight with Eddie. They probably even heard the debauchery you two had taken part in on his balcony beforehand.
They probably think you’re insane. You don’t really care.
Once you enter the stairwell, it all becomes a bit too much. Your head is spinning as you take a few of the steps before you give up, dropping down to sit on one and succumbing to the dizzying feeling with your head between your knees. It’s a lot – Eddie has given you a plethora of information, too much to be able to stomach all in one go but necessary to offer you all at once.
He always loved you. He’d felt it too, that first night. All your blooms and all your vines hadn’t been what gave you away, but instead his own garden that had begun. And instead of tending to it as you had been prepared to with your own, he’d gone and drowned it. He’d taken away any glimpse of sunshine and cut off all nutrients, tried to starve the thing inside of him away and burn it with unnecessary hatred.
It was all so unnecessary. So, so unnecessary.
The girl you once were isn’t something of the past. You were foolish to believe there was any separation – between who you were the first night and now, between who Eddie was that night and who he was as you left him behind. You’re both still the same people, still in the same position.
You never stopped looking for Eddie in every room you entered. You never stopped biting your tongue at the thought of starting a conversation with him, never stopped aching to reach out for him even as he filled the ocean between you two. Every single date you’d gone on after meeting him had been a flurry of excuses.
No, not excuses. Comparisons.
Every single person that had shown you interest in the last year had been subjected to a side by side comparison to the man you couldn’t have. To the man you thought you’d held in the palms of your hands for a night, only to have it all taken away so suddenly. None of them drank whiskey and coke. None of them wore rings on their knuckles that they would fidget with when nervous. None of them reacted when you’d stumble beside them, none of them ever offered to foot the bills of the dates they took you on. And every time you noticed these insignificant details, you’d only think of moments with a certain long-haired metalhead.
You’d spent a year convincing yourself that there was only bad. Spent a year ignoring that nagging in the back of your head, when Eddie had been the worst fucking actor you’d ever met. He was right – his affection had seeped out time and time again, had reached out and wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Most of the time, it was your irritation that led to any arguments turning into true fights.
You weren’t innocent in this. The blame is shared. You’d both been victims, time and time again, of absolute self-destruction.
When your phone rings, you indulge yourself in the hope that it’s Eddie.
It’s Steve.
“Hello-”
“What the fuck happened?” Steve cuts right to the chase, ignoring your greeting, “What the fuck does Eddie mean the bet is off?”
He’d called Steve. Obviously.
“It means the bet is off,” you feel a fresh wave of tears choke you up, “We didn’t last the full twenty four hours. We lost.”
Steve’s scoff echoes over the line, “You’re telling me that with not even two hours to spare, the two of you now find it to be a bit much? It’s been twenty two hours, nearly twenty three, what harm is there in a few mo-”
“A lot of harm, actually,” you cut him off this time, in no mood to be scolded like a child. None of them knew what had happened. None of them knew how everything had changed so drastically between you and Eddie, “I- I called it off. It was me. I’ll come up with the money for you guys, just give me a few weeks.”
Do they know about Eddie’s feelings? Had you been the only one so oblivious to being caught up in a lie?
“Hold on, hold on,” Steve tries to soothe you, but it does nothing. When a sob escapes you, the dam finally breaking through, he grows even more panicked, “What the actual fuck happened?”
You don’t answer the question. “Can you come pick me up?”
“I- Excuse me?”
“I need a ride,” you gasp out, swiping rapidly at your face to hide the evidence of your breakdown as you can hear someone walking up the stairs, “Can you- Christ, Harrington, can you just come pick me up?”
More neighbors. More nosey glances. Fuck them.
“No.”
You almost think you heard Steve wrong. “What?”
“No, I will not be coming to pick you up.”
“Why?”
Your chest is aching with every sob you withhold. Trying to cling to composure, trying to cling to the fact that the worst was over. The wound could heal. The wound had to heal.
“Tell me what happened,” Steve demands, “Tell me what the fuck has happened over the last twenty something hours, and I’ll come pick you up. But if you don’t tell me, I’m tossing my fucking keys in the canal and you can be stuck with him for the rest of your life for all I care.”
And therein lies the issue. You don’t want to tell him. Suddenly, you’re something animalistic, the memories of the last twenty three hours becoming something of such substance to you that you wouldn’t dare to part with them. You want to hold each moment, each stepping stone along this rocky path, close to your chest and swipe out at anyone who gets too close. You need to cradle them with care and dissect each one for your own sanity, picking apart all the times you were too blind to see the truth.
You make your decision. The animal inside of you, hiding amongst vines of affection and blooms of hope, decides. “I can’t.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
You both know the clear distinction, and you can’t be bothered to care as your breathing finally evens, the sobs settling themselves down.
“I won’t.”
It’s quiet for a while until you hear Steve finally laugh in disbelief. A sharp breath out at first, that grows more into a chuckle that you know pairs with him shaking his head.
“Jesus,” he whispers, “I… okay. I get it. I don’t know what the Hell went down, and I won’t force you to give me a play by play,” he pauses, and you can hear the but before he even says it. It stretches over that pregnant pause, silence only broken up by static from the phone line until he speaks again, “But you’ve got to give me something to work with here. Eddie randomly texts me that the bet is off and to tell the others, and then I call you just for you to start sobbing-“
“He only texted you?” you interrupt the plea, brows furrowing, “He just… He texted you and no one else? Did he call Nancy?”
“What? No. I’m the only one who’s heard anything from him.”
You stare at the wall across from you, gaze digging right into one of the cracks filled with dust.
Fuck it.
“He told me he loves me, Steve,” you begin to open up, prying that memory from the claws of the animal. It doesn’t go down without a fight, screeching as you say the words, protesting offering even the smallest of breadcrumbs to your friend. You don’t have to tell Steve everything — but you can tell him this. “He said he never really hated me, and that he loves me.”
There’s nothing for Steve to say. You don’t know if it’s because they all really did know, saw what you couldn’t, or maybe if Eddie had already admitted this to the others. But in his honesty, he’d only mentioned Nancy knowing. And you’d seen the twist of his lips, the pinch of his eyes during that recount; you doubt anyone else knows.
He’d been prepared to take this secret to the grave. To keep it, even from you.
“I liked him,” you admit in that quiet stairwell, almost forgetting Steve was on the other end of the line, “God, I- I just liked him so much that first night. I wanted to waste all my time getting to know him. I know you all saw it after he went cold.”
How I searched for him in every room. How I’d always ask if he would be at functions. How I’d gravitate straight to him on the rare occasions he was there.
You continue on, your animal within finally stopping its petulant protests. It seems to understand; there’s a balance to be found. Admitting this doesn’t mean losing Eddie. It could mean more, “Even when he started being a fucking asshole, I wanted him. I always thought I’d just get him out of my system one of these days, but I didn’t. Not even after tonight. I… I like him.”
It’s not love. Not quite what Eddie had felt, because his plan had worked to some extent. You’d been held at an arm's length for so long, the like never had the chance to grow into love.
“So go get him.”
It’s the last thing you expected from Steve. “What?”
“You like him. Present tense,” he parrots your words back to you with emphasis, “So go get him. You said he loves you, kid. And sure, there’s a lot to work through there, but the bet isn’t off yet. Texts can be deleted. I can take a few hours to come get you. Just…” you listen to his deep breath over the phone, letting his words settle within you, “What’s the worst that can happen? You guys hate each other? I think we’re a little past that now.”
“Yeah,” you find yourself laughing, only half amused, “We are kind of past that.”
What is the worst that can happen?
“At the very least, tell him how you feel,” Steve continues on in such a calming tone, your chest clenches, “Because I’m sensing that you haven’t. Or else you wouldn’t be sitting on the phone crying to me, and Munson wouldn’t be impulsively texting me.”
“It wasn’t that impulsive,” you hum, leaning your cheek against the cool railing beside you, still mulling over your options. Really, option. Singular. “I made it very clear that it was over.”
Steve lets out a groan, and you smile despite yourself, “You sound like you just broke up with the poor dude without ever even dating.”
“I kind of did.”
“Then go fix it!” Steve’s exclamation makes you lift your head again, “He’s an asshole, okay? We can agree on that. He’s fucking dumb, and he’s an asshole, and he definitely isn’t some dreamboat in my opinion-“
“You know, I have a bone to pick with you there,” you’re already standing up, heading inclined towards the door you had just burst through, feet heavy as you try to dig within yourself for just a little bit of bravery, “Why the fuck would you say what you did that night? When I met him. You told him I’d never go for him.”
“I didn’t think you would. I mean, you didn’t jump my bones when you met me, and I am a goddamn dream boat.”
“Steve Harrington,” you take the first step, suddenly determined, “You’re a fucking idiot. I kind of hate you right now.”
“More than you hate Eddie?”
“So much more.”
“Then go tell him that,” Steve instructs as you take a few more steps, back up on the platform for Eddie’s floor already, “Make me the bad guy, I don’t care. Tell him he even gets a free punch.”
“I get a free punch first,” your free hand reaches out to grab the door, gripping but not pulling. Not yet, “We’ll see if you’re still such a dreamboat with a broken nose.”
It’s all teasing, but Steve can tell your anger beneath it all is very real. It isn’t something all consuming or dangerous, but it is well deserved for what he’d put you and Eddie through. All with one little throwaway comment.
“I deserve that,” he affirms, “I really, really deserve that. Scout’s honor that you’ll get your punch when I pick you up in… say, an hour?”
You nod, and start to pull on the door, “See you in an hour, Harrington.”
You hang up before he can say another word. There’ll be time for more scolding later, for more genuine conversation at the hand everyone had in all that went wrong. But for now, you only have one boy on your mind.
And apparently, he’s in love with you. Has been for a long time.
You race down that hallway faster than you had when you’d left, determination throwing you forward with each step as you grow closer to apartment 2C. You raise your fist when you come face to face with Eddie’s front door, still terribly insistent and strangely brave, when suddenly — it opens up.
“I-“ you squeak out, fist still frozen and poised in the air.
Eddie has never looked more frazzled. He’d been clearly running his hands through his curls, frizzing them up nearly comically. His eyes are red from tears, and if you look close enough, you can see an indent in his bottom lip from his teeth digging in.
Your eyes meet his, and all he can do is sigh your name.
You take a few steps back, and he follows. You tell yourself you need the distance, because without it, you might throw caution to the wind and just kiss him again. That’s not what you came here to do – before you can ever kiss him again, before you can put not only yourself but him through that, you need to tell him.
Your heart is ready to burst out of your chest, and you repeat Steve’s words over and over in your mind.
So go get him.
What’s the worst that can happen?
“I thought you were leaving.”
His voice is a broken whisper, gravely from the tears he’s no doubt been succumbing to since your exit. You search his face for any sign that he might still be far away from you, still in his head, but all you can see is that he’s here.
He’s here, with you, in this moment.
“I never made it down the stairs,” your voice cracks terribly, croaky and shaking until you clear your throat, “I- Steve called me.”
“I texted him. To let him know the bet is off.”
“I know.”
It’s awkward, but without ice. It’d be impossible not to be, even when every glance into his eyes just fills you with warmth.
There will be time to be angry later. With Steve, and with Eddie. One day, you’ll spare the time to mull over the way he continued to treat you even after his own personal revelation of how he loved you. You should pay more attention to it now, but every time your mind tries to go there, it just becomes overcast with what’s happened on this night.
You can’t erase the past. Good or bad. Both exist, and both fuel you as you take one more step back and support yourself against the wall across from his door, just as you had when you’d first arrived twenty three hours before.
Eddie takes several deep breaths before he follows you. You don’t have to say a word out loud; he’s completely in tune with you as he leaves his front door wide open and walks to stand beside you. Only then, when you’re both on the same side of the hallway, do you both slide down to sit on the floor.
“We need to talk,” you sigh, watching the way your knee knocks into his. Gentle brushes, soft touches. There’s no room for any thorns here. Your vines have wrapped their way around not just you, but him as well, and there’s far too many flowers thriving along them to even think of such dangerous pricks to linger, “I know what I said. I know that I left. But…” But I can’t stay gone. I can’t let it end like this. I can’t do it, not like this. “I never made it past the stairs.”
His shoulder bumps yours, forces you to look at him as he offers a sad smile. He can tell you're nervous, can tell that you’re the one who’s slipping away into their mind now.
“Hey,” he says softly, “It’s just you and me. Just two people who hate each other’s guts, remember?”
“Except we never did,” you remind him, finally looking down to pick at the frays of your jeans, “We never hated each other’s guts. And that’s… the issue? Maybe not issue. It’s not a problem to be solved. But, you were honest with me, and I think I need to be honest back.”
I need to say more than just no.
“I like you, Eddie,” you finally spit out, craving relief from the admission. But it won’t come, not quite yet. Not until he hears your full truth, “I liked you from that very first night. I just- when I was in this room full of people I didn’t know, not well enough at least, you took one look at me and decided that you’d sit by my side. You’d be my friend. I don’t care how the night ended and I don’t care that you went back on your gut reaction,” you take a sharp breath, and finally relief finds you as you whisper, “You chose me. That very first night, you chose me. And I want to figure out how to get back to that, not pretending to hate each other.”
You hold no expectations for how Eddie will react, especially given that your confession was seemingly less monumental than his, but his hand coming down on your knee surprises you all the same.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and you believe it. There’s no hesitation in your belief this time. It goes without saying that you know he’ll probably spend the rest of his life sorry, trying to make up for the last year.
You decide to put your hand over his, let your palm press into those knuckles before you move to slip your fingers between his, “I don’t want things to go back to normal. I just want us to be able to start over.”
You catch his smile out the corner of your eye, “Yeah? That’d be pretty nice. Maybe this time I won’t be such a dick.”
“And maybe this time I won’t throw a glass at your head,” you add, leaning into him a little, feeling his grip on your knee tighten with affection.
He shakes his head briefly before throwing it back against the wall, “I deserved that. When I deserve it, you are always welcome to throw a glass at my head.”
“That’s an expensive way to deal with things.”
“We’ll get the glasses from Goodwill.”
Both of you are softly laughing when your head meets his shoulder. You should probably be talking more properly, but you don’t. You decide to just enjoy this time with him. You have an hour left.
When the door to the right of Eddie’s opens up, you both straighten up a bit, and you watch in real time as the embarrassed blush lights up across Eddie’s cheeks at the sight of his neighbor — Mr. Jenkins.
He pauses, and God you wish he hadn’t, because now your insides are turning with your own self-consciousness. He takes in the sight of you two, sitting out in the apartment building hallway, hands entertained and heads leaning on one another, and then he chuckles.
“Good. Glad you two kids figured it out. Now please, for the love of God, keep those activities private. Indoors. No more balconies.”
Eddie has burned past pink, now a brilliant red. You’re surprised when a soft giggle escapes you, the ridiculousness of everything that has happened finally hitting you. Eddie turns his head to look at you with wild eyes, a silent scream of traitor before he faces the elderly man again.
He clears his throat, “Right. Uh, of course. Sorry, Mr. Jenkins.”
He grumbles a bit as he turns away from you two, still smiling as you can hear the faint “Yeah, yeah,” of his words.
The moment you two are alone again, you can’t help it — you burst into laughter.
Genuine and much needed laughter fills your lungs, expanding them beyond capacity as you finally let yourself just let go of the night. All the fights, all the stress, all the misunderstandings, and all the honesty seem to melt like butter from you, the tension leaving your soldiers for the first time in what feels like hours. You like him, you like him, you like him. No matter what happens after this, you like him. Just as you had that first night. Nothing can really take that from you; all the miniscule details can be worked out later. Any arguments and any fights that need to be had can be handled tomorrow. For today, you like Eddie Munson, and that’s enough.
“It’s not funny!”
“Oh, it’s fucking hilarious,” you gasp out as Eddie gently slaps your shoulder, “That poor old man fully saw your dick.”
“I’ll never be able to face him again,” Eddie deadpans. You don’t catch his adoring smile as you only laugh harder, “I’ll never be able to know peace in these halls again.”
You quiet down your giggles, taking your hand from his to swipe at the tears of joy that had gathered. Your stomach aches in the best way, finally, “Should’ve kept it in your pants, Munson.”
“Says the minx.”
It’s nice. Just as you had thought — there would be a time to laugh about it. And now, as your temple falls back against Eddie’s t-shirt and he snakes an arm around your back, is the best moment you can think of.
The two of you let silence settle again. All you can hear is the other’s breathing, deep and calm and assured breaths that don’t whisper of any secrets or any panic. It’s peaceful; it’s absolute bliss.
“God, I need a nap,” Eddie mumbles as he trails a finger in an insistent circle over your shoulder. Gentle and feathery light, repetitive enough to almost lull you to sleep, “How do other people do this shit?”
“I don’t know, but a nap sounds heavenly,” you nearly moan. You can picture it now, wrapping up in your usually mediocre comforter back in your dorm room, and your uncomfortable mattress has never been more romanticized.
Eddie stares at his open door for a second, thinking, “Is, uh, Harrington coming to get you?”
You only nod against his shoulder.
“Did he tell the others that the bet is- or was- or-“
“No,” you laugh as he fumbles over the specifics, “He never told the others. As far as they know… We made it.”
Eddie sighs in relief, “Oh, thank God. I did not want to have to pay any of those fuckers.”
“They never would have let us live that down.”
“Never.”
Another lapse of silence. There’s times where you think Eddie might get up, might hold out his hand for you to take and drag you into his apartment again. Maybe try and let you two squeeze one last nap in, considering the way you’re already half unconscious on his shoulder. But he never does. The two of you sit in the comforting silence of that hallway, backs pressed to the wall and bodies leaning into each other’s gravitational pull.
Getting him was never really about having another hard conversation. Just making sure he knew that his feelings were returned, to remind him of the change that had happened within you over these last twenty three hours, was plenty enough for you.
“Hey,” Eddie whispers. Neither of you have a clock, but you can both feel the time running out, “I, uh, want to say one last thing before this is all… over.”
“What’s up?” you mumble into the material of his t-shirt. The one that your nose nearly turns and buries into, trying to enjoy that last bit of boy that has lingered after him since the beginning of the night.
“I need you to know I didn’t tell you everything just for this to happen,” he begins to explain, “Like, I never loved you with the intent of being loved. I actually love you without ever expecting you to reciprocate, whether it’s embarrassingly admitting you have a crush on me-” one of your hands limply comes up to hit at his chest in a pathetic lack of strength, which makes him pause to chuckle, “-or if you came back here and said that you were… like, wildly in love with me. Or you could have even said you never really want to see me again. That was never the point.”
“What if I came back just to say I forgot something? Like, ‘oh, hey, I just forgot my chapstick’?” you’re nearly slurring your words in fatigue, but still smile at the thought of doing that just to fuck with him.
“I’d probably lie and say that there’s not a single tube of chapstick in that apartment,” he admits, his palm now just cupping your shoulder, drinking in the privilege of touching and holding you this way as he gives it a squeeze, “And then I would have shut the door, and started searching like a mad man for that fucking chapstick, and never would have told you once I found it.”
You snort, “Keeping my chapstick? Pervert.”
You shift your head to just barely peer up at him, and you see those fucking dimples. You can’t believe there was a time where you didn’t notice those.
“I’m serious, though,” he lets his smile falter just a bit, but those innocent indents don’t, “You could still say the word, tell me you don’t mean it and you don’t even like me in the slightest, and it’d be fine. No hard feelings, truly.”
He’d just succumb to the terrible fight he’d been running from this entire time. From the moment he had met you. He’d succumb to his worst fear and let himself burn for you, even if you didn’t burn with him.
“Eddie.”
“Hm?”
“Stop being such a fucking idiot,” you chastize as you lift your head from his should. His arm remains around you, not even slipping, “Stop trying to talk me out of liking you. It’s done – I like you. End of story.”
His smile turns into something sad for a second, something almost sour, before it really does fall completely. Only the ghosts of those dimples remain for a moment in your memory. Suddenly, you get what he means. He isn’t trying to deter you, only remind you of what you need to consider.
It’s not just another moment of insecurity.
You probably should be putting up more of a fight. All the damage done, both tonight and in the last year, can’t really be erased in the matter of an hour. It’s a whisper of it’s okay to take time to heal, a true white flag of surrender being waved from across his ocean.
Vines, oceans, fires, glass walls – all of the metaphors have finally turned trivial.
“I might need time,” you give in just a little bit, knowing it’s for the best, “I… I mean, everything can’t really change so quickly. Maybe we give it a few days. A few weeks, if we have to. We…”
“Just spent twenty four hours together, and could use the time apart?” he ends your sentence for you in a joking tone, but you both know it’s true.
The time apart would not only do you well, but answer the burning question on both your minds – does this last past tonight?
Right now, you’re sure it does. But it’s possible you’ll return to your dorm room, that Eddie will spend some time in his apartment without you hovering around every corner, and that it could change. That is entirely possible.
It’s something you almost need to mentally prepare yourself for.
“Yeah,” you rasp out, almost choked back up at the reality of it all. You blame it on the lack of sleep, “Yeah, we could probably use some time apart.”
Saying it out loud goes against every gut instinct you have.
“Yep,” Eddie almost seems to also be gritting those words out, tongue almost more stubborn than yours, “Time apart. Just to think. Not… uh, not forever. Not unless we decide it needs to be.”
You sound like you just broke up with the poor dude without ever even dating.
How many couples have had this exact conversation? How many have promised temporary time apart, only to never see each other again?
It strikes a little bit of childish fear in you, but Eddie’s arm is still warm and heavy around your back, his palm rubbing up and down along your bicep as if he can sense all that doubt that you battle with.
It’s okay. Leaving for now is not leaving forever. Besides, you once lived a life without Eddie Munson in it. You can live that once more, if needed.
You like him. You liked him that first night, and you like him now. You like to enter rooms and know his eyes seek you out, you like to know that every time he crosses your mind that there’s a possibility that you’re also plaguing his thoughts. Time, distance, and hatred have never been able to change that.
“I-” you start to say, more vulnerability metallic on your tongue and more honesty poised for his taking, when you’re both cut off by a familiar figure coming down the hallway.
It’s not a neighbor, not another set of judgmental eyes.
“Hey there, love birds. Glad to see you didn’t kill each other.”
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#my writing#twenty four hours#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#if it's bad don't tell me wah
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S.M.O
pairing: azriel x reader
part 6 of the shy!reader massage mini-series
[ loosely based off the song Slut Me Out by NLE Choppa ]
warnings: sexual themes, jealous!az, swearing, possible typos, (idk dude🤷🏽♀️ I can’t help that I like men who feed into my daddy issues and Az just gives every time)
summary: Azriel’s offended to have been left out of the fun—however will you make it up to him?
[ previous part ]
—
Needy. Greedy. Sneaky, little shadows.
Silently creeping up on you while you’re distracted with the piles and piles of paperwork Rhysand had been attempting to make a dent in for weeks. But after complaining of the words blurring together and none of it making sense anymore, you’d sent him off with Cass to go blow off some steam.
You’re dipping a quill in ink when you feel it brush against your toes; a cool caress climbing the length of your leg in a barely there touch that sent goosebumps across your skin. “Why are you still awake?”
Azriel’s still in his leathers, the top few laces of his shirt is completely loose and you’re quick to pick up on the clench of his jaw—the flexing of his hands at his sides that were still wrapped in thick bandages to protect his knuckles from the hours spent before the punching bags. “I was helping Rhys with some paperwork while he’s out.” The crackle of the fire fills the silence for a few beats of time before you turn to give him your full attention. “Is something wrong?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Your head tilts to the side, a crinkle of your brow and Azriel seems—restless. Agitated. He makes a bee-line for the bar cart pushed by the corner of the room next to the window. It’s cracked open, a cool breeze sifting through the thin fabric of your clothes. “About me.”
You lean forward in the seat, elbows resting on your knees as you watch him fill a glass halfway and knock it back in two gulps. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Is something wrong with me?”
It makes your spine straighten, a clipped laugh pulling free but it fades off when you realize he’s being serious. Standing there, perched against the window with the glass freshly filled and there’s a look in rich eyes; something tortured and devastating that’s hard to definitively place. “Of course not. Why would you even ask me that?” Full lips part to answer but Az shakes it off with a scoff, nose obscured by the rim of his glass but the tension in broad shoulders is unmistakable. “Have I done something to make you feel that way?”
One full minute passes before he speaks again, voice much lower—much less confident and it makes your chest ache to hear him so soft spoken. “Cassian told me about what happened the other night. With you, him and Rhys.”
“Oh.” You shift in place, hands nervously toying with the ends of your hair, nails picking at chipped polish and dry cuticles. You pray the firelight masks the red tint that smatters across the apples of your cheeks. “And that upset you?”
He scoffs, finishing the glass and setting it down so firmly it chips. You don’t dare mention it, taking note of the restraint he was already exhibiting by creating so much distance, doing his best to keep his hands occupied before he scaled the length of the room and ripped that oversized shirt clean off your frame. “It didn’t upset me,” Azriel runs a hand through messy locks, sneering at the bandage that catches in the strands and rips it off so forcefully it breaks in two. “I have no formal claim over you—not like Rhys, but I had assumed that if something like that were to ever happen that…” Az’s shoulders slump, a vulnerability washing over his gaze that had you moving to stand. “I thought that you would’ve asked me to be there too.”
The concern melts away and a slow smile begins to form at the corner of kissable lips, voice as soft as the first few strings on a freshly tuned violin. “Az,” The way you say it forces him to look away in shame; embarrassment burning beneath his skin when his words replay in his mind and if it weren’t for your hand cupping his cheek, he probably would’ve winnowed away. “Are you jealous?”
“I don’t have a right to be.”
Maybe it’s because of how irked he truly looked, hands fidgeting and strong facial features scrunched up that prompted your touch to glide from his cheeks down to the strong planes of his chest. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm and the cool touch of his shadows dancing through the strands of your unbound hair. “Don’t you though?” Lower and lower your hand goes, familiar ridges of hard muscle taunts you beneath intricately made fighting gear and something about the shiny daggers tucked at his hips has your thighs clenching. “I’ve spent just as much time with you as I have the others. I know your body like the back of my hand but I never wanted to assume—I wanted you to come to me when you were ready.”
He wastes not a second more, a groan rumbling through his whole being when he closes the distance and presses his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy, sloppy as teeth clash and tongues touch but you can’t bring yourself to care about bruised lips and being perfect when Az was holding you so close—like he was scared you’d change your mind and run off. “Was ready the first time you touched me.”
Azriel bends at the knee, hands curling behind your thighs to carry you in his arms. It doesn’t last long, just enough for long legs to bring you to Rhysand’s desk. The mountain of papers are swiped from the table without second thought, ink pot seeping into the wool rug as ravenous hands eat at any and all exposed flesh he can get to. “You never said anything.”
“I wasn’t worthy of you then,” Something in his tone changes, something darker and more primal that sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m not worthy of you now but I’m too selfish to care now that I’ve got you all to myself.”
His touch is branding, the grip on your hips keeping you firmly pressed against him and the whimper that you let out is eagerly swallowed by his mouth. Azriel’s not gentle by any means, desperate kisses down the length of your neck and the mark he sucks into the juncture of your shoulder has liquid hot need pooling in your panties.
It’s positively whorish.
Slutting yourself out to the High Lord and his brothers but you can’t bring yourself to care; too busy tugging off your—Rhysand’s shirt to make room for the mouth making a claiming path towards your breasts. “Az,” You gasp out when lips wrap around a peaked nipple, back arching into his touch when teeth bite down with the most perfect pressure it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “Please. I need more.”
“Wait.” A simple command that can’t be simply fulfilled and you begin to think he enjoys the way you squirm beneath him. “Do for me what I did for you,” A cruel smile quirks at the corners of his mouth and you nearly want to scold your body for betraying you, legs parting at the sight of him so unhinged—so hungry. Azriel settles between your thighs like he was made to be there, shadows curling around your knees to keep you spread and self-consciousness has no place to rear her ugly head when he’s staring at you like the Mother had presented him his wildest dreams on a shiny silver platter.
“I can’t,” You can feel his fingers touching, pulling soaking undergarments to the side, collecting the drip of your slick and sliding it back up. A thumb ghosts over the bump of your clit and Azriel can’t fight the groan at how your hips chase the retreating finger for more. “Please, I need you.”
“Evidently, not bad enough,” You thought Rhysand was insufferable with his teasing. Cool wisps of murky darkness lick at the strong line of his neck, blending into the deep umber of his hair and golden eyes seem to glow ten shades brighten against such a contrast. “Keep telling me though, I like hearing you say it.”
How are you not to comply?
When his head lowers and presses a kiss to your bare cunt; the only kind act you’d receive before he begins his feast. There’s no running away, no squeezing your legs for reprieve when his tongue drags and sucks and fucks into you with such skill.
Azriel doesn’t mean to but he can’t help but work harder than normal, feeling some need to prove himself—each moan and whine, breathy whimpers and teeth biting so harshly into the plush of your bottom lip he worried you’d break skin and draw blood. So be it. Whatever it took to prove he wasn’t last choice; to prove that he was deserving of being nestled between your legs, slurping at your sex like he’d found the fountain of youth and vitality. One finger slips easily into your sopping hole, a second added shortly after and Azriel’s pleased hums send shocks up the length of your spine. “So good, Az.” It’s breathless, choppy, chest heaving and cheeks flushed with your hands palming at your breasts and fingers pulling on your nipples while he works you through the pleasure. “Feels so good—please fuck me. Please, need you inside me.”
His mouth glistens with you when he raises his head, chin dripping and fingers unwavering in their steady pace. In and out, in and out, in and out. Golden eyes darken as if scalded in fire and covered in soot. “Wait.”
Cruel. So devastatingly cruel and yet when fingers curl inside, rubbing deliciously against spongy inner walls you’re thanking him. Babbled praises and garbled pleas for more as you writhe beneath him but he doesn’t stop; seemingly entranced by a spell unable to be broken by sweet words and soft touches. “I’m sorry, Az. I was wrong—please. Please, just touch me.”
The hard line of his brow finally loosens but only an idiot would think he’d let you off easy. Handsome smiles and husky words nearly distract you from the stealthy way he rids himself of his pants, boxers swiftly following. A sinful moan at the sight of him fully hard and weeping at the tip. “You’re sorry?” Azriel’s fucking hung, long and girthy and so utterly beautiful it makes your mouth water when he holds it tight at the base and settles it between your folds—taunting, teasing with the weight of it but never fully giving. A free hand glides up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, ghosting over your neck before sinking into your hair. “Tell me how sorry. Make me believe it while I fuck you stupid.”
He demands the impossible.
Words escape you when he finally fits the tip inside, feeding you inch after inch of perfect cock that you can do nothing but grip him tighter and whine. The first few thrusts robs you of thought, brain eddying to mush as he gives you time to adjust. “Azriel,” His back flexes at the sound of his name on your lips, eyes hazy and hair messy as he forces you to watch where you start and he ends. “It’s so fucking deep.”
“Yeah?” A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Feel good?”
“So good. So, so good.”
“That’s sweet, baby.” The pillow comfort in the gentle tone dries up when his cock slowly drags out until there’s barely anything breaching your entrance. “But, that doesn’t really sound like apologies,” Azriel shoves it all back inside with one sharp thrust and the pace he starts is unforgiving. Hard wood digs into the base of your spine and your nails leave marks in the mahogany when searching for something—anything to brace yourself.
You can’t fulfill the request; eyes rolling back as the air is knocked from your lungs with each snap of his hips. Az refuses to stop despite your insubordination, a broken moan shoving its way past his pretty lips when you can’t stop clenching around his cock. “I’m—“
“Just wait for me—so close. Just a little longer.”
It takes effort to pry your eyes open, gazing up at him with glassy eyes and you’re tugging him closer to feel his mouth on yours. There’s no staving off the tight coil in your belly any longer, your release sounding with a pathetic shout and you can feel him filling you up, his hips faltering with sensitivity. “I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be—I was never offended in the first place.” A boyish grin on manly features, wings relaxed on the mattress and hair falling over his forehead. “Just wanted to hear you beg.”
#a court of thorns and roses#acotar x reader#acotar x you#acotar#azriel#high lord rhysand#azriel spymaster#azriel x you#azriel fanfic#azriel smut#azriel shadowsinger#acotar azriel#azriel x reader#az smut#solbaby7#solwrites
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