#About Crimson Publishers

[wickedhawtwexler]

yeah it's important to create a character who's flawed but likeable, realistic, interesting, dynamic, etc. but the most important part of creating a character is asking yourself: will the people of www.tumblr.com go insane about them?

[corvis-crimson]

Can @neil-gaiman make a young author like me feel better about typos on my already published back cover…

👉🏻👈🏻😖💛

The book itself only has 8 mistakes apparently in 326 pages…

P.S. thanks for writing Good Omens because without it I’d have never met my Fiancé! The Crowley to my Aziraphale…Congrats on season 3!!

Edit because only two people have bought my book

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment. 

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze. 

 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others. 

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!” 

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect. 

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up. 

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child. 

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru. 

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes. 

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest. 

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!” 

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away. 

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!”  König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture. 

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you,  König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you. 

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt. 

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny. 

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone. 

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge. 

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.” 

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction. 

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl. 

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance. 

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.” 

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!” 

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience. 

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done. 

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling. 

Evolve, or die. 

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later. 

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.” 

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants. 

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA. 

The Lieutenant is one of them. 

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead. 

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t. 

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact. 

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself. 

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins. 

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.  

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was. 

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding. 

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed. 

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes. 

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide. 

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady. 

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire. 

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock. 

Your finger slams into the trigger. 

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König. 

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary. 

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch. 

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure. 

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König. 

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone. 

Anyone but you, that is. 

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter. 

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced. 

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down. 

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm. 

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?” 

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment. 

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour. 

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you. 

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence. 

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up. 

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh. 

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest. 

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.” 

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given. 

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly. 

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.” 

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?” 

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?” 

He freezes, muscles going taunt. 

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?” 

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away. 

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate. 

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit. 

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side. 

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air. 

König kneeled to you and bared himself. 

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this. 

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood. 

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug. 

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning. 

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he. 

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame. 

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears. 

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him. 

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat. 

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English. 

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril. 

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust. 

You find none. 

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening. 

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words. 

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize. 

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized. 

For you to come back to him. His partner. 

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths. 

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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[exorcxqsm]

The price of desire.

ᯓWord Count: 4,4k

ᯓ tags - WARNINGS: mdni, reader isn’t the lnds!mc, explicit sexual content, alterations to the main story, toxic relationship, dr/y humping, t/easing, (lowkey) o/rgasm control, b/egging, f!receiving oral, p in v, unprotected sex, breath play, sensory play, spanking, mention of breeding!kink (toxic if you squint really hard), creampies, dom!sylus, use of pet names (kitten, sweetie), violence, mentions of blood and injuries.

ᯓnotes: This is my first published work here, it took me some time to write but I believe I’m content with how it came out. At first, the idea was to keep it a part one which is connected to an event of the series. Ending this part, I can think of some ways this can go, but I’d still want your opinion:) If you want to see more of this, please go ahead and ask. Any reblogs and likes will be appreciated. 

You were a dangerous woman, a fact well-known throughout the N109 Zone. As the assistant to one of the most feared men in the underworld, your reputation was built on the edge of a knife. 

But today, the real danger sat directly across from you at the table—your boss's most formidable and deadly rival: Sylus.

His silver-white hair fell messily over his forehead, creating a disheveled yet intentional look that only added to his unsettling charisma. A smirk played on his lips, while his crimson eyes held an unreadable intensity,  as he sat on the table with his henchmen on each side of him. Luke and Kieran.

You had done your research, uncovering every scrap of information about the three men before you. It was a challenge, of course; the leader of the most notorious illegal organization in the N109 Zone wasn’t one to divulge valuable intel easily. Yet you had pieced together enough to know the depths of Sylus's ruthlessness.

You were certain of one thing: Sylus would not hesitate to sacrifice anyone—including his own men—if it suited his purpose. The black-red tendrils of his mist would mercilessly end the person and he wouldn’t blink an eye while his lethal capability, capable of extinguishing a life in an instant, would take over. 

The only individuals he seemed to protect were Luke and Kieran, his unwavering henchmen, whose loyalty was both a strength and a potential weakness in this deadly game.

Everyone claimed that the twins were somewhat adopted by him—a complex relationship in which he protected and provided for them in exchange for their loyalty and services.

If you were being honest with yourself, you found yourself drawn to the twins. They exuded a carefree spirit that brought an element of fun, even in the context of business. You often wished you could shed your own uptight demeanor and embrace life as they did.

Your thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the present when one of Sylus’s men dropped two large armory boxes onto the table that separated your group from his. As the man opened the boxes, a collection of modified and illegal firearms was revealed, each piece looking as lethal as the man who had crafted them.

Dante, your boss, rose from his chair beside you to inspect the guns. After all, that was the purpose of this meeting—a trade, a business transaction between two men who despised each other's very existence, yet could not deny that, in times of crisis, their respective resources could prove invaluable to one another.

Dante provided the protocores, and Sylus expertly modified them. When Dante requested his part of the deal, the modified protocores were returned to him in the form of firearms capable of ending a life in less than the blink of an eye.

“Resourceful as always, Mr. Sylus,” your boss mused, but Sylus’s gaze was locked onto yours, seemingly ignoring Dante entirely.

“Oh, Dante,” he said, the man’s name dripping with disdain, “my little black heart is shattered into pieces. One would think you’d have learned by now not to question my methods or my work.”

You rolled your eyes at the silver-haired menace, your heels clicking against the carpet in a rhythm of impatience. You were growing weary of this standoff. Dante needed to state the agreed price and move on already.

“Set the price.”

Sylus’s smirk widened at Dante’s request, his eyes now fully focused on him. He seemed to stall deliberately, taking slow, measured steps around the room. His imposing aura filled the space, the coat draped over his broad shoulders swaying slightly with each movement. Finally, he came to a halt by the table, gripping its edge with both hands and leaning forward.

“Such a pretty kitten you have with you, hm?” he taunted.

Your gaze turned icy as Dante’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Are you referring to Miss Y/N?”

Sylus tilted his head to the side, his crimson eyes locking onto you once more, studying you with an intensity that made you uneasy. “You’re a foolish man, Dante.”

“What the hell did you just say?” 

You exhaled through your nose, frustrated by your boss’s inability to keep his pride in check when it came to Sylus. This man ran an entire organization yet seemed unable to handle a little provocation.

“I said…” Sylus drawled, relishing the moment, “you’re a foolish man. Only someone with the brain capacity of a goldfish would keep a pretty kitten like her uncollared.”

You shot up from your seat faster than lightning, leaning dangerously close to Sylus, your hand itching to grab one of the weapons from the boxes in front of you.

“You should watch your mouth when speaking to a lady, Mr. Sylus,” you seethed, your voice low but fierce. “Only a man with the brain capacity of a goldfish would disrespect a woman for no apparent reason.”

Sylus chuckled at your retort, a wide grin spreading across his sharp features, revealing his teeth.

“Feisty,” he mouthed, a smirk playing on his lips, meant only for you to see.

Just then, Dante stepped up behind you, and you almost forgot he was there until his hand landed firmly on your behind, giving it a squeeze. Your hand was so close to the gun that it took all your willpower not to reach for it.

Sylus's expression shifted, the amusement fading as his brows furrowed, re-centering on his forehead.

“Set. Your. Price,” Dante reiterated, his body uncomfortably close to yours.

You had served as his assistant for far too many years, becoming accustomed to his unpredictable behavior. Yet, deep down, he knew you wouldn’t dare act against him with all his guards surrounding him.

You were a capable assassin, more than capable of matching his malevolence, but you were just one woman up against his entire army. He was well aware of your skills, which is precisely why he always kept a close contingent of guards present during your meetings in his office. You were his most valuable asset, yet he was frightened of what you could do if pushed too far.

Despite this knowledge, he often seemed to forget the extent of your capabilities, choosing instead to provoke Sylus.

“Her.”

“No.” Your response was immediate, your tone firm. He couldn’t be serious.

Dante’s chest shook with laughter beside you, his golden teeth glinting in the light.

“She’s off the table, I’m afraid,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Very well, then.” Sylus retracted from the table and rose to his full height, a shadow looming over both you and your boss. “So is the deal. Have a good one, Mr. Dante.”

Your shoulders relaxed for only a brief moment, but before you could even blink, you found yourself lifted off your feet and thrown over the table like a ragdoll.

Fucking bastard.

Of course, the deal was too important for him to let it slip away. Sylus knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled this stunt.

“Don’t even think about it,” you spat, your voice harsh and defiant. “I am your right hand; your business will crumble without me!”

Sylus seemed to revel in the chaos, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. As his black-red mist began to swirl around the room, it coalesced around your body, lifting you off the table and bringing you effortlessly to his side.

Your struggles were utterly futile. No power could match his evol.

“Bastard!” you yelled, directing your fury at your boss.

Dante let out a deep sigh, visibly irritated but choosing to remain silent. His organization was already on the brink of collapse, a fact known only to you—and apparently Sylus too. That was the reason he had recently struck a deal with Onychinus; only their resources could possibly uplift him now—if anyone could, that is.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Dante.”

The plush sofa of his dimly lit living room felt uncomfortably rough against your bare thighs as you took in your surroundings. Your revealing dress had ridden up significantly due to the twins’ rough handling as they placed you there, while their boss prowled around the sofa like a predator circling its prey.

The record player in the corner emitted a classical melody that only heightened the unnerving atmosphere, each note echoing with an eerie elegance.

“So uptight,” Sylus whispered in your ear, causing you to jump as his breath brushed against your skin. You hadn’t even noticed when he had gotten so close. “My, my… and so jumpy, aren’t we, kitten? Just try not to scratch my ceiling.”

You turned to glare at him, and if looks could kill, he would have been slain by the fire in your eyes. Nevertheless, you managed to keep your voice steady. “Why am I here?”

He didn’t bother to meet your gaze as he sank into his enormous cushioned chair across from you. A black-and-red mist began to swirl around your body once more, and before you could react, it lifted you off the couch and positioned you right on his lap, straddling him.

“What the hell?”

His hand shot up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Shh, just keep your claws sheathed for a moment.”

You could feel your patience wearing thin. “Why. am I. here?”

Sylus's jaw tightened slightly, and if you weren’t intently observing his every expression, you might have missed it. “Because, kitten, Dante and I had a transaction.”

“Isn’t your typical price protocores when dealing with my boss?”

“Typically…” Sylus’s gaze was fixed on your face as an eerie silence enveloped the room.

Before you could process his words, his hand snaked around your throat, pulling you closer. His eyes locked onto your lips, a predatory glint flickering within them.

“What are you doing…” you whispered, your body tensing in instinctive response.

“Show me, kitten.”

“What?”

Sylus chuckled softly, a mocking sound that sent shivers down your spine. “I know you’re a smart kitten; don’t play dumb with me. It won’t help you.”

Of course, you understood what he was implying, but how did he know?

“I have no idea what you want,” you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

His hand tightened around your throat, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Then you noticed it—the red glow of his eye—and you realized what he was doing. “Show me.”

Ironically, he was now in control of your actions, even though he sought the opposite.

You slowly removed your glove, compelled by the white-haired man in front of you. Your bare hand pressed firmly against his chest, and in an instant, his heartbeat ceased.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

You stared at his face, dumbfounded, as the glow in his eye faded and his complexion turned an ashen pale. Before you could comprehend what was happening, a low chuckle echoed through the dimly lit room.

Sylus’s chuckle. He was alive. Wait, what the hell?

His laughter grew more vibrant with each passing second as he took in your horrified expression. You shot your hand out again, daring to touch him, but he caught your wrist, tossing it aside with ease.

“Ravishing…” he breathed, his eyes darkening to a richer shade.

You watched him for a moment, trying to make sense of everything that had unfolded in the past few hours, until suddenly, everything clicked into place.

You gasped.

“You fucking bastard!” you shouted, fury igniting in your voice. “Is this why you didn’t take the protocores? Is this why you asked for me?”

Sylus’s arrogant smirk returned, dominating his features. “He wasn’t aware of the precious possession he had in his own house, sweetie. But I am.”

“You are… sick.” The expression on his face darkened, and something twisted in your gut, though you wished it was anything but excitement at his subtle praise. “You will not control me. I belong to no one.”

“Oh, kitten, I’m not trying to control you. This is just… a deal.” His eyebrows shot up, his face tilting slightly to the side as if he found your defiance amusing. “Isn’t business what you excel at? Or do you want me to believe it was Dante who called the shots?”

Your own expression faltered, but your body began to relax atop his, a fact he noted with a small, apprehensive smile that curled at his lips. “Are you trying to extract intel from me?”

He rolled his eyes at your tactics, a playful smirk on his face. “You are so gullible, kitten.”

He leaned in impossibly close, your breath catching in your throat and a shiver coursing through you as your body responded to his proximity. This was all so wrong.

“He didn’t value you nearly enough, sweetie,” Sylus whispered against your pulse, his warm breath sending a jolt through you. “But I can.” His teeth grazed your throat, and as your mouth opened, no sound dared to escape your lips.

“I…” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I have no idea what—”

In one swift movement, you found yourself perched on the edge of the chair, Sylus looming over you like a consuming inferno. Your chests were nearly touching, and his eyes held a dangerous allure as he stared directly into your own. “I believe you do.”

His hand drifted from beside your head, descending to your collarbone as his fingertips caressed the delicate skin with a featherlight touch. “You can end someone with just a touch…” he whispered against your neck, and you had to fight against the electric shivers coursing through your body. “I am the only person you can’t kill, even if you tried, kitten.”

Your mind was slowly turning to mush as his hand roamed over the sensitive swell of your breasts, his lips planting tender kisses against your throat. “Don’t you see where I’m going with this? We’re meant for each other. Kindred spirits.”

“You’re insane,” you wanted to accuse him, but your voice came out breathless, betraying your mounting desire. A soft grunt escaped his lips, a sound that only fueled the tension between you.

“If I’m insane, what does that say about you, sweetie?” He began kissing his way down from your neck to your collarbone, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “I can smell your arousal from up here.”

You gasped at his bold accusation, your body jerking in response, but it only heightened the sensation as your clothed core pressed against his torso. You tensed, and his lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “So insatiable…”

“This is so wrong…”

“I’ve never been a righteous man.”

You leaned back instinctively, your hands reaching out as if to find comfort around his neck, but he halted your movement just before contact.

In your hazy state, you noticed him licking his lips, his gaze searching the floor for something—your glove.

“As much as I can’t think of another way to go, I’d prefer to be fully conscious when your pretty cunt is all over my mouth.”

“You’re… outrageous,” your voice faltered, betraying the rush of emotions coursing through you. Your body reacted in ways that contradicted your words.

“Do you prefer gentle, kitten?” Sylus asked, his fingers teasingly tugging at the neckline of your dress, unveiling your flushed skin. His tongue flicked over your right nipple, while his other hand caressed the neglected one. “Would you rather I whisper sweet nothings and cherish you gently?”

His tone dripped with playful mockery, and you arched your back, responding instinctively to his touch and taunting words.

“Would you like me to take it slow? To tell you how beautiful you are?” he teased, his laughter rumbling softly in the air.

Your resolve crumbled as he nipped at your sensitive bud, his hand expertly working the other. “No!” you moaned, your gloved fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, caught in the intoxicating desire in the air.

He growled against your chest, his body pressing forcefully against your legs as they parted to accommodate him. He felt a thrill of compliance wash over you, nearly tempting him to follow through on his suggestion to take it easy.

“More,” you demanded, your fingers tugging insistently at his head, guiding him downward to where your dress had pooled around your waist, leaving your red lace panties tantalizingly exposed.

Sylus grinned at your eagerness, his gaze lingering on your clothed cunt. “God, kitten…” he grunted, pressing his nose against the damp spot on your panties, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks as a thrill of shame coursed through you. “Did you wear my favorite color on purpose?”

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Or did you wear it for him?”

You could only whimper in response, arching your body desperately to bring his face where you craved it most. Instead, a sharp sting greeted your cunt, your eyes widening as a gasp of surprise escaped your lips.

He slapped your pussy again, his expression darkening into a scowl. “Answer me, kitten. Did you get all dolled up for him?”

You clenched around nothing, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a deeper need within you. “No,” you whimpered softly. “It wasn’t for him.”

In an instant, he tore your panties away, his mouth descending on your cunt, his tongue skillfully lapping at your folds. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulder, sounds of pleasure escaping you uncontrollably as he toyed with your sensitive clit. “Such a sweet pussy,” he grunted against your core, sending shivers through your body. You slid down the chair, his face pressed firmly against you, your lower body lifted almost into the air. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, hoisting your legs over his shoulders as he devoured you.

“Say my name, kitten.”

You felt yourself teetering on the edge, already giving him too much. “N-no.”

His teeth grazed your clit, sending waves of pleasure and frustration coursing through you as he slid one finger against your entrance, teasingly. “No?”

“No.” Your voice trembled, betraying the mix of emotions swelling within you as you neared your release with each stroke of his tongue, yet your stubbornness held firm.

“Very well, then.” In an instant, his mouth was gone, leaving you feeling cold and exposed as he stood to his full height.

“What…?”

Sylus leaned over you again, delivering a sharp slap to the side of your breasts that made you squirm and gasp. “This is my zone. My side of the board. Here, you either play by my rules and win, or you go against me and lose.” His voice was low and commanding as his hand reached down again, sliding two fingers inside you, curling them to find your sweet spot. “What will it be, kitten?”

By this point, your entire body felt like it belonged to someone else. “Please…” Your voice was laced with desperation, the plea spilling from your lips, unrecognizable even to you.

“Please what? Just say it, sweetie,” he urged, a teasing glint in his eyes.

His fingers quickened their pace, and your legs trembled under the mounting pleasure, each mewl that escaped your lips a symphony to his ears. “So—Oh my god… S-so close.”

The moment he sensed your walls beginning to clench around his fingers, a satisfied smile crept across his face, and you returned it through a haze of bliss—until you felt him start to withdraw.

Your hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist with a desperate grip, pulling him back toward you. “Sylus!” you cried, your stomach twisting in knots as sweet release threatened to crash over you.

“Sylus, yes, oh my god, yes…” You were barely coherent, the words tumbling from your mouth, but Sylus grunted, his pants taut against his rock-hard cock.

“That’s it… That’s it, sweetie, I know. Drench my fingers; they’re all yours.” He moved with an urgency that took your breath away, thrusting deeply inside you, sending shivers through your entire body as you rode the wave of your climax.

You panted, your chest rising and falling heavily. As the haze began to lift, your mouth fell open in awe, watching Sylus suckle on his fingers, his eyes glowing with satisfaction as he savored your essence.

A fresh wave of slickness coated your folds, and Sylus cursed under his breath as he stood, taking you with him. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your bare, wet cunt smearing against the fabric of his pants, leaving a tantalizing mess.

The coarse material of his attire heightened your senses, making your body arch in his arms as you ground your hips down, chasing that blissful friction.

“So eager…” he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin before he nipped at your earlobe. “And so fucking wet.” He strode toward his desk just a few feet away, easing you onto your feet. “I’m going to devour you.”

In one swift motion, your belly pressed against the polished surface of his mahogany desk, your body bent over, your ass perfectly positioned for him. He didn’t allow you a moment to breathe before two sharp slaps landed on your cheeks, your body jolting forward in response.

Your moans filled the air, driving him wild, and the way your back arched instinctively shattered any semblance of his control.

You heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper, and a thrill raced through you as his cock was freed from its confines, teasingly brushing against your entrance.

Turning your head over your shoulder, your eyes fell on him, and a rush of desire coursed through you. He was enormous, his veins prominent and pulsing, the tip glistening with precum that trickled down, landing directly on your cunt.

“Sylus…” You brought his attention back to you, and the look on your face made his brows knot slightly in concern.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” he asked, his voice thick with lust yet surprisingly calm. “Do you want me to stop?”

You placed your hand lightly against his abdomen, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, and shook your head. “No, it’s just…” Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, almost mirroring the color of his eyes. “It’s not going to fit.”

Sylus paused, momentarily dumbfounded, before releasing the breath he had been holding along with a low chuckle. “We’re going to make it fit, kitten.”

Skepticism flickered in your eyes, and he noticed.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.” You answered honestly. He had been your rival until now, and you couldn’t fully grasp how your dynamic had shifted to this moment, you bent over his desk, spread  and exposed.

He grinned, shaking his head in amusement. “You shouldn’t.”

In one powerful thrust, he was inside you, and your eyes rolled back in your head as pleasure surged through your body, overwhelming your senses.

“Fuck!” you cried out, but there was no pain—he seemed to know exactly how to plunge into you.

“Shit… You’re so tight,” Sylus growled, his hips slapping against yours as he took you roughly, driving deep against the surface of his desk. “It would’ve hurt more if I’d taken it slow, sweetie.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to speak, but even if he could, you wouldn’t have heard him. Your mind was consumed with the exquisite fullness of his cock filling you completely.

Your eyes crossed as he continued to thrust in and out, your lips parted in a silent gasp, drool escaping the corner of your mouth and trickling down to the polished surface of his desk.

“Cock-hungry little whore,” he grunted, folding his body over yours to penetrate you even deeper. “And you claim you hate me.”

“I d-do,” you managed to moan, your legs trembling from the intensity of the sensations.

“You hate me, yet your sweet cunt is squeezing my cock like it’s her lover.”

Your mewls and whimpers grew louder with each thrust, your head spinning from the overwhelming pleasure. “Sylus…” you moaned his name, urging him onward toward his own release.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“I-I’m… s’close. So so close.” Tears were welling up in your eyes, and Sylus moaned deeply behind you as he felt your cunt squeezing him, clenching around him like he belonged there. Because he did. 

His hand shot up, wrapping around your throat as he kept pounding you from behind, his whole desk shaking from the force of his thrusts. You were sure a bruise would form on your abdomen where it made contact with the wood. 

Your eyes rolled as he applied more pressure, making it difficult for you to breathe. “Such a pretty kitten…” He moaned in your ear. “And now she’s collared. As she should be.”

Your orgasm broke through you with a new force, the tears escaping your eyes and your cries lulling Sylus to fall on his own release right after you.

“Fuck.” He moaned, his teeth clamping down on your shoulder. Rope after rope of cum filled your cunt, his thighs shaking slightly from behind you as he emptied himself inside you. 

You were so overstimulated and sensitive by your encounter when Sylus caught his dripping cum from your thighs and pushed it right back in.

Your legs threatened to give out, your mind clouding the moment he began to fill you with his seed once more. “Such a pretty cunt, used and bred by me,” Sylus murmured, his voice low and possessive. “What will your boss say when my kids are running around his base, huh?”

You weren’t even aware of how or when it happened, but suddenly you were moaning his name, sweet and desperate, as you drenched him once again. This time, the force of your release was blinding, your vision fading to a brilliant white.

Confused, you turned to see Sylus, his abdomen glistening with your essence, his fingers slick and dripping as he stared at you with a manic edge in his eyes.

“Oh my God…” Heat rushed to your cheeks as the realization of what you had just done washed over you. “I’m sorry… Sylus, I’m—”

Before you could finish, his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, forcing you back into position as you tried to shrink away from his gaze. “Kitten…” His voice was taut, barely contained. “We’re not leaving this room until you do this again.”

[bangtanshelves]

JJK Fanfic Recos

Hi. These are some of the fanfics I've read.

I've read A LOT but I'll only be including the ones I really enjoyed reading.

I'm in the process of recollecting them, please bare with me.

I'm also updating this post often, so whenever I end finishing a fic I like I just post it here. hehe

💓 - Fluff ❤‍🩹 - angst 🥵 - smut 🚨 - violence/drugs 🤪 - crack ⭐ - fav 🎣 - latest addition to the list

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚. SERIES ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚.

My Love is Here - @/solemnreads

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹 (so much angst, I love it), 🥵 summary: "You didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s not like you purposely woke up one day and thought “Hey I’m going to fall in love with my best friend!” No, that is not at all what happened."

Knife's Edge - @/readyplayerhobi

Completed ✅

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵, 🚨 The Jeon Clan is Family, built on blood and loyalty. It’s been an unspoken fact that one day you will marry the heir to the Clan, Jeon Jungkook. You would be a fool to deny that you love him, but what happens when you meet a blue haired man who offers you a chance at normality?

Four Seven Eight - @/jiminrings

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹 (fic made me cry) ,🥵 you’re secure when it comes to loving jungkook, knowing that your husband loves you beyond words. what you aren’t so secure about is his first love — someone who isn’t you.alternatively, jungkook’s married to you, but he still celebrates his anniversary with his ex out of sentimentality.

Close to you - @/muniimyg

Completed ✅ ⭐

genre: 💓, 🤪 It should've been easier than this, right?In which oc and Jungkook sleep together and he can't get over it.

Falling Skies - @/fortunexkookie

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. Once upon a time, she had called you her sun and him her moon; it was fitting, given the constant push-and-pull between you two. You used to consider him a friend, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash.

Please Love Me - @/ahunderedtimesover

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 As the only unmarried Jeon and Kim children, your families propose a union to symbolize your unbreakable bond that spans generations. But despite developing an affection for Jungkook growing up, he never returned it; he never seemed to like you, actually. You’re okay with the proposal, but surprise surprise, he isn’t.

Lowkey - @/xpeachesncream

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹, 🥵 In order to pass organic chemistry and pay off your car damages from an accident, all you have to do is help the nerd, Jeon Jungkook, with a few things: pretend to be his girlfriend and teach him the way of dating.

Hotter Than Hell - @/chateautae

Completed ✅ ⭐

Genre: ❤‍🩹, 🥵 Jungkook, Lucifer and king of hell, has been cast out of the crimson underworld for a reason he's unsure of. Embarking on his journey for the answers should've been easy, if it weren't for you, the human that nurses his wounded body in her home, and accidentally witnesses the truth of his identity. Kickstarting a hellish adventure with the devil himself, you discover Lucifer is the most infuriating company ever; and Jungkook finds out that maybe his answer to returning home lies within his annoying human confidant.

An Ode to a Broken Heart - @/smoochkooks

Ongoing... ✍

Genre: ❤‍🩹 (bro I've been crying over this fic for days), 🥵 (future smut)  you’ve watched jeon jungkook slip out of your reach your entire life. now it’s time for you to finally move on, bury the past and open a new chapter. however, you’re doing it in your own, unconventional way - by publishing anonymously a novel about your miserable relationship.

Mutual Help - @/personasintro

Ongoing... ✍ (this is also posted on AO3)

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 (damn... that's all i can say)  in order for you to pretend to be his girlfriend, he helps you with your sexual desires ⏤ he calls it mutual help

Way Back Home - @/solemnreads

Ongoing... ✍

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹 (please i really love angsty fics, fite me), 🥵

"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is" he asks you with tears in his eyes. You look down at the sight of your son with an oxygen mask on his face while your daughter is sleeping on the couch near the wall. You look into his eyes, broken, and sad. You've dreamt of this day for years, wondering how he would react. But here you are, hoping he could've meet the twins under different circumstances. "Yes... they're your children."

Strawberry Kisses - @/pixieknj

Ongoing... ✍

Genre: ❤‍🩹, 🥵 (Chapter 1 has been posted, but its something else) Jungkook is notoriously known as a f^ckboy who doesn’t eat p^ssy, until he finally gets alone with you…

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚. ONE-SHOTS or TWO-SHOTS ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚.

The Right Choice - @/honeytae

Genre: 💓 for as long as you've known Jungkook, you would think that you're witnessed all sides of him. But when you notice the way he's looking at you right now, you think you may be wrong about that.

Rainy Days - @/rklve

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 Your life choices left not only yours, but Jungkook's hear broken in pieces. Now you're back in town, and just like Pluto, even if its cold and dark he tends to orbit around his sun forever.

High Demand - @/bunnyhugs77

Genre: 💓, 🥵, 🚨 A modern day Romeo and Juliet

SOJU - @/hoseoksluna

Genre: ❤‍🩹,🥵 Jungkook gives you all that he has—his feelings, his dominance and his cum.

Lost & Found - @/kooktrash

Genre: ❤‍🩹 (if you squint), 🥵 your college years have never been something you dwelled on for too long. you didn’t want to think of all the chances you lost and that’s why when the guy you had a crush on moves back to town, you try not to let it affect you again. but then he brings up old memories that didn’t go the way you thought they had and you’re thrown for a loop. you’re stuck between finding something new with him and falling back into old habits of never standing up for yourself. it probably doesn’t help that he dated your best friend, where everything seemed to go wrong.

Bottle Up Old Love - @/wintaerbaer

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 Jungkook may have broken up with you a year ago, but that's not going to stop him from coming to your rescue when he sees you being cornered by a creep.

Pink Sapphire - @/jiminrings ⭐

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹(please I'm a sucker for this) ,🥵 Having Jungkook as a husband is great as far as arranged marriages could go; he's easy to love. Your relationship's perhaps become so easy that Jungkook doesn't think sometimes— and that's what makes it the easiest for you to hate him.

Will it fit? - @/jeonsweetpea

Genre: 💓, 🥵, 🤪, ❤‍🩹 (just a little bit) So what if your roommate caught you masturbating? At least he forgot about it the next day. But he can't exactly forget the big dildo you left in your shared bathroom...

Break up with your Boyfriend - @/spideyjimin

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 Jungkook, the campus fuckboy, has decided to make you his next victim, but you're far from being like any of his previous hookups. You're not single. You're actually in a very long-term relationship with Baekhyun, the man you consider the love of you life, but it's for sure something that won't stop Jungkook. He wants you, and he's going to do absolutely everything to have you, even falling in love.

Paint me naked - @/gimmethatagustd

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹,🥵 After the mysteriously hot guy in your university class starts taking an interest in you, should you really trust that he's not like all the other college fuckboys? Especially when his best friend is the guy who broke your heart?

I hate you, I love you - @j/ungblue 🎣

Genre: ❤‍🩹,🥵 You hated him at seven, warmed up to him at twelve, and liked him at fifteen. Now the two of you are twenty years old and inseparable best friends... and you're absolutely in love with him; he's in love too—just not with you.

How to Get a Guy - @/taeshobipop 🎣

Genre: 💓, ❤‍🩹, 🥵 Star basketball player Jeon Jungkook has a reputation as the ultimate fuckboi. He's loved by everyone. Everyone. And you would have followed suit if he had not broken all your strict Roommate Rules™ within the first week of his stay. Jungkook, on the other hand, thinks you're absolutely bizarre. But there's a silver lining— Mr. Fuckboi here knows basketball captain Min Yoongi, your dreadfully clueless crush. He strikes up a deal with you: he'll teach you the ways of flirting if you lessen your load of rules (so Jungook can continue persuing his way through the ladies on campus). Yet the longer Jungkook spends with you, the more he realizes that maybe he doesn't want to tbe the campus fuckboi anymore. The problem is, how does he prove that to you?

[astralnymphh]

SEXROT 𖤐 | ellie williams

☠︎︎࿐-ˊˎ jackson!ellie x fem!reader

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

✧˖ ° 🕯 bright blessings!

AN: second fic ever published, it took sm longer but has more focus on the smut part of it. maybe the epilogue is a bit more casually written but its whatevs y'all def just here for the smut anyway. but(t) i hope u enjoy!! cause i sure did!! various times.

cw/tags: NSFW 18+ MDNI, smoking weed, getting high, friends to lovers, flirting, killing infected, guns, knives, blood description, replaces the jackson patrol scenario, spitting, dom leaning ellie, fingering (receiving, vaginal) clit stim (receiving and giving-ish) strap penetration (receiving, vaginal) oral (receiving) petnames (babe,baby,babygirl,princess) almost caught naked tewgether 😈(not in the act)

WC: 6.6k+

designated song: anesthesia- type o negative

synopsis: you have resided in jackson for about six months solo in a humble cabin only a stroll away from the lively community plaza. ellie introduced herself to you two months ago on the full lunar night of a bonfire and have proved inseparable ever since. both of you had a couple things in common upholding your friendship but lots of new experiences arise from beneath those shared interests. one day, you and ellie embark on the scheduled patrol for that afternoon, plowing through scattered clusters of infected inhabiting dilapidated buildings lost in the past. presently, after trudging the pearly snow and eluding the raging snowstorm, tucking both of you into a lone library sitting amongst those very buildings, brimmed with a 'herby' mystery.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Your uneasy fingers grasp the rustic steel door handle, deprived of the haven sourced on the summit of your horse's saddle minutes prior to entering this enigma of a building. Not a soul has settled within these walls for a considerable stretch of time and it shows, dust cloaking the floor, a void pooling in various corners of each room, the stuffy and still air clogging your senses and peculiar noises erupting from either your mind or physical reality. You roll the knob and push the loose door open, hinges creaking untimely with the lingering presence of a clicker revealing itself with the infamous croaks emitting from its fungal body.

Ellie is close behind, poised over your crouched shoulder with hawk pupils scanning the room you've just discovered. Her hand nudges you and deviates your focus from the room, honing on what she was mouthing in empty words.

"Watch my back, I'm gonna sneak up on it." 

You nod subtly in accordance, flattening your back against the icy door to make a path for her.

Ellie extends her gloved hand out on the doorways trim, shuffling on crouched legs past you and into the pigsty of an office, steadily approaching the mindless croaking clicker.

Your fingers seize the pistol sheathed in its thigh holster, provoking the trigger with dual fingers ready to fire a round right in the clickers noggin if need arises. The creaky chatter cracking from the fungoid continues as Ellie creeps upon its obliviousness, pouncing timely and capturing it in headlock as she fluidly jabs her switchblade into its rigid neck, spewing crimson blood outwards that painted her sleeve quite disgustingly.

"Uck," she conveys, face contorted with sourness.

Stillness remains until the coast proves clear, giving you a chance to address, "All good, no more infected." 

"Well, it's about fucking time!" she heaves the figurative indent of edge from her tense chest, flicking off strings of blood from her winter sweater.  "Think this doors' unlocked?" She queries herself prior to twiddling with the rattling door knob of a possible exit.

Your wandering eyes uncover the roughly concealed red and grey steel box, internalizing instantly that it was a generator, "Hey, 'Williams', there's a generator." you make known to Ellie, who's not even facing it.

She turns around, "Where there's a generator, there's a hideout. We could use the supplies, so.." she sauntered over to the generator, folding her knuckles around the pull-tab, "Hope they don't mind us borrowing- also, don't call me by my last name!" 

You snort a genuine laugh and ogle the way Ellie cranks the cord, arm so stable and fierce. You felt like a bumbling idiot for admiring her mere movements, but something under the skin pined for her in a way unfathomable at first glint. Her cinnamon dotted cheeks, badass scar slanting in her brow, fluorescent fauna irises, button nose and the sheer nerd that she was really spun the tide coalescing within your tenuous heart. On the other hand, her mannerisms, thrumming husky voice and attitude frets the knot in your pelvis beyond a fixing point you can't manage alone.

"C'mon, lights are on in here." Her voice snuffs the ramblings clogging your brain, grasping your attention towards the door swinging open just now.

You stare into her pupils barreling into you, now twisting a impishly curious visage.

"What'chu thinking about?" 

Your eyes flicker, "Nothing." A clod draws from your tense gullet, gulping the trance that bewitched your susceptible mind.

"Doesn't look like 'nothing'." She prys with a low gravelly tone, waddling languidly towards you.

"Nothing." You pursue vaguely, dusting past Ellie in a swift pace.

She just gawks at you, thin grooves in-between her knitted brows while she swung her head round to trail her eyes after you. Admittedly, she entertained the stray thoughts of you mutually, as the living recreations of you are sunken into her journals pages habitually. Her wrist recalls every arch and convex of your face, fingers honor the sway of your eye shape, subconscious retains the wisping of your baby hairs and consciously, Ellie just knows you as 'cute girl'. That very title is etched under the whole lot of depictions reaping your glamor throughout her journal.

"You think Eugene used this place too? I mean, all this electrical shit, nobody'd tinker with it except him." She infers, reverting to the eased doorway you just proceeded through.

Your void mind instantly heeds the flurry of wired veins branched across the next room. Your eyes trace the river of cords until it vanishes between the wall and a peculiar bookcase. Illumination pummels through the frayed wood planks backing it, luring your mind towards this enigma.

"Yo, check this out." You hoist an observation aloud, Ellie's umber auburn head whirls to peek at your discovery.

"What the fuck?" An airy chuckle grates from her throat in awe, peachy lips ajar and nooks of her mouth flexing into a smirk.

You lend your weight upon this bookcase, plateauing to drive the colossal bookshelf from where it's planted. "Ugh, a little help?"

Ellie giggles at your measly endeavor to motivate the shelf, that dumb wide crescent grin bearing upon her spread lips, "Got no muscles or something?" she quips.

"Shut up!"

She caves in and assists you regardless, moseying around and towering over you, casting a dark specter across your body. It was a casual stance, but quivers your beating core nonetheless. The noise of scratches indenting underneath the hefty bookcase as it drags screeches in your hollow eardrums.

"There." Ellie claims hoarsely, whooshing her breath against your bare neck and scoring numerous hairs to plumb from your skin.

Shaking it off, you embark through the threshold, eyes tunneling upon a downward staircase beckoning you to traverse to its descendant level.

"Tch, did Eugene own a sex dungeon?" Ellie immaturely cracks, scurrying down the steps faster than a dog could.

"I hope. That dude was lonely." You jest back in emphasis, earning a gust of laughter past Ellie's lips.

"Think we'll find scary whips and chains in there?"

"Oh my god, Els! I don't think he was into that kinda stuff." You hop a step, springing upon her and jabbing your stiff knuckles into her unalerted shoulder blades playfully.

"Ouch! It was only a theory." her voice curves in defense, sowing her feet flat after the last tread of stairs. 

You tumble your eyes accompanied by a sigh, beating her to the door and pushing it open to a sight your noses realistically should have detected a floor above. Least of all ambrosial, the fetid source birthed from a garden of weed, some potted, some dangling, lots cascading over the steel tables, essentially, a fuck ton of herb.

"Unholy shit!" You expound with starstruck pupils, molting away the playful exterior you harbored just moments ago and cast an astonished visage.

"Did he grow.. all of this?" Ellie doesn't grapple with the notion of it right away, but soon materializes it in her cranium and wanders over to a pot of the dried sage green herbage.

"Must've taken ages.." you pondered, plucking a brittle leaf off its hunched stem, chafing it to ash between the pads of your glove-clad digits, "And a day.." you slyly add in regards to the weeds dehydrated state.

Ellie stupidly grins in reaction to your joke, baring teeth and all. She strides past arrays of trays, rustling the herbs strung up to the ceiling. Her eyes land upon an obscure shape, alluring her to inspect the properties of this object. She erupts, "It's a gas mask bong." cradling the mask in her hands, infatuated by its genius design.

"In what situation would you even use that?" you doubt it's anything more than plain goofy.

"Emergency relief?"

"Of course you'd know how."

"Hey, I don't smoke that often!" she wards in a pitched tone, scoffing at your mere belittling.

You reel back into a searching mode, lurking among the next isle of weed till a glass jar of blunts enlightens you. "Ellie, there's a jar of this shit!" 

"Oh for real?" she trots hastily to your region, bearing a vivacious fever at the sight beholding a for real container of rolled blunts.

"Think it's fresh?"

Ellie hums an 'I dunno', cusping the jar from your hands and wrenching the lid with all her might, not budging at all. It takes her a blur of tries, observing the way her thick brows purse together and summon those vertical grooves in her forehead, an attractive sight to you.

"You need help?" you mock her, unzipping and unsheathing your arms out of the slim fitted sleeves fashioning your winter jacket.

"No, I got it." Ellie assures with a cluster of uncertainty smothering her strained voice. She had to practically arch over and bound the jar to her abdomen for faltering pressure.

"Gimme that." you snatch the glass from her dense grip, garnering a doubtful sneer skipping her lips.

"Like you'll get it." 

"You shouldn't be talking." you dart a wink.

Ellie flits a smug middle finger like the immature fiend she is, peeling the green jacket layering her pewter grey hoodie off. She tosses it astray to the ground, lurking towards a convenient couch and relaxing her butt against the nook of its armrest.

The lid refuses to subdue to your firm grip, feebly slipping and searing an exasperated groan gritting your teeth. Your instincts flash and wills an arm up to hurl the jar harshly against the stone ground, pulverizing the glass into countless shards.

"What, the fuck, is wrong with you?" Ellie halts at every syllable, gesturing with her palms like a shield to the jagged fragments.

"A lot."

Ellie gives a judgey once-over at your unbothered demeanor, hiking off the couch and crouching down to cautiously pinch a freed blunt from the debris, feathering the dust off and indulging a whiff held to her nostrils, "Smells good." she asserts, hoisting up and offering the joint to you.

"We' taking a detour?" you metaphorize, rotating the blunt like a wheel between your fingertips.

"We're trapped." Ellie educed a reminder wary of the billowing snowstorm that proved risky to tread earlier.

"Totally trapped." 

You both take harbor on the buffered sofa, bodies naturally vis-à-vis, a sheer four feet apart. Flicking the lighter cap open, plucking the tab and igniting the pocket flame whilst keeping your keen eyes on Ellies, who's piercing the windows to your soul with those juniper rings.

Ellie studies your face brazenly, locked on your profile as you kindle the blunt casually, lodging it between your lips to inhale a drag. Her optics tear an awkward barrier in the vacant space between you, now bidding a tension on the horizon. This makes you feel, seen, read like a poem, one that Ellie read often, and adored endlessly. Weed scorches the walls of your throat, eliciting a cough to spasm from your tight chest.

"Gah- fuck!" The spasmodic fit weaves through your distress, extended arm begging for Ellie to nab the source of your rasp from your jolting hand.

She snickers in belittlement at your expense, that dorky toothful smile crooking her rosy lips, "First time?"

"No."

"Liar." 

"You'll never know." 

Ellie's grin broadens prior to catering the blunt to her lips, pursing around the tip to drain a puff into her barren lungs. You take a gander at this sight, melting in the dimensional image of her woody auburn hair veiling a halo around her hung head, perking up to huff a thick smog enveloping you.

"What happened- last night, at the dance?" 

"You mean, with Dina?" she passes the blunt back, fingertips mingling a moment.

A hesitant drag soothes your lips, "Yeah, if you're uh- fine telling." Luckily, a cough doesn't plague you.

Ellie's cheeks lift a smirk, "It was a.. wild night. Dina.. kissed me and then Seth went bigot mode and said a not-so-nice word."

"Oh, shit." your brows rear and carve horizontal creases to your forehead, "You good?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just.. on edge. This helps though." she beams, nicking the smoldering blunt from you.

You couldn't divulge if she referred to you or the weed being her beacon of ease, but you dust off the thought. "So, you and Dina?" you inquire in a flirty mimic.

"N- it's.. just a kiss. She was drunk, I'm not gonna look into it- it doesn't mean anything." she stutters in a flustered haze.

Drawing some smoke in, then puffing it out, a smile invites itself on her pooling red midface and hijacks your attention.

"Why' you blushing then?"

"I'm not fuckin- fuck." Ellie's embarrassment stinges the sight of her smile as she flicks her head away, a cute sight to you that warrants your rising feelings at this moment.

"I think it's more than a kissss~" your tone curls playfully, nagging at Ellie's rattled state.

"You're on thin ice."

"A crimes' been committed, someone stole your heart!"

"I will come over there and fight you, no joke!" 

"Ellie's got a girl-" 

Out of the void, she has you pinned by the wrists under her clammy palm, sinking into the padded seat beneath you, auburn bang drooping like a pendulum over your face with the barely existing space between your faces. Senses plagued from the way gravity lashed out of you and hallucinogens deceived you, burrowing and growing like mold in the foggy vale of your skull.

"I don't have a girlfriend," Ellie utters through a sluggish jaw. "yet."

Your mind makes out an elusive meaning to her words, "You don't like Dina.."

Her lips calcify ajar, hot breath seeping into your buzzing skin, "It's someone else."

"Me?"

Her eyes waver, but strike up, "Yeah." she admits in a soft chuckle, wedging her thigh between your shut ones cunningly. You swear her pupils dilate like a supermoon.

A euphoric orb rings inside of your essence, thickening your veins and coating a cloak of boiling heat over your swelling hips wailing for a fucking when her voice brims your ears. This weed has really got your mind and panties in a pleasant twist. The confirmation of her liking- love? Maybe it's too soon, but it sure confirms your hidden suspicions.

"I think we needa get back to your place." Your words weigh heavy with intention.

"Fuck yeah we do." Ellie aligns with your suggestion, gnawing her tender lips with intention as well.

You both hustle off the tearing couch now tinted with a lustful sweat, not paying an ounce to sliding a coat on or gloves prior to, but not without pilfering some lone blunts scattered upon the floor, mounting your horse and galloping off.

☆

The warmth of Ellie's garage-shed-home drinks you up graciously, biting back the bone-chilling skull-screaming fever of the merciless ice age outdoors. The locked door affirms you won't be bothered, so your nerves settle and excitement brews deep in you. A new heat bonds with your body physically, Ellie embracing you cordially and her face dominates your vision.

"We're here." Her husky voice streams pleasantly, "What now?" 

A chill races your spine, replying in a stutter, "L-let's do this on your bed." You heave out with desire, digging your nails into her hoodie-clad back.

Ellie descends slightly to tuck her hands under your knees, buckling you around her hips snug and lodging her crotch against your heat, the rivet of her jeans poking the valley of your clothed cunt, earning a choked whimper bearing pleasure. The ensuing moment, you're cast onto the cottony bed with Ellie crawling over you, latching her plump lips on your bare neck and peppering your neck with prompt and sloppy nibbles.

"You want this? Cus' I really want this~" her words muffle in the crook of your jaw. "But d'you?" she intoned against your ardent skin, hips bucking and rolling the lump of her denim into your clit, causing you to bear down and grind back in chase of those lovely whits of ecstasy.

"I want it.. so bad.." the tension piling since the couch at last reprieves through every respite and roll of her hips.

Bodies chafing together at Ellie's intended friction, more importantly, knee now rutting against your aching clit stirs a kugelblitz in the cavern of your pelvis. Ellie peeks her face over yours, tucking the apex of her nose aside before rolling her lips on yours with passion, smacking sounds filling your headspace.

"I've liked you for so long, yknow?" Ellie affirms on your lips, "I wanted you for so long."

The pure carnal burn tickles your skin, bubbling a sinful image behind your eyes and mouth ardent to bite down on her bottom lip in hunger.

"Fuck, babe-" Ellie breaks the kiss briefly to utter, dazed vision, via her arousal, tunneling into yours with wide pupils.

You grin, prying your thumb between your teeth in a way that appeals to her. A hand traverses your body and toys with the hem of your shirt before lurking under and grasping your bra-clad breast fondly.

"Ahh~" your voice creaks when her thumb shimmies under the bra and plays with your fervent buds.

"Like that?" Ellie's tone dwells with honeyed lust, so sweet yet so intoxicating.

Lips polarize together and spark a continuous blossom of arousal, soaking the panties and coating a flim on the denim in a portal shape. Bound by a sluggish spell, your limp arm snakes over your torso, fingertips stroking Ellie's forearm and folding under the rim of your shirt to pull it off, exposing bare skin lush with blemishes and scars, trailing along with your jeans almost torn off in a rush.

"Damn." Ellie's airy chuckle riffs in your head, prefacing a long flirty whistle.

"Stop.." A blush bruises your midface, darting away from her intense stare that crowds you with a shy rotation of your head.

"Hey, look at me." Her fingers forcep your chin, reeling your head back to drown in her sights like a gentle whisper of adoration, "I wanna make you feel good.." her words cruise in a promising melody.

That very declaration screws your core in delightful ways, waxing a breaking sweat over your already humid exterior, interior when it refers to something else.

A notion murmurs akin to a soft hollow echo betwixt your temples, ushering your body to motion. Your hands spring to clasp her unaware wrists, tussling her over and straddling her hips.

"Woah, okay. This works." Her lips spread to an exalted smile, palms perched on your thighs and digits prodding the viscose skin wrapping the crests of your hips, reading every stretch mark with her finger pads which adorns a satisfied beam to her eyes.

A slew of exhilaration crashes against the walls of your body, grinding that clothed sensitive bud on the ridge of her zipper fly, biting back a riff of moans.

"Lemme hear you." Her hand scales your body, thumb inching past your lips and hooking over your teeth, beckoning it ajar.

"Fuhhhck.." You thrill her with a droning groan, stirring your eager tongue around her thumb and suctioning a kiss around her knuckle as it adjusts beyond your teeth.

"Suck, babygirl." 

Obeying her word, your lips bolt around the root of her thumb, siphoning it further inwards on the plateau of your tongue and casting dozy sex eyes upon her.

"Good girl," Ellie's finger skims out from your teeth, leaving a trail of saliva down your chin.

Your hips wallow over the hill of her bunching jeans, feeling a finger embed and press up onto your clit, damping the tip of her willowy digit thinly and hollowing out a clamor of moans.

"I gotcha this wet?" A brazen smirk glamours her lower face, rousing her own elation with a weighted chafe of her thighs, "Fuck, baby."

A figment of her voice remains like a chant in your smothered mind, calling your eyes to shut and live in every sting of pleasure stimulating you.

"Hmnnn.. mmm~" you purr, unfathomable bliss influencing your actions with every roll of your bud.

"Can I take these off?" her fingertips peruse your pantyline, to which you nod, pleating them down your hips gently once you've granted the okay signal.

Your panties eventually get hurled somewhere in her room, probably dangling from the edge of her TV screens' rim or now invited to the pile of her own laundry, nonetheless, she honed in on your now stripped slit, spreading your legs with her own shuffling first, displaying your bareness split across her open thighs.

"Watch my fingers."

So you do, focused on her gliding hand grazing your thigh in an unhurried manner, coaxing the crevice melding your thigh and crotch before they split and part your folds. She gives you a once-over before dipping into your drenched core, sucking her fingers up like it knew her touch. Her fingers inside prove warm and filling, sliding through your clenched walls with ease and in return rewards you with a drunken and drowsy gaze from her seductive greenhouse glow eyes.

“You take me in so well, shit-” Ellie’s humid mutter seeps into the swirling skin of your temple, close proximity with her heaving chest and the aroma of her natural scent coating the chamber of your skull deeply.

Her skins aflame with an amber luminance and dampening, reeking of carnal ache through her sullied hoodie, so you slur out, “I wann-feel your skin’n mine..” you clutch on the band of her hoodie, knuckles prodding her firm abdomen.

"Fingers not enough?" Ellie's hoarse yet silky voice coos, fingers sliding from your sopping wet cunt and slick glazing her svelte digits beautifully.

"I need all of you." You lean and overshadow her stationary body, hastily pulling her hoodie over her head and ruffling her hair a smidge.

"Mhm, baby?" Ellie reposes her benign palms to your hips, fingernails indenting the plush skin of your ass and inscribing a reddened row of scratches, a daring idea lighting inside her head, "y'wanna sit on my face, pretty girl?" her husky tone thickens.

An answer spurns from your agape lips, instead winding your body to heed her suggestion and climb upwards towards her face, observing the way she bites her pink lips at the sight of your eagerness before your stature projects over her and offers a pleasing sight to her sex-swollen mind.

Your avidness turns her on, admittedly, "Fuck, babe- gonna clean y'up good, okay?"

Her greedy digits resume through your ocean-soaked folds, splitting them apart and sinking three fingers in, fiending for the profound warmth your core provides. They dip in nicely, entrance molding to the shape of her fingers, absorbing every intent feeling her curving knuckles elicit in your throbbing walls and the celestial heavens wash over you.

"Fuck me- oh god.."

"That's what I'm doing.." Ellie sneaks in a playful joke, a crook slanted smile smoothing her lips for a mere moment before swiping it away with her tongue 'wetting the whistle'. Her hunger lives for your taste, colliding timely with your clit and suckling the bud into her pressed lips, simultaneously pumping her fingers into your leaking pussy and forcing a spiking yelp from your unlatched mouth.

"Mmm, Ellie.." you whine, gripping on her already disheveled locks instinctively.

She doesn't reply, too focused on rolling the swelling bud with her nimble tongue flicking endlessly between your delicate folds. An arm buckles over your thigh, elbow adjacent to your hip crest and pinning you further against her deft lapping motions. Ellie knew what she was doing.

The curved fingers coaxing your g-spot sparingly is just enough stimulation to decay your functioning senses, "Els- El..Ellie.." you wail breathless, her tongue prying at the hood of your clit lovingly whilst suctioning inwards sends shockwaves down your legs and into your feet.

Ellie parts from your core, smeared with your slick gleaming down her chin. She sucks in the wetness dripping from her lips, "Tastes so good, babe- mm, so fuckin' hot." she steeps her vision in the perspective of your body elongated before her, eyeing like a precious gem.

You melt in the quickened pace of her fingers inside you, knuckles deep and brimming with arousal overflowing at the base of her fingers. The intense thrusting of your sobbing pussy ejects a melodious line of moans, "Fuuuuck…" masking the tantalizing noises of your heat slapping with Ellie's palm.

"Cum, babygirl, come on.." Her voice husks gravelly, deepening in your skull while numb-fucking you into oblivion with hawk eyes staring up at you.

Lubricous strings lash against your outer folds and inner thigh at each smack her hand endures, her tongue slurping up those juices pooling over your neglected clit adding an extra layer of lust incarnate ramming your walls to be released. Giving in, your nerves flare up and pulse around your opening, limbs tightening and clenching, especially around Ellie's lithe fingers, a sweet pleasure engrossing your entire essence with a rush of fluid spiraling down her knuckles.

"Good fuckin'- that's m'girl.." She growls inwardly against your stuffed cunt, thrumming from her chest igniting that attractive muffled voice she crowns.

You feel her fingers slip out, leaving a hollow sense rooting in your core. A suctioning sound comes from below you, noticing that Ellie had licked the taste of you from her pussy-drowned fingers. 

"God, Ellie.. where'd you learn that?" you huff out, still descending your head from the sun above.

"Experience." She discloses, not a fragment of bluffing behind those proud eyes, relishing in the way she drove you to boundless ecstasy. She announces, "I'm not done yet though." 

You inquire a bumbled facade until you hack her meaning just as she leverages you off her face with dual strong grips setting you to the side. Hoisting onto her knees, spinning 'round to rustle through her nightstand, equipped with a slightly beaten but sealed box once she faces you again.

"Fuck is that?" You ask with knitted brows, curving curiosity in your smirk.

"So, there was this sex store up in-"

"Ellie, is that a dildo?" you poke the box.

"Not- exactly no."

"Bitch, I'm gonna be getting a different kind of infection from that."

"It's sealed! The building was barely ruined or inhabited," She defends, gentle hands rubbing your folded knees. "I just wanna fuck you."

You bob your head languidly, bidding an unwarranted smile on your lips, "You did, though." 

"But I can do so much more.." Her face levitates towards yours, "If you want?" the corners of her mouth jerk, upholding that memorable smile, dimples, nasal lines and all.

"Obviously.. I want it.." your voice rumbles navelly, eyes fix on her pupils, narrowed lids and a siren visage.

"Head on the pillow then, princess." Ellie chuckles, hands mindlessly peeling open the box.

Your fingers linger on your bra, still on somehow, so you brace it off willingly, plopping into the cloudy pillow enveloping your sticky skin with a cotton case creasing like a halo surrounding your head.

Ellie dumps the box's contents out, a thick hunter green mass smacking your thigh, "Shit, sorry." she clasps the strap-on by its buckle, leading it off your thigh simultaneously to giggling.

"How long ago did you find that box anyway?"

"Like.. a month or two?" her voice curves, unsure.

"So, you've been planning this for 2 months?"

"I've liked you longer than that."

"Oh?"

"I didn't plan it, I just.. had the stray thought." Ellie's cheeks churn in a red tint, "But I always think of you, fake dick or not."

"It's fine, I wanted you for a while too, so it's mutual." you sync a blush, anticipating the hazy lust to clamor within you again, "Thought of you too."

A mischievous grin carves on her lower face, light eyes squinting, "Like, in bed-"

"Get that damn thing on already."

"Yes, ma'am!" Ellie resumes her motions, tearing the rest of her under garments off in a pinch, bare alongside you. She fastens the strap on snug, jabbing into her untended clit that jams a groan out of her diaphragm.

"Neglected a bit?" you tease.

"Shut up." she hushes in a honeyed mumble, slouching slightly and grasping the mimicked shaft, spitting into her unoccupied palm and massaging the length graciously, "There we go.." she hums deeply.

Next thing, Ellie's hoisted your bottom between her thighs and legs hugging her hips loosely, seconds away from cramming the entire base into your over-sensitive pussy. She runs the tip through your delicate folds, sloshing the lewd slickness around which is music to your ears. Her eyes darted over to capture yours, withholding the appetite for one last affirm of consent; "Ready babe?"

"Mhm." You nod with zero hesitation, squirming your hips in timidness for what might be brought upon your foggy senses.

Ellie leans her body over you, sinking the tip between your slippery walls and gauging you in one quick swing of her hips. 

"Fuck!" Bliss clogs your throat but overdrive knots in your pelvis, implanting your bottom deeper in the sheets as a means of reprieving the inferno of overstim just slightly.

Ellie lends you a moment of adjustment, asking in a silky tone, "Can I start moving?" her face a breath away from yours, arms like pillars locking you between her hands.

"Please.." you secure your legs around her hips, nicking her in the butt with the heel of your foot playfully, "fuck me.."

Ellie's muscles tense in excitement, fierce craving looms in her face and her hands run down to grip your hips in a carnal fashion as she sinks you deeper on her base, uttering under a hush, "I'll fuck the shit out of you."

Following that, you embrace her close to you as her hips begin to crash against yours slowly, akin to a wave, hollowing and filling as she pumps her hips flawlessly. 

Tickling whimpers purring from your lips linger around the base of her ear, encouraging her to speed up slightly, chromatically raising the pitch of your pleasure, "Els…" you whine.

The strap jerks back at every thrust, chafing with her sensitive clit in provoking ways that draw out steamy breaths from her every moan. Friction beguiled her to pace faster, digging the straps base into her bud deeper, heaving a "Fuck, baby, fuck!" from that groggy voice as your hips knead together, her fingernails scraping your plush bottom instinctively.

You cast your head back towards the headboard, displaying a tidal of curses surfing from your throat at the top of cloud nine, "Yes! god.. harder.." 

"Say my name.." 

"Els-E-Ell.." you struggle as your voice gets smothered by every buck her hips produce.

"Come on.. you can do it." she motivates you in a sugary sweet coo.

"Ellie!" you wail, "Ellie.." 

"Good girl."

Ellie snaps and throws her torso up, clutching your tender hips and slamming them down on her eased cock, front slapping harshly against your bottom with aiding wetness splayed across your legs, her face contorting one of strain at the sheer intensity her speed proves to be.

"Mm, fuck!" You writhe in erotic contentment, stunned by the pure sensations sweeping your nerves and swirling around your pelvis, she's fucking you so good, your minds' all mush.

Ellie bites back her ceaseless rasps, riveted on the way your breasts bounce restlessly with every pound, bewitched by the sight and honestly almost drooling since her mouth was just open. She groans, "You gonna cum again? Hmm?" her thrusting falters and begins to get sloppy, out of breath.

"A-huh! Hmmnn.." your vision blurs and you fall into a dizzying spire, fucked out of your mind and on the verge of snapping.

"Yes.. yess.." Ellie mewls out, the dark amber strand sticking to her drenched forehead, emanating a beautiful glow across her body that weaved every groove her toned muscles bestowed, highlighting her drooping lids, agape mouth and taut forehead creasing when fucking felt just right.

All the feelings bubble up, the strap hitting your g-spot so perfectly, fogging your mind and tossing your coordination out the window. She descends her head towards your neck, sanguine bites lathered upon your shoulder and crook of your neck.

"Ellie- I'm gonna.."

"Me too." She huffed out, slamming your hips down in unison with her movement, a sheet of slick glazed between both of your crotches causing a wet slap to occur with each thrust, "Open up more, babe." her hands trail to your thighs, forcing them apart .

"It's s'fhukin g-mmm.." your voice slurs and cuts off.

"Shhhshh… shh.. I know.." her lips drag against your ear, prideful eyes drowning in your fucked out face, proud of her work. 

The swelling knot in your pelvis finally snaps, sending you quivering in her arms. Lewd moans clatter against the rooms walls, orgasm overwhelming your systems and gyrates your brain on a down spiral. Muggy sweat cloaks your entire body and hinders a steady breath from grazing your lungs.

Ellie's pelvis doesn't hesitate to halt, colliding with yours and rendering your already fried senses into a numbing and jittery state. She chases her own climax, hosting a melody of moans into your ears as she approaches release, "Fuck~ fuck fuhhckk.. babe." she squints harshly, driving her clit into the strap's base fiending for release.

"Els.." you whine, bracing the eruption of overstim.

"Just hold on, baby, hold'n.. uhh- fuck." Ellie's neck tightens and narrows her voice into a groan, gripping your wrist with a might to bear down her intense orgasm, sexy low growls thrumming from her chest. Her body falls flat on you in immediate exhaustion, burrowing the strap deep inside at a pause.

A laugh entrances you, "Felt good, hmm?"

"I should be asking you.. shit.." Ellie's chest rises sporadically against you as she syncs a giggle, sliding her hips away and taking the strap off without batting an eye so she could pepper you with smooches enraptured in a cuddle.

"It was good.. really fuckin' good."

Your reply seeps into her mind, inviting a sheepish smile to her face, "So.. does this mean, you'll be my… girlfriend?" a chuckle spurts out to clear any awkwardness.

That same pre-sex shy blush paints your face, replying, "Yeah, hell yeah."

"Okay.. you wanna, stay here tonight?" Ellie suggests with soft yet worn out eyes, fiddling with the hair cascading from your scalp.

"Of course, I don't think I can walk anywhere now." you quip, whisking your finger over her nose tip.

"Yeah.. bet I was better than any guy." She praises herself, beaten fingers tracing shapes on your chest.

"At least you get to choose your size."

"Pfft, you're funny." A brilliant laugh brushes past her lips, with a mellow whisper, "and so pretty." her thumb swipes your cheek.

You wrap your snug thighs enveloping her body, "You too, Williams." 

"Still calling me that? I thought I said-" 

You seal her lips with a prolonged kiss, dragging your lips against hers in a hypnotic passion, getting her to engage in something a bit longer than a lone kiss. She indulges without a second thought, slurping you up and tasting every inch of your-

A knock pounds your hearing and the door, adjourning the steamy makeout for a different time.

The voice behind the knocking calls out, "Yo, Ellie! You in there?" unmasking itself to be Jesse.

"Shit!" she yells, "Be right there!" and scurries off the bed, hunting for her under garments frantically.

You quickly bolt off the bed and swoop your undergarments, nearly toppling over as you shimmy your underwear on hurriedly but fortunate enough to catch your fall with some clamorous foot thumps to the wooden floor.

"What's goin' on in there? You fightin' a runner in there?" Jesse quips, his voice deadened by the walls.

"Ye- No!" Ellie stammers in a rush, managing to yank her jeans up and throw a bland white shirt over it, oblivious to the fact that it was inside-out, seams bulking and tag visible.

You were on the brink of raising a question to Ellie, but bite it back as she swings the door open and you cling to the closet adjacent to but behind the open door, not without a blow from your back against its rattling nature that had Ellie spooked for a split second.

"What're you doing here?" Ellie inquires, crossing her arms to appear unbothered.

"Heard you had quite a night after I left." His voice clarifies, streaming through the open door.

"It-" Her response defects, "She kissed me. Dina being Dina, it doesn't mean anything-"

"Wait, you kissed Dina?" Jesse interjects her reply, voice curving in curiosity.

"Oh, I thought-"

"We're broken up one week and you make a move on my girl?"

"No- She was the one- I don't even.." Ellie corners herself into a distraught state.

"I'm messing with you man, I don't care. I just swung by to tell you Maria switched up the assignments for tomorrow, you're up for more patrol."

"Seriously? I thought I'd get-"

"Hey why's your shirt inside out? Did you really get tangled up with a runner in there?" He jokingly peeks into the room, jolting back when Ellie's forearm bars him out randomly.

"None of your business, I get it now you can go." She sternly affirms, slowly creaking the door closed.

"What'chu hidin' in there?"

"Go!" Ellie strikes the door shut on his face, secretly flipping him off from the opposite site under the knob.

"Unholy fuck-"

"Next time try not to wake the dead with your footsteps!" She snaps back at you through an adorned smile, on edge from the unexpected, interrupting, visit.

"Like I said I can barely walk from your-"

Ellie strides up in a pacey fashion, cradling your head from the back in her palms, linking lips with yours soulfully. 

You press your lips, dawdling with hers and soaking in the taste of breath and flesh. It feels so good to expose your love, animated for her in this moment now, like a singing felicity in your heart. She parts, engulfing you in her olive irises before she croaks.

"Say we.. get back to bed? I wanna show you my drawings.." A sugary murmur trampling her usually husky voice.

"Yeah.." you wriggle your lips in a creeping smirk, leveraging your weight from one leg to the other.

"C'mere." Ellie creaks before tackling you onto the bed, burying you with infinite ticklish kisses along your face, a declaration of unfiltered affection in her lasting intentions.

"Ellie! That tickles.."

"Good."

hope you enjoyed!!! <3

MASTERLIST

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ THE COLOUR RED. featuring yae miko.

↻ yae miko loves staining her dearest darling with her favourite colour.

tags : shibari, implied dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, voice kink, slight hand kink // wc. 0.8k

author’s note : ‘m soooo tired… TT i’ve been trying to cook up a new theme in time for kinktober but my head is empppptttyyyyyy… but never too empty to think about shibari with yae miko!!! this is the only wlw work on here but it’s the one i’m most proud of, so i hope you enjoy it as much as i loved writing it <33 as always, notes and reblogs are much appreciated !! and feel free to check out my masterlist for more of my work if you really liked this.

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

YAE MIKO’s favourite colour is red. it’s a colour she sees every day during her shifts at the narukami shrine, and although some may grow tired of seeing such a vibrant colour every single day, she is one to never tire of it. it represents what she lives and works for, and although purple may seem more fitting due to her affinity with the electro element and its archon, red appeals to her a little more. 

that’s why she’s decided to tie you up in beautiful, winding red ropes, and decorate the smooth skin of your neck with glaring red marks. 

for her, the colour red is much more than just a colour. it’s the colour of her love for you, and as she pulls the crimson rope a tad bit tighter around your chest, she knows that in that exact spot, the red fluid flowing through your veins will come to a stop. 

“does it hurt?” her playful voice turned sultry echoes through the confines of your blurred mind, rendered helpless by the lack of blood flowing to your brain. “make sure to tell me if it hurts, my dear. i don’t want to kill you.”

the position she has you in is nothing short of a work of art. your arms are folded neatly behind your back as you sit on your knees on the futon, staring up at here with nothing but love and lust swirling in your eyes. you nod slowly, and she bares her sharp teeth in a smile, sliding her perfectly manicured hands under your chin and pulling your face up to look at her. 

“this is something i’ve always wanted to try,” she starts, “shibari. i’ve only ever read about it in those erotica novels at the publishing house, but I could never find anyone willing enough to let me experiment with it. i do hope i’ve done it right.”

you suspect she has, given the way the rope rubs against you in all the right places. It rests just shy of your nipples, pulled tight enough so that it doesn’t hurt, but provides just the right amount of pressure to your areolas. the stream of red runs its course under your arms, wrapping around your arms and trailing down your spine until it rests in between your asscheeks, pulling in between your legs and resting against your agitated clit before making its way back between the valley of your breasts. 

it’s beautiful. it’s torture.

it’s downright torturous the way the rope rubs against your clit every time your chest rises and falls with each breath. miko must’ve been crazy to think something like this wouldn’t hurt, because it definitely is, but in all the right ways. “miko…”

“what is it, my flower?” you half expect her to kneel down to your level, but such actions are beyond her prowess, so you settle for craning your neck to look up at her. “are you feeling alright?”

no, you want to scream, but her voice, smooth like butter, slices through your panic like a knife, and suddenly your muscles relax as you give in to the beautiful pain of the ropes straining against your skin. “feels weird, miss…”

ah, yes. you’ve finally let it slip. it didn’t take much to get you to submit, yet here you are now, words tangled like the rope against your flesh as you beg her for even the slightest stimulation. “does it, now?” miko is acting dumb. of course it feels weird, it would for someone experiencing this for the first time. “but i thought i tied the ropes in the right places that make you feel good, my love.”

it does feel good. oh, god, it feels good, so much so that you can’t even muster up a sentence to express it, instead trying (and failing) to rub your thighs together to grasp more of the feeling. 

“ah, ah, ah, my dear,” she chastises, waving one perfectly manicured finger down at you. “the beauty of this…” her finger hooks under the rope tied across your chest, “… is that you barely have to move. relax your muscles. feel it.”

so you listen to her, and you feel it. miko’s fingers trace the knots of the rope carefully, and she watches curiously as your eyes flutter shut and you succumb. it’s such a pretty sight, watching you finally let go, and when she suddenly tugs harshly at the central rope, you lurch forward, body trembling in waves as your orgasm washes over you. 

it’s so much, it’s almost too much, and she only laughs at your quivering form. “humans display such interesting emotions.”

PREVIOUS : FWB ft. a. hayakawa NEXT : BABY MOMMA ft. k. nanami

liked that? check out the WE’RE SO BACK main masterlist.

© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[floofeh-purpi]

Creator x Destroyer. ♡

Sagau! Foul Legacy x Creator! Gn! Reader

『Beloved fluffball/s mentioned below! 💜』

@mc-cos-charm (Thank you for supporting my sagau fatui series Ilysm fluffball :3) @justmare @keirennyx @catratnap @fantasticarcadefan

A/n: My poetic side came out this night.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

• The world thrummed with discord, a harsh dissonance echoing in the very fabric of Teyvat. As the creator, you felt it keenly - a tremor, a crack in your creation.

• Locating the source, you found yourself hovering above a desolate landscape ravaged by a crimson storm. In the swirling chaos, a figure fought with a primal ferocity.

• It was Childe, or rather, Foul Legacy.

• Foul Legacy didn't possess Childe's usual mocking grin. Its face was a mask of cold fury, its movements mechanical, fueled by a raw, destructive power.

• Yet, you saw a flicker, a fleeting moment where the crimson energy seemed to dim, revealing a sliver of blue beneath. Briefly, the eyes locked with yours, a desperate plea flashing within their depths.

• Confused, you reached out, calming the storm with a thought. The world stilled, the crimson fading to reveal a kneeling Foul Legacy, its monstrous form trembling.

• You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. Though destructive, it wasn't inherently evil. It was a part of Childe, warped by his past and the Abyss.

• "Why did you cause such destruction?" your voice resonated in the empty space.

• Foul Leagacy didn't speak, its roars and growls replaced by a chilling silence. You knelt before it, offering a hand.

• "Don't be afraid," you said gently, sensing the turmoil within. The monstrous being hesitated, then hesitantly reached out, a single claw brushing your outstretched palm.

• It was a small touch, but the world seemed to sigh in relief. You felt a surge of warmth, a strange connection to this being.

• It was a connection unlike any you'd experienced with your creations before, almost…affectionate? You dismissed it as your own projection, a desire to understand this part of Childe.

• "You're strong," you admitted, "but strength isn't everything. Perhaps... you could find another way to use your power."

• Foul Legacy seemed to ponder this, then slowly withdrew its hand. It bowed its head, a gesture that surprised you.

• Before you could press further, a surge of energy pulled you back. You reappeared in your sanctum, the echoes of Teyvat's unease a dull thrum in your mind.

• Meanwhile, Childe, stripped of Foul Legacy's power, lay unconscious in his Snezhnayan quarters. When he awoke, a strange feeling lingered - an echo of warmth, a memory of an oh-so tender touch.

• He dismissed it as a fever dream, yet couldn't shake the feeling that he'd interacted with you, the creator. His creator, in some form. A blush crept onto his face, a sensation entirely new and unnerving.

• Oblivious to Childe's internal turmoil, you continued to observe Teyvat, your gaze lingering on Snezhnaya for a moment longer. The strange connection to Foul Legacy puzzled you, but it also sparked a newfound curiosity about Childe himself.

• Perhaps, you mused, there was more to him than just his destructive tendencies.

• Little did you know, your gentle touch had awakened a spark within the Harbinger, a devotion that transcended his human form. As Foul Legacy, Childe would continue to fight, but now, a new purpose bloomed - to be worthy of your touch, to earn a place in the world you created.

♡

Its my 1st time writing smth oike this, have some mercy please—

【Part 2.】

Published: July 21, 2024. 7:02pm.

[midnighvtm4ss]

CRIMSON TRAILS

Summary: In 1898, with the age of outlaws drawing near the end, and the law ready to tear down the last remaining gangs, a mysterious runaway girl, alone and struggling to survive in the ever changing industrialized world, is rescued by the notorious Van Der Linde gang.

Under their protection she must navigate the dangerous life of the outlaw in the dying west, figuring out where her place and her loyalties lie. As the gang begins to crumble under the weight of their crimes, struggling to find their sense of freedom in this new civilized era, she finds herself, by some twist of fate, relying on a certain outlaw to survive as the two are faced with two choices: continue down to a path of revenge and destruction or break the cycle and fight for their redemption.

OR

A story in which John teaches you how to shoot and you aim straight for his heart.

cw: slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, tension, canon-typical violence, mentions of past abuse, no use of y/n, suggestive themes, smut, medium honor john marston, canon compliant, pre-canon, canon, fix-it, slight reader x charles (‘cause i love him so) more tags to be added

a/n: here we goo, a story about our beloved Rip Van Winkle !! this is a project I had in mind for quite some months but always shied away from it. This story will be quite long so brace yourselves it’s gonna be a long ride. I’ll try not to let too much time pass between each update but keep in mind i’m a uni student so it might take some time for certain heavy chapters. Let me know what you think !! and if I should make a taglist. This story will also be published on my ao3

Chapter 1: Running Gun | AO3 link

During a supply run in a nearby town you find yourself ambushed by a group of ruthless bounty hunters. Wounded and desperate you flee, finding refuge in an abandoned cabin, only to find yourself face to face with two outlaws. As your injury worsens you're left with a life or death decision: can you trust these wary men to help you, or will they be your downfall?

[pursuitseternal]

Can I get “Do your worst” for Ascended Astarion x f!tav please? Bonus points if you can get some bdsm in there 🥵

“Do your worst…”

Also now published as: “Choke Me” update for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader | Smut Ask fill

CW: BDSM, collar and leash, breath play, choking, spanking, Elven erogenous zones

It started after dinner, you decided to spend your evening in the library tonight, a roaring fire in the grate and books pressed to your faces. Lounging on top of one another on the couch, you stroke his soft silver curls as he rests his head in your lap.

You can feel his warmth through your thin silk skirt, his fingers tracing the seams of your skirt. His book rests in his hands, propped up on his belly, his back resting between the length of your extended legs.

If you close your eyes and ignore the fact your heart barely beats and your skin is corpse cold, it’s almost as if you’re back in the camp on those long, star-kissed nights. Just you… and your Rogue, curled by the fire in the comfort of his tent.

Every soft ambient sound is identical, the crackle of the fire, the whisper of pages as they turn, the soft wash of breath as he sighs and settles tighter against you.

For that moment, you forget that he is your Sire, the Vampire Ascendant.

You swallow, your throat pulsing against his latest gift, a tight fitting necklace that hugs every sinew of your neck. Black velvet ribbon and shining mithral chains. Costly. Precious. And dear.

Just like you, Astarion had said as he closed it around your neck, adjusting that encrusted ring between the chains just so…

Your fingers fidget with those chains now, the sharp, small metallic sounds making Astarion’s pointy ears twitch. “Enjoying your newest gift, little love?” he purrs, eyes still scanning the page of his book.

But somehow you can feel every tendon and sinew in his body coiling, readying to pounce.

“It’s elegant,” you reply, slipping a finger beneath the heavy chains. “But it is a bit tight.”

“Just tight enough to remind you,” he trails off, eyes flashing their crimson gaze towards you, upside down, before turning back to his page.

“Remind me of what?” you ask, almost absentmindedly, your eyes focused on the next few lines of your novel. You raise its soft little cover up in one hand, the plot thickens the more you read… and you can sense a nice smut scene about to unfold on your pages…

You didn’t hear his low voice through the cover…. Until he clears his throat with a noise, almost a snarl. An unamused one.

“Oh, my darling, please don’t tell me you’re ignoring me for some… fictional romance,” his voice whines in silken tones to shroud his suspicion.

Your heart leaps into your throat as he snaps his book shut. Pale fingers curl over the top of your novel as Astarion pulls it, revealing your now blushing face. White hot shame at being caught colors even your undead complexion.

You look down at him, his face upside down as he lies nestled in your skirts. From this angle, his smile is uncanny, that sly fang-glinting smirk that instantly makes you wet. And by the way his nostrils flare, he can scent it already.

It only makes that insufferable grin twist all the more rakish.

Deft fingers pry your smutty novel from your eager hands, setting it on the expanse of his belly. “I said…” he begins, that tone already low and threatening in the best possible way, “your necklace… your collar is to remind you to whom you belong, my treasure.” He frowns, pouting, at least you think he does, it’s disorienting to look at him topsy turvy on your lap. “Tch, not off to a great or convincing start, little love.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your book… only to have his fingers snap shut around your wrist. He keeps you there, hand suspended in one grip. His other hand reaches slowly to stroke the sensitive flesh of your neck, teasing and dipping beneath the soft ribbon and hard links of your necklace.

Your collar, he called it.

“Ah, ah,” he mocks in that chiding tone. “You haven’t earned your little escapism back yet. You might not ever,” he warns. “You think I’m happy letting your mind dwell on some dashing hero that lives on a page?” He pouts his thick lips before he licks them. “Are my words not enough for you?”

You blush, staring at him teasing at you from the middle of your silken skirts.

“Your blush betrays you, little love,” he purrs. “Seems you need reminding that what you have with me will satisfy you better than any man in your mind.”

“I don’t know,” you can’t help but tease back, “I have a very vivid imagina—”

That last word is swallowed as his fingers find the ring in your necklace and pull.

Hells… that tight little necklace locks around your throat, a steely caress of velvet and precious metal that makes your slow undead pulse pound in your ears. You gasp for air you don’t need, panic setting in regardless.

Astarion gives that low, wicked, rolling chuckle. “Should we test my imagination, darling?” he croons, pulling your collar just a smidge tighter as he sits up. He towers over you, pinning your thighs beneath his legs as he straddles you. “All that reading… I hope you can keep up with what I have planned for you in reality,” he taunts, tugging on your collar on the last word.

Your stomach blazes with need, hot desire running through your veins at breakneck speed. Even though you technically don’t need to breathe, your eyes are wide with the thrill of being controlled, your lungs burn at the foreign sensation of being stifled so thoroughly.

He pulls you by your collar, stopping only once your nose presses against his. That paper bound novel of yours in his hand, he waves it next to your head, pinching its offending existence between his fingers. “Perhaps we can repurpose this as a part of your reminder?”

“Hmm,” you feel bold, invincible, now that you have settled into the dull ache of pain and let it inspire you, making your hungry nerves crave more. “Do your worst…”

“Oh you know me, my treasure,” he growls, lips pressed into your ear, fangs scoring on your neck, “I only give you my very best.”

His rumbling laugh, low in his belly, inundates your senses. Yanking you by your collar, you gulp and gag at the force. Eyes shut from the pain, you slowly realize he’s laid you out over the couch’s arm. Vauguely something metallic clicks behind your head, and it’s only after he pulls you taut, bending you back by your collar do you realize he’s attached something to that ring.

A leash, a simple chain of matching shining bright metal he’s still fishing entirely out of his pocket. The links jingle merrily, your only warning before he pulls it tight. “My pretty consort,” he purrs, “I don’t like to see worry cast so on your face. Fear not,” his warm touch lifts your skirts up to bare your ass, “you are mine.”

The metal tugs your head to the side as he bends down, reverencing your ass cheeks with a few blunt-toothed kisses. Nothing to break the skin. Just enough to make you sigh some strangled moans.

Warm, dexterous digits slide their way beneath the gusset of your underwear to tease out that slick he’s been smelling. “Mmmm,” he purrs, “I hope this is all for me and not from that filthy smut you’ve been indulging in without me.” You hear it, that wet slick of his fingers crooking inside you, aiming for that spot that makes your thighs tremble instantly.

“Now, pet,” he sniggers at the moniker, easing your leash to give it a waggle. Just for effect. “Let’s repurpose this novel of yours. After all, if you can find enjoyment in its pages, perhaps I can too…” He tests the weight of it in his grip, the other hand pulling you by your leash and collar to make you strain upwards just slightly. “You asked for my worst, but you are only worthy of my best, darling…”

Smack. Your body jolts, pain-pleasure racing up your spine as the book connects with your rear. A little moaned grunt slips from your lips.

“What was that, my dear? Good enough for you?” he purrs, rubbing the reddening mark on your backside.

You hang your head, laughing breathlessly. “If I said no…” you leave the question unfinished.

He gives a little growl of disapproval, arm swinging back to land your little novel square on the other cheek. Harder this time, you yelp as your body lurches forward.

A smooth tug on your leash guides your face next to his, your lithe back bending as he whispers in your ear. The wash of his warm breath tickles. “Now, little love, good enough at last? Or does the man on these pages still hold sway?”

Leaning against his mouth you sigh, “It’s very good, but I think I’m missing something. My void is aching to be filled… I feel desperate with wanton need… pulsing, throbbing, leaking…”

“Hells below, my dear, is this the kind of drivel you’re consuming?” He chides you as he tosses the book down on the couch. “Well, if you’re wanton hole needs serving, I’d be a cad not to comply. No fictional man will get the better of me,” he chuckles.

You hear it, feel it. His free hand easing his trousers open enough for his cock to spring free. Your hands brace on the arm of the couch, your clothing too tight. You curse that silk on your torso, the bodice that pinches your breasts and irritates your skin.

Only your legs and ass are bare, free for his touch and his tongue. Warm breath washes over your cunt first, and you know he’s pulling out all his tricks to impress you, to distract you from your smutty little novel. Fingers tease at your clit, his skilled tongue lapping in and out of your channel, while you let out a string of colorful curses and florid language.

His laughter vibrates into your cunt, wetness dripping down your thigh. Spit… slick… you can’t tell any longer what’s seeping as his tongue fucks in and out, in perfect rhythm with his fingers as they circle your bud.

Heat coils in your belly, flooding your muscles with ungodly fire and need. Close, so close, you pant as just the right teasing pressure grazes your clit….

…until it all disappears. You scream in frustration. Your hips buck and grind into nothing

Hirrrk… you gag and groan at once as he pulls you by that jingling leash until you land, splayed on your back. Satisfied as you catch your breath he grins at you. You are a mess across the couch. A small mercy, he lets go of your leash and tosses those metal links to rest beside you. “Be a good pet,” he purrs, “and spread those legs for me again….” He cages you in, a wicked smile and arching brows as he hovers over you. “Unless you’d rather enjoy your… fictional pleasures?”

His finger slips inside your necklace, easing the chain apart as he settles comfortably between your thighs. Finally you can swallow and take a deep gulp of air. The relief on your face makes him leer, capturing your softly smiling lips in a kiss. He’s tender and slow, the warm tip of his tongue tracing your lips. As you part them, you taste the tang of your own slick. A hum escapes your throat, and you match the daring darts of this tongue with your own. Your hunger for him eagerly rises, hands pulling on the soft velvet of his breeches, gripping the backs of his thighs to bring him closer.

To guide his cock where you are aching for him.

“You haven’t even asked me once what I was reading about,” you rasp, taunting him with a mischievous tone. “You didn’t even notice its main hero is an elf…”

Those silver brows twist, canting in all their rakish glory. “Is that so?” he purrs, grinding the long shaft of his cock up and down your seam. “Was my little love being a quick study? Care to share your…”

Your fingers brush the shells of his ears, both at once. His cock twitches so hard between you, you can feel the precum leaking onto your belly.

“Hells,” he groans. But you’re not done. One hand at the back of his head, you turn him quickly, taking that soft flesh of his earlobe and sucking it loudly between your smirking lips.

The whimper from his mouth is divine, the shudders that race down his spine ripple in time with the jerks of his cock again.

Quickly, you slot him inside you, eliciting the loudest snarl from him you have ever heard. His hips move quickly, snapping into you, already so close to his release. “Godsdammit, darling,” he hisses even as you keep your lips tracing the shell of his ear. “I’m the one who should be…”

You suckle the soft curve of his ear again, nibbling your way to the tip. The faintest brush of your tongue on his precious, pointy ear has him shuddering and slamming into you with erratic abandon. “I… can’t…” he pants, breathing through his fangs clenched tightly. With one last curse on his own choking breath, he thrusts home, warm cum spurting deep inside you as he convulses and crushes you, the throbbing of his cock in your walls enough to throw you into your own orgasmic oblivion.

Pleasure tears through you, blistering hot as every muscle goes taut. Shaking, panting, you grip around his head, careful not to bite his ear in your fangs.

With one final graze of your teeth on his fleshy earlobe, you relax. You feel him shiver and swallow one last exhausted whimper as he lays all his weight on you.

A few breaths, and all is again as it once was—a warm, post-coital embrace. Wet. Hot. And wordlessly brimming with love.

Something prods at your hip beneath you, and fetching it, you realize it’s your novel. Reaching around his mussy curls, you find your page, fully aware that he’s still hard and seated deep inside you.

He makes no complaint now as you pick up right where you left off. Only his breathing grows steady, his head nuzzling into your neck as his fingers trace the fine metal of your collar. He mumbles something into the hollow of your throat. “What was that?” you reply, as if this was the most mundane evening in existence.

His voice is slurred, worn out from the intensity of his pleasure, and it makes you grin as he rasps, “You certainly did your worst, my darling, and I loved it…”

[impala-dreamer]

In The Arms of Sleep

A Supernatural Story

~ Death has been hunting him, turning every moment into a painful dream of blood and pain. His only hope for a moment's rest lies in her arms...~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader

2,985 Words

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of death and show level blood, Allusions to sex. Set right before the series finale. | Originally Published to Patreon 9/11/2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He probably should have called first.

Probably should have at least texted.

It was too late now though.

She’d just have to deal with it.

The highway stretched out before him, undulating and twisting like so many tentacles of some viscous midnight monster. Black and unforgiving; poised to devour him should he jerk the wheel in the wrong way at the wrong moment.

Suddenly, the thought of a crash crossed his mind and he couldn’t break away from it. How many miles had he driven in his life? How many times had he transverse the country, weaving back and forth across the yellow lines; crossing state borders without a second thought. Impossible to count. And yet- he’d been in so few accidents that it was almost comical. It was statistically impossible that he hadn’t careened off a cliff in New England and plummeted into the icy waters of the Atlantic, or been mesmerized by a heat mirage outside of Phoenix and missed a turn, crashing into the rocks, his last moments spent hearing the sickening crunch of metal and bone.

For a moment, he saw himself, half alive and wheezing, chest punctured by the wreck of the steering wheel; both legs broken, face shredded and bleeding as he crawled from a mess of black steel. The Impala crumpled, smoke billowing from beneath the hood while fluids mixed on the blacktop below. He clawed at the dirt, nails breaking painfully as he struggled to pull himself from the rubble. Each movement sent white-hot pain through his body, but he kept going, desperate to save himself as flames licked at the upholstery, turning the slick, shining chrome to blazing orange.

Shaking himself, Dean cleared the vision from his mind and shifted in his seat. The soft leather cradled him perfectly and he sank into it a bit, letting himself relax even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

Things like that had been happening more and more. Nightmares were common in his life, but bloody daydreams were a new phenomenon. They often came out of nowhere too, making it almost impossible to stay calm and on task. One moment, he was playing on his phone or fixing dinner, and the next, he was watching as bullets tore through his chest, blood erupting from the punctures in slow motion cascades of crimson. More often, it was some monster attack, something easy that he could handle on his own that caught him. He’d turn a corner in a farmhouse and be ripped apart by massive talons, feasted upon by wolves, drained by an earth-covered vampire.

Every moment now, he saw his death. Every breath he took sent images of the end into his mind. He was plagued by the sights, haunted by the feeling, exhausted and helpless. Despite his best efforts at drinking the scenes away, the whiskey only made things worse. He’d tried talking about it, but it sounded insane. Tried writing them down, but he wasn’t good with words, couldn’t get the emotions right, couldn’t describe the anxiety. Hell, he’d even tried meditating, but that only proved to make the thoughts more vivid and devastating.

He needed something that he couldn’t find back at home.

Needed something he knew would soothe him, even if only for one night.

He needed Y/N.

So, he drove. Miles and miles, wheels spinning so fast that human eyes couldn’t see the treds turning, gripping, biting at the roads. So fast that it felt as if the car would leave the blacktop and float on the wind, fly him right to her front door.

He wasn’t so lucky.

He drove through the day and deep into the night, stopping only for gas in Oklahoma and then to take a piss a few hours later. Landscapes changed outside the windows, trees growing tall and full; the earth deepening from deep yellow to rich green. The world outside passed by, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see was blood.

A little after two in the morning, he reached her street. The little blue house was set back a bit from the road, tall bushes fencing in a modest lawn. She’d inherited the property when her parents were killed; the same time she’d met Dean.

He’d saved her life that night, and many more times, she’d done the same for him. Whether she knew it or not, she was always on his mind.

Dean slowly slid into the empty space in front of her house and cut the engine. He switched off the headlights and peered up at the front left window. Her light was off; the house dark and quiet.

He should have called first.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving. He could drive back straight away and be home before Sam got to worrying or Miracle missed him too much and chewed up his slippers. He fingered the ignition key, running his thumb across the dull ridges, ready to jam it back into its place.

He took a breath and a muzzle flare ignited in his head; the silenced gun taking him down with a shot perfectly executed right between his eyes. He jumped and willed the vision to dissipate, but it refused, growing brighter as his soul darkened.

A light flipped on in the window above and Dean’s heart jolted out of rhythm.

He made it to the front door just as she pulled it open and green eyes flooded with tears.

“Dean?”

Her voice was like a balm to his aching soul and he slumped forward into her outstretched arms.

“I heard the car,” she whispered, chin digging into the crook of his neck. “I thought I was dreaming.”

Dean clasped his arms around her back and held on, refusing despite the cold night air that swirled around them, to let her go and follow her inside. He needed a moment. Needed to lay his troubles down before crossing the threshold.

“Not dreaming,” he answered in a sigh. “But I may be.”

She smiled and placed a hand on the back of his neck, holding him to her. “You OK?”

He laughed bitterly, body shaking against her. “Not even a little.”

Y/N pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The green was darker than she remembered, his soul burdened with so much pain that the color was fading, growing deeper than the evergreens that lined the back of her property. She lay her hand softly against his cheek and his eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into the touch, desperate for any human connection, desperate for her. He took a choppy breath and set his jaw tight. She felt the muscles flex beneath her palm, and she pressed her fingertips into the side of his face, giving him something real to feel.

“Hey…”

Her voice was calm and sweet, hiding the worry in her heart. Dean’s lashes lifted and he looked down into her eyes. She smiled.

“You’re gonna be OK.”

He wanted to believe it, needed to put his faith in her words, but blood was dripping from the deep, imagined gashes in his mind, puddling at his feet, flooding the concrete steps.

Subtly, he shook his head. “I dunno about that.” He tried to smile, to sprinkle in a bit of Winchester charm, but he had none left. He closed his eyes again and once more, the sight of his flayed body floated by, and he shivered.

Y/N’s fingers tensed, her middle finger pushing lightly against his temple. “Dean…”

He opened his heart, but not his eyes. “Y/N, please-”  His voice cracked around her name; pathetic and spent.

Y/N’s hand slid from his cheek to his hand, closing around it and pulling him along as she turned.

They didn’t speak. The only sound in the darkness was the door closing behind them and his boots hitting the old hardwood floor. The white pine planks were thin and long, stretching out down a hallway that barely seemed familiar to him. She had painted since last he’d been there, but it was too dark to see the shade of green she’d chosen.

Y/N held his hand and walked straight down the hallway and to the left. If memory served him, it was her bedroom- a small rectangular room with a big antique brass bed pushed into the corner and hand painted art on the walls. She flipped the light switch and a dim lamp by the bed turned on. It did little to illuminate the room, but it was enough to guide them across the thick carpet.

She stopped by the side of the bed and turned to him.

“Boots off,” she said firmly.

Dean’s forehead creased in question. “Huh?”

She sighed and nodded to his feet. “You’re not getting into my bed with those filthy boots on.”

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He wanted nothing more than to slide into her arms, but something was blocking his movements. A strange tightness grew in his chest, spreading outward like clinging ivy. His throat closed, his breathing quickened. Tears welled, but he refused to let them fall.

Slowly, Y/N lifted her hands to slide the canvas jacket from his shoulders. “Relax,” she whispered, tugging the fabric off his thick arms. Carefully, she folded it in half and laid it on the corner of her bed. The army green popped against the pale rose comforter and Dean set his gaze upon the contrast, desperate to hold onto it and push the phantom blood aside.

He let her pull off his flannel; open his belt. When she reached for the hem of his gray tee, his hands shot around her wrists.

He shook his head. “Y/N…”

She smiled softly. “Let me.”

His grip released and she lifted the cotton up over his head. He sighed deeply as the sweaty shirt caressed his cheeks and he emerged with half a smile.

The room was cool. A vent in the floor to his right pushed a light breeze into the air and it chilled his exposed skin. It felt good.

Y/N tried not to linger too long over his naked chest, tried to ignore his soft belly, the dip that lay across his broad shoulders. Unconsciously, she lifted her hand to cover the ink on his chest, the same design he’d insisted she get tattooed on her hip. They were connected in that strange way, and sometimes she wondered if he could feel her tracing the arms of the pentagram on her own skin late at night.

Dean stared down at her, awed by her gentleness, her shadowy beauty. The lamplight danced on her cheeks, cut out the lines of her lips; highlighted the fringe of lashes over her eyes.

She could feel his eyes on her and looked up, meeting his gaze. He shivered as her fingers slipped down his chest, sucked in a breath as her nails bit lightly into the tender flesh of his hips, exhaled slowly when she tugged his zipper down.

As his jeans sank to his ankles, Y/N turned away and lifted the thin nightshirt from her body, leaving her naked but for a pair of lilac panties. She didn’t look back as she slid into bed and tucked herself in the corner by the wall. When she was in place, she rolled over and lifted her arms, calling Dean to her side.

He kicked his boots off, let the denim rest beside them. He kept his boxers on and gracefully climbed in beside her.

His head sank into the pillow and her scent flooded his senses. The cushion was cool and comforting, the blanket heavy in a delicious way that made his body finally relax. Y/N tucked him in and then cuddled closer, pressing her flesh against his.

Dean could feel her firm breasts against his side, the soft curve of her waist, the heft of her hips. He bathed in her heat and rolled towards her, ready to unburden his soul. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat but no words would form.

He struggled.

She smiled.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she assured him, scooting up a bit on the bed. “I’ve got you.” She shifted quickly and Dean fell against her chest, cradled in her arms.

He pressed his ear to her heart and closed his eyes. Every beat pulsed through him and he breathed slowly with her, letting the tears finally come.

The harder he cried, the tighter she held him. She ran her hands through his hair, rubbed at his shoulders, kissed the top of his head, again and again reassuring him that he was safe with her, cared for, and loved.

Dean slid his arm around her waist and held on, feeling more like a whimpering child than a man. Forty years hung on him like lead, threatening to twist his bones and break his spirit.

He cried it all out as Y/N held him. Every hunt gone wrong, every death and resurrection. He cried for his parents, he cried for Sam. He cried for every soul he’d tortured in Hell, every life on Earth he’d failed to save. He cried for Charlie and for Eileen; for Kevin and Crowley. He cried for Lisa, cried for Ben. He cried for his youth, his wins and losses. He cried for Cas.

Y/N absorbed every tear, soothed every sob. She rocked him gently as his body shook, traced circles in his back to give him something else to focus on. She never let her grip waiver, never let a second go by without touching him in some way.

Night lifted slowly and the sun poked at the curtains. The windows glowed with pink and golden light and Dean stirred.

He lifted his head from Y/N’s arm and blinked into the growing light. She was fast asleep, chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Half circles darkened the flesh beneath her eyes and her hair was a mess, but she was nothing short of beautiful in his eyes.

Dean breathed easy for the first time in a long while. He felt lighter. When he closed his eyes, he saw the empty darkness of his eyelids and nothing more. No death, no blood, no hiding dangers. He smiled.

Daring to wake her, he slid his fingers lightly across her forehead and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath and her eyes fluttered open. She saw his face and smiled.

His eyes were brighter, his cheeks pink and warm.

“Mornin’,” he whispered, leaning closer to her lips.

“Good morning.” She licked her lips and looked down at his. Plump and wet, they pushed out a bit, reaching for hers. “You seem better…”

He smiled. “Thanks to you.”

She bit her lip, tugging the corner of her mouth between her teeth. Shyly, she looked up into his eyes and knew that, if only for a little while, he would be alright.

His kiss was heavy and needy, tongue pressing between her lips before she was prepared. She gasped into him, slid beneath him when he tugged her closer.

His weight was crushing and devastatingly arousing and Y/N spread her legs, wrapping herself around his waist. She could feel that he was as ready as she was, and reached down between them to pull her panties aside.

Dean propped up on his aching arms and gazed down at her. She was everything in that moment- lover, friend, nurse, savior. He licked at her lips again and closed his eyes, breathing every drop of her in. He held his breath, memorizing her taste, her scent, her warmth, and tucking it away for later.

He’d always need her.

Always love her.

They showered together; unwilling to part.

They held hands over slightly burned pancakes and chewy bacon.

They lingered in the doorway, clutched in each other’s arms.

“You sure you can’t stay?” she asked, refusing to let go.

Dean kissed the top of her head and gave her arms a squeeze. “I have to get back.”

“Places to go, people to save, right?” She laughed sadly and pulled back, giving him a faint smile. “I missed you, you know.”

He sighed and looked down for a moment, feeling the weight of everything pushing down on him again. Guilt rattled in his brain and he chewed his lip, rubbed her hand between both of his.

“I’m sorry-” His voice was deep and heavy.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I’m just… I always miss you, Dean.”

He smiled. “I miss you too,” he confessed. “A lot.”

Y/N grabbed his hands and swung them playfully at their sides. “So… maybe don’t stay away too long next time, huh?”

“I won’t.” Dean dragged her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles on each hand. “I promise.”

One last kiss goodbye, one last press of her body against his.

The road home was just as long but a little bit easier. He carried the feel of her home with him, kept her face in the back of his mind. She was like a soldier in his head, forever poised and ready to defend him, to cast away the visions that plagued his daydreams, to set his heart right when his faith began to dissipate. An angel there to keep him safe and guard his nights, a gentle love to make everything alright.

Death would come for him soon enough, but for now, he drove the highways and unpaved backroads home with a new sense of hope. He could watch the trees fly by, enjoy the changing horizon and let the light seep into his soul.

He felt better.

He felt strangely OK.

He was glad he hadn’t called.

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[marzipanandminutiae]

Maybe I’m wildly misunderstanding what people who like the dark academia aesthetic are going for but I always thought the aesthetic was specifically about romanticizing those universities in England (or Europe in general) that were founded in like 1736 and the main building was originally a castle that belonged to the family that founded it or something like that. Obviously that’s a very niche university environment but I never thought that fans of the aesthetic thought that every single university looks like that. My university was built in the 70s and looks like a small town’s airport so I understand the appeal of escapism in pretending that you go to university in a marble building that has a secret library or something. I’m not criticizing your post btw I agree with you i guess I understood the purpose of the aesthetic wrong. I thought they just liked the old money aesthetic of those schools, not that they believed you’re not truly academic if your school doesn’t look like an ancient university in Prague.

So, yes, that is where the term came from

my issue with it is that they don't seem to know any other term for aesthetics they happen to have seen in a fancy university, anymore and totally unrelated things get slapped with the "dark academia" label

Oxford doesn't look like that because that's an ~academia aesthetic~. it looks like that because those were popular architectural styles of whenever X building was constructed. you are going to see those styles in other places! that doesn't make like...an 18th century commercial building "dark academia!"

like I've seen the term applied in completely random and incomprehensible ways. a marble bust is Dark Academia? HOW? is it in a university? or is it in an art museum where people are there to look at it, not to study it? is it in Mr. Darcy's house, where that classification makes even less sense? why is it somehow Academia when no Academia is in evidence?

an Art Deco theatre lobby. no joke. saw that tagged "dark academia." it could not have been more clearly a theatre lobby. I asked OP why they called it that, and they said it was just "the vibe." academia is not a vibe!!!! the word has a definition and the definition has nothing to do with aesthetics!!!!

my favorite movie, Crimson Peak, gets slapped with the DA label a lot. because...I don't know; there are ghosts and books in the same building? the heroine is a writer, sure, but absolutely none of it takes place in an institution of public scholarship or higher learning. there's a publisher's office, a doctor's office, and a private library in a house (that doesn't even get used for its intended purpose beyond a single scene). that's it. it's a pretty standard Victwardian Gothic.

the term DOES have function as a fictional genre; it describes a story pretty well. what happens? Dark Stuff. where? Academia. okay, I'm intrigued. but for aesthetics? no meaning or use at all, IMO

so I know they're not saying that ALL universities look like that. they're somehow saying that EVERYTHING that looks like that is University. which annoys me

(I also think "old money aesthetic" is more TikTok brainrot. I work a lot of museum benefits with old money people. they dress in many different ways, very few of them like a Kennedy vacationing on the Cape in 1965. just say "preppy" if that's what you mean!)

(and as with Dark Academia, it leads to a lot of things that have nothing whatsoever to do with the oldness of one's money getting labeled that way. which is annoying.)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.5k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, intentional harm (in the recent past), blood, angst, protective Johnny, hurt/comfort, pining, speedy relationship, etc.

A/N: Johnny sweaty and working the forge...that is all.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You groggily awoke to the steady sound of a hammer meeting metal and the scent of eggs. Warm bread makes your mouth water. Eyelids peeling back, your lashes flutter in even intervals as you groan in the back of your throat, content and unbothered in this soft bed of fur and cotton. For a moment you had forgotten everything that had transpired—the run and the rain slamming into your scalp.

Had it all been some dark dream? A trick? 

“Ow!” You hiss, hand darting out from the plush covers as a sharp pain darts through it. Your eyes blink on the bloody bandages, white now completely bled through with fresh crimson. 

Everything comes rushing back in a lightning-strike moment of realization. 

Quickly sitting up, your face moves all over the sun-lit room, rays of light leaking in through the opened shutters; past the glass of the windows, the nearly violent green of the near forest line meets your wide gaze. A small sound exits your throat, fingers sliding through the bear fur that had been once pulled up to your ears as you gather your senses. 

Johnny. The blacksmith.

Your eyes lock onto the small table across the room. 

As the hammering outside continues to ring in your eardrums, you tilt your head at the items sitting atop—slipping off the bed you go to tidy the fur but pause in your curiosity. A patch of blood from your wound stains the sheets and you slow at the sight, the air leaving your lungs.

“Oh,” you swallow down your slight nervousness, heart jumping for a moment as you bite your lip. 

You would have to tell Mr. MacTavsish—your brows furrow. 

Not Mr. MacTavish, he asked me to call him Johnny. A strange thing, now that you thought about it as you slowly back away and go to the table, gut rumbling at the sight of fresh eggs on bread. There was also a parcel covered in cloth sitting on the chair. 

Carefully tiptoeing, you grab the plate with a delicate hand, picking it up as you lick your lips. Had the man…made you breakfast? 

“What reality have I slipped into?” Your lips whisper, Johnny’s clothes hanging off of you heavily. Not only food but milk had been poured into a carved cup as well, and utensils placed on the table with care. Fork and knife on the right, spoon on the left; all forged and tempered. 

It was sweet, perhaps. Kind. 

You eat standing, bare feet taking you around the homestead as you listen to the blacksmith work outside. Your hands take up carved knick-knacks of animals, twirling them in a hand as you lick your lips before placing them back with all the care of a priceless possession. Chuckling at the poorly wooden face of a deer, you bring the last bits of food to your lips as you pass the window. 

Sucking in a swift breath, your body freezes. 

Perhaps it was the sudden freedom of your situation or even the want of true, honest, companionship, but you had suddenly never seen someone look as good as kind Johnny MacTavish as he worked his forge. 

The earth was still layered in dew and mist, the distance between the main home and the small hut that was holding anvil, tongs, the flame of the furnace itself, and a great number of hammers. One of which was being wielded with firm efficiency by the sweat-stained hands of Johnny—being brought down again and again to the molten form of what would be a fine sword. 

Clothed in a rolled-back white tunic, like the one from yesterday, and brown breaches, there was a leather apron tied ‘round his waist cinched tight. Lips parting, you watch with a guilty conscious for the frailness of your resolve; gaping at the sight. 

Johnny works like the dead might rise, not faltering or slowing in the abuse of the metal—twisting the rough shape of the blade and flipping it with one hand while the other hammers. How he doesn’t overheat you’d never know; letting out a slow breath as the sweat slips down his strong jaw and drips from his chin, mouth open with a far-off pant of air. 

Electricity of the same breed as last night sizzles down your spine like a finger caressing the knobs of bone, hairs standing on end as you quickly clear your throat against the burn of your face. You shift your body away, fearfully aware of the scent of Johnny’s clothes and the very bed you had slept in last night. 

“My parents will never allow me back into their home,” you utter, picking at your bandages. “I shall never even be seen in the very air near them.” 

But the true question was whether or not that was a good thing. While this freedom of yours was what you wanted, you were a woman of relative standing—having no family, no husband, and no money to your name was not ideal. In fact, it could very well be the death of you. 

You stand and lightly lick your fingers of crumbs. “At the very least,” the wood under your feet is warm from an only recently dead hearth, “this Blacksmith is quite good with meals. Such a peculiar man, hm?”

Smiling to yourself, you chuckle and push back the heat in your blood; this odd attraction to a working man. So different from Lord Wilkin. 

Not wanting to sink back into that hole quite yet, you remember Johnny’s hands slipping over yours as you take a final glance back out the window before heading back over to the table. Cobalt eyes meet yours in an instant of wide shyness through the glass. 

Staring at each other, the Blacksmith's legs shift from where they dig into the packed ground, large biceps tight as they hold the hammer and the dulling metal. 

Blinking quickly, you feel your heart skip beats at the soft contact. 

Smiling awkwardly, you raise the empty plate in display, chuckling as a wide, pleased, grin builds on Johnny’s face. He mocks a small bow, hammer going across his abdomen as his dirty cheeks peel back at his glee—you see his chest move with a deep laugh. Like the scent of lavender in your nose, you can call the sound of it to your ears as if he was in the house all this time. 

Quickly skittering away, you feel giddy, placing down your plate and taking a sip of milk before looking at the parcel. While your mind may be mingling with the blacksmith and the sweat of his body, curiosity was getting to you. And, mayhaps, a shyness at being caught.

It was covered in dark cloth, and when you touch it, the fabric immediately reminds you of a cloak—an expensive and finely spun wool dyed green. Lips parting, your hands pick it up and place it on the table; turning it over as you pull at the twine tie. 

Your heart seems to grow like a flower, the pedals opening and the stem becoming strong with a rush of admiration. 

“When did you do this, Blacksmith?” Your voice hits off the walls in a breathy gasp as the hammering picks back up outside. 

Smiling delicately, you pick up the fine linen of a chemise and the paired kirtle dyed deep blue. It wasn’t the most extravagant thing you’d worn by a long shot but as you step back and size it to your body, you decide that it was the most meaningful. 

When had he gotten up to ride into town and buy this for you? How much did it cost? 

How could this blacksmith be as chivalrous as a Knight? Not wanting you to be forced to wear his own clothes in a way unflattering to your status even if you didn’t truly care about all of that.

You had no answer, body vibrating with warmth as you slipped out of Johnny’s sleep clothes and slid the gifted items over your skin. They were slightly oversized for ease of the man’s mind, not knowing your measurements. With a small bronze clip, you situate the cloak before the boots at the door add to the already bursting emotions in your veins. 

Tears burned the back of your eyes, putting your fingers to your lips to hide the shaky inhale. All of this care after such horror was nearly unthinkable; by a complete stranger no less. 

Your own family had never been so generous. 

Taking up your now empty cup, you look to the water basin and let your ears twitch to the sound of physical labor; thinking, wanting to give even just a sliver of thanks back for this debt. As you lace your new boots, leather, you keep the memory of his calloused hands in the front of your skull with honied sanctity. 

You fill the cup and that’s that.

Cheeks heating, you bring the water with you as you exit the home, breathing down the scent of rain and pulling your cloak tighter to your neck at the slight chill. Closing the door, you make your way to Johnny who continues to work away, now a small distance from the anvil and setting the iron back into the fire to heat. 

His large back flexes and rolls with the movement.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the cup stays steady in your two hands as you see Johnny’s muscles momentarily tense, blue eyes turning to look over his shoulders. There’s a moment where something swirls in his eyes as he stares down at your new clothes, standing up to his full height quickly. You blink. “...I’m sorry, but besides an offer of fresh water I’m unable to repay you for the gifts.”

“Ah,” Johnny clears his throat, looking back to his forge before turning back to you with a bashful look. “Please, none of that. I needed to go off and grab more grain for my horse, see.” He chuckles. “But I’m glad they fit, Dearie, was a bit worried I’d asked the wrong size.” 

“They’re perfect,” you shake your head. “It was…far more than I deserve.” 

Brows furrow. For such a presence, he slips the cup out of your hands with more care than your husband-to-be had ever thought to handle you, nodding a deep thank you.

“Now why would you say something like that?” Your head tilts, lips thinning. You suppose it was right to make good on the deal you’d struck last night. 

Johnny takes a sip from the cup, waiting for your answer as one hand hangs from the neck of his apron, fast lungs steadily slowing. As you frown and gather your thoughts, you don’t notice his eyes narrowing, concerned. 

“Well, anyways,” he clears his throat, itching at his stubble to change the subject as you startle back to reality before you can form a sentence. “I suppose I’d better take a look at that cut of yours, then, eh? Wouldn’t want it to get infected, do we?” 

“That’s not…” He has already darted to a small chest in the corner of the open hut, cup placed on the anvil top before he opens the thing with a scratch of rusty hinges. “...necessary.” 

The blacksmith laughs, taking out fresh badges. 

“I don’t think gettin’ bedridden is in your plans, now is it? C’mon…I’ll be gentle.” Johnny winks with a smirk and your pulse flares; stuttering as he grasps your elbow—leading you out of the forge and to a small break in the trees. 

A stump and a dead firepit take form, and you’re plopped down to the wood with a small huff, a stiff look sent to the man who only smiles and raises an eyebrow. 

“Is my kindness wearin’ ya down, Little Lady?” 

“You’ll make me lose my head and I’ve only known you for, at most,” you emphasize as he kneels down and takes your bloody hand, “half a day.”

“Being generous,” Johnny hums, unwrapping your hand and once again looking you over. Bloody, but still alright. His fingers move to pick up dew from the grass and wipe away some of the crimson pigment as if an artist. “When one goes and nearly makes a man’s house crumble from the force of ‘er fists, it’s only customary for him to respect her.” Blue eyes gaze up to you and twinkle. “I’m just savin’ my own hide.” 

“How honorable,” you shake your head and turn to hide the full-face grin, moments later laughs slip your tongue. “They weren’t that loud,” your vise insists, “...were they?”

“Thought the world was ending,” Johnny says it was a fake expression of seriousness, re-wrapping your hand in clean cloth. “Damn near got to my knees and prayed.” 

You find great amusement in that, placing a hand over your mouth as your spine shakes with loud laughs. The scene is similar to the one from last night—the blacksmith offering jokes and merriment to get you to laugh. It's as if every time he succeeds he smiles just a smidge wider. Realizing this, you feel your lips twitch and you look away, embarrassed.

“...I promised you answers, did I not?” You decide to ask, deciding that getting this over soon was the best course of action; also the more courteous one. After so much giving, you had to share at least the reason for all of this. “I’m sorry.” Johnny frowns at you, tying another loose knot atop your palm before sitting back on the ground. 

On his bent knee, he rests his arm, hanging off loosely, while the other hand rests behind his back as a way to keep him upward. With all of this, with him, you'd entirely forgotten to mention the stained sheets. 

“There’s no need to apologize to me, Dearie, I won’t do anythin’. I promised you,” he smiles, “remember?” You blink softly at his strong face, those eyes studying you as your hands rest in your lap; curled over each other. 

“There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Johnny huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “Take your time, eh? I won’t be needin’ to travel back into town again until late evening.” Your hands curl slightly tighter, touched. 

The blacksmith watches you as you gather your thoughts, your face going stiff and new boots shuffling over the grass. Blue slides to your hand and his lips turn down. 

He’d be lying if he didn’t say he’d been up most of the night and working before the sun had risen—mind occupied by the woman that had been in his bed and the little information he had. Obviously, Lord Wilkin was looking for you; adamantly. 

Relentlessly. 

When he’d been in town there had been guards everywhere, checking every shop and house like beasts of metal and sharp words. You were the Lord’s bride, of course. As the tailor had asked him, a bit dejected, if he’d taken a wife as he’d bought you your chemise and kirtle, the woman had mentioned the wedding. 

“Little thing darted off during the Handfasting ceremony, I ‘erd. The Lord had only just put the knife to her palm before she yelled and fled. Oh, ya should have seen it, Mr. MacTavish. Like a bat from Hell, Lord help me. He’ll not stop till he’s found ‘er.”

Johnny’s stomach rolls, abdomen tightening as he shifts to release tension. Along the ground, his hand momentarily clenches. You hum under your breath, whispering out an easy, “Are we sure we should be outside for this?”

The man blinks in confusion. 

“Well, would…you prefer being inside?” You look nervous, fingers flinching over themselves and Johnny sits up straighter, letting his large hand carefully grasp your knee. Your innocently wide eyes lock with his own. He offers a comforting look. “It’s no difference to me—you decide. Whichever’s easier, eh?”

“It’s just,” you begin, the skin below your kirtle burning you in the best possible way. What was happening to you? “Well…My family rarely let me out.” Johnny’s body stills to a near stone carving. “Said I was to stay inside. I suppose I’m not overly used to it, you see.” 

It’s not impossible to understand the role that was placed on you. Arranged marriage, sold off to be a housewife for a large dowry paid up by the Lord. You’d been brought up to be tossed away at a moment's notice. The blacksmith’s jaw tightens, bone sharp through the flesh. 

“...Well,” his voice is a bit ragged—scratchy. You listen with nervousness in your chest, a slow infection of unease. “I’m not your family, am I? It’ll be good to get some sun, I think—let’s stay here for a little longer and then we can go back in when you’re ready. There’s no rush to things.” 

Letting you calm down, his thumb rubs a small circle before he pulls it away, perhaps realizing what he was doing before clearing his throat, cheeks alight. 

A small breeze pushes through the pines, a wind filled with the scent of fire and earth—dirt and dew. It was peaceful here, among the old spirits and the hidden trails. So different in the light than it was in the pouring rain. 

“I imagine you knew about the wedding?” You sigh, staring at your lap. “Lord Wilkin?” 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, speaking quietly. He doesn’t want to force you. “I did.”

“I was placed into the marriage two months ago by my parents, an agreement of land and money was traded for my hand.” Watching, the man’s eyes go sad, lids tilting. He stops the grunt in the back of his throat as you continue. “I had resigned myself to it, truly. Being of enough standing all I was needed for was marriage—”

“That’s utter shite.” Johnny growls, angry at the sentence. “They would just toss you away like that? To a bastard ten times your age?” 

You stare, brows tight. “I…I’m a daughter, am I not?” 

Johnny’s jaw goes slack, eyes sharp with horror as his gaze looks deeply into your vision, biceps tense with cooling sweat and dirt. Such a sight it was, two beings as different as a mountain and a valley; so near but starkly contrasted in the harsh strength of rock and the gentle sway of grassy low-land. Bears and deer, barn swallows that sit on rafters and golden eagles that soar tempests. 

The dark-haired man could never imagine raising a girl for nothing else than to be a man’s property—to sell as if a good and nothing more. Johnny turns his head away before he snaps at nothing, a low sound trapped in his chest. You never had a single choice.

Confused by his approach to this, you watch the side of his face as the man’s expression of anger slowly shifts back to a hidden seriousness. Eyes dark and his hand tightened into a fist. 

“I’m sorry, Dearie. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Johnny blinks, shaking his head. “Hope I didn’t scare ya.”

“No,” you motion a hand. “No, not at all.” 

“Good.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his head. “Ah, please, keep going. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise.” You smile tinily. 

“At the wedding, when it was near the end, they brought out the cloth and the knife for the Handfasting ceremony,” Johnny leans forward, and you look down at him on the ground. He lent a sort of silent vigor, you think to yourself. A comfort. “He dragged it along my skin and then he gripped my hand and forced the base of my palm harder into it.” 

Your words get smaller and hushed, flexing your damaged hand. “...I think…that he wanted it to leave a scar. I bolted off before they could tie the cloth.” 

Johnny stands and brings you into a hug, a hand coming to the back of your head and pressing your skull gently to his chest. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” He breathes, and you slowly wind your own hands around his waist; melting into him without even knowing it. Johnny’s scent encompasses you like a blanket, and your very bones seem to sprout flowers from the marrow as your eyes get watery, held in such a way that most people only dream about. 

When the first silent tears fall he doesn’t make a big deal out of it—only holds you more firm and sighs into your scalp. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, honest and truthful. Could you run? Go to another fiefdom? How far would you even be able to make it? No food, no horse, no supplies. 

You’d be found out in no time. 

Johnny moves back, tilting his head down to you and grasping your face with a single hand. “We’ll figure it out, Little Lady. By my word, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’ll never go back to that bastard of a Lord again.” A hard thumb pushes back your tears and blue eyes soften on you. “Can you trust me?” 

Can and not do. 

Even the simple alleviation of pressure from a word makes you care for this man even more than you should. The simmering attraction to not only his appearance but his steadfast heart; indomitable morals. 

“You, Johnny?” You sniffle, a grin twitching your lips up as the blacksmith’s face goes hot. “Yes, I can trust you.” Actions enough from last night had proven that. 

Johnny huffs and lets the blush on his face spread along his neck, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes for too long before he has to clear his throat and gaze to the side. Not knowing what overtakes you, you lightly press your lips to his cheek—feeling the heat and the slight gasp that escapes his lips. 

You giggle as he grunts a thanks, awkwardly shuffling on his feet as you both continue to hold one another. His grip travels down to your back as he raises a brow, trying to push past his beginning stutter as he speaks. “I’d tell ya that if you do that again, I might just have a fainting spell, Miss.”

“A fainting spell,” you tease, “from a kiss, Blacksmith?” 

“Aye—especially if it’s from such a Bonnie woman like you, see.” You both laugh, faces burning up, as serious topics and tears fade into the past. 

As you had said, where any other man would have been different, Johnny Mactavish had proven himself to be right and true. Even if you’d been impossibly tired last night, the small sliver of fear had still remained that something might happen to you here; in the presence of one man in the middle of the woods. No such fear remains. 

Like a great Lord of old, Johnny had offered sanctuary from a man of cruel and horrible intentions. But perhaps he’d offered far more than that, with how he’s staring at you. 

Your laughs steadily die down to a pulsing silence, hands around one another and faces only a few inches away. It’s bizarre how fast this had happened—these feelings brimming in the cup of your heart. A bowl overflowing with care and affection; of something else that cannot be named for fear it’s only a simple infatuation. A twin flame of red-hot fire that could rival Johnny’s forge. 

“I…don’t want to overstep,” the man says, and your eyes are drawn to his lips as they move—a small scar you’d yet to notice living on his chin, a stain of lighter flesh. You swallow stiffly and dart your gaze back to his as you feel his heart pounding in his ribcage. It wasn’t a mystery to wonder if your own is doing the same. “Y’should tell me to stop, Dearie.”

“To stop what,” you pull the words from the depths of your throat. “What are you planning on doing, Johnny?” He shivers as you say his name as if put under a spell. 

“Are you sure you’re not a witch, now?” You stifle a confused laugh, furrowing your brows with amusement.

“What?” 

“One half-day is all it took for you to chain me to your will,” he grasps the bottom of your chin and angles your head up; you go willingly. His eyes search yours for any hesitation or flighty emotions. All he finds is wide awe. “Most would call that witchery, Little Lady.”

“Then it seems your will is easily broken, Blacksmith.”

“Perhaps it is,” Johnny smirks, his breath puffing out along your parted lips. Your body vibrates with anticipation of what was to come, hearing his voice lower to a deep rasp. “Haven’t ya heard…? Blacksmiths have a weakness for runaway brides.” 

“Is that so? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” 

“Suppose I’ll just have to show you.” His lips are firm and his body runs hot. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you sigh into him as his hands dig into your gifted cloak, meeting him with every pass. Low purrs of satisfaction echo from his chest and make you shiver, nose pressing into his lower cheek. Playfully, his teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp; eyes pulling back to stare half-lidded as blue sparks with mischief. 

You should stop this—but you were starved for honest affection. Companionship, even. Johnny by far wasn’t the worst to throw your lott in with and he might just be the best possible to fill that role. Life in this era is fast and harsh; it’s unfair. You had to make quick decisions without thinking of the possible consequences. 

So as you blink up at the man who watches you closely, you place your fingers on the side of his face and tilt his lips back to yours with a small smile. His hand at the curve of your spine twitches, sliding along the cloak in minute increments as Johnny’s heart hammers like his tools. 

It’s as if the forge was still around the two of you—air hot and the feeling sticking to your skin like a brand of sin and forbidden magnetism. He shouldn’t have kissed you, but the hypnosis of the hammer was in his head; its rhythm and striking slam. You drew him in as the anvil does the iron. 

In this moment of contentment, there is a fast sound of something in the air, something that rattles the two of you out of your tender embrace to gaze with contorted faces through the thin line of trees. Panting and open.

Through the foliage back to the homestead is the rapid movement of hooves and the baying of hounds. 

It strikes you like a knife, eyelids moving far back as Johnny’s head snaps to the noise with something growing in the back of his expression. Calls; shouts. You know who it is, who’s found you out. You’d never heard it until it was too late.

“Johnny,” your voice says, fearful with wild eyes. 

“Stay behind me,” he says, monotone with red lips. Shadows of horses and guards are near the house. You stare up at him in shock. A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Nothin’ll happen to you.” His eyes dig past layers. 

There was no running from this. 

“Okay,” you whisper.

TAGS:

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[sunsents]

Neteyam - Reacting to your death

Hey y'all, how y'all doing 😟? It's been a year since I published something but I am in my avatar era. I will post an announcement about where I've been, but enjoy(?) this heavy angsty.

Summary —> You're on your last breath, and Neteyam has a hard time accepting it.

Pairing: neteyamsully x !reader (no use of y/n)

Word count: 1024

Warnings: blood/angst/mentions of a g*n/sad neteyam

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

Sharp pain was all you could feel when you jumped down the ship. It was that short moment of pushing Neteyam before you to minimize exposure that the realization hit you; you followed after him without thinking twice about the consequences, yet again.

Your ears rang in the otherwise silent ocean, like the water completely separated itself from the unnatural, unnecessary and foreign violence happening in the surface. A sigh of relief, contentment, serenity, until you're resurfucing again - or rather, struggling to.

"Fuck," you sputter, feeling a strange loss.

Lo'ak shouts after you to hurry up, but you can't, and it frustrates you. You hate falling behind, no matter how dire the injury is. "You sxkawng," gasping and trying to hold onto something, crimson surrounds you. "I'm shot."

Everyone stills.

Neteyam's head whips around with nothing but pure, unadulterated horror. His eyes fall on your pained face, then the bullet wound on your chest. You can see dark shadows casting over his face, the tremor of his hands, the slowing of his breath - all working together to keep his gears turning you assume. He quickly swims forward. "Quick, the Ilu."

You feel yourself being held around your body - suddenly, warmth feels like an unfamiliar concept. When had you become so cold to the outside world? When had you closed yourself off that warmth was foreign?

Though in odd, you fashion, you're not panicking. You're just lying there, gazing at the sky and letting chaos erupt around you. Sounds are muffled, and you don't know what's happening but you can only assume they're taking you to land.

The sky looks uncharacteristically blue - against all odds you've found yourself in. Eywa is in mourning.

Maybe it's because you cannot fathom that you, your own life, cannot end. You feared losing loved ones, but never feared nor thought about dying. It's not like you were immortal of course, one day you were going to leave the physical world and join the all mother amongst your family.

You just didn't think it would happen this soon. And you still think against it - you think against it when Mr Sully lays you down on cold rock, when he turns you over to inspect something, and when he looks at you with a faraway look.

"Dad," Neteyam chokes out.

Everything hurts and you start struggling to breath. Light headed, that's when you stop thinking  all together.

"Am I-" you gasp for air, surprised that you, out of all people, is struggling to speak. You were quite chatty, at least that's what they told you. "Am I, dying?"

"No!" yells Neteyam, he's cupping your head with his palm, not letting your head touch the cold surface. "You're not dying, ____!"

He's sobbing, and you look around the faces of the people you consider loved ones. Lo'ak is wide  eyed, staring at your probably paled face. He looks in utter agony and...confusion? Mr. Sully is crying, this is the first time you have seen him cry - be so vulnerable. He was Toruk Makto, so he'd always dismiss you with a nod, sometimes crack a joke here and there but stay stern all the while. He was clutching your hand, his own shaking. Kiri was just now arriving at the little land formation, and the look of her horror on her face brings tears to your eyes. You were dying - no. You were dead, it was final.

You try to calm your breathing, an obscene contrast to the gushing blood on your chest. You couldn't speak, but you could feel. And you were feeling the love of the people around you - and with the intensity of it, you deemed it a worthy way to go.

Neteyam however, was cluthing on your hand, hard. "You are not leaving me ____....Dad!" he sobs, a wretched sound breaking through his chest as he doubles over your body and shudders. "Do something!"

He's yelling, screeching even. His dad looks in anguish at his son's state, or perhaps because he feels utterly helpless at saving you.

"It's okay, Neteyam." you say softly, in a very wispy voice; "You're going to be okay."

You smile, and he screams, trashing and hugging your body to his chest. You try to push him away, but to no avail. Your limbs have fallen weak, you have already accepted the pain. "No!" he screams again, chest reverbeting against your deflating form.

"No, no, no, no!"

Mr Sully grabs ahold of his son and softly pulls him back, seperating him from you, "Son, please," his voice sounds broken.

Lo'ak is silent beside you, head held down, shuddering. Warm droplets are hitting your arm, and you can only guess it's tears. Kiri is on her knees, begging To Great Mother.

But you know it's final. And you don't feel too sad about it. You'd get to be with your parents, and Eywa, and all that. You'd be happy, you know you would be.

"____! No, I have to tell-" Neteyam gasps, trashing in his fathers hold. "I love you, I see you. Please,"

You're eyes have finally glazed over, you're gone.

You hadn't heard, and that only breaks Neteyam more. He screams in agony, clawing at your body, shaking you so, somehow, miraculously, you would open your eyes, tell him you love him and that you wan't to spend the rest of your life with him.

But there is no, "rest”. This was it for you, this was your life. When you had told him that you wanted to spend your life exploring Pandora, this was the extent. You would never have that, you will never be able to fulfill your dream because this day was the entirety of your future and present.

Neteyam is helpless. He had somehow escaped his fathers hold and was hugging your lifeless body close to his. Shrieks were ripping from his throat, desperately trying to transfer some sort of energy into your limbs. He could feel his mother's warmth surround him, a weak force pulling him back. "Please, don't. Let me hold her."

He sounded so broken, empty, purposeless that his mother and father break down as well.

[mi-i-zori]

Breathe

CoD - Nikto x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS : Nikto drinks blood like a starved beast.

WARNINGS : NSFW - 18+. Beware, this is kind of unhinged. Canon-typical violence, blood (Reader has periods - emphasis on period blood), Nikto (a warning in himself), blood/period kink (?), poetic smut, fluff.

Author’s Note : I have no idea why I keep using poetic sentences whenever I try to write smut, but hey. Guess its just how I am. A filthy romantic at heart.

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

Main Masterlist

Nikto licks blood off his fingers on the daily like a starved beast, savouring a taste he knows will never fully satiate his hunger.

It does not matter if the crimson nectar is his or not ; he keeps engraving its flavour deep into his mind. It leaves a warm, metallic feeling in the back of his throat - one similar to the one lining the surface of the gun that was repeatedly shoved past his teeth after its bullets were lodged in-between his ribs, the thick ropes circling his wrists harvesting his own, personal flavour directly from his veins.

Both life and death flow past his tongue, carving countless nightmares in the few hours of sleep weighing heavy on his subconscious - dragging a never ending series of shuddering breaths up his oesophagus whenever he wakes.

He can never escape them, for reality is just as bitter as his dreams. So he drowns it it blood, gunpowder and alcohol, turning away from the shredded screams coming from his reflection in the mirror.

Until that moment.

Your face is pulled into a grimace as you tell him about the way one of your stupid coworkers shamelessly blabbered about how dirty he thinks period blood is, filling your head with somber thoughts at the idea that yours is quickly approaching.

You don’t see how his eyes light up when they fall upon the date circled in red on the calendar of your phone.

And it is only when his lips meet your bleeding walls for the first time, lapping at the tears running down the inside of your thighs with a newfound reverence blossoming on his tongue, that the spectre in his head finally goes silent.

You look like divine absolution, he thinks, watching with rapt attention as moans flow from your lips like a holy river. Lust fills his mind, body and soul as he wonders if edging you further would allow him to taste the stars running through your veins. Would the world end up falling apart with you ?

The thought of the Earth shattering like glass against the echo of your climax fuels the fire burning in his stomach.

So he keeps staining his mouth red with your blood and slick. War-torn hands hold your legs still around his head as his fingers pull at your flesh, moulding it to his will - and he growls loudly against your core, the waves of a supernova bursting through your entire body as a new orgasm shakes the very foundations of your universe.

Is it the third ? The fourth ? The fifth ? You stopped counting a few seconds after his mouth first latched on the sacred flower blooming between your legs, too lost in the song of your own pleasure.

Nikto doesn’t need anything more to find his own release. He then crashes on top of you as you both fall from your high, lips sharing the last remnants of your erratic, scorching breaths.

He lays there for the rest of the night, lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat - your divinity dancing on the back of his tongue.

The constellations lining your mind call out to him as he sleeps, flickering with the promise of finally carrying him away from the ruins of his heart. They light up his bones from below the thorns, and he would gladly sacrifice what is left of himself if it meant you could cradle them against your breast.

The warm softness of your skin soothes the pain still lingering in his scars, and he subconsciously cages your bare form in his arms as he drifts to the world of dreams.

He can finally breathe.

[charmandabear]

Ascendn't

Summary

I got mad when the game wouldn't let me hug him after the Cazador fight. So I fixed it. Plus a bit more steaminess in the graveyard scene. (Also, yes, I'm insufferable about this title.)

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Tav Rating: M Word Count: 4.5k Tags/Warnings: post-Cazador fight, Act 3 spoilers, blood kink, biting, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, soft dom Astarion, enthusiastic consent

It's been a good 10 years since I've written fanfiction and probably about 20 since I've published any online. This boy got me down BAD. I made an AO3 account for this fucker. (Which you can find here.)

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

You’ve never heard him plead like this. He’s usually so cool and confident. He doesn’t need anyone if he can help it. But this is different. Standing over Cazador, dagger in hand, fear and desperation in his eyes.

“I’ll be free - truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”

He knows how to make your heart melt and break all at the same time. Gods, yes, of course that’s what you want, more than anything in the world. For him to be free to live the life that he never got to have, the life that Cazador stole away from him. He was so young when he got turned. And if he doesn’t take this chance, then as soon as you manage to get these damned tadpoles out of your head he’ll be relegated to the shadows once again. You can’t do that to him.

But this isn’t it. This won’t give him the freedom he so desperately craves, no, deserves. It’s just another form of chains. You take a shaky breath and prepare yourself for his disapproving glare.

“I know you think this will set you free, but it won’t. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador.”

Astarion’s face goes slack, the recognition of the cycle of abuse suddenly clear. His eyes on you soften as he murmurs, “You– you’re right. I can be better than him.” He turns a steely gaze back to Cazador.

“But I’m not above enjoying this.”

With a ferocity that you haven’t yet seen in Astarion, he yanks Cazador’s head back and starts viciously stabbing into his neck. Two hundred years of pent up fury and revenge release in a matter of moments. At a certain point, he’s not even stabbing the man, but rather the idea of Cazador and everything he represents.

Eventually he slows and drops Cazador’s limp body to the ground. The dagger falls with a clatter, and Astarion takes a step back. His eyes finally come back into focus and he realizes that it’s over. Really, truly, over. He’s finally free.

His face is awash with an overwhelm of emotions that you can’t identify. He’s panting, first from the physical exertion and then the sobs that wrack his body. He lets out a howling cry filled with pain and suffering and relief and anguish and he falls to his knees, shoulders shaking. Up until this point, you and the rest of your party have been frozen to the spot as you watched Astarion claim his revenge. But something in you breaks free and you rush to his side. Where you need to be. Where you belong.

You grab him tight in your arms and curl into his neck, your own tears mixing with the blood and grime on his bare shoulder. You think with an almost sardonic humor how often your positions have been reversed. Whereas when he leaned into your neck it was often with hunger, or lust, or even just a flirty playfulness, now all you could bring is a shared pain and comfort. You plant a tender kiss just below his ear and he looks at you with tearful eyes, an unidentifiable question present. You wrap your hand around the base of his neck, fingers raking through bloodstained silver curls. Pressing your foreheads together, you sync up your breaths with his, trying to slow them back to an even rhythm. Gods, you love this man so much.

You finally dare to break the silence, whispering, “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” He lets out a weary chuckle and nods. You take one more look into those wet crimson eyes, bloodshot and tired, and smear some of Cazador’s blood left on his cheek in an attempt to wipe away his tears. He takes your hand and kisses your fingertips gently. You suddenly become aware that the other six spawn have been released from their soul-draining chains and are approaching, just as tired and sweaty as the rest of you. The two of you slowly get up to your feet, each helping the other in the process.

“Is… is it over? Is he…?” The woman you vaguely recall meeting in the flophouse in Wyrm’s Crossing, Dalyria, cautiously peers at Cazador’s body. Astarion lets out one final sigh, his breathing finally returning to normal.

“Yes. He’s gone.” He sounds like he can hardly believe it himself. As though saying the words aloud might somehow break a spell and make them untrue.

“What does that mean for us?” Petras, you think, comes up behind Dal. You do remember meeting him, feeling like he was like a knockoff version of Astarion. Trying all the same moves with half of the charm. You feel bad, now, about that judgemental assessment. He looks like such a lost little boy.

“It means you have a choice,” he says with exasperation. Sibling bonds, even when forged in fire, never die. “You can hide here, living in the shadows, like parasites.” His voice is filled with venom. “Or you can be more than what he made us to be. You can choose differently, of course. But the consequences are on your head.”

“What does it mean for them?” Dal asks, and Astarion falters slightly. 

“Ah. Now that is a question…” You can tell he had been trying not to think about the seven thousand vampire spawn locked up in the dungeons. He was trying to get Sebastian out of his mind since their conversation. You don’t blame him, honestly. Astarion may have been forced to do Cazador’s bidding, but that doesn’t make the fallout from that any less reprehensible. Worse even that he was good at it.

Astarion had taken a step away from you to talk to his siblings, and you can see him beginning to spiral. You close the distance again and lay a hand on his shoulder. You can feel him start under your touch.

“Let’s release them,” you offer quietly. ��They deserve the same chance you got.” You have no idea who Astarion would be right now if he hadn’t gotten kidnapped by the Illithid. If he hadn’t been on this journey, seen everything he had seen. Met you. Honestly, you don’t know who you’d even be if you hadn’t met him either. The thought alone makes you run cold.

“You’re right,” he breathes barely above a whisper. “The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because I-” his voice catches in his throat and you see him shake off a dark thought, “lured them here.” He reaches down to pick up Cazador’s staff - Woe, you think it’s called - with a hand still stained reddish black with the vampire’s blood. He looks at it for a moment, considering it carefully, and everything this staff had ever meant. Then he slams it on the ground, red waves of energy emanating from it, using its power to unlock every single one of the cells in the dungeon. 

“They’ll need someone to lead them. Take the tunnels into the Underdark. Find somewhere… well, not safe, but less perilous.” Petras eyes light up with fear.

“What? No, we can’t-” he begins desperately, but Astarion cuts him off with a hand.

“Just try to keep them out of trouble.” The exasperated tone is back. How often had he needed to manage Petras’ emotions as much as his own? You vaguely wonder if Petras looked to Astarion as a role model. The other six spawn walk off slowly, exhausted but clearly relieved to be starting anew.

You turn to Astarion, who has just finished redonning his armor that Cazador had stripped him of. His gaze is glassy; you’ve seen this look before, sometimes even when you’re in bed together. He might as well be a million miles away. You gently touch his arm to bring him back to you. He jumps slightly, then a wan smile touches his lips, but not his eyes.

“That’s it. He’s gone. After all these years – these centuries – it’s really over.” He shuffles his feet, antsy and tired at the same time. You hesitate a moment, unsure of the best way to respond, but you finally settle on, “I’m proud of you. You did the right thing.” His smile isn’t free of bitterness.

“I’m glad you think so, because I’m not so sure.” His eyes flick up back to you, but that glassy look has returned. “I just feel numb. What I’ve lost, what I’ve gained – it’s all so much. And gods, all those spawn, free in the Underdark. I need some time, I think. Just to let it all sink in.” You reach out to touch his face comfortingly. Your heart sinks as he gently pushes your hand away, but it settles when he doesn’t let go of it.

“Let’s just go. This place reeks of death and I want to feel alive again.” He gives your fingers a small squeeze and then walks off ahead of your party, making his way down the long corridor into Cazador’s dungeon. Well, not Cazador’s anymore. You briefly wonder what’s going to happen to this place.

At the end of the hallway, you see the Gur standing there, too late to be even remotely useful. You struggle to keep a scowl off your face. You hate how they treated Astarion in your last encounter. You could be sympathetic of their pain, of course; they’ve lost so much to Astarion’s actions. But the fact that they offered no sympathy for him back, the fact that they could barely acknowledge that he was a victim himself? Absolutely despicable. 

Ulma stands at the head of the group, and her scowl matches yours. “You killed one vampire, but released seven thousand of his spawn? Have you lost all sense?”

“They were innocents. To kill them would have been an even greater crime.” Astarion couldn’t possibly sound more tired. You don’t blame him, these are the last people he wants to defend himself against right now.

“Some of those innocents are your fucking kids,” you grumble under your breath, hopefully not enough for Ulma to hear, but just enough for Astarion’s benefit. It’s clear that she couldn’t when she retorts, “And our children? What of their fate?”

“Cazador turned everyone we brought him into spawn. I can only assume your children are somewhere in those wretched cells. You’ll find them in the Underdark, although you may not like what you find.” The grief is plain in Ulma’s face, as well as the rest of the Gur. You feel a little more sympathy for them, but still no warmth.

“This is…” Ulma searches for the right word to capture the enormity of the situation, “difficult news.” She probably could’ve done better. “We will need to decide what this means.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Thank you for what you have done – slaying Cazador was a great justice. As for the rest… well, time will tell.” Astarion nods curtly, and you’re relieved to be able to push past them and leave.

You and your party finally trudge back to Elfsong Tavern to rest. The rest of your companions are eager to gossip about the day’s events, everyone having something to say. You shield Astarion from their nosiness and distract them while he bathes in the tub in the corner, washing away more than just the physical dirt. 

Later that evening as everyone else is beginning to tuck into bed, Astarion comes to you, finally ready to talk again. You can smell his signature fragrance, an earthy citrus with an undertone of spice, and it’s positively intoxicating. You’ve grown to really love that smell, and even the slightest whiff makes your head spin. For the first time maybe ever since you met, his eyes look… soft. Almost warm, even.

“I should probably start getting used to the shadows, again,” he muses with a light smile. “Who knows how long I have left in the sun?” Your heart drops. This had been your greatest fear, that he would feel resentful of the fact that you convinced him not to go through with the ritual, thereby committing him to an indefinite lifetime in the darkness. You know how much he’s grown to love the feeling of the sun on his skin. Not to mention how it makes his skin look, soft and kissable.

“Don’t say that,” you plead with him. “We could still find a way to control the tadpole.” He shakes his head, his freshly washed curls bouncing slightly.

“Maybe, but even if I could control it, it’s a dangerous game. I’d spend every day waiting for something to go wrong. For the tadpole to find a new trick, reassert itself, make me a slave again.” His eyes grow lighter, discovering the truth of what he’s saying as he says it. “Maybe never seeing the sun again is just the price of freedom.” You reach out and give his arm a reassuring squeeze, relishing the feel of his cool, toned arm beneath the warm linen. Even after all this time, being this close to him makes you a little lightheaded. You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and neck, almost as though it’s aching to be drunk. 

“I’ll be with you either way,” you breathe softly. You can’t help but glance at his lips. “I hope you know that.”

“I think I do.” He sounds genuine, a bit of a rarity for him. Lest anyone believes Astarion to have a sincere bone in his body, he adds, “Assuming we survive, of course. Because a horrible death is always just around the corner with you.” You playfully shove his shoulder for teasing you. He laughs and gently pulls you in by your lower back and you feel the heat rising again. Your breath catches as his eyes rake over your body and face. He lingers on your lips for a moment before darting back up to your eyes.

“There’s… something I’d like to show you, if that’s alright? Something out in the city.” He cocks his head and looks at you with an almost impossible combination of bashfulness and lust. Being this close to him and breathing in his heady scent makes you dizzy. You manage to recover just enough to quip, “If you want to sneak off for a cuddle, you can just ask.” He lets you go and you feel a significant drop in your internal temperature.

“I’ll try to restrain myself if you do,” he says with a cheeky smile. He takes you gently by the hand and leads you out the Elfsong Tavern.

The graveyard is quiet, almost serene. Astarion walks forward towards a tombstone covered in ivy and, with something bordering on reverence, brushes the vines away to reveal the text engraved in the crumbling stone. 

Astarion Ancunin 1229 DR - 1268 DR

He wipes the dirt off his hands and steps back next to you to get a better view of the stone. You stand together in silence for a moment, as if in prayer.

“Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there.” His gaze is overtaken by that glassy look, the one you recognize to be him reliving his trauma. “I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his.” He sneers at the memory. Then he pauses, considering, “Until today.” 

He comes back to himself with a shake of his head, and his eyes return to this plane. He adds, as much to himself as to you, “Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.”

“And what do you want?” Your mouth is dry as you ask the question. You can hope for the answer, but you wouldn’t dare presume. He might need to figure that out on his own, and if that’s the case, you will respect that. 

He turns to face you, his red eyes full of more warmth than you’ve ever seen. Your heart leaps into your throat as he smiles and says, “You… I want you. 

“You were by my side through all of this. Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared.” As he’s speaking your heart starts beating loudly, blood pumping through your arteries at an almost vulgar rate. You know he can tell, and he chuckles softly. Cupping his hand below your ear and gently stroking your cheek with his thumb, he adds teasingly, “You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.” He pulls you even closer and rests his forehead against yours. You could never get tired of this. As much as you love those moments filled with heat and lust, there’s something so tender about these intimate gestures that aren’t about sex. 

“I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.” You grasp at the back of his shirt, looking for purchase as you fall so much more deeply for him. Your voice is barely above a whisper as you breathe, “You won’t. Whatever comes next, I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.”

You two stand there for what feels like both an eternity and a fraction of a second before he pulls away and looks at the grave again.

“Well. I should probably fix this.” He pulls a dagger from his belt with practiced fingers and kneels beside the stone, carving something into it. You kneel beside him and see that it now reads

Astarion Ancunin 1229 DR - 1268 DR 1492 DR -

His new life. For the first time in two hundred years, he can call it his own. You find yourself at a loss of what to do, or what to add, so you self-consciously pick up a nearby wildflower and gently place it at the base of his gravestone. He glances at you sideways and smirks, “Cute.” You both sit back on your heels to admire his work. He heaves a great sigh, letting go of centuries of tension and fear.

“I’ve been dead in the ground for long enough. It’s time to start living again.” He turns to you and takes your hands. “With everything life has to offer.” His voice has taken on that gravelly tone that sends a shiver up your spine. You don’t want to pressure him, of course, but your desire for his touch is getting harder to ignore. These gentle grazes, lovely though they’ve been, have set your skin aflame.

“Meaning…?”

His eyes glint mischievously and that familiar flirty lilt comes back to his voice. “If a night of passion is on offer, I could be persuaded.” Your body leans toward him instinctively, breath heavy in your chest. The words are out of your mouth before your brain catches up, “Sounds good to me.” He gets close to your face and you can feel his breath on your lips before he pulls away suddenly. He’s teasing you, and you know that he’s relishing in the satisfaction of it.

“You know,” he says with a feigned innocence, as though he doesn’t know the effect he has on you, “I didn’t care for you when we first met.” The sudden shift in tone knocks you back to reality, and you can’t help but laugh. He impishly glances up at you through his lashes.

“But I do now. Being with you is about more than lust or manipulating you into a tactical alliance.” He takes your hand, cheekiness gone, and looks you squarely in the eye with a rare earnestness. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.” You will never tire of hearing those words. He reaches behind your ear and tenderly pulls you closer to him, finally giving your lips the reprieve they’ve been so desperate for. It’s a soft kiss, gentle, yet it still makes you burn up inside. 

He pulls away far too soon, and you gaze back at him with starry eyes. His features is soft and smiley, but in an instant he raises on his knees so he’s towering over you and he takes on that stern expression that makes your temperature rise. He shoves you back onto your elbows before bending down to crawl up your torso hungrily. He kisses you again, this time with more intensity. He pins you down with the weight of his chest and then traps you further by nudging your leg up with his knee, eliciting a small gasp of surprise from you. You couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. And you most certainly don’t want to.

His body presses against yours and you curl your leg around him, pulling him tighter. An almost imperceptible grunt escapes his lips and you smile through your kiss. You can feel his smile in return and you lace your fingers into his silvery hair. He deepens the kiss, rolling his hips harder against you and your mouth opens involuntarily. He takes advantage of this momentary lapse and makes his way toward your neck, marking the trail with kisses. You seize up and your fingers tighten in his hair, encouraging him silently. But he needs more than that, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

“Use your words,” he hums between kisses. You squirm beneath him, trying to sound even remotely dignified.

“You can,” you manage to gasp out as you try to suppress the moans that his lips are tearing from your throat. He flicks his tongue right over his usual puncture wounds and then gently trails it up the shell of your ear. You shiver with the intensity of it all.

“I can… what? I can’t know unless you tell me.” How the fuck does his voice stay this even? You can bearly even think straight, let alone string full sentences together. And yet he remains calm, nigh indifferent to the effect he’s having on you. But as cool as he is on the surface, you know how much he wants it. You both love the teasing, each night a challenge to see who can outlast the other. 

“You can bite me,” you breathe and he nips at your ear ever so lightly, causing you to choke out the last few words, “if you want.”

“If I want? But what do you want?” He emphasizes the pronouns in a singsongy tone, and even hearing “I” and “you” in the same sentence does it for you. He’s still grinding against you all while assaulting your neck with filthy kisses. You try to remember what words are.

“I want you,” you gasp, trying to keep your words legible, “to bite me.” You suck in sharply through your teeth as he hitches your leg up a little higher. He grabs both of your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

“Are you sure?” his tone is still infuriatingly innocent. He knows how much you want this, and you know what he wants in return. You’re not quite ready to give it to him yet. But gods how you wish he would break first tonight. Odds aren’t looking great as his free hand slips behind your lower back causing you to arch it off the ground slightly.

“Yes,” you groan in agony as his lips continues their heinous walk up and down your neck and collarbone. “Please, Astarion. I want you to.” He nips you again at the same time that he presses his thigh right at the apex between your legs. He tightens his grip on your wrists and whispers sharply in your ear.

“Beg for it.”

That’s it. You’ve lost. You cry out in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. The words come tumbling out of you, unbidden and unburdened.

“Please, Astarion, bite me. Please please please. Bite me. I want to feel your fangs pierce my skin. I want to know the feeling of my blood inside you. Gods, please, I can’t take it any longer and if you don’t bite me soon I think I might-”

Thank the realms that he cuts you off in that moment, acquiescing to your begging, because you have no idea how you planned to finish that sentence. The sharp moment of pleasure as he sinks in, followed by the loveliness of feeling your blood flow into his mouth. It makes you feel slightly lightheaded, and the high it gives you is better than any you might hope to achieve on Elendren pipeweed. The gentle feeling of his tongue lapping at your neck contrasts beautifully with the sharp tension of him sucking the blood out of you. You can feel him starting to get lost in your neck, his grip on your wrists loosening. You use this moment of vulnerability in Astarion to get him back by arching your back even more to move your hips against his. You hear the sudden intake of breath through his nose and you smile to yourself smugly. He knows what you did and isn’t about to take it lying down, metaphorically speaking. 

Once he’s had his fill he draws away from your neck, lips stained red with your blood. He sits up again, one knee between your legs as he looks down on you. He tsks quietly as he shakes his head, drawling, “So naughty. What am I to do with you?” You prop yourself up on your elbows and return his gaze wickedly, your blood tickling your neck as it drips down toward your shoulder. He swipes at the drop with a long pale finger and lasciviously sucks your blood off his fingertip. Your smug grin is back, knowing how weak he is for you. 

His face drops into that stern expression again, but this time a devilish smile plays on his lips. He puts his hand on your chest gently, then takes a hard turn as he grabs you by the throat. Not enough to be painful, nor enough to constrict your breathing, but just enough for him to have control. He studies your face for a moment, admiring its beauty, before he yanks you upward commanding you to look him in the eye. He leans in for a forceful kiss as he keeps his hand tight beneath your jaw. You start to lose yourself in the kiss, melting into him, and he takes the opportunity to sharply push you away, his pointer lingering on your chin to show that he’s still in control of where you look. He lets you go and leans back confidently, enjoying how you’ve become extremely pliable in his hands.

He stands to loom over you for a second more, then reaches for your hand to pull you up. You’re completely under his power and couldn’t be more than happy to give him whatever he wants. You take his hand and he pulls it behind his back, pressing your chest into his. 

“You’d better be good for me,” he murmurs against your lips, once again denying the kiss you ache for. “We wouldn’t want to punish any bad behavior, now would we?” He caresses your face momentarily and then turns with your hand still in his and pulls you toward… somewhere. Honestly, you couldn’t care where. You love him, and you love this, and you’ll go wherever he leads.