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morbidapples · 4 months ago

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good luck charm

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽!𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖽𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗑 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖽!𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝖽𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 4,474 words; 24,496 characters

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: penis in vagina sex, oral sex (male and female receiving), fucking on a couch, praise kink, pet names, cursing, art is lowkey kind of a freak here, oral fixation, needy! art donaldson, established relationship, lovesick fools, brief mentions of future plans yada yada ya, reader is also a tennis player.

𝗮/𝗻: hey... i'm ovulating right now so i had to crank out another art donaldson smut fic. i am genuinely obsessed with the man, it's a little scary. but, i am actually starting to write smut more and mayhaps have another art fic coming out soon that involves a kitchen countertop... anyways. this is a medium length piece, not as long as the other art donaldson smut fic, but still a decent read (I hope). Don't be a ghost reader, and if you have any requests for anything, feel free to dm me.

Art loved you. You were always there for him. In the stands at every match, patching up minor scrapes after a fall. You were always there when he needed you.

He craved your attention like a drug, like it was the oxygen he needed to breathe. A bit needy, in your eyes. But you never minded.

"But you always come to my matches."

He had a small frown on his lips, his hands gripping your waist as you stood in front of him, your hands gently massaging the nape of his neck.

You smile softly at him and his antics. "I know, but I have my own match tomorrow. I can't miss it."

His pout deepened, whining a bit as he pulled you down on the couch next to him, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you onto his lap, making you straddle his thighs.

"But you're my good luck charm," he whined again, burying his head in the crook of your neck, lips planting gentle kisses over your skin.

Your breath hitches slightly at the feeling of his lips against your skin, but you still manage to speak. "Y- you don't need luck. You're a good player, baby."

He continues kissing, moving upwards to the spot on your neck that he knew you loved, his hands running up your thighs, slowly but teasingly.

"Sure, I don't need luck, but I want it," he mumbled against your skin, his hands now slipping under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers tracing patterns along your sides.

Your head instinctively tilts back to give him better access to your neck, as you struggle to focus on anything other than Art's mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. "Are we really... talking about this right now? It's hard to... think rationally right now."

His lips curved into a smirk as he nipped at a sensitive spot on your neck, knowing full well the effect he was having on you. His hands continued to wander, moving higher on your sides, thumbs gently rubbing over your ribs.

"Thinking never got anyone anything, sweetheart," he whispered, his warm breath against your skin doing nothing to help your current state of arousal.

His lips slowly make their way to your ear, his mouth nipping at the lobe before he spoke again.

"Besides, thinking is overrated. You should just 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭."

With that, his hands found your waist again, and in a swift motion he had you pinned against the couch, his body hovering over yours as he looked down at you with darkened eyes.

His mouth continued its work down your neck, moving along your jaw until he reached your lips, his mouth claiming your own in a deep, passionate kiss.

Art shifts, trapping your legs between his as he grinded his hips against yours, a low growl escaping him as he continued to devour your mouth.

You gasp into his mouth at the sensation, hands holding onto the side of his stomach. You're breathless, hungry for him.

He takes advantage of your gasp, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth and exploring every inch of you.

His hands move lower, finding the hem of your shirt and starting to tug at the fabric. He breaks the kiss to pull the shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his eyes roamed over your exposed skin.

He leaned down, his mouth returning to your neck, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone and between your breasts.

"You taste so good," be murmured, his fingers tracing over the lace of your bra, teasing you as he moved lower to your stomach.

His hands went back to your hips, holding you in place as he continued to shower your skin with kisses. He moved down your stomach, his lips tracing the lines of defined muscles, marking you as his own.

He could feel you squirming under him, your breathing becoming ragged, and he couldn't help but smirk against your skin. He loved having you like this, all flushed and needy, completely at his mercy.

Art's hands moved behind your back, easily finding the clasp of your bra and freeing you from the lace. He pulled away from your stomach to look at you, his eyes roaming over your exposed chest, a hungry glint in his gaze.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his calloused fingers gently tracing the curves of your body. The way he was looking at you made you feel exposed. Vulnerable. It was something only he could make you feel. You were okay with that.

His mouth was on you again, his lips attaching to one of your breasts, teasing and pinching your sensitive flesh. His teeth latch on to your pebbled nipple, nibbling on the hardened bud.

He heard you moan, the sound going straight to his groin, making him grind against you again, trying to get some friction.

He pulled away, his breath hot on your skin as he spoke. "You like that, sweetheart?"

He watched as you tried to nod, your eyes half-lidded, your body arching up against his touch.

He chuckled under his breath, his thumb and forefinger gently pinching your nipple.

"Use your words, baby."

You bite your lip slightly, trying to form a coherent thought, chest flushed and littered with love bites, gaze hazy as you look at him. "Y- fuck, yes-"

He smiled at your response, pleased with the sound of your voice as you spoke.

"That's a good girl," he murmured, his mouth continuing its journey down your stomach, his teeth nipping at the skin.

He moved lower, his lips trailing over the waistband of your sweatpants, his hands pushing the fabric down your legs.

He sat back for a moment, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in the sight of you sprawled out on the couch, completely exposed to him.

He smirked, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he leaned back down, his mouth attaching to the inside of your thigh.

He left a trail of kisses up your thigh, his teeth gently biting at the sensitive skin. His hands held your hips down, keeping you in place as he slowly but surely made his way to your core.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of you driving him on as his tongue slowly traced over your folds, tasting you. He'd thought about being mean, teasing you, but his own desire overruled that thought process.

He heard you gasp, your body arching against his mouth, and he couldn't help but smirk against you, knowing how wet you were for him.

He continued to explore you with his mouth, his tongue swirling and tasting as he found the spots that made you moan and jerk against him. His hands kept you in place, his strong fingers gripping your hips as he worked you into a frenzy.

You felt like you were floating, the pleasure making your head spin. God, he was fucking good at this.

One of your hands grips his hair, while the other squeezes your breast, giving you that extra stimulation. Your head lolls back against the couch, half delirious and hazy, as you let out needy whines and moans.

"Art- Art, fuck- s' good... so good..."

His mouth never left its place between your legs as he heard you call his name, the sound going straight to his cock. He hummed against you, the vibrations against your sensitive cunt making you squirm even more, your hand in his hair tugging at the locks.

He pulled away for a moment, his mouth slick and shiny with your arousal as he looked up at you.

"That's right, sweetheart. You're being so good for me," he purred, his voice gravelly and low from arousal.

His mouth returned to you, his tongue picking up its pace as he devoured you. He could feel you getting closer, your body tensing, moans growing louder and more frequent.

He held you down even more, his fingers gripping your hips almost painfully as he pressed you into the couch, his mouth never stopping its relentless assault.

Your moans are rising in pitch, voicing his name repeatedly like a prayer. Your cunt is clenching around his tongue, and your chest is heaving up and down. You're going to cum very soon, and he knows it.

He could feel you getting closer, your body practically shaking with need. He doubled his efforts, his tongue working overtime as he pushed you higher and higher.

He looked up at you, watching the expressions of ecstasy on your face as he brought you right to the edge.

"That's it, that's my girl. Come for me," he growled against you.

His words combined with his tongue send you careening into your peak, hips canting up, core clenching, moaning his name almost pornographically.

"Oh, god- fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck- s' good to me, Art-"

He keeps mouthing at you through your climax, prolonging it by never letting up his efforts. He loved this, the feeling of you coming undone under him, the sound of his name leaving your lips in between gasps and moans.

He pulled away once he was sure you were spent, but he couldn't help but tease you just a bit more, his tongue darting out to swipe up the last bit of your arousal.

You whine, hips twitching at the overstimulation. Your gaze is hazy, lips bitten, eyes dilated, as your head tilts back against the couch, half delirious from your orgasm.

He watches you for a moment, a satisfied smirk on his face as he moved up your body, gently pressing a kiss to your stomach before capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss.

He pulls back to look at you again, his hand cupping your face.

"You're so pretty like this," he murmured, his thumb tracing your bottom lip where it was bitten red.

As Art's thumb presses into your mouth, your tongue darts out to trace it. He swallows hard as he slips his middle and ring finger into your mouth, and you keep eye contact with him as you suck on his digits, eyes blown wide with desire.

He watches you intently, the way your lips wrap around his fingers and your tongue swirls around them nearly making him shiver in anticipation.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering over your ear as he speaks, his voice low and seductive.

"You look so good with your mouth full, sweetheart."

You moan around his fingers, tongue still coating his fingers with saliva. You've always been a sucker for praise, especially from him.

He chuckles quietly at your response, his eyes darkened with lust as he watches you take his fingers deeper into your mouth.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I tell you how good you are?"

He pushes his fingers deeper, his other hand holding the side of your neck, thumb rubbing over the skin gently.

You moan again, eyes fluttering. You both have a heavy oral fixation, you know it, and he knows it, too. Your hands go down to his jeans, fingers grazing over his erection. You want to please him, too, just as he had done for you.

He can feel your hand on his jeans, the gesture not going unnoticed as he sees your eyes flutter. He growls lowly, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

"You want to take care of me too, sweetheart? You want to show me how good you can be for me?"

You whine, needy and uninhibited. You want to make him feel good, too. Your mind is fuzzy with only one thing, him.

He smirks faintly, watching you get lost in the feeling, the sound of your whine making his cock twitch inside the denim confines.

"Alright, baby," he purrs, taking his fingers out of your mouth and gently lifting your chin with his hand.

"You know what to do, don't you?"

You're quick to discard him of his jeans and shirt, and underwear, as you lightly push him back on the couch, his legs spread. You settle in between his legs, on your knees on the floor, sucking and biting the skin of his thighs and hipbones, your slender hands pressing down gently on his thighs.

His head rolls back at the feeling of your lips and teeth on his skin, a low moan leaving his lips. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his muscles tensing as your touch sends jolts of pleasure through him.

"That's it, sweetheart," he gasps breathily, his grip on the couch tightening. "You're so good to me."

One of your hands move to cup his base, squeezing gently, and you begin to leave teasing kitten licks at the top, the other hand gripping his thigh.

Art hisses at the feeling of your hand on him, his hips involuntarily bucking at the contact, his toes curling against the carpet.

"Fuck..." he gasps, his hands finding your hair and fisting the locks, trying to control himself. "You're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart."

When your tongue runs up from his base to his tip, and flattens against his slit, he nearly loses it. And you haven't even put your mouth over him fully yet.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands trying to ground himself in your hair. He's never felt so wound up, so worked up, the touch of your tongue making him lose his mind.

"Baby-" he gasps, his head rolling back against the couch. "I- I won't last if you keep this up."

When your mouth closes around him, his mind goes blank. It's so warm, so soft, so good. Your tongue is swirling around his slit now, hands gripping his legs as you take him in fully.

Art can't think, can't form a coherent thought, can't do anything except feel the sensation of your mouth on him. His hips twitch, his hands gripping your hair tighter, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps and moans.

"Oh, god-" he gasps, his back arching off the couch slightly. "That's- that's good- s' so good, sweetheart-"

It isn't long before his hips are stuttering forward into your mouth, and you're taking it like it's nothing, mouth wrapped around his cock. You aren't letting up, and he's on the cusp.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the pleasure building higher and higher, his hips involuntarily bucking into your mouth, needing more friction.

"I- I'm gonna-" he chokes out, his hands gripping your hair tighter again. "I'm gonna- sweetheart, I-"

After a few seconds, you ease off, and he scrambles to get himself the rest of the way off. His hand frantically moves up and down, he's so close, so, so close- he cuts himself off with a strangled moan as he cums, releasing on his hand, and all over your chest, dripping down the valley between your breasts.

He can barely catch his breath, his chest heaving as he comes down from his high, his body shaking slightly from the aftershocks.

He looks down at you, a mixture of satisfaction and awe in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you, your chest covered in his release. The sight nearly does him again.

"You're- you're amazing, sweetheart," he gasps, his voice hoarse from the strained vocal chords. "So fucking good to me."

You look at him then, eyes hooded and half-lidded. Then, you take your index and middle finger, scooping up his creamy spend on them, and suck your digits clean, all while keeping eye contact with him.

𝘖𝘏 𝘔𝘠 𝘎𝘖𝘋. He could come again just from watching you.

Art's eyes widen as he watches you, a guttural moan escaping his lips. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

He reaches down, grabbing you by the upper arms and pulling you up onto his lap, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, messy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

You moan into his mouth, hands cupping his face, hips rolling against his. God, you're soaked, he can feel the wetness against his exposed cock.

He breaks the kiss, his mouth trailing down to your neck, biting and sucking at the skin, leaving his mark on you. His hands are on your hips, gripping them tightly, helping you move against him.

He can feel how wet you are, how much you want him, and it drives him wild.

"You want me, sweetheart?" he murmurs against your neck, his breathing ragged. "You want me inside you?"

You gasp, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck. His cock is hitting the right spots to make you squirm, and that's all you can think about.

"Yes- fuck, please- need you-"

He smirks against your skin, his hands roaming all over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"You need me, huh?" he teases, his mouth now on your ear, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. "You want me to fill you up, sweetheart?"

Your voice takes on a high and breathy tone, bordering on begging. At this point, you are.

"Please, please- I need- need you to fucking fill up- Art-"

He leans back slightly, his eyes roaming over your body, raking over every inch of skin. He takes in the sight of you, desperate and needy on top of him, and it takes all his self-control not to give in right then and there.

He captures your mouth in a rough, hungry, messy kiss, mostly teeth clashing and tongues licking into each other's mouths.

"Get on your knees, baby."

You do as he says, as he places a cushion under your hips. Always thoughtful, he is, even when he's completely feral for you.

He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your spine, as he positions you comfortably and prepares you.

He takes his time, his mouth and hands roaming over your back, leaving a trail of kisses and bites in their wake.

He positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his breaths hot on your skin as he speaks.

"You ready for me?"

You nod so fast he swears you could've given yourself whiplash, moaning softly, needily. "Yes, yes- please-"

He holds your hips steady, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing ever so slightly.

He leans down, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth by your ear.

"Take a deep breath and relax," he murmurs, his voice almost sultry.

He takes a moment to let you adjust, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your hips, waiting until you give him the okay to continue.

When you do, he pushes into you slowly, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. It's a struggle to not start pounding into you immediately, but he's coherent enough to recognize you need a minute.

You moan once he fully bottoms out, your hands curling into the fabric of the couch, arching up against him. You feel so full, so stuffed.

Art holds you close, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth leaving tender kisses on your shoulder. He takes a moment to gather himself, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

"You okay, sweetheart? M' not hurting you?" he asks, his voice thick with arousal, his hands on your hips holding you still.

You take a second to adjust to the stretch, and when you feel like you're ready, you tell him. "I'm good. Y- you can move."

He nods against you, his hand coming up to gently grab onto your hair, pulling lightly to get your attention.

"I want you to look at me. Can you do that for me?"

He watches as you turn your head to look at him, your face flushed and your eyes hazy with desire.

"That's my girl," he praises, his grip on your hair tightening slightly. "Now hold on tight."

Within a second, he's pulled out, turned you over so you're on your back, and gone back in. He wants to see your face as he makes you feel good. And you already look wrecked.

He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face, taking in every little expression— the way your mouth hangs open, how your eyes flutter shut, the moans and gasps leaving your lips.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his hands coming up to cup your face, holding your head in place so he can watch you come apart under him.

He continues to move, slowly at first, his eyes never leaving your face, taking in every reaction you have to his every touch and movement.

He watches as the pleasure builds within you, your body arching up towards him, your hands coming up to cling to his shoulders.

He leans down, his mouth finding yours in a deep, messy kiss, his tongue delving into you, tangling with your own.

He feels your legs come up, wrap around his waist, pulling him even closer, deeper, the new angle making him let out a guttural moan.

You moan into his mouth, as he hits a deeper angle inside, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving half crescent moons in their wake. The room is warm, not only from the hot summer air, but also the heat coming off of both your bodies.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as his breaths come out in ragged gasps. He can feel your nails dig into his shoulders, and the stinging sensation only serves to drive him wilder.

"You're so good to me," he pants, his hands roaming over your body, tracing over every curve and contour. "So goddamn good to me."

He quickens his pace, his hips snapping forward harder and rougher, his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to miss a single expression.

He can't even think coherently anymore. All he can focus on is you. How you feel, how you look. Every noise that is drawn out of you with each thrust of his hips.

He can feel his own release building, the pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment.

He continues to move, his motions growing sloppy and erratic as he begins to lose himself to the sensation.

"I'm gonna-" he gasps, his voice strained and uneven. "I'm gonna-"

He's determined to bring you over the edge first. He reaches down in between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and applying pressure.

You moan, eyes fluttering, lips parting, jaw going slack. Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you clench around him. You're so close, he can feel it.

The feeling of your walls clenching around him drives him insane, the moans and gasps escaping your lips only adding to the sensation.

He keeps up the pressure with his thumb, his own release building, his muscles tense and taut with effort, but he refuses to let go until you've come undone first.

"That's it, sweetheart," he gasps, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Let me see you come apart."

"F- fuck- Oh, oh god-" His thrusts hit just the right spot inside you, and it sends you careening over the edge, eyes rolling back, voicing his name over and over like a prayer.

He watches as you fall apart beneath him, your body writhing and trembling, the sight of you coming undone pushing him right to the edge.

His movements become erratic, his hips stuttering as he clings onto the precipice, the sensations almost too intense.

"Oh god-" he moans, his voice trembling. "Gonna- I'm gonna-"

When you clench around him again, it's enough to finish him off. He moans hoarsely, hips thrusting through his own release.

His release hits him like a freight train, his hips stilling, his body shuddering with the intensity of it. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps against your skin.

"Fuck-" he pants, his grip on you tight, his whole body shaking from the aftershocks.

He tries to catch his breath, his body still slumped over you, his heart racing in his chest. He lifts his head up slightly to look at you, and god, the sight of you, so utterly wrecked and breathless, nearly does him in again.

You look down at him, eyes hazy and filled with affection, as your hand comes up to gently card through his sweaty hair.

He practically melts under your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he lets out a contented sigh.

He moves slowly, carefully pulling out of you, trying not to hurt you. He then collapses beside you on the couch, his head resting on your stomach.

"You're going to be the death of me, y'know that?" he mumbles sleepily, his voice rough but fond.

You laugh quietly, a faint smile appearing on your face. "That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

No, it wouldn't. It really wouldn't, he thinks. You are marked with love bites, put there by him, you're this wrecked because of him. You love him.

He grins at your comment, his eyes drifting up to take in the sight of your marked skin. He feels a sense of pride at the sight of the love bites he left behind, a silent claim that you were his.

He lifts himself up, propping himself up on his elbow so that he's staring down at you, his gaze soft but possessive.

"You're right," he answers quietly, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your skin. "It wouldn't be so bad at all."

The adrenaline is wearing off, and you're both tired. Art can feel his eyelids drooping, the allure of sleep calling to him. And you're not faring much better, drowsy and content being here.

He can tell you're just as tired as he is, both of you coming down from the adrenaline high and now feeling the exhaustion seeping into your bones.

He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. He burrows his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of you.

"Let's take a nap," he murmurs sleepily. "Just a little one. We can clean up later."

You hum softly in agreement, body perfectly melding into his. As Art drifts off, he's only thinking about how much he never wants this to end. He never wants to stop having you.

The last thing he remembers as he slips into unconsciousness is the feeling of your body against his, the sound of your breaths, and the gentle beat of your heart.

He falls asleep dreaming of a life with you, filled with love, laughter, and happiness. And he knows, deep down, that he'll do anything to make those dreams a reality.

#challengers #mike faist #smut story #challengers smut #art donaldson #art donaldson fic #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fanfiction #challengers 2024 #challengers film #challengers movie #challengers fic

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seths-rogens · 1 year ago

Text

cardboard houses, cardboard hearts | M | 1.9k | ao3

should’ve been finishing my infidelity au, but instead the cardboard joe cutout i was given inspired me to crank this out in one sitting,, anyway, please enjoy :)

—————

Eddie often thanks God that he took the leap and moved to Indianapolis after he finally graduated high school. Not that he really believes in God. Just… figure of speech and all. Though, maybe he’d believe in God if they were a metalhead with tatties and an eyebrow piercing, but he thinks that might ruin their image honestly.

He’s getting off topic.

Eddie often thanks God for Indy in moments like these. Moments where he has a fucking beautiful man pinned to his own front door, strong, thick fingers tangling in his hair as Eddie desperately tries to fit his key into the lock. He shoves his thigh between Pretty Man’s legs - he didn’t catch his name - and presses upwards. Pretty Man whines, grinding down and making it all that more difficult to unlock the goddamn door.

“Hold on, Sweetheart. I just gotta-“ Eddie bites back a groan as Pretty Man kisses down his neck, sucking a bruise over his pulse as the key finally slips into the lock. Chrissy’s never gonna let him live the marks down.

He’s surprised he picked anyone up tonight at all. He’d gone to a concert alone for once, as Chrissy was staying at her new girlfriend’s place, and Gareth and Jeff weren’t the biggest fans of his guilty pleasure artist ‘King S’.

And honestly? In any other world. Eddie wouldn’t be either.

King S isn’t his usual style. Where Eddie usually loves a hard drumline, thrashing guitars and lyrics you can only scream, King S is all soft melodies and crooning vocals set to slow drum beats.

He’d stumbled upon him completely by accident, honestly. It’d been a slow day at the record store Eddie manages. He’d been there for nearly five hours and so far he’d only served maybe three customers - and two of those customers were an old couple shopping for their granddaughter. So he’d picked the first magazine he could reach off the stand by the counter, and flipped it open to a random page.

It’d been an interview with King S, who’d just released his first album at the time. He was talking about his inspiration for making music - his best friend and little brother who, he’s quoted as saying, ‘always ragged on him when he played his pop shit in the car’ - and the meaning behind his stage name - reclaiming an old high school nickname he’d been given after his brief stint as a bit of a mean girl, though now he promises he’s using it for good.

He’d flipped the page to find a double page spread of King S curled up in a bathtub. His eyes were squeezed shut through the lacy masquerade mask that was supposedly his staple (no one knew his real identity after all). His hair was messy and flying all over the place. He was…

He was naked. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

His arms and legs were bare, the black and white photo only emphasising the toned curves of the muscles in his arms and back and the dark hair covering those lush thighs.

Call him obvious but Eddie had been intrigued. He knew they’d received a new shipment of records that morning that weren’t supposed to be hitting the shelves until the next day, so he figured what the hell!

Ten minutes later, elbow deep in a shoddily painted green wooden crate, Eddie emerged victorious with King S’s debut album ‘Robins and Tadpoles’ in his hands.

The album cover was two people’s hands clasped together, matching ice cream cone tattoos on both wrists. There was a little dedication on the back. To R & D.

He took it out to the turntable on the shop floor and dropped the needle. When the soft music started, he was hesitant, but as the album moved on he quickly realised he was hooked.

He’d gone into the shop bright and early the next day - on his day off no less - and bought the album. Only slightly laughing at the look on Mike’s - part time Lit student, part time cashier, full time grump - face.

That had been two years ago, and Eddie had been solidly on the King S train since.

Sure, Gareth and Jeff - and Grant too when he was in town - would tease him about abandoning his people, about betraying the freaks and the weirdos, but really they supported his love for the artist, even if they didn’t quite get it.

So when King S announced a stop in Indy on his second album tour, the guys (and Chrissy) had banded together to get him tickets as an early 26th birthday present. Except when the day came, they were all busy, so he went by himself.

He didn’t mind really, was just happy to be there to appreciate the music. (And the man himself, Eddie has eyes, come on now.)

Elated and feeling just a little self fulfilled after the concert, Eddie had gone to his favourite queer/metal bar, Crash. He’s picked people up there before, sure, but they’ve all been metalheads, just like him, and as many of his friends have said in the past, he’s cursed to have the hots for the preppy jock types.

Usually, that’s not the type of guy he’d find in Crash. Tonight was different.

Eddie had been sat at the bar, thinking about King S’s arms beneath the crimson sweater he wore on stage, when a gorgeous man had stepped up beside him to buy a beer. The man was wearing a dark, charcoal coloured t-shirt under a light grey Members Only jacket, paired with light blue levi’s.

Eddie kinda felt his jaw hit the floor. Could this be the perfect end to the perfect night?

This brings us back to now. Eddie finally pushes the door open, swings Pretty Man around and pushes him back against it.

He drops his keys somewhere. It doesn’t matter. He’ll find them tomorrow.

They’re grinding fast against one another now, only their harsh, panting breaths filling the silence of Eddie’s apartment. Eddie slides his hand into Pretty Man’s hair, tugs on this side of too hard. Pretty Man moans, loud, almost echoing, and tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for Eddie to defile.

Eddie leans in, presses his lips to those two little moles, and—

“What the fuck?”

Eddie pulls back to look at Pretty Man’s face. He’s still, not looking at Eddie, instead staring with wide eyes into the open plan of Eddie’s living room.

Eddie follows his gaze and… Oh. Yeah. He forgot about that.

See the King S tickets hadn’t been Eddie’s only birthday gift. He knew this would come back to bite him in the ass, but his friends thought it was hilarious. Eddie thinks they’re assholes.

Because Pretty Man is staring at a life size cutout of King S, standing by the wall.

Eddie winces, pulls away. This guy might not look like a metalhead, but he was in a metal bar, there’s no way he listens to King S. He’s gotta come up with an explanation for this, and fast.

“Um, yeah… About that… would you believe me if I said I didn’t buy it?” He asks sheepishly, avoiding Pretty Man’s eyes.

“You’re a fan?” Pretty Man asks, except he sounds dejected, which Eddie thinks is weird. And actually? Fuck this guy. He’s allowed to like whatever he wants.

“Yeah, man. What’s wrong with that? Maybe it’s not for everyone but King S actually makes really good music.” He gets more than a little defensive, takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, no… that’s not what I meant.” Pretty Man raises his hands placatingly.

“Then what did you mean?”

Pretty Man sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t you recognise me?”

Eddie furrows his brow in confusion. “Do I like, know you or something?”

Pretty Man raises his eyes to the ceiling like this is difficult. “Really? Nothing?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t…” Pretty man nods, sighs, and then walks past Eddie further into the apartment. “Hey, you can’t just—“

“How about now?” Pretty Man asks, stopping right next to the cardboard cut out.

Eddie flits his eyes between the man and the cut out, trying to understand what Pretty Man is getting at until he sighs again, pulls down the sleeve of his jacket to reveal…

A tattoo of an ice cream cone, and suddenly it all clicks.

Oh. Oh no. That’s… oh holy ever loving fuck.

“Holy shit!” Eddie exclaims, pointing frantically between Pretty Man and the cardboard. “You’re King S!”

“Yeah. It’s uh, Steve, actually.” Pretty Man, King S, Steve nods, seeming much more shy than he was ten minutes ago. He’s curled his arms around himself, trying to make himself shrink. Eddie feels bad.

“Did you think I was trying to sleep with you because you’re famous?”

“I mean, weren’t you?” Steve won’t meet his eye. Instead he’s staring around the room, taking in all the little details of Eddie’s life.

Eddie takes a step towards him. “No, man. I just thought you were pretty, that’s all.”

“You really didn’t know who I was?” Though he still looks unsure, Steve finally meets his eye.

Eddie shakes his head, coming to a stop in front of Steve. “I didn’t even buy that thing, dude. My friends thought it would be funny because you’re like, the only non-metal artist I listen to.”

Steve smiles at that. He really is so pretty, Eddie can’t help but think. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man. Heard your first album right after it came out and I was hooked!” Eddie laughs softly. “I used to be a little bit narrow minded when it came to music, but I heard yours and it’s like the world of music blasted wide open.”

A pretty pink blush spreads its way across Steve’s cheeks. “Oh, uh… That’s really cool. I’m glad you like it.”

“I was at your show tonight, actually.”

“You were?”

“Yeah!” He shrugs. “I used to play in a band in high school, we were never very good but I liked to think I had good stage presence, right?” Steve nods and Eddie grins, leaning in a little. “I was nothing compared to you. It was fucking electric, I felt like my skin was buzzing.”

Steve’s smile seems to grow even wider. He sways forward into Eddie’s space, almost unconsciously. “This might be crazy, but do you wanna start over? Forgo the one night stand and just, I don’t know, get coffee or something? I know this cute little 24 hour place, Victoria Street, it’s only a couple blocks away.”

Eddie narrows his eyes a little. “Stevie… barely anyone knows Victoria Street. Are you, dare I say it… local?”

Steve’s cheeks darken even further. “Maybe.”

Eddie laughs. “Then, I’d love to start over. I wanna get to know you as Steve, not King S.”

Steve slips his hand into Eddie’s, tugs him

back towards the door. “God, how much do you know..?”

“I may have read a couple interviews.”

Steve groans, embarrassed, as the door clicks shut behind them.

Then, a few moments later. “Shit! My keys!”

The date goes well. As does the second, and the third, and so on, and so on. They’re officially exclusive by date 7.

Steve meets Chrissy and the boys on date 20. Eddie meets Dustin and Robin, right before date 45.

On date 94, Steve presents his third album to Eddie. There’s a different dedication on the back cover this time.

To E, my love.

——————

taglist: @judasofsuburbia @gothbat99 @cheatghost @flowercrowngods @fastcardotmp3 @simplebtromance @gonzofromspace

lemme know if u wanna be added to a permanent taglist for anything i do in the future, i’m thinkin’ that might be funky :)

#zee writes #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #the adventures of cardboard joe #<— starting that tag just in case 👀

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therealslimshakespeare · 11 months ago

Text

Gigi -the unbaked thots:

• Bath •

Summary: I’ve had so many requests for this universe (including a bath time which this includes) and I appreciate all of y’all’s patience. I find this universe the hardest to write for and create entire scenes and fics out of so in order to keep it from dying out I intend to loosen up a little and start throwing out headcanons for y’all to enjoy in the meantime, you can watch for them with this header above. For now enjoy a trash bit of nastiness I wrote in under an hour in the middle of the night last night -kudos to the minxs @eliseinmemphis and @stylespresleyhearted

Warnings: Explicit! 18+ Bath sexy times, grinding, fingering, praying during sex, age gap, slight degradation, voluntarily drinking bath water containing cum. Yup.

Era: September 1977

Well here they are. On the dreaded tour.

But for now -there are bubbles. So many bubbles. And the heavy rumble of the bath’s jets and the golden glow of the dimmed bathroom lights in the hotel suite and the slippery bulk of Elvis as he grumbles beneath Gigi while she writhes amidst the foam of his rinsed shampoo.

��Sloppiest lil rider I ever-“ his face is shining in a heated glow, he is awash in pink cheeked arousal and Gigi persists, wearing herself out for his little gasps and the twitches of an eyebrow here and there. Bouncing adamantly atop his thick thighs in the swirling water and trying her avid best to slip his fat length inside her. She’s been trying since day one and every time it’s

-“not yet, Gigi, not yet, s’posed to be special and you’re special baby girl, not somethin’ to rush with someone special like you, see, I uh, i-i-it’s special-“

Gigi thinks having his rock solid cock inside her would be special enough.

“ ‘member the other night,

daddy?” She asks him in a huff, winded from the exertion as she pins his throbbing length against himself and grinds her clit against the hairs on his rounded belly, full of desperation born of youthful overexubernace, “remember how -how - when you were teasing me -and you pressed against my little hole?”

Elvis lets out a long groan in reply, slapping his hands against the sides of the tub in sexual frustration, causing his rings to clank and his bracelets to jangle against the porcelain. He can feel himself swell even more, the ache in his balls nearly unbearable at the proximity to snug tightness that he’s been denying himself for a myriad of reasons that are making less and less sense now, the more Gigi’s glossy wet tits slap his face silly.

“Oooh, oh I feel you-“ she gasps, as that redundant piece of meat between his thighs gives a hearty little twitch at the memory of her tiny hole and it’s fluttering need.

“You son of a bitch,” Elvis hisses to his traitorous little friend who’s acting very stalwart in his determination to find nothing but a tight cunt sufficient stimulation for release -it was easier back when little Elvis was a limp and useless dong: “this is the one time i’m asking you not to work. C’mon, don’t fail me now I-I- hell… O-o-our father. Who art in heaven-“

Gigi buries her face into the steamy crease where his cheeks meet his throat and licks at the salt there that not even the bath can remove. His hands fly to grip her hips and he yanks her up and down, grinding harshly against her raw little center as her breasts smash against his broad chest.

He regularly complained to the boys about her voraciousness and got no sympathy, not even when they saw it for themselves with the way he could barely get his seat in the limo, have his water handed to him and a towel before she was taking off his belt, unzipping his jumpsuit and inevitably giving lil Elvis some strong mouth suction. The boys had gotten used to ignoring him dumping a load down this little girl’s throat in the blurry blaze of street lamp lit nights and cranking up the radio to hide her moans every jet flight. Nothing about it was fitting and it wasn’t even to his tastes -so Elvis insisted- but it was real nice to be so wanted, even if the voraciousness of it was all a little alarming and out of hand.

Yet, God knows Elvis wanted Gigi badly. It half scared him sometimes and the rest of the time it kept him alive.

As did Lisa in an entirely different way and between the two girls tearing up his sedate plans for self mortification and permanent hermitage, Elvis found some zest for life returning to his soul as August became September and tabloids went from calling Gigi “the new girl” to calling her his whore and the colonel went from not answering his phone to leaving a perpetual red light on the message box and it went from kisses and snuggles in his Graceland bed to frantic grinding like this after every show that had her caterwauling in his arms begging to be torn open by his cock and him grunting like a bear in heat as he spurted against her belly and smashed the button for the tub jets to stop.

Wouldn’t do to circulate superstar spunk in a Cincinnati hotel jacuzzi.

“Mmm, that feel good daddy?” her sweet voice asks as the singing angels dim and the sense of time and space and his spent cock bring him back into consciousness.

“Uhuh. Feels real good.” he admitted sheepishly and felt her plump lips pressing to his bashful grin.

He returns it, pouring his love into her with the cradling of her head in his hands and the flick of his tongue against hers and the languid massaging of lips.

Gigi swirls the milky strands of his spend in the bath water between them, giggly and invigorated. She gets this way after climaxing and Elvis can only blearily smile and indulge the way she drags him around and makes him stand and get out of the tub, how she pats him down with towels like he’s a boy child and chitters to him about backstage gossip, praises for his performance of the night and Tammy’s latest tips for making Jerry’s life a living orgasmic hell. All while pressing kisses to every single part of his body as she goes along.

She’s found goosey places on Elvis that he didn’t even know existed.

Gigi is drying his shoulders when she sees the last remnants of the tub water cycloning in a swirl towards the drain, precious pearly strings cavorting like ribbons in the eddy.

Her conversational chatter ceases abruptly with a regretful -“oh no!“

She drops the sodden towel.

He watches her kneel, crouched and bent and glorious in a soft line of naked beauty from the back. Thought his maidenly idyl is shattered as she faces away from him and in what seems to be an impulsive moment of adoration, Gigi leans over the tub, hard porcelain lip digging into her sternum as she ducks her head and dips her mouth to the tepid bathwater.

He can hear her slurping.

Her graceful bracing in position and the greedy working of her throat suggest competency at this vile practice that makes his stomach lurch and spent cock swell thickly against his thigh. Without autonomy he hears himself grunt appreciatively.

“Fuuuuck me.” he drawls in disbelief, shuffling closer to watch the whole of it, the working of her sweet mouth sucking up his diluted seman and the arch of her back showcasing pink little pussy lips glistening from the back.

It’s sick and he’s terribly in love.

“That’s my good baby girl,” he finds himself praising this heinous degradation, hand coming to rest on the dip of her lower back, “not lettin’ m’lil contrition go to waste.”

It makes her strain to get as deep in the tub as she can, legs taut and face red from the blood rushing downwards to her cheeks as she chases gravity against the flow of the drain, his hand heavy and encouraging as it palms her ass, the pinch of his rings and the grunting, savage, male appreciation for her wantonness making her squeeze her thighs together in hopeless dissatisfaction.

A sting jolts her as his hand collides in an approving slap across her plush backside. The desire to make him proud eggs her on and she crawls further over the ledge, hair dragging in the drain.

Elvis’ hand once groping her butt moves until he’s peeling her apart and sliding in the long lengths of his middle and ring finger into her tight heat, meanly stabbing inside her as she’s bent double, tonguing at the drain for the last of his essence.

“You done this before.” Elvis’ voice is low, without a shred of questioning.

“Yes.” she moans, rosy cheek pressed to the wet floor of the now empty tub. “I always do this when you leave some left over, daddy.”

Elvis watches his fingers sink into pink plushness again and again, rings acting like stoppers at each culmination, spearing her until Gigi is sobbing and spasming over the tub edge, mouth wide open screaming for him with a tongue white from his spend, as broken as he is over the need to fuck her.

Sore and puffy, he assumes he’s learned her a lesson.

Standing her back up tenderly with all gentlemanly grace, Elvis wipes at her slimy cheek with his hands, pleased to find her smile as irrepressible as ever, the only thing on this godforsaken tour that hasn’t disappointed him yet.

“When is soon?” she whines into his kisses as he presses against her, bath quite redundant with the way he has her pinned between the door and his weeping cock, freshly spluttering his devotion against her bare pubic mound like he’s twenty years younger and fit to be such a minx’s lover.

“What?” He questions, murmuring in happy confusion.

“You said you’d make love to me soon.” she insists like a child reminding their senile parent of promises for ice cream after a trip to the dentist. “When is soon?”

Elvis grins through his grunt as he slides against her puffy clit, effortless from her slick and close to coming from images of her drinking his bath- “Soon, little baby,” he pronounces with all the gravity of a wiseman and the authority of a deadly opponent who his hand engulfing her fragile jaw, “-means soon.”

🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

@vintageshanny

@landmermaid12

@ashtag2887

@notstefaniepresley

@butlersluvbot

@steph-speaks

@eliseinmemphis

@lookingforrainbows

@dkayfixates

@ellie-24

@memphisflash1935-1977

@marriedtopresley

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@elvisabutler

@butlersxbirdy

@heartbrake-hotel

@fav-fanficssss

@austinbutlersbaby

@freudianslumber

@kxnnxy

@kingdomforapony

@be-my-ally

@crazymadpassionatelove

@that-hotdog

@missmaywemeetagain

@fallinlovewithurlove

@richardslady121

@lilycherries123

@18lkpeters

@xenaspace3-blog

@lil-mamas-obsessions

@father-of-2cats

@helen06dreamer

@returntopresley

@gonnagoandfangirl

@kelssssxd

@octobers-snow

@velvetelvis

@blursedblegh

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whereianonymouslypostfics · 2 years ago

Text

K.O.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~1.1k

Summary: Training quickly devolves into something more fun. Part 2 of Training. I’m jumping the gun because I have a feeling I know who’s going to win the poll. 👀 If not I have the other one done too 😉

A/N: :) 18+ only please

Warnings: smut

You knew that you would end up regretting your cockiness almost immediately. Now; however, as you we lying on your back in the middle of the ring you realize that you probably should have been more gracious. That said, you couldn’t complain too much because the view from here was very nice.

Wanda was on top of you straddling your hips as she smiled down at you. She held your hands in hers, pinning them by your head as she looked to you with a smug grin.

“What was it you said about getting me underneath you?”

You have to clamp your mouth shut so you don’t groan at how poorly you’d judged your wife’s intentions. You shift slightly trying to roll her off you, but she just holds you down firmly as she tilts her head in question.

“I thought you were going to impress me, detka?”

You actually groan at this and you frown in frustration. You wait until Wanda shifts her weight before you try again to roll her over. You only partially succeed and Wanda manages to jump to her feet as soon as you do. You run at her and throw a punch that’s aimed at her shoulder because you couldn’t stand hitting Wanda in the face, but she dodges it easily and grabs your arm to pull you forward.

You almost lose your balance but you spin and side-step your wife so you end up behind her. You don’t get to try anything however before Wanda elbows you sharply in the stomach.

“Ow! Ruude.”

You double over and groan dramatically as Wanda just turns to face you with an unimpressed look. You just smile at her before holding out your hand that Wanda looks at with a frown. You wait until she grabs your hand and you shake it with a cheeky smile before you’re twisting your wife’s arm and kicking her knees out from under her.

Wanda hisses in more surprise than pain because you don’t crank on her arm as much as you normally would. She still has to take a moment to catch her breath when you push her forward so she’s staring at her knees.

“Give up yet?”

Wanda shakes her head before she goes to reach for something at her waistband. She ends up just turning and punching you in the stomach, but the message is clear.

“No because I can still stab you with this hand, Y/n.”

You sigh in defeat realizing your mistake before you nod in agreement. You pretend like you’re injured from Wanda’s ‘knife’ before falling onto your knees.

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Wanda watches more amused than anything else as you topple over with a dramatic groan and fall onto your back. You both realize in that moment that you’re not really in the mood to train. You thought you’d wanted to blow off steam, but you realize that there is a much more fun way to do this.

“You don’t seem very motivated, milaya.”

You smile as Wanda walks over towards you and reaches out a hand to help you up. You shrug as you admit that you’re not feeling it at the moment. Wanda just laughs at this as she pulls her hand away as she reconsiders. She takes advantage of your position on the ground and decides that she wants to humor you. Wanda’s on her knees and hovering over you before you can ask what’s on her mind. Her eyes are bright as she looks you over appreciatively before leaning in.

“Are you going to deprive me of watching you sweat because I was really looking forward to it?”

You are certainly sweating now as your wife kisses your cheek as she climbs on top of you with a smile. You hiss as she shifts against your hips before sliding up to settle on your stomach. You groan loudly as Wanda grinds against your tense muscles. You reach up to put your hands on her waist, but they’re only there for a millisecond before your wife pins them down.

“No touching.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Wanda cuts you off as she kisses you deeply. You moan as Wanda starts to rock against you more insistently. Your fingers flex and you consider trying to break free from your wife’s grasp, but Wanda reads your mind and holds you tighter. You break away from the kiss to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from bucking your hips uselessly as you practically feel Wanda pulse against you.

“Fuck, Wands. You’re—”

You’d intended to say that she was amazing, that she looked beautiful from where she sat above you with her flushed face and parted lips. She bites her lip to stifle a breathy moan as she starts to move faster against you as her pleasure starts to peak.

“Mhmm, you feel so good, Y/n.”

Wanda’s eyes are squeezed shut so she can’t see your pained expression as you try to free your hands once again. Wanda stops what she’s doing despite it being torture for you both and she shoots you a stern look. You’re gasping for breath and nearly vibrating from the urge to reach out and touch, but you realize your mistake as soon as Wanda frowns at you.

“You’re being bad, detka. Do you want to see me come or not?”

That’s hardly a question and you nod furiously as Wanda shifts so she can hold your hands above your head. She leans over and pecks your lips before she starts rocking again.

“Stay.”

You do as you’re told and you desperately try to ignore the ache between your legs as your wife continues to use you to get off. It’s only a minute or so later that Wanda’s hips start to stutter and she lets out a gasp. Her body jerks to a stop and you feel her orgasm soak you through her leggings.

“Fuck.”

Wanda stills above you so she can catch her breath before she looks down at you with a smile. She kisses you again before releasing your hands which immediately go to her hips. She doesn’t argue this time and she kisses you thoroughly before she hisses as you squeeze your wife’s ass.

“Do you want to continue this upstairs?”

All you can think about is getting your hands on Wanda and watching her lose herself to her pleasure again and again. You quickly get to your feet with a nod and you help Wanda get out of the ring before quickly leading her out of the room with a grin.

“You know I do.”

Masterlist

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda x reader #wanda x you #silver springs #silver springs drabble #silver springs au

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abigailmoment · 11 months ago

Text

Underdark, Reprise

(Content Warnings: Grievous Injury, Compound Fracture, Predatory Instincts, Fantasy First Aid) "You'll sink it if you try that," Astarion said, making a shooing motion, warning the huge bear further back from the comparatively delicate boat. "You are absolutely going to need to go back to being a little less massive and marginally less hairy."

The bear was pensively examining the boat and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He made a grumbling sort of huffing noise that sounded maybe slightly anxious?

Then he backed up so that he was back on the stone part of the dock. He sat down. He exhaled slowly. And then he turned back into Halsin.

The air was immediately filled with the smell of blood.

Halsin's skin was mottled with bruising and scratches to the point where it took Astarion a surreal moment to really recognize him. There was a hole in him, on the right side of his chest in the bridge where breast met stomach, punched through his leather armor. Whatever had made the hole had been pushed out, probably by the sudden manifestation of bear. So it bled immediately and freely.

Halsin moved, trying to reach for something on his belt. Then he made a guttural, pained noise because the hand he'd reached with was the dense apex of all the bruising on his right side. Purple black and lumpy in a way a hand should not be.

He reached instead with his left hand. He managed to open the pouch and fish out a bandage which he pressed immediately against the hole in his chest.

"Astarion," he said, and there was a patina of managed suffering coloring his voice. "I am going to need your help."

Oh Gods. He looked half dead. And he smelled amazing. And Astarion was going to have to get closer to him. And not...

And exercise a modicum of self-control. And help.

For the sake of this story we're ignoring the existence of the fast-travel points. Sorry Gale.

Full text below.

Full Text On AO3

The fundamental idea had been a good one. The Harpers at the Last Light Inn needed supplies and equipment. And as it happened, the inn was quite close to an elevator that led down to a recently evacuated duergar camp full of supplies and equipment. All the party needed to do was gather things into the lift, crank the lift to the surface, and make a quick jaunt through the Shadowlands.

The second step in that sequence turned out to be the weak point in the plan. It was at times like these they all felt the lack from not having a dwarf in the group. A dwarf might have noticed the creaking metal, or diagnosed why the crank that lowered and raised the elevator was becoming increasingly hard to turn.

The agonizing part was that they'd been almost done. Finished with crates and weapons, finished with braziers and torches. They hadn't even meant to do this last run, but Astarion had discovered that one of the executed drow had a Harper pin hidden in a pocket. Halsin had thought that they should bring the body to Jaheira. And Astarion had yet to his witness Tav refuse to do anything Halsin thought was a good idea.

Halsin was at the crank, as he was one of the people with enough height and therefore leverage to still turn it easily. Astarion was standing by the corpse, near the center of the lift, when things started to go terribly wrong.

The first sign of danger, their only real warning, was an unhealthy grinding sound that came from the lift's ceiling. Halsin looked up, concerned. Astarion threw himself at the still-visible gap between the cave ceiling and the bottom of the elevator entrance.

(Their survival instincts operated in different spheres entirely.)

The next six seconds were a chaos of collapsing rock and screaming metal. Astarion got a body long bruise forcing himself at speed through the not quite large enough gap. But he made it through, fell six meters, and landed staggering on the sculpted stone platform that had been their loading stage for the last four hours.

He heard more than saw what happened behind him. Cables and chains snapping, metal supports contorting, rubble falling in to fill suddenly empty spaces. The metal elevator falling heavily back down to its bottom most position, being reduced to scrap and buried.

When he turned around, what he saw met the narrative of what he heard. He also saw absolutely no sign of Halsin.

Shit. Tav was going to be so upset about this.

He stared at the wreckage, trying to stop shaking and start thinking about what to do now. Then the wreckage moved.

It was like an explosion, but with no blastpowder or fire. A bunch of the scrap metal that used to be an elevator was suddenly pushed out. Astarion jumped back to avoid being hit by bits of rock and girder. The huge bear that had displaced all that wreckage scrambled out from under it before the rest of the debris caught up with what was happening and collapsed further.

Astarion backed up more, down onto the stairs, because there wasn't room for an elf and a bear on the lift platform. He glared up Halsin.

"You have exactly one solution to every problem," he snapped.

The bear gazed impassively down at Astarion in his customary way. Well, maybe not as impassive as usual. He was panting a bit. Astarion wasn't good at reading bears.

"Move over," Astarion muttered, trying to shoulder his way back onto the platform. He didn't like how his voice was still shaky from the almost-being-buried-alive.

The bear let him by, making what space it could. Astarion stepped lightly and cautiously over to the wreckage of the elevator. He peered up at the shaft it was supposed to go up through.

The mechanics of the elevator had collapsed into a jagged metal monolith that choked the passage. And above that metal was a layer of collapsed rock. Not the sort of barrier Astarion was going to be able to lockpick his way through.

Astarion's ears twitched and he tilted his head because he thought for a moment he heard a voice. Yes he had. There it was again. Very faint. Someone yelling from above them.

Astarion looked around for something solid that he could climb and that he could be sure wouldn't collapse on him. The metal gates that girded the elevator entrance were intact and attached to the walls. He walked over, tested his weight on them, and then climbed up. He climbed as close as he could to the seam that he very recently and viscerally remembered struggling past. He got as close as he could to the stone ceiling of the elevator entrance, now choked with debris.

"Astarion!" Someone was yelling. "Halsin! Are you there? Can you hear me?"

It was Wyll. His voice was muffled, but from up here Astarion could make out the words.

"We're here!" he shouted back.

Wyll said something too soft to be decipherable. Then shouted: "Are you all right? Are either of you hurt?"

Astarion glanced down at the giant bear sitting on the elevator landing. It was watching Astarion.

"We are miraculously intact!" he shouted back.

Another unintelligible mutter. Then: "I'll be right back. I'm going to tell the others."

Astarion could hear very distantly the whooshing noise that the Flight spell made in action.

As he waited, Astarion worked his arm through the latticework of metal he was hanging off of. Clinging by hand made his fingers tired. He used to be able to do this much more easily. That was probably the only disadvantage to the mind flayer parasite--a few of his old vampire spawn abilities had been suppressed, including the one that used to let him climb walls like a spider.

Worth it, though. A thousand times worth it.

Astarion heard the distant gust of magic again. He pushed himself up to better hear Wyll's voice.

"You're to take the boat back from the duergar camp to the beach," Wyll communicated words that had almost certainly come from Tav. "Go up from there to the myconid colony. Stay there and we will come get you."

That made sense. That was a sensible plan. The mushroom creatures oversaw the only truly safe space they'd ever found in the Underdark. And getting there was re-treading ground they had already covered, so they weren't as likely to encounter as many terrifying monsters. He and Halsin should be able to manage it safely, even with only two of them.

"We'll be there," Astarion yelled back. "Don't dawdle."

"We won't," Wyll assured him.

And then he left. Because Flight only lasted so long.

Astarion exhaled slowly and hung for a moment, loose from his perch near the ceiling. He wasn't trapped. He'd almost been trapped, but he wasn't. And Tav wasn't going to let anyone get any sleep until they were all happily reunited among mushrooms.

She'd probably been rather upset by this. He could relate. He'd been extremely upset by this. He rather liked imagining her, yelling orders at a floating Wyll. Digging out maps to trace the fastest route from the Shadowlands to the Underdark. Hounding everyone to hurry back along the risen road so that she could find him.

And Halsin. Of course. She was probably worried about Halsin too.

Astarion looked down. The bear was still sitting there, staring up at him. The picture of a big dumb animal.

Only he wasn't actually a dumb animal. He was probably sitting there having deep, insightful thoughts about the situation.

Astarion sighed and climbed down. When he was back on solid ground he dusted himself off. He was filthy with rock powder. That was probably going to be the case for a while. How utterly tiresome.

"Well, come along then," he said to Halsin. "Let's steal a boat."

It was very easy to steal a boat when the owners were all dead.

Karlach has been the one to drive the boat the last time they made their way overwater while underground. Apparently the structure of these vessels, spike lined latticeworks of wood and bone, were very similar in construction to ships found in Avernus. Which made a sort of sense. Whatever shipwright planned this thing clearly cared just as much about looking intimidating as they cared about being able to float. Astarion could see devils having similar values.

And that hypothetical shipwright clearly cared not at all about preventing passengers from tumbling overboard. Guardrails were not a feature on these vessels.

Which did make it easy to hop on board. The deck swayed under Astarion's weight as he jumped on and climbed up to the controls. The quarterdeck. That was what it was called. Astarion was vaguely familiar with the terms you were supposed to use for parts of boats because cheap romances often happened on ships, and sometimes that was the only literature he could get his hands on. He played with the rudder and examined the lever that controlled the fan-like sails. It seemed straightforward enough.

Then the boat listed dramatically to one side. Deck tilting to a steep angle. Astarion didn't fall over, but someone with worse reflexes might have. And he didn't like being startled.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped at Halsin.

The giant bear moved back, taking its huge paw off of the boat's deck. He looked a little embarrassed. Maybe. Bears remained hard to read. At very least he should look embarrassed, trying something like that.

Astarion walked back down from the quarterdeck to the port side of the main deck. He made a shooing motion, warning the huge thing further back from the comparatively delicate boat. If Halsin wanted to remain a bear, Astarion generally didn't mind. It meant he didn't have to talk to the man. But in this particular instance it wasn't going to work.

"You'll sink it if you try that," Astarion said. "You are absolutely going to need to go back to being a little less massive and marginally less hairy."

The bear was pensively examining the boat and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He made a grumbling sort of huffing noise that sounded maybe slightly anxious?

Then he backed up so that he was back on the stone part of the dock. He sat down. He exhaled slowly. And then he turned back into Halsin.

The air was immediately filled with the smell of blood.

He reached instead with his left hand. He managed to open the pouch and fish out a bandage which he pressed immediately against the hole in his chest.

"Astarion," he said, and there was a patina of managed suffering coloring his voice. "I am going to need your help."

Oh Gods. He looked half dead. And he smelled amazing. And Astarion was going to have to get closer to him. And not...

And exercise a modicum of self-control. And help.

Astarion swallowed. And then he swallowed again, because there really was a lot of blood. And it smelled warm and fresh. Astarion closed his mouth and made a conscious decision not to inhale again until this was over.

He jumped lightly from the ship deck to the dock. He walked towards Halsin. Halfway there he realized he was stalking. He straightened up from crouching and finished closing the distance with a more normal posture.

Astarion knelt down in front of Halsin, who was sitting up but looked like he shouldn't be. The bandages he held against the wound were already turning red.

"Healing potions," Halsin said. "Right side pocket."

Astarion moved to open Halsin's pack, which looked only marginally less mangled than the man. He looked where instructed and found that those pockets were filled with shattered glass, wet with red liquid that smelled faintly of mushrooms.

So instead Astarion fished out his own healing potions. Tav insisted that everyone carry at least two. So they had two.

"Can you apply them directly to the wound?" Halsin asked him.

Interesting. Astarion didn't know terribly much about medicine, hadn't had access to it for most of his life, but it made a certain amount of sense that healing potions might be applied topically rather than imbibed. After all, they worked if you hurled them at people. And it made sense that Halsin would want to prioritize mending the wound that was definitely going to kill him, rather than letting the healing magic scatter diffusely over his myriad cuts and bruises.

Logistically the answer was obviously yes, Astarion could do that. So Astarion supposed he was being asked about his capacity for self-restraint. Probably Halsin had registered his own resemblance to wounded prey. Probably it was a novel experience.

Astarion spent some of his limited breath to ask: "Don't you have spells for this?"

"They need two hands," Halsin told him.

Of course. And his lump of a right hand wasn't doing anything intricate or magical right now.

Astarion nodded and asked shortly: "How?"

"First, help me lie down."

Halsin leaned back, and with Astarion's assistance it was a controlled descent rather than a collapse. The movement still clearly jostled things that were broken inside of him. He kept the bandage pressed hard against the wound, arm clenched with the effort of that.

"Armor needs to come off," Halsin said.

That was actually relatively easy. Halsin's leather armor was segmented in such a way that Astarion could unstrap and remove just the damaged chest part. It meant there was a moment where no pressure was being applied to the wound and Astarion turned his head away for that moment, turning back when Halsin had the bandage back in place. It did its job better now, flush with skin and without broken leather in the way.

"Pour the potion into the bandage," Halsin said. "Slowly. Give it time to absorb."

Astarion uncapped the healing potion. He tipped just a bit of it on to the bloodstained bandage.

It was fascinating to watch. The magic liquid soaked into the fabric, and then sank right out of it. As if Halsin's skin were a sponge that only absorbed that particular kind of fluid.

Astarion poured out a more generous spill of the potion, drenching the cloth. Halsin groaned, a noise of relief as the magic disappeared into him and started to perform its function.

Astarion kept at this interesting alchemy, pouring the potion bit by bit into precisely the place it was needed. Halsin breathed laboriously. He was trying to watch, but his eyes kept fluttering closed. Flirting with an unconscious state elves only ever experienced through the use of specific potions, or in situations like this.

When the bottle was two thirds empty Astarion started to have difficulty because Halsin had bled so much that the bandage was oversaturated with fluid that didn't mystically vanish. That instead sat there, red and distracting. Astarion glanced at Halsin's face to see if any other guidance was forthcoming. But the druid was truly unconscious at this point.

Astarion investigated the pouch that the first bandage had come from. He found another. Clean white thick cloth. It was like sleight-of-hand work to pull one bandage away and press down the clean one. Messy sleight-of-hand work. And now he was holding the old, utterly bloodsoaked bandage.

It was actually fairly easy to resist the intrusive impulse to put it in his mouth. Because that would look deranged. He set it aside.

Astarion finished pouring the rest of the healing potion into the wound through the medium of the fresh bandage. When that was done he went right on to the second healing potion. It seemed the only thing to do.

Astarion could pinpoint the exact moment Halsin stopped bleeding. There was a visceral difference between the smell of blood freely flowing from a body and the smell of blood already spilled and cooling. It was the same as the difference between standing directly in sunlight versus being out and about on a day that was bright, but overcast. It was a matter of intensity.

To make sure he was right, Astarion tentatively moved the bandage aside. And indeed, the skin underneath was whole. Not even scabbed. Just regrown healthy and intact in that miraculous way that happened when you used healing magic. It frankly looked a little weird. One point of health on an otherwise very damaged body.

Well then. It seemed that Astarion had successfully stopped someone from bleeding. How utterly perverse.

And he still had half of a healing potion left. He should probably do something with it. There remained a wealth of nonfatal wounds to deal with. But Halsin couldn't drink it right now. He was still unconscious.

That probably wouldn't be the most effective use of it, anyway. Now that Astarion thought about it, it seemed that the next most problematic injury was Halsin's right hand. That was preventing him from using magic. If that were fixed, the entire situation would suddenly become much more manageable.

Halsin's right arm was on the ground, spread slightly away from his body. His hand was swollen and unpleasant to look at. Fingers not quite at right shapes and angles.

Astarion prevaricated for a moment about whether he needed to do the slow process of soaking the healing potion into skin through the bandages. The problem was that there were no more clean bandages in Halsin's belt pouch. And using the soiled ones wouldn't be terribly efficient, or sanitary, or conducive to Astarion's peace of mind. And probably he didn't need to. Probably that had been a way of applying healing potion to an open wound. Probably he could just pour it directly onto the skin.

Astarion poured the rest of the healing potion out over Halsin's hand. The results were instantaneous, and good, but also awful. The thing about healing, even magical healing, is that it's not always a linear process. Sometimes wounds are complicated in a way that makes mending them painful. The hand changed and began to look much more like a hand should. And those changes were accompanied by the popping, grinding noises of bones being realigned.

Halsin screamed.

"Shit," Astarion said, flinching back. And he was about to go on to say 'Sorry', but he had run out of air for speaking. So he inhaled.

Astarion's nose and mouth filled with the copper-bright smell of the blood that was everywhere around him. And Halsin was screaming-weak and wide-eyed and he was looking at Astarion with such an expression and he was covered from neck to waist in soft skin that was meant to be torn open and there was nothing he would be able to do to stop it from happening.

Astarion stood up and turned around and walked until he hit a wall. The far wall of the dock, by the barrels of old, spoiled provisions that hadn't been good enough to take up in the lift. Astarion leaned against the wall and breathed air that smelled only very faintly of blood, and overwhelmingly of rotten fish, and he didn't do anything that Tav might never forgive him for.

Astarion had been standing there for perhaps a minute, smelling the fish and not doing things, when he heard Halsin say his name.

"Just a moment, darling," Astarion said. He needed another moment.

When he was ready, Astarion turned back to look at Halsin. Halsin was sitting up. That seemed like a good sign.

"How are we doing, then?" Astarion asked.

"Much improved, thank you," Halsin said, not sounding at all like someone who had just been screaming. "That was a good idea. A clever idea. If I had been awake I should have asked you to do it."

Astarion did not admit even to himself how much he liked being told that his ideas were clever.

"Can you cast?" Astarion asked.

"Unfortunately no," Halsin said, he was cradling his hand which did look better, but was still very swollen. "We will have to make our way without the benefit of magic."

"Make our way," Astarion muttered, and then lowered his standards from his last question and asked: "Can you walk?"

"I have to," Halsin said. "You are not the only individual in these caves who will take notice of blood."

Oh, that was a very good point. Halsin probably knew all about the taxonomy of scavengers that lived in the Underdark. It had been less of an issue when there were four ready adventurers standing around the site of bloodbaths. It was a very different situation when there were only two of them here, and only one who could fight. And Astarion felt acutely how much less dangerous he was without someone to flank with.

"Very well," he sighed. "Let's finish stealing the boat."

Astarion helped Halsin down the wooden dock. Gods, he was large and heavy. Astarion let Halsin sink back to the ground on the edge of the dock and grabbed one of the spikes that decorated the side of the boat. Astarion pulled until the wooden platform of the ship's deck was as close as could be to the dock. Halsin clambered aboard, one-handed and slow. The craft dipped slightly under his weight.

Astarion jumped aboard and climbed quickly up to the controls. He pulled the lever that fanned out the sail. He turned the rudder the wrong direction at first, but quickly corrected. They bumped against the dock a few times before turning out into the dark and open water.

Astarion glanced back at the dock and saw that a rat-like creature the size of a dog had already crept out of the shadows. It was lapping up blood off of the stone floor.

It would be deeply undignified to be jealous of that creature. So Astarion tried not to be.

***

This is part of a series. The rest of the story is on AO3.

***

#astarion x halsin #astarion #halsin #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #grievously injured halsin #compound fracture #predatory instincts #self-control #fantasy first aid #mostly hurt #comfort to follow

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