#incendiary breath

[queerpyracy]

seeing some truly ghoulish online behavior from my fellow west coasters today when like seeing this happen again to the opposite coast should really be inspiring plans for [actions i will not explicitly describe here for legal reasons]

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐁𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 8: ROLEPLAY

könig x reader | smut, 18+ | 1.2k words

summary: as with all of your bedroom antics with könig, you plant the seed. but when he finally succumbs to your devious plan, you struggle to withstand the heat.

cw: f!reader, roleplay hostage situation, faux attack, faux disregard for partners comfort (könig cares a lot though, i promise) oral sex (m receiving), rough oral sex, face slapping, rough deep throating. 

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 9: WITCH!READER ⇾

The answer is unyielding and finite; ❝ no ❞. 

König was consistent in his promise to separate work from pleasure, so to speak. He refused to amalgamate something as pretty and delicate as you with something as ruinous and hideous as war— as his job. 

KorTac and Task Force 141 were unaware of your existence. König assured you it was for your protection. The less his allies knew about his valuable and beloved, his adversaries knew little still. Despite this, he offered you insight into his hostile world through a minute embrasure; the Scottish bomb disposal expert, Soap, the handsome Gaz who König colloquially named ‘helicopter boy’. Ghost. 

Still, he insisted upon keeping you pure. Scratch free, barren from the agonising shrapnel of grief and the devastating shells of brutal warfare. 

So when you pose the idea, quiet and shy in your approach, of König wearing his tactical uniform and treating you like a captive… The ‘no’ is adamant. However, as with everything you do or say to König, the idea worms its way into his mind. 

Days pass, but the thought seems to stick with König. He’s unsettled, fidgety almost. You suppose he thinks he’s being subtle, but with a frame as enormous as König lugs around, it’s almost impossible for the pitiful giant to do anything indistinctly. One nervous bob of his knee appears to set off avalanches in Tibet. 

When you return from work, everything is still, and abnormally quiet. It’s unusual for the house to be vacant upon your return from work, König always at the door as if ready to spring and remove the damn laptop bag that threatened to pop your shoulder from its socket as though it were an incendiary with a lit fuse. Nevertheless, the lights are off today, and the TV is silent. 

Creeping forward into the apartment, the door slowly swings shut behind you. The click of the lock setting into place isn’t alien to you– but neither is it, it seems, to your attacker. Poised and lethally swift, your assailant leaps from the shadows of the dimly lit apartment and smothers your mouth before a scream can even bubble past your trembling lips. Soft hushes breathe against your ear before terror can truly kick in, a familiar lilting accent turning your knees soft beneath your weight.

“You are to do as I say when I say it, Meine Perle.” König sounds so relaxed, as though he’s not breaking a sweat beneath the tactical vest you can feel digging into your shoulder blades. With a fizzling arousal skittering up your vertebrae and trembling beneath his touch, you nod your head slightly. It earns you praise, whispering a quiet ‘good girl’ against your hairline. 

So in tune with König’s non-verbal commands, you kneel as though he had barked the order when you feel him tap your shoulder absentmindedly. It’s foreign, the disregard König shows to your knees by making you settle on the hardwood floor in front of the entrance door– usually he would situate a pillow beneath you to ensure you didn’t bruise. Not today. You were his hostage. His plaything. 

Gazing up at the startling bulk of the behemoth standing before you, a thrill prickles at the nape of your neck when you watch him unzip his camo trousers deftly. It’s as though your taste buds tingle with anticipation as König pulls his already leaking cock from them, the leather of his gloves protesting quietly as he grips his length hard. 

“Open your mouth.” It’s an order. A threat. Excitement rouses between your thighs as you do just that, gazing up at your captor demurely and situating your palms on your lap. He’s unforgiving, winding your hair around his fingers and violently pulling your mouth onto his twitching cock. 

You barely register what’s happened before the rumble of his groan reaches your ears. A quiet ‘fuck’. 

Then he’s pushing, using the heel of his palm on the curve of your skull to sink you down his length before you’re ready. Firm, velvety flesh hits the back of your throat and sends you reeling, tears welling in your eyes as you gag around him, attempting to draw back. 

“Stop,” he barks, the frigidity of his tone triggering sparks in your abdomen– so unlike König. He halts your retreat, shoving you forward onto his cock until your nose is buried in the thatch of dark curls at the base of his shaft. Salt burns in the back of your throat, and tears spill down your cheeks. There’s a gleam in his eye that tells you he’s grinning. 

“If you value the air in your lungs,” König murmurs, voice sticky and thick with arousal as he rocks his hips slightly, your nose bumping his pubic bone and the head of his dick nudging your at your gag reflex, “it’ll do you good to stay put.” 

Heaving breaths through your nose, you flinch as König raises his leather-clad palm. It strikes downwards, connecting with your cheek harder than you suppose you’d both anticipated– because König lets out a sadistic groan of bliss, head lilting to the side slightly as he tries to bury himself further down your throat. It crushes your nose into his abdomen, and you feel the skin stretched above the bridge wrinkle. 

“Shit–” you hear him heave, the fingers in your hair tightening mercilessly, “I felt that in my cock.” The murmured admission, a slight deviation from that character König was attempting to play. Glee buries itself at the base of your spine, pulses in your clit. 

“Again,” he snaps back into character, with his dick buried as far down your throat as possible. Again, he lifts his wrist, bringing it down with a brutal smack against your cheek. The skin prickles, and you heave against the intrusion of his cock until tears spill down your cheeks. 

König’s lungs rattle with the force of his growl. His eyes are dark behind the mask, pleasure swallowing the pretty jade-green of his irises and he watched you choke on his length. 

Of course he’s getting off on you kneeling in front of him, dick buried in your throat and making a mess of your work makeup— but he can feel the vibrations of his slaps in your mouth around him. It’s making his nostrils flare; you can hear it. 

“A-gain.”

The crack that sounds against your cheekbone this time makes you whimper with the pain that follows. König loses control of himself, it seems, grasping desperately at your skull to hold you in place while fucking into your throat wildly. His head rolls back, grip bruising as his whole body seems to seize. 

Cum spills down your throat, heavy and thick and plentiful. König sounds almost pained by the force his orgasm is ripped from him, groaning loudly and high pitched to your ears as you gag around him again, the squeezing of your throat muscles adding to his bliss. 

“Hah—“ he gasps, pulling himself from your mouth to allow you to breathe. It’s not pretty, the ridiculous sounds of your frantic breathing, but when König kneels in front of you and cradles you in his massive arms, you feel precious. Priceless. 

König presses kisses to your temple, pushes your hair from your face and tells you just that. 

“Meine Perle.” 

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh @km-ffluv @decaffeinateddinosauronearth @domaniquessidehoe2 @arrozyfrijoles23 @amisouki @sleepysheepsstuff @chunguk @lundenloves @marylovesdilfs @ninahhh-brahh @namelesshumanperson @limegreenbabx @doggydale @wiltedwonderland @justsayk

[caraphernellie]

I might need you to write a fic about face sitting with Ellie..... (please)

⟢ EIGHTEEN PLUS INTERACTIONS ONLY. ellie williams loves thighs! especially when they fit snug 'round her head, administering a nice, tight enough pressure to ensure that she's gasping for breath.

she'd ushered you closer with no hesitation, lying back on the bed and guiding you forward by the scruff of your knees. little time exists for you to protest before the feeling of her nose bumps against your clit and your head is thrown back. mildly embarrassed by the more pathetic reaction, you attempt to maintain a stronger composure, gaze falling between your legs.

ellie wastes no time at all on getting down to her business, half-lidded eyes glaring into your own with her tongue laving over your slicked folds. she seems to just need more of your taste, fingers biting into supple skin to continuously tug you closer. with such incendiary pleasure rooting through you, you follow ellie's guidance and attempt to roll your hips, ride her face. it delves more towards the territory of squirming, your body moving without rhyme or reason just to feel her nose press against the puffy, thumping bud.

there'd been initial fear in you, concerns you hadn't voiced that you'd quite literally commit manslaughter with this act, but such anxieties are now stuck in a hazier part of your mind, overshadowed by how perfect this is. you grip on auburn locks to keep steady, babbling endlessly for her to keep going, it's so good. the encouragement warrants ellie to do just that— keep going, her tongue toying with your dripping hole and nose colliding with your clit. her hands grasp the underside of your thighs, feeling the flesh scrunch beneath her tightening hold.

she's got an insatiable craving, just obsessed with worshipping you this way. even if she can't totally breathe right now. it's okay.

anyway i love her nose soz it's just cute 💜 rest assured anon that i have a oneshot in the works with the involvement of face sitting!! so if you'd like some better written shit then.. just sit tight. wait there's a pun there HELP

[utilitycaster]

Bells Hells Level Up: Level 14

FUCK IT WE'RE DOING IT LIVE (I forgot to prep this well in advance like a press release as I am wont to do). Gonna be short, sweet, and as always if there are any factual errors let me know! If I simply did not list every single possible feat, spell, or other choice, that is because I did not wish to spend my wild and precious life doing that.

Chetney: With a 13th level in Blood Hunter he gets Brand of Tethering, which is GREAT for making people (Ludinus) not be able to leave. He can also use Blood Maledict 3 times per rest now. Looking ahead: I'm assuming he's sticking with Blood Hunter (or Blood Nutter as the case may be); at L14 he gets advantage on saving throws against being charmed or frightened, and a new crimson rite. He has flame and frozen, and L14 unlocks necrotic, psychic, and thunder options. Their enemies are often immune to psychic but honestly he can just use fire so. Live your best life, Chet.

Laudna: I support waiting to see how the ritual goes! If she levels in Warlock she gets an ASI/Feat (War caster wouldn't hurt; bumping up INT or WIS wouldn't either though my vote, as always, is for INT), another known spell, and continues her quest as Cantrips Georg. If she levels in Sorcerer she also gets another cantrip, as well as another known spell, and I think she should get a 3rd metamagic option but she seems to already have three? Anyway my vote is for Careful Spell. I'll hold off on further speculation until said ritual has completed.

Dorian: Two more spells! Magical secrets, ie, whatever the fuck he wants (true to my name my vote is spending at least one on Counterspell, but go nuts on the other) He also no longer has to burn his inspiration dice on flourishes, though he only gets a d6 rather than his full d10. Looking ahead: He gets 8th level spells of which Mind Blank might be wise given this campaign; he also gets a d12 inspiration die.

Braius is already level 14, thank you Braius.

Fearne: Ok I respect the ASI push but Transport via Plants would be real clutch sometime soon. With that said Dorian or Imogen could take Teleport or they can just hang out with Essek for a while longer. Anyway, as an Arcane Trickster she gets an ASI and another L1 spell; she's been keeping it utility-focused which is smart because her INT score is not high. The ASI move, in my opinion, is bump up INT and CON by one, but she could also benefit from War caster. Looking ahead: As said, take L11 Druid, get 6th level spells, profit.

Imogen: Revelation in Flesh is upon us; I assume it will be electricity themed rather than the traditional Aberrant Mind option which appears to be "cursed axolotl"-themed. This means she can use sorcery points to make herself fly OR swim/breathe water OR see invisible creatures OR squeeze out of tight situations. Looking ahead: 8th level spells next level! Incendiary Cloud seems to be on-brand but Power Word Stun OR Sunburst (miss you Ayden) are both pretty fantastic.

Orym: Fighters get a zillion ASIs, as always; Sentinel might be fun but he could also bump his CON to 16 (if he does this...I must admit I'm warming on the idea of Orym Paladin and wouldn't scoff at a CHA 13 bump either), achieve Chetney-like intellect with an INT bump, or take any number of feats. I am pretty boring with feats honestly so I'm excited to see what Liam picks but I have no good ideas. Looking ahead: At L15, he gets two more maneuvers, which I will definitely look up before they hit L15; he also gets a free superiority die if they roll initiative while he is fully tapped. Fighters: they are unstoppable.

Ashton: It's a path feature! I have no idea what the fuck will be up with that but I'm looking forward to finding out, which, coincidentally, will give us the full picture of Path of Fundamental Chaos! Looking ahead: They get persistent rage at L15, which will make them even harder to knock out, a thing that is already very difficult to do.

[fairuzfan]

I think what really frustrates me about accusations of antisemitism when we say certain crimes are committed by the Israeli government towards Palestinians is that there is this base assumption that the individual identities of the people in the Israeli state are subject to individualization and identification but then we come across Hamas and all the resistance movements and people automatically categorize them as "good" or "bad" who either are "supported" or "not supported" by Palestinians. Aside from the fact that there are diverse political opinions within Palestine, people always seem to separate Hamas as a uniquely terrible group that only seeks to inflict violence irrespective of their current status of people under occupation not knowing how to change their circumstances and not afforded any contextualization.

When Palestinians talk about certain crimes against us perpetuated by the state of Israel we're told "that's libel" because our oppressors draw their identification as a nation-state as a "Jewish" state. In the same breath they condemn Hamas for killing Israelis and being uniquely antisemitic and not because they're actually fighting for any liberation. Forget the larger political context — the situation in which this exists is irrelevant in the short term analysis of how Hamas is "A Terror Organization".

Hamas is a result of circumstance. They wouldn't exist if the occupation didn't exist. You can't deny that hamas is the direct result of israel, and not because of the incendiary things that came out about who funded hamas or whatever — they are, at their core, a resistance movement against a colonial force.

And yeah, there are Palestinians that have said they don't like Hamas I guess but that... doesn't really matter to people who aren't Palestinian. The reasons they don't like Hamas are within their context of occupational circumstances. You can't just take quotes of Palestinians saying they don't like Hamas and frame it outside of their circumstance as a people living under an occupation. It would be dishonest not to mention that the greatest threat Palestinians face is the occupation. We (Palestinians) all acknowledge that. The differences in political opinion within Palestinian society aren't applicable to Israelis and non-Palestinians because you are not affected by Palestinian society in the same way that Palestinians are affected by Israeli and USAmerican society.

Israelis literally debate in open courts about whether or not to shoot unarmed Palestinians who hold rocks. There are no such discussions in Palestinian society. There are no systems really that can allow for Palestinians to feel like they actually have a political representative. Fatah, or the PA, is just a blatant puppet of the Israeli government. No one trusts them lol. So which avenues are we supposed to turn to when we are shot even as we peacefully protest? If our avenues rely on Israelis to decide that for us, then is that liberation? Is that freedom?

There is just a deep, deep dishonesty in people's treatment of defining what a state represents vs an individual and its almost always weaponized against Palestinians when we talk about the violence we experience and how we counter it.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Lance gets red around him a lot.

It’s strange.

It’s different from when they first started. (First met? Keith’s not sure. Lance is so insistent that they’ve known each other since they were twelve, but Keith thinks he’d recognise someone like Lance, someone who smiled that brightly and laughed so loud. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t, so he doesn’t think about it. He pretends in his head that they met saving Shiro and that’s that.) When they first started learning each other (that’s a better way to put it), Lance went red all the time, but Keith knew exactly what that was about, could read the hard set of his jaw and the anger making his dark eyes steely. Sometimes he would grin to himself and make the flush on Lance’s cheeks deepen on purpose; say something incendiary and challenging in the most casual one of voice he could manage, just to watch how furious he got, how indignance straightened his spine and squared his shoulders and made his cheeks glow.

He called Lance Rudolph, once, and he went ballistic. It was the first time he ever won a spar of theirs, and half of that was because Keith was laughing too hard to breathe. To this day no one believes Lance when he insists it happened. (Keith does feel bad about that, a little. Everyone seems to think it was just Lance who egged Keith on in the beginning, just Lance who purposely made things difficult, but Keith is grown enough now to admit that he had as much fun pissing Lance off as anyone else would. Well, grown enough to admit it in his head.)

Keith still makes Lance go red all the time, now. The issue is that he doesn’t know how he does it.

They still compete. Obviously. It’s fun and it’s easy and Keith is a fan of things that are fun and easy. That’s why he’s into demolitions. And pod racing.

But the competition no longer has that flare of genuine rage. Lance himself had admitted it, sniffing pompously after a late night spar and informing Keith that he had, apparently, “sucked all the fun out of hating by being endearing or whatever”. He also mentioned something about Keith’s “stupid fucking big round pouty eyes and depressing backstory”, but Keith doesn’t know what to make of that so he shoves it back into the recesses of his mind like many other things, including the first time someone other than his Pa said they loved him, Shiro’s safety lectures, and any and all calculus lessons he has ever sat through.

(It’s a mess back there.)

Keith, too, can admit that the animosity is gone. He no longer wakes up and hears Lance’s voice and considers drop kicking him into a black hole. Sometimes he even hears Lance’s voice and realises he’s smiling on reflex. Now he and Lance hang out. Voluntarily, and a lot. They spar. They swim. They harass Hunk. They harass Pidge. They harass Shiro. They harass all their friends, really. Sometimes Lance uses manoeuvres he’s learnt in sparring to pin Keith to the ground and force weird products onto his face and hair, dodging Keith’s attempts to bite him, preaching about their cleansing qualities or whatever. Sometimes Keith even does it without hissing and generally being a nuisance.

Sometimes Keith follows Lance quietly to the observation, late at night, and sits with him while he cries. He can’t decide how he feels about those nights. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to think about them outside of when they happen.

In all of this, though, Lance’s ruddy face has stayed pretty common. Keith can excuse it when they’re sparring, because it’s admittedly a lot of cardio, but at the same time Keith doesn’t get that red and he’s way paler than Lance is. He can almost kind of excuse it when they swim, for the same reasons.

He doesn’t get it any other times, though. He doesn’t know why Lance goes red at the most innocuous things, like when Keith tells him his hair smells good or his laugh is pretty or he’s actually really good at that nerdy math game Pidge likes, holy crow, I didn’t know you were that kind of smart. Nerd. He doesn’t understand why Lance goes red when he trips and Keith catches him, ‘cause he’s a big klutz, you’d think he’d be used to it by now (it’s not like Keith is going to let him fall. Well, usually not). He doesn’t get why Lance goes red when Keith compliments him in training, because usually when Lance gets complimented he gets a big head about it and preens for an hour.

It’s just strange.

Mostly, though, it’s not that big of a deal. Maybe Lance is just a blushy kind of person. He’s taken to teasingly calling Lance Red, because it’s better than Rudolph, and also because Lance goes scarlet every time he says it, so it’s kind of like he’s a wizard who can make Lance flush on command. Which is cool. Other than that Keith mostly just pretends it doesn’t happen. They hang out too much for Keith to bother. If he questioned it every time, he would go bananas.

“You have icing smeared on your face,” Keith comments on one such hanging out occasion. (They’re plundering the kitchen for the cupcakes Hunk made and specifically forbade them from touching. But Hunk allegedly broke into Lance’s room last week and stole the last of his toner, whatever the hell that is, so fair’s fair.)

Lance pops the last of the cupcake into his mouth then turns to face him. “Where?”

“Here,” Keith says, tapping the left side of his own chin.

Lance, like a dumbass, makes a swiping motion on the left side of his face, instead of mirroring where Keith touched. He misses the icing entirely.

“Left side,” Keith says, exasperatedly.

Lance scowls at him. “That is the left side.”

“No — the other left.”

“There is no other left! There’s only one left!”

Rolling his eyes, Keith reaches over to wipe the icing off for him. There cannot be any evidence on them, after all. When Hunk has a conniption over his missing cupcakes they must play the plausible deniability card so they can snicker about it later.

He swipes his thumb under Lance’s bottom lip, trying to scrape the icing off with his thumbnail. Lance inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs, softening his grip. He must have scratched him. The icing didn’t come off, though, so he switches tactics and slides off the counter, shifting so he’s standing in between Lance’s open legs and cradling Lance’s cheek in his palm to tilt his head. He rubs his thumb much softer on the stubborn streak of whipped sugar, and that works a little better. He keeps rubbing until finally Lance’s skin is clear, all the half-dried icing now spread on the pad of Keith’s thumb. He licks it off without thinking.

It’s sweet.

Lance makes a strained whimpering noise. Keith flicks his gaze up to meet his face again and is less surprised than he should be to see a flush glowing across his cheekbones, making his freckles seem much darker than they are. His pupils are dilated so wide they nearly swallow up the brown of his irises, and Keith can’t tell if he’s looking at him or through him.

He sighs heavily. “Dude, do you have a condition?”

It takes Lance a long moment to answer. By the time he finally does, his gaze has moved firmly to his lap, neck bent so that Keith can’t really see his face. His ears are still read.

“I’ve got a fuckin’ heart condition,” he mutters.

Keith furrows his eyebrows. That’s weird. He’s seen Lance’s medical scans before — he’s in the pods a lot. You’d think that kind of thing would be on there.

“It doesn’t show up on your med scans,” Keith points out. “Is it, like, a genetic thing?”

Slowly, Lance picks his head back up, squinting at him for several long moments. Keith begins to squirm.

“You’re actually slow,” Lance says with an almost awed tone of voice. Which is mean. “Like, genuinely, actually slow. I think there are bubbles in your brain.”

“Hey,” Keith protests, pouting. “I help you commit cupcake heists, and this is how you treat me?”

Instead of answering, Lance continues to stare at him. He almost looks bewildered, which does nothing but make Keith more confused.

Eventually he lets out a long, tired sigh. It is not the first time Keith has heard that sigh. That is a sigh he hears when Shiro finds him throwing up his guts after eating a tub of ice cream out of spite. That’s the kind of sigh he hears from Allura when Keith ignores instructions and boulders through the shocks from the invisible maze to get it done faster. That’s the sigh that says I wish I had a trebuchet to strap you to it and release you into the sun. Keith is very familiar with that sigh, although he usually makes it happen on purpose, or at the very least understands how it’s warranted.

Right now he is completely lost.

“I am going to go bother Coran,” Lance says finally, pushing himself off the counter and walking towards the door. “You are not invited. I will talk to you when I want to strangle you less. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Keith calls out, head tilted in confusion. He watches Lance go until he disappears down the hallways.

“He is so confusing,” he announces to no one, then walks out the kitchen himself.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Even If It Bleeds

Astarion x F! Tav

18+ violence, death, complicated feelings, blood drinking, restraint, sexual exploration, predator/prey, control kink, (light) dubcon, dirty talk, roughness, breast worship (f!), free use, p-in-v, overstimulation, tenderness

When a hunter threatens one of her own, Tav urges Astarion to take matters into his own hands. Further encouraging him to seek out his own needs, his own desire...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

Astarion's eyes darted to her, fear under the easy pull of his smile. The Gur hunter in front of them an enemy to her the moment he revealed his mission.

"I believe he's gone to ground. But I may be able to drive him out yet."

The dagger on her hip would be a quick remedy to this situation. But Astarion's eyes were seeking something from her. Confusion spiking her own gaze. What was he waiting for?

Then it clicked.

She drew forward and quickly forced under the man's arms into a headlock. Kicking his knee out into a kneel. Neck bared in a pull on his head. All too fast for him to fight.

Her eyes flashed up to Astarion's.

"Kill him." She stated simply.

Astarion froze, but only for a moment. He lunged forward, driving a dagger into his throat.

The hunter convulsed. She released his arms and finished it with a sickening twist of his head. The crack of his neck snapped a final percussion.

"Ugh!" Shadowheart turned her back on the whole affair.

"At least it was quick." Karlach sighed.

Tav crouched to gather spilt blood in her fingers, bringing it to her nose.

"Garlic. Of course." She shook it off with quick flicks of her wrist. "Useless."

"Did you have to do all that?" Shadowheart huffed.

"He was dead as soon as he opened his mouth. I was just settling the affair." Tav rose to her full height again.

"Monster hunter not a problem then." Karlach raised an appreciative eyebrow at her.

"Oh, I'm a much better hunter." Tav turned from the dead. Starting to head down the hill again.

Astarion's eyes dug into her back.

She turned again.

He was staring hard at her, many emotions layered between his gaze. His eyes lidded, chest heaving.

"Let's go. It's getting late." Eyes soft under the bite of her command.

"Aye!" Karlach barked happily. Shadowheart grumbling next to her.

Still, Astarion stood coiled in front of her. Hands tense at his sides. Flitting his gaze over her in near anger.

She drew forward and slipped her hand behind him. Pressing him forward by the small of his back.

"Come on, it's over." She spoke low, their party already striding ahead. "We're going."

He nodded, taking up the clip of her walk. Still flitting his gaze to her occasionally.

"In the future, you don't need my permission to kill someone threatening your life."

His eyes held on her again.

"I..." He took a shuddered breath. "Of course. I should've known that."

"Not a failing. Just a reminder." She remarked easily. "It's been a long time since most of us have been in a group. New rules."

He laughed, some tension released from his shoulders.

"New rules. Or the lack thereof."

-

Empty bowls stacked by the fire, Gale and Wyll's stories exhausted, the soft shuffle of feet separating.

Tav sat in the curve of a tree, high above.

She had said it was over, but she wasn't so sure. Keeping watch wasn't a burden. She had a hard time sleeping anyway.

A cold shape rose behind her.

She smiled, catching him by the waist. Pinning him down on the length of tree next to her.

"You know you shouldn't sneak up me."

Astarion smiled.

"But your spider climb is getting good." Appraising the length of tree he had scaled. She released him, pulling him up by a grip on his forearm. His own grip met hers.

"Gods, you're strong." He nearly accused.

"Are you complaining?"

"Always." He sighed, that twinkle of jest back in his eyes.

They sat side by side on the limb. Her legs tucked under her, his hanging free over the edge. Swaying with an unconscious rhythm.

"I wanted to thank you." He spoke softly.

"What for?"

He gave her an incendiary glare.

"Everything. Gods, like you haven't been..."

She leaned back against the trunk, sharpening her dagger mindlessly.

"Even now! You don't even... you're not phased at all. You've done so much for me."

She shrugged.

He huffed breath, drawing toward her.

"Don't just... ugh! You're infuriating."

"You want me to be different about it?"

"Yes!... No. I..." His head hung. "I don't know what I want."

She lifted his head with a gentle slide on his chin with the blunt of her dagger. Her eyes steady on him. The fortification of her gaze filled his chest.

"No. No, I know what I want."

She nodded. Leaning forward to press her forehead to his. Closing her eyes. He took a shaky breath, then leaned into her.

"You're stronger than you know. You have everything you need. I'm glad to have helped you learn to use it." She hushed.

She made to pull away, but his hand caught the curve of her neck.

He breathed slowly, his cold breath tickled her lips. Ever so gently, he slid his face along hers. His lips grazing her cheek, her jaw, her ear. An exploring touch. So soft, but firm in its demand on the back of her neck.

She held still for him. Understanding that this wasn't for her. Allowing him to feel. Her breath a deep reassuring pull.

He slid forward on knees, his other hand pressed to her waist. Drawing her up onto knees with him.

His lips finally met the curve of her neck. Breathing deep into the scent she knew lay there.

He had fed from everywhere but her neck. She hadn't been sure if he was ready. She wasn't sure now, either.

He nuzzled into her, rubbing his face into the soft of her throat. Asking. Pleading.

How could she deny him when he was seeking from her like a starving kitten.

"Is this what you want?" She breathed. Only raising her arms to brace on his hips.

He drew further forward at her touch. Hips angled into her hands.

"Please." He urged into her skin. "Please let me."

"Not here." She whispered.

He scooped under her thighs, and jumped.

They landed on the ground, but she barely felt it. He was already sliding through air with her braced on hips over the hinge of his shoulder. Moving through the world as the river cuts through the mountain.

She smiled against his back.

He was getting stronger and stranger by the day.

Few things had brought her more joy than to train him in all the powers he already held. Kept from him in vile and meager blood. Hers fueled his body, and oh, how strong it was. How strong he was in its nourishing.

Showing him he was not helpless as a spawn. Far from it.

They fazed into his tent, far on the edge of camp. He laid her out on his bedroll in a near crash.

"Well, the dismount needs work." She teased, smiling up at him. Balanced on elbows.

His eyes shook with need, barely hearing her.

She sucked a breath, seeing the depth of it. Rising back onto knees, quickly pulling her top off. The air heavy with his desire. Meeting him fully in it.

He pulled at her clothes as she shed them, like she couldn't move fast enough. Pulling his own shirt off in a whip over his head. Hands returning to her, grasping the back of her head and the soft of her hip. Fingers splaying with a shaken breath. Feeling. Feeling without the pretense of her pleasure.

His hands traveled along her at his own desire. Drawing her to him. Already finding the softest parts of her. Under her breast, the curve of her waist. Pulling her leggings down in yanks to get to the crest of her thighs.

All the while taking her by the seat of her skull, held up to him. Lips circling, trying to find the best place to bite down. Breathing jagged into her throat.

Lust rolled in her belly. Being handled like this... like she was a thing to be felt and drank, nothing more. Something soft to take from.

He found her then. Licking a line on her jumping pulse point. Drawing it to the surface.

She stifled her moan, determined to hold for him. This wasn't about her. The soak of her sex heavy on the air.

He took one more deep breath of her, then tightened his grip on her head. Rearing back and biting down. It hurt. A lot. But she liked that. Her eyes rolled up under lids. Going limp like a good girl.

He moaned into her, his hand took up the curve of her ass. Pressing her hard to the ridge of his pelvis. His desire ground into her, sending her head back. Mouthing a 'fuck' to steady herself. The gulp of his throat against her clavicle obscene.

He ground into her against the floor of his tent, the push of his hips more and more insistent with each roll of his hips. Forcing her down with his body. Tremoring with quiet desire under the demand of him. Her blood spilled in gasps between them.

She rose her hand and tentatively cradled the back of his head.

He fell into her, huffing breath. Something snapped inside him.

Hooking under her thighs, he yanked her fully onto her back. Catching the curve of her underclothes and ripping them down. Pulling on her waist, sliding her flush to him. Never leaving the latch on her throat. Growling into the mess of blood. Locked on his prey.

She kicked her underclothes off, falling open for him. Untangling the ties on his breeches.

He huffed, knocking her hands back. She laid them flat on the bedroll obediently.

He finally released with a gasp of breath, licking her closed. Rising up above her on knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Staring down with glowing eyes. Towering over her like the fearsome force he was. Cut from marble and smeared with her.

"You're so beautiful." She breathed.

He leaned down, bracing on forearms around her head. His terrifying eyes took up her vision.

"Take what you need. It's yours." She whispered to him.

He shuddered breath. Eyes flashing with need again. Pressing a hand flat to her sternum, holding her down. Head trailing to lick up the curve of her breast. Gathering her hard nipple into his lips to suck.

Her back curled up, the pleasure pulling a strangled whimper from her. The shake of her body only made him pull harder. His tongue cupped the sensitive bundle, slurping into the suck. Her pelvis ached and twisted fruitless against him.

He drug the curve of his knuckles along her skin, leading down, down, down. Dancing along the ridge of her hip, the crease of her thigh. Mouth switching sides to her soft, untouched breast, the same he had fed above so long ago. The renewed pleasure raw in her. Swollen in it, writhing weakly against him.

His two fingers glided along the cleft of her sex. The slick gathered there coated the inner curve of his fingers. Sliding back and forth in his own leisure. Simply enjoying the sensation of the velvet spilling for him.

It was torture. She never wanted it to stop. But it did.

Taking her by the hips, he flipped her onto her belly. Hiking her hips up high. Squeezing the fat of her ass in both hands. Kneading the flesh as he undid his trousers.

She watched over her shoulder but turned her eyes down when his gaze cut into her. This wasn't for her. She nodded at his silent command and rose her hands above her head. Locking her wrist in a hand, she braced down on her shoulders. Waiting for him.

She could feel his smile behind her. Sliding fingers up and down her sex again. Fully teasing her now. Curious to see her breaking point.

But she had been well trained for this. She would not break under her desire.

He coated his cock in her slick with languidly indulgent strokes. Spreading his hand down her lower back. Enjoying the subjugation of her body poised under him. Waiting his command.

The fact that he wasn't speaking felt so much more salacious. The purr of his voice was a weapon, and he didn't need it here. So he couldn't be bothered.

Taking the curve of her waist, he lined up behind her. The head of his cock trained at her soaked entrance. She nearly whimpered but held her tongue. Only her hands tightened above her. Her nipples grazing the blankets under her just added torment.

He pushed in so slowly, sighing out a breath behind her. Her cunt already clenching desperately around him and he was barely in. Her body screamed past her trained silence. And he laughed. Driving forward, so agonizing slow. Mean in his power.

The stretch was unbelievable, sending her eyes lost into her skull. Shuddering down into herself. All the lead up of his torment primed her to unravel right there. Her orgasm raw and tempting in her. But she would not break.

Then, he finally spoke. Voice not a purr or laced with honey. Nearly a threat.

"You're being so good. Let's see how far we can push that."

She bit into her lip. Cunt clenching hard.

"Oh, I bet I can break you."

He gathered her hair in his fist as he thrust, twisting it around his knuckles in a tight wind. Pulling her head back in an arch. His voice against her ear. Hot breath, hot with her blood, a wave against the sensitive hairs.

"You want me to go faster?"

She shuddered, his hips rolling into her. Strokes pulling pleasure from her in a tortuous slow rhythm.

"Deeper?"

He picked up speed despite his words. The tight pull of her cunt too much.

"Anything you want." She moaned.

"That's right." He growled, rising back again. Taking her hips in the strength of his grip. "Whatever I want."

He slammed into her, huffing out breath. His pace punishing in its drive. Uninterested in her pleasure, chasing only his down. A wolf crashing through thicket towards a rabbit.

She was lost. Eyes fully glazed over. Rocking forward in his thrusts. Limp in his wrath. Orgasm tight around her throat. Squeezing tighter and tighter by the second. Cutting off her airway in choked cries.

"Cum. Now."

She cried out, hands scrambling above her head. Not ready so soon. Writhing under him, her body tightened and released over and over. Pleasure so terrible it clawed inside her, ripping and ripping.

He thrust harder into her. The vice grip clenches of her walls demanding him to release. To fill her. But he didn't.

"Beg. Beg me to finish."

She didn't think he would. The overstimulation nearly unbearable, pushing higher and higher into another release. She hoped he wouldn't.

"Please. It's too much." She cried.

"Oh, is it?" He laughed. "I think you're lying."

"I want you to cum. I need it." She urged, body tightening again. Another orgasm poised on his word.

"Hm, you are being so good for me. Such a soft toy for me to fuck."

She buckled down into herself. Nearly cumming again.

"Did I say you could cum?" He growled.

"No, saer."

She had never been a truly willing participant in this kind of game before. It was making her delirious to respond to his demands like this.

"Beg."

"Please!"

"Again. Louder."

"Please cum Astarion!"

At the call of his name, he finally unraveled behind her.

He stifled his cry in his throat. Tremoring into the chopped thrusts he forced into her. Fingertips digging painful into her hips. Breathing in hard gasps that bordered on whimpers through the bite of his lip. Filling her to her brim, running river down the back of her thighs. Her own cum soaked along his.

And still he thrusted. His vampiric stamina a terribly powerful force.

"Are you going to cum again?" His voice almost sweet against her back.

She nodded. Eyes tightly clenched. Well beyond words.

"Good girl. You've been so sweet to me tonight."

His hand rose under her to press the pads of his fingers into her clit.

"Cum for me."

She buckled again. Curling her head in, body tensing up into a bow. His fingers pressing tight perfect circles, his cock sliding slow into the place that undid her. Orgasm pulling her apart. Breaking her down to her crude materials. Nearly blacking out while his lips grazed her shoulder in soft kisses.

It released her in a heap on the ground. Gasping out.

His fangs punctured her shoulder, supping slowly. Humming out his pleasure. Hand sliding under her chest to brace her along her sternum.

"You taste divine like this." He murmured. Licking up her sweat with the blood that trickled down her back. "So delicious. How are you so delicious?"

"I do have other qualities than a meal."

"Oh, I know. You're pretty terrifying. Especially like this."

He lifted under her waist and let her drop limp again.

"I should kill you."

"I don't think you can right now. But I encourage you to try." He laughed.

She twisted and caught him around the shoulders. Pulling him down to her chest. Cupping the back of his head to her.

"I could smother you."

"Oh, do go on."

She carded her fingers through his hair. Still damp with sweat. His body settled weight on her.

"I could snap your neck with my thighs."

"I'd love that. A dream of mine."

His hands slid under her, cupping her shoulder blades. Turning his head against her breast. His lashes tickled as they closed.

"I still have a stake nearby."

"Do you? What about holy water?"

His voice started to drift. Legs gently woven in hers. Body loosened into her.

"I'll drink some tomorrow."

"Oh, that'll burn."

His voice a hush. Falling away. Sleep sliding along him in waves.

"I'm proud of you." She whispered into the crown of his head, just as he fell to sleep. "I'm so proud of you, Astarion."

His breath the even tide of deep rest. Tears dripped so gentle onto her clavicle.

~

[andypantsx3]

INCENDIARY | 7 | BAKUGOU KATSUKI x READER

SUMMARY: When you accidentally go viral in defense of quirkless people, an extremist group puts a target on your back. Pro hero Dynamight is the last person you want watching it. TAGS/WARNINGS: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, light hurt/comfort, themes of discrimination, canon typical violence, smut, aged up characters, fem pronouns + afab reader, 18+ mdni LENGTH: 3.3k, FIC MASTERLIST

Bakugou kissed like he fought—focused, determined, and absolutely lethally.

You surrendered to him easily, letting him take the lead, feeling his tongue tease your mouth open, his nose brush over yours as he angled his head. You caught a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer, every nerve ending in your body tingling, and he braced himself over you, grabbing a fistful of your hair to lock you to him.

He tasted like sweat and something sweet, and felt like an epiphany. The entire time, the tension you had been feeling with him—it had been this. This burning desire to be under him, over him, all but bodily fused to him. The desire to bite him had been the desire to consume him, to draw him inside of you.

Bakugou did several extremely clever somethings with his tongue, licking into your mouth hot and filthily, and you felt your desire pool low in your stomach, trickling between your thighs.

You pressed up into him, straining to be closer. He answered by shifting into the cradle of your hips, pressing something full and hard into the juncture of your thighs. You shivered, every inch of your body all but purring like a pleased kitten.

“Drive me fucking insane, princess,” Bakugou said against your mouth as he ground down into you, the hand in your hair clenching tighter. “Wanted you from the second you opened your mouth.”

“Me drive you insane—?” you managed, before shutting him up with another kiss.

You had never felt this way about another person before—wanting to both fuck and fight him, wanting to both kiss and bite him. You nipped his mouth, letting your teeth scrape over his lip a little on purpose, and he growled into the kiss. The foam of the yoga mat crinkled next to your ear as his grip tightened on it.

“You’re unbelievable,” he grunted when you finally separated again, though he didn’t stop grinding down into you with tiny insistent circles of his hips. You could feel him getting harder in his gym shorts, and you ached with the desire to rip them right off of him.

His fingers pressed to the corners of your mouth, calloused and direct. “This fucking mouth of yours, princess. It’s gonna get you into trouble,” he said, his tone nasty and all the hotter for it. “Been dying to put it to better use.”

A wicked grin split the sides of his mouth as he spoke, and it was all you could do not to lean in and bite him again.

“Then do it,” you said, feeling unbelievably bold, the desire to challenge him every step of the way still burning in your veins. “Show me if you think you can.”

Something flashed in Bakugou’s scarlet eyes. No sooner were the words out of your mouth than Bakugou was kneeling over you, and easing down his shorts, just like you’d known he would.

His cock was infuriatingly pretty, just like the rest of him, thick and full and velvet smooth as you took it into your hand. He was neatly trimmed, perfectly proportioned, and you wanted to give a little scream of frustration for how unfair it was that some people got to be beautiful all over.

You opened your mouth, and he positioned himself over you, holding himself up on the strength of his arms alone as he eased into you with a flex of his hips.

He was thick in your mouth, and you took him in the best you could, feeling one of his hands slide beneath your head to press you to him. You breathed through your nose, a little bit unpractised after the past few months, giving a few shallow bobs of your head.

Bakugou hissed, sharp and harsh in the sudden quiet of the apartment, his breath growing ragged.

“Fuck, that’s it, princess,” he said, his tone an appreciative growl. “Like that—fuck—”

You grew a little bolder, easing down a little farther, feeling his fingers tighten in your hair. You realized he was holding himself over you on just one arm, then, and the thought went through you like a bolt, making you clench your thighs together.

You could see the flat planes of Bakugou’s toned stomach in front of you, every single abdominal picked out in sharp relief, strong and hard and utterly, infuriatingly perfect. You watched the shift of those muscles as he flexed his hips the tiniest bit, sliding deeper in your throat, watched a harsh breath rise and fall in his chest.

“Fuck, your mouth, princess,” he said, his voice even rougher. Desire pooled more heavily between your thighs at the sound, and you gripped onto his shirt with your free hand, clutching at him. “Love this fucking mouth of yours, brat. You’re always running it, never know when to shut the hell up.”

You pinched him through his shirt for his cheek, and his fingers clenched harder in your hair in warning. Taking another breath through your nose, you took him in the last inch, until your face was pressed right against that hard stomach, and Bakugou let out a litany of swears, his words cutting off into a groan.

You worked him slowly, carefully, his hand a guide at the back of your head. He held himself so still over you, still balanced on just one arm. You could feel yourself squirming a little against the yoga mat, the thought of all that hard muscle, all that insane strength, barely restrained over you. You realized you loved it, the thought of him—all his strength, all that fury—directed towards you. Towards protecting you, these past weeks, towards fucking you—all of it, his everything, focused on you.

Eventually Bakugou yanked you off of him by his grip on your hair, swearing. “Not gonna last longer if you keep that up, princess,” he said, a sharp grin carving his mouth. “And I’m not done showing you what’s good for you.”

You couldn’t suppress the shiver that overtook you as he lowered himself back over you, shifting back in between your thighs.

“I wanna fuck you, princess,” he said. “Can I?”

You nodded, reveling in the feel of him between your legs, in the way his weight anchored you firmly to the yoga mat. His grin widened, those blood-red eyes darkening as they roved over your face. His fingers caught your chin, thumb brushing over your mouth.

“Been imagining this ever since I saw that little pink bra of yours, princess,” he said, leaning down to bite softly under your jaw. “Thought you could hide it from me, but I saw it. Imagined you reaming those fucking QRA assholes a new one, all dressed up in your little pink lingerie.”

You laughed, which quickly morphed into a sharp intake of breath as his hand trailed down the length of your body, sliding into your shorts. His fingers were long and strong and unbearably good when he pressed two of them gently and firmly over your clit, drawing small, tight little circles around it. Then they slid lower, dipping between your folds, finding you already incriminatingly wet.

“Wet already for me, princess?” Bakugou’s grin somehow went even sharper, blade-deadly on his mouth, and you pinched him again, even as you shuddered with the feeling of his fingers pressing up into you. “Good girl.”

Your fingers twitched with a violent urge to either shove him away or pull him closer—you couldn’t decide. He was so infuriatingly smug, but so inconceivably hot. You settled for quieting him with a kiss, adding a scrape of teeth in warning. But Bakugou just seemed to like it, groaning into your mouth, licking into you, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down.

“Gonna fuck you so good you won’t even have the words to mouth off to me,” he promised, curling his fingers just right, finding that spot inside you that seemed to double the pressure of his thumb on your clit, making you squirm underneath him. “There you are, princess.”

You gripped the material of his shirt tight as he worked you, every single twist and curl of his fingers seeming calculated to drive you insane. He mouthed at your shoulder, biting his way up your neck, whispering promises of all the things he’d been dreaming of doing to you, every time you mouthed off to him, every time he realized you were sleeping only meters away from him, every time he’d found your delicates left behind in the bathroom—just like the ones he’d seen in your dorm room.

In barely any time at all, you were writhing and bucking against his hand, clutching his wrist with both of your own, shamelessly moaning out your own praise—how good he felt, how much you wanted him. Bakugou seemed to decide you were ready, peeling down your shorts and then his own, guiding himself between your thighs.

“You good, brat?” he asked, pinching your cheek when all you could give him was what you imagined to be a glassy-eyed stare, willing him to be inside you already.

You nodded quickly. “Yes, yes—please just shut up and fuck me, Bakugou. Please.”

He seemed to like the sound of please in your mouth, smirking again. But he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth before commanding, “It’s Katsuki, princess. Katsuki.”

“Katsuki,” you echoed obediently, and he seemed to like that even more, a genuine smile overtaking his mouth. It looked so handsome on him, boyish and charming, and you could feel your face getting inexplicably hotter, even though you’d already had his fingers and his dick inside you.

Then he was easing himself into you, the stretch and slide of him utterly delicious.

“Goddamn, princess,” he uttered, his voice rough. A crease came between his brows, like he was focusing intently as he slid all the way in, until his hip met the skin of your thigh. His fingers dug into your left thigh, gripping the flesh, flexing as his eyelashes fluttered. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

Heat flashed through you, and embarrassingly, you could feel yourself clench around him with the praise. Your fingers clenched around his bicep as you frantically tried to stop yourself from coming right then and there.

His scarlet eyes flashed open, narrowing in on you with all the deadly accuracy of a homing missile, and a smirk bit across his mouth. “Like that, huh, brat?” he said, slowly drawing himself back out and into you again. “You’re already ready to come for me just from that?”

You pinched him, even as you shivered through his first few thrusts. “Just—be quiet. Get uglier if you want me to last.”

Bakugou’s smile was a wicked thing, but he mercifully complied. His pace picked up into something sharp, quick, and controlled. You clung onto him for dear life, your head swimming again with the thought of all that fire and all that strength, on you, over you, buried deep inside of you. You couldn’t believe you’d misunderstood him, misunderstood this thing between you two for months, and you wanted to spend hours and days and weeks just making up for it.

Bakugou fucked you like he wanted the same—he’d wanted you, from the very first minute you’d spoken. He hadn’t wanted you to shut up and be quiet and take things lying down—when you got past all the complexities of his past, he’d liked that you were so mouthy. He planned to protect you, to let you mouth off even more—

“That’s right, princess,” he was growling, red eyes fixed on your face, that sharp smirk riding his pretty mouth. “Just like that—good girl, so fucking good—”

You knew he knew what he was doing, but you couldn’t stop him even if you wanted to. Your fingernails left crescents in the skin of his back as you clenched up around him again, another smug-sounding “good girl” from him throwing you right over the edge.

Heat flashed through you like a white-hot firework, pleasure streaking up your veins, melting right through them. You muffled a cry in Bakugou’s shoulder, drowned out in part by his own swearing as you clenched up and then came loose, writhing out your pleasure underneath him.

Bakugou didn’t last any longer—his hips snapped forward frantically, faster and faster, like the sight of you undone underneath him had shattered any measure of control he had. The foam of the yoga mat squealed as his grip tightened mercilessly, and then he too was coming, pressing you down into the mat with a terrible strength.

You reveled in the heavy weight of him over you, panting into his shoulder as you both caught your breath. Your blood felt soupy in your veins, your limbs weighed a thousand pounds, and something heavy and deeply satisfied had settled in your chest—like you’d finally, finally understood Bakugou.

Bakugou looked like he might feel the same way, when he pulled back to look you over. There was something smug and pleased about the set of his mouth as he leaned in to take your lips again, his eyes half-lidded and his hair a mess.

“Don’t think this is gonna get you out of self-defense, brat,” he told you when he finally let your mouth free, several minutes later, but there was a texture in his voice you’d never heard before—something almost teasing and fond. You pinched him again, clenching up when he shifted inside you and sparked every single one of the nerves in your lower body again.

You couldn’t help but rise to his challenge.

“Do your worst,” you told him, the command a thrill up your own spine.

Bakugou’s gaze darkened, and he seized your mouth again. And then he did do his worst, but self-defense had very little to do with it. Not that you were complaining.

Of course you did get roped into self-defense for real, the very next day. Bakugou Katsuki was not one to cut corners or let things go, even for his “brat of a fucking new girlfriend.”

He also did seem to enjoy pinning you to the mat far too much, and he seemed to enjoy when you managed to get back at him even more—any bite or pinch or unexpected kick of yours always seemed to end up with you flat on your back or thrown over the couch, muffling your screams into the meat of your arm.

Despite this, you did manage to learn a few throws and how to wiggle out of a couple different holds, and the rewards from Bakugou kept you incredibly motivated.

Between self-defense, your reward sessions, and cramming for finals, you barely managed to scrounge up any nerves about your impending trip to New Day Japan’s studio and the danger that might await you there.

It was only when you had managed your last final and been rewarded with both an excellent dinner and something Bakugou had the audacity to term dessert while he was between your thighs that you finally had enough mental capacity to return to the thought of Matsui, and what you intended to say if you did live long enough to make it into the studio.

You wanted to convey that even though you were an unlikely spokesperson for the issue of quirkless rights, that was exactly what the very thing that made it so important that you did say your piece. Many late nights combing through Twitter for important points revealed to you that there were so many more educated, qualified, and active people to speak to these issues, but they affected every quirkless person—not just active community members, not just well-spoken people. Like those QRAs on campus, quirkism was something that stalked into your life unannounced and tried to make itself at home.

But even some drunk rando could put quirkism in its place if they so desired.

That’s what you really wanted to convey. That even an average person could defeat these ideas. That an average person could and would do everything in their power to defeat the pockets of quirk supremacy they encountered.

You wanted to send a message to quirkless people like yourself, and the quirk supremacists that thought an average person could be cowed into silence. You were more than just a meme, a viral video. You were a person with things to say.

You spent the next twenty-four hours agonizing over your messaging, trying to make sure you had all your thoughts and feelings on the issue marshaled into order. You chattered to Bakugou over your last dinner you made together, getting kissed breathless onto the counter when your passion managed to work him up enough. You spoke aloud in the shower, phrasing and rephrasing, and tested your expressions as you dried off in front of the mirror, trying to convey everything appropriately.

Bakugou seemed to be especially geared up too, his workouts getting noticeably more intense, lasting an impossible number of hours. He was perpetually glowing with sweat, his gaze sharper and hotter than ever. You warmed at the thought that all this focus, all this determination was in your name—in the name of protecting you and making sure you got to safely speak your piece.

And then Thursday finally arrived. You had barely managed to sleep, sick with the nerves that had finally roused themselves from their finals-induced trance. Though you had no appetite, Bakugou managed to force an entire traditional breakfast down your throat, and you finally returned to your room for the first time all week to scrounge up an appropriate outfit.

When you returned to the living room, Bakugou was already there, having dressed in his hero uniform for the first time in months, now that you were about to emerge from hiding.

Its paramilitary design made him look all the more intimidating—the black was stark against his skin, the orange X like a bloody slash across his chest, like the bright warning of a poisonous animal, that he was not to be fucked with. The fabric of his shirt clung tightly to his powerful chest and arms, and the metal of his bracers and knee guards glinted sharply in the apartment lighting.

You tried not to find it too hot.

Bakugou walked you briefly through all of the moves he’d taught you over the last week, nodding, satisfied, when you’d completed everything.

“You ready, brat?” he asked, leaning down so that the tail end of his question ended in your mouth.

You kissed him back, your churning stomach settling somewhat. You meant what you had said last week. You trusted him to protect you—trusted him with your life. If Matsui was finally brave enough to show his face, Bakugou would smash it in.

“I’m ready,” you nodded, accepting his hand when he offered it.

You let him corral you downstairs and into the waiting agency car, settling in as he stalked in after you. You buckled your seatbelt and took in a calming breath, trying to slow your heart rate as the driver gunned the engine. It was fine. You had Bakugou, you had Genius Office, and you had your own conviction. You were going to be fine.

You watched as the officer pulled the car out of park, guiding the wheel to turn back out onto the street. You heard loose gravel crunch under the wheel, the shift of Bakugou’s uniform next to you. And then—

“Down!” Bakugou’s voice hit you at the same time his body did, throwing himself over you—just as a towering wall of flame engulfed the car.

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat. 

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one. 

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me. 

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi. 

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her. 

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become. 

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this. 

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time. 

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto. 

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out. 

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him. 

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated. 

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action. 

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!” 

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway. 

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that. 

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him. 

So you do it again. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him. 

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!” 

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.” 

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance. 

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.” 

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest. 

“Stay out of my way, then.”  

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.” 

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had. 

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft. 

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.  

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound. 

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask– 

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first. 

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.” 

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs. 

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something. 

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips. 

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.   

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.” 

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win. 

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking. 

But he’s done it.  

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second. 

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell. 

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.” 

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick. 

“How was it?” you press. 

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”  

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass. 

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping. 

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again. 

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face. 

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights. 

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?” 

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you. 

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh. 

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.” 

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t. 

You’re drunk. 

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off. 

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk. 

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan. 

And it would mean nothing. 

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat. 

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home. 

“Oh, shit!” 

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus. 

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–” 

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other. 

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this. 

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there. 

“Uh– Lacy?” 

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door. 

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful. 

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–? 

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.” 

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon. 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position. 

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands. 

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed. 

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.” 

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face. 

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.” 

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive. 

“This is your game face, hm?��� she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver. 

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness. 

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it. 

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy. 

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that. 

So somebody must have. 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile. 

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet. 

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada. 

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax. 

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.” 

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts. 

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare. 

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing. 

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.” 

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night. 

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover. 

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s. 

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life. 

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess. 

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day. 

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that. 

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi. 

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?” 

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.” 

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van. 

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you. 

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.” 

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.” 

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.” 

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?” 

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.” 

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would. 

Until now. 

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him. 

Until now. 

“So?” he says, all expectant. 

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure. 

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded. 

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson? 

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust. 

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot. 

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.  

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk. 

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum. 

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand. 

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body. 

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park. 

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…” 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.” 

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now. 

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight. 

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little. 

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be. 

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine. 

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap. 

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die. 

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor. 

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night. 

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker. 

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her. 

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape. 

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says. 

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at. 

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table. 

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart. 

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you. 

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

[sunkendreams]

💳💳💳💳can I have some Marko please and thank you. Just pure playful, smutty goodness.

➾ pairing ; marko (tlb) x fem!reader.

FORMAT: drabble — requested.

WORD COUNT: 3.7K.

WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), unprotected sex, p in v sex, bloodplay (he’s a vampire), rough sex, multiple positions (missionary & doggy), fingering (f!receiving), dirty talk, making out, biting, hair-pulling, scratching, marking, scent kink, marko is pretty rough & greedy, clothes ripping, cumplay, groping, marko is italian, implied marko/reader/paul relationship, risk of getting caught, possessive & obsessive behavior from marko, his slutty crop top is hot to me

AUTHOR’S NOTES: literally having some insane lost boys brainrot rn ,,, working on some more threesomes and just paul content (love him to death ngl), also !! adding more new characters to the muse list aaaaaand gonna try to focus on horny drabbles. just filth, no thoughts ❤️ love you all and thanks so much for your support!

The sharp, stinging scent of copper fills your nostrils, heavy in your lungs, burning away your senses with every breath. You still aren’t fully accustomed to the smell — it’s vitriolic, visceral with every breath that you take, causing you to briefly press your palm against your face.

Golden irises rake over you over the twitching corpse in the sand, appraising your state of wellbeing. Someone had gotten too handsy, too invasive in your space — and that was always enough to spell doom in the eyes of a very territorial vampire.

Despite Marko’s stature, his appetite dwarfed that of his brothers — twice as insatiable, twice as violent.

His tongue lashed across his lips, pearlescent fangs entrenched in crimson, soon to be lapped clean as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s just you and him on some stretch of beach, just out of-sight of the boardwalk.

Marko’s idea of an enjoyable night is hunting and fucking — in no particular order. Paul finally relinquished some of his possessiveness and allowed him to ‘take you out’, which wasn’t entirely subtle. You agreed, of course — Marko was exhilarating in the best of ways.

“Didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Marko confessed, dragging the pad of his thumb across the corner of his mouth. His mane of golden curls billowed with the oceanside breeze, body glittering in specks of red. “He was a little stale.”

To you, blood is blood — but to vampires, it has a certain taste depending on the individual, a particular viscosity and aftertaste. Marko had amusingly compared it to wine — the age, ingredients, and bouquet, an amalgamation that made blood stale or sweet.

Your gaze flickered toward the now-lifeless corpse strewn about in the sand, a Surf-Nazi whose flesh is stone-cold and pale, devoid of lifeblood. “He did reek of something awful.” You replied, stepping away from the body and toward his motorcycle, instead.

“It didn’t ruin the mood, did it?” Marko inquired, calmly stepping over his dinner as he sauntered toward you, hand grasping at your hip. Sometimes, he had a horrible habit of getting carried away with feeding, and it veered off into an adrenaline rush or lust.

“Not in the slightest.” You mused, shaking your head as you swiped away a smear of blood from his chin. Before you could pull your hand away, he snagged your thumb between his teeth, lips curling into a smirk as he sucked the digit clean of any cruor.

An excitable sigh hitched within the bottom of your throat, eyes glued to the sight of his pretty lips wrapped around your finger. His fangs scraped across your flesh, teasing you with a feather-light touch.

Beneath the cherubic features and angelic facade that was Marko, he was a demon — in the best ways, of course. His halo was steeped in blood, crooked atop his mountain of soft, golden curls. His stare was incendiary, twisted together with lust and adoration.

“Should we go back home?” You inquired, voice soft and barely above a whisper. The rest of the pack were out hunting for the foreseeable future — which meant that the cavern would be left for you two.

Marko smirked, dropping your thumb from his maw before he coaxed you in for a kiss, open-mouthed and fueled by a blistering desire. A simpering moan escaped you, feeling his tongue greedily invade your mouth, hands grasping at your hips.

The kiss was more than enough to stoke a fire within your belly, one that demanded to be extinguished. A pang of honey-sweet arousal struck between your thighs, a scent that Marko could detect from miles away.

When he withdrew, those pretty eyes of his flickered toward your stomach, sluggishly tracing your form again until he met your doe-like stare. “If that’s what you want,” Marko clicked his tongue, fingers slinking toward the pliant flesh of your thigh. “You’re beautiful.”

It was exactly what you wanted — time alone with him. You flourished underneath his compliment, spoken through his forked tongue and sweet tone of voice. “I just want you,” You uttered, gasping when he nipped at your jaw. “Wherever that is.”

Admittedly, Marko found some sentiment in that.

Love was a complex ideal to vampires, especially the boys, who’d known nothing but carnage and survival, many decades of self-preservation. People were simply playthings, food — for him to hold some affection for you, a human, was a daunting notion.

He released you from his grasp, gesturing toward the bike with a nod of his head. “I’ll be patient.” Marko murmured, swinging his leg over as he settled onto his bike, feeling you clamor in behind him.

You wrapped your arms around his abdomen, digits idly toying with the hem of his crop-top, able to feel the taut musculature underneath. It drove him crazy every time you rode with him. Judging from the way he sat, rigid and poised, it must’ve had some effect on him.

As the motorcycle roared to life, Marko unceremoniously spun the vehicle around, causing a spray of sand to fly in the other direction. He sped off onto the stretch of beach, making for the cave at dangerous speeds. The cool, oceanic breeze swept over you, tinged with the sting of alkaline.

Snug against him, your digits continued to drift underneath his clothing, icy muscle flush against the warmth of your fingertips. He shot you a look from over his shoulder, incendiary and shadowed — a warning, more than likely.

Feigning innocence, you simply forced a cheeky smile, noticing the way his body shook with a huff of laughter. He invaded your mind, perusing through your thoughts like the pages of an open book.

“Careful, dolcezza.” Marko crooned, issuing yet another warning — it wasn’t as subtle as the last. As you crept into newfound territory, toying with your vampiric paramour, you had a feeling that you were in for it once you reached the cave.

Something warm blossomed within your chest, a familiar heat that simmered with desire. Arousal pooled between your legs as he narrowly guided the bike away from a cluster of trees, grinning like a shark when he noted the little flicker of nervousness on your face.

It was adrenaline intermingled with a twinge of fear, enough to produce a unique pheromone that Marko caught a whiff of. He revved the motorcycle, pushing down on the gas pedal for a boost of speed, wind whipping throughout your hair.

A pale, silvery moon hung overhead, turning those golden curls to a shade of platinum. Marko whooped and howled, leaving behind a trail of disturbed sand in his wake, guiding the bike over a hill and fallen log.

Your fingers clutched onto him, cheek pressed against the back of his shoulder. The exhilaration of it all made your pulse quicken, excitement climbing to new levels. Marko’s cajoling laughter filled the air, the motorcycle gliding down a dirt path toward the beach.

The cave sat soundly beside the ocean, shrouded by a shadowy chasm and plenty of debris. The rest of the bikes were missing, much to Marko’s delight. As he hit the kickstand on his bike, you stepped off, letting out a strangled gasp when he grabbed your waist.

Without warning, he hoisted you into the air, snickering and teasing you with bouts of laughter as he flew into the cave, taking you right into his nest.

“Marko!” You squealed, feeling your back hit the mattress with a rather unceremonious thud, the wind being ripped from your lungs. His grin remained, pearlescent and glittering as he perched at the foot of the bed, teeth catching on the leather of his glove.

“We’re all alone,” Marko mused, and began to slink closer, abandoning his roost. He nipped at your jaw and lower lip, teeth delightfully close to your jugular. Your flesh felt velvety beneath his palms, belonging to him for the evening, much to his satisfaction. “What am I going to do with you?”

The scent of your arousal flooded his senses, throat beginning to ache with a dull throbbing. He absentmindedly licked his lower lip, hazel hues narrowing slightly as he looked you over as one would a delicious meal, but it morphed into something else.

Something more than that.

Part of him would always view you as a meal, as his thrall, his fragile little human — but the other found affection, a twinge of love that steadily grew into something possessive and obsessive. Marko understood why Paul was so crazy about you, why he worshiped the ground that you walked on.

It was the way you looked at him — smitten and enamored, as if you hadn’t seen something so beautiful before. While he enjoyed the fear, savored your nervousness, this was something else entirely.

“You’re perfect,” You exhaled, visibly charmed by his very presence, by the way he carried himself. Marko reminded you of a Greek sculpture, cold and crafted of an impenetrable marble — beautiful and stoic. Yet, he was devious, the devil disguised as an angel. “Pretty.”

Marko hummed, hands unabashedly roaming underneath your dress, groping at your breasts. “Aren’t you sweet?” He purred, listening to the erratic beating of your heart, nose skirting along your jawline as he inhaled a gust of your saccharine scent.

Your fingers reached for the nape of his neck, perusing through his golden curls as he pushed himself in between your legs. His hand hastily snuck towards the cleft between your thighs, seeking out that familiar heat as he swept his digits over your clothed cunt.

“Marko!” You whimpered, practically writhing underneath him as he dipped his fingers beneath your panties, gliding through your slick slit. He wound his fist into the thin material, shredding it apart with a brusque tug. His sneer made you flustered, shrinking underneath his stare.

“Want me to make you feel good?” He uttered, digits prodding at your cunt with a feather-light touch, enough to drive you insane. “Use your words.” Marko insisted, feeling your hands claw at his patchwork jacket. Your mind was a pool of crass thoughts, interwoven with your own embarrassment.

“Yes,” You blubbered, tugging on his curls with a sense of urgency. “Please, Marko, I — I want you!” His snickering and playful smile caused butterflies to erupt within the pit of your stomach, breath hitching as he shrugged his jacket aside. He peeled away those leather gloves, touching you with smooth, icy palms.

As soon as his mouth met yours, you reciprocated with a flurry of passion, scatterbrained and drunk with desire. His lips felt plush against yours, kiss turning sloppy as his teeth scraped across your lower lip. A gasp escaped you as you listened to the sound of fabric tearing.

Marko ripped your dress, uncouth and showing disinterest in the garment altogether. Your brassiere was next, but you were able to save it from an unfortunate fate, letting it join his jacket instead. His lips roamed over your chest, biting at your breasts, your sternum, littering you in lovebites.

He murmured something in Italian — something indiscernible, but it sounded pretty nonetheless. You felt something sharp just above your breast, the intrusion of fangs as Marko took a bite, enough to satiate. He licked his lower lip, lapping at the crescent-shaped indent before he kissed you again.

Much to your delight, his hand returned to the molten heat between your thighs, digits roaming along your slit before he pushed them forward. You shuddered, legs forced apart by his body as he deliberately stroked at your cunt, thumb teasing your clit.

The coppery twang of blood stained his tongue, which happened to collide with yours. Every kiss ripped away a wisp of air from your lungs, body prickling with an electric pleasure. Marko’s fingers found your entrance, easing themselves inside of you.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Marko uttered, his gaze wrought with a lust-warped intimacy. You shrank underneath his oppressive stare, heart thudding beneath your collarbone. “My thrall.” He watched the way your countenance blossomed into a vision of pure ecstasy.

Your hips twitched, jolting and rolling into the sensation of his fingers. He found a pleasurable rhythm, easing his digits in and out of your tight cunt. Your hand moved underneath his crop-top, reveling in the feeling of sinewy muscle underneath.

“Take this off,” You moaned, tugging at the tattered fabric with a sense of insistence. “Please, Marko.” Your voice tapered off into a whine when he curled his fingers ever so slightly, thumb grazing your clit yet again.

With a bemused huff, he obeyed, treating you to the charming sight of his lean musculature. His flesh was cold to the touch, impenetrable and sturdy like marble, somewhat sunkissed. Paul was pretty in a different way — wild, untamed, and unapologetically himself.

Marko reminded you of a sculpture, a cherub with a carefully-concocted veil — tear it aside, and you would find a rather beautiful demon. He stared at you with a strange intensity, savoring the way your nails dug into his bicep.

Candlelight danced across his skin, producing an attractive shade of orange that only made him look painfully perfect. He smirked when you bucked forward, chasing after his fingers — he cruelly let them drift away, only for you to let out a disgruntled whine.

He showered you in a barrage of rough bites and hickeys, letting them trail from your neck to collarbone, something noticeable. They were right alongside Paul’s — though, most of his were all around your breasts.

With another careful pistoning of his digits, Marko withdrew his fingers from your slick core, crudely sucking them free of your nectar. You tasted divine, a taste that he’d begun to crave. His hand moved toward the fly of his jeans and chaps.

Marko occasionally entertained you with foreplay — that was more Paul’s forte than anything else. The curly-headed leech was much more absorbed in fucking you until you were a sobbing mess, and that was what he intended on doing.

“Don’t be quiet,” Marko crooned, grinning like the cat who’d just caught the canary. The doe-eyed, mesmerized look you gave him was enough to make him pause for a moment, letting the intimacy crackle between the both of you. He kissed you, feeling your arms loop underneath his. “Sweet little human.”

There was something unusually attractive about Marko referring to you as that — he had all the power. Knowing that he possessed the ability to rip you open and chose not to added some amorous layer to your relationship.

His cock pushed against your cunt, and he let himself linger there until you were moaning, desperately pushing your hips forward. His soft, cajoling giggle made you involuntarily smile, but it dissipated as soon as he fucked his way inside of you.

Marko huffed, savoring the stinging sensation of your nails digging into his shoulder blades, knees squeezing at his narrow nips. “Marko,” You whimpered, knowing that he didn’t have the intention of being gentle. “I need you.” You sighed with passion.

His initial thrusts were erratic and desperate, not soft or coddling. Marko wanted to find a rhythm that worked for him, and not you. Roughness and brutality were the only ways he knew how, evident in the way he began to move into you. His cock slammed away at your sensitive cunt, feeling you clench and shake around him.

A blistering heat consumed you, coursing throughout your body like a tidal wave. It was beyond pleasant, white-hot and visceral as Marko wasted no time in picking up his pace. A low growl resonated from the back of his throat, cock battering away at your cunt.

You felt his hand spread your legs apart, hips brushing against yours as he rutted into you. Your fingers left scratches behind on his back, angry-red with little pearls of crimson. The way Marko obliterated you was borderline godly — a stark juxtaposition to the vampire himself.

Despite the roughness of it all, there was an intimacy to be found within it, a deep obsession that Marko felt for you. His face moved toward your neck, lips peppering messy kisses wherever he could.

A cacophony of lewd noises filled the cavern, accompanied by your string of pleasured moans and needy whimpers. “Marko!” You cried, unabashed as you yelped into the abyss of the cave.

When he pounded into you with the force of a battering ram, you swore you saw the heavens themselves, lips agape as you clawed at his musculature. Marko didn’t care whatsoever — in fact, it only added fuel to the fire as he nipped at any inch of available flesh.

“I’m close.” You panted, listening to the sounds of his heavy huffs and soft grunts. You were ensnared, trapped between his insatiable jaws. Clamoring forward, you attempted to kiss him, only to be met with a flurry of dizzying desire and teeth.

Marko’s lips curled into a grin, scent of your arousal stinging his senses again. It turned him into some feral animal, fueled by the primal need to rut. You savored this, drunk on his passion and ferocity. You felt his mouth press along your jaw; wherever he could reach.

You threatened to tear Marko asunder, digging into his flesh with such force that a human would find it painful. Thankfully, your paramour was supernatural — he was indomitable. Your throat burned from the constant barrage of sound that escaped you, lips swollen from the flurry of kisses.

He brusquely pulled himself out of you, cock oozing with beads of precum as he grabbed at your hips. “Just a little more, dolcezza.” Marko murmured, biting at your shoulder as he put you down onto all fours, bringing you right back against him.

You gasped, choking on air as he pounded back into you, cock hitting new depths as he hunched in close. You could feel his hand tangling into your hair, breath fanning out across your back.

A series of desperate whines left you, face buried near the pillows as Marko fucked you through your orgasm. That familiar rush of white-hot pleasure made you feel as if you were floating, hot and heavy between your thighs. Your stomach churned with molten heat, flesh crawling with fire.

You felt like you were going to collapse, carried away within the sea of ecstasy. Marko didn’t stop for anything, his pace voracious as he consumed you completely, cock buried deep inside of you — as far as it would go. His core felt tight, body snug against yours.

Marko’s grasp on your hips was ironclad, hard enough to leave behind imprint-shaped bruises. His chest erupted with a grunt, his noises subtle compared to your symphony of delight. You shuddered, body spasmodic in the wake of your release.

“Good girl.” Marko purred, finding amusement in the way you attempted to push your thighs together. He began to rut into you again, the intensity climbing to new heights before he pulled out, painting your back in ropes of sticky seed. That was his favorite.

He used the torn remnants of your dress to clean you up, pressing a string of kisses along your spine as you settled back down, body quivering. Marko was more than happy to gather you into his arms, smirking all the while as he pressed a kiss against your brow.

“I’m sorry for scratching you,” You mumbled, visibly sheepish when you noticed the marks you’d left behind. It wasn’t pretty — his cruor was drying underneath your fingernails. “I got carried away.”

Marko giggled, head canting to one side. “Apologizing for scratching the vampire,” He clicked his tongue, absentmindedly biting at the corner of his thumb before he cupped your chin. “You know how much I like it.” He reminded you, tracing your lower lip with the pad of his finger.

A sigh of relief escaped you, body damp with a layer of dewy perspiration. “So does Paul.” Paul enjoyed it when you choked him, too. Sometimes you worried you’d hurt them — even if it was an outlandish thought.

“He does love it,” Paul’s voice reverberated from the makeshift doorway, coat splattered in fresh bloodstains. Even his chin carried faint remnants of crimson, but his grin was more present than ever. “Are you gonna make it happen?” He asked.

You gawked at your mate, but Marko had some sly expression on his face. “Maybe when she’s done resting from us.” Marko interjected, careening into the sensation of your fingers perusing through his curls.

Paul huffed, letting out a soft ‘pfft’. “As long as you don’t break what’s mine, bud.” He mused, and sauntered away from the nest, leaving you and Marko alone once more. Much to Marko’s delight, you leaned into him, feeling his teeth snag along your jaw once more.

“I might break you,” Marko uttered, lips ghosting above the shell of your ear as his hand snuck in between your legs. You shivered, unable to bite back the throaty whimper that left you. “Just a little bit.”

[indouloureux]

ALSO STEDDIE ANGST IDEA: the reader is always super supportive of the boys endeavors, she goes to all the corroded coffin shows and steve’s basketball games whatever, but the one time she has something important, they accidentally sleep through it @mysticmunson

elora elora my beloved. this is for u i love u 🤍

— poly relationship, however they have their own bedrooms for this one! for the sake of the story, anyway. fem!reader

the boys' ears perk up at the sound of your bedroom door opening. steve turns away from the stove, eddie stops chewing and lets his spoon fall onto the cereal bowl and beneath the milk that he's too distracted to frown about it. they hear your heavy footsteps, which quite sounds like feet dragging through the floor and more like stomping.

when they see you emerge, it's nothing like they expected.

while your hair is combed and your clothes flattened, your eyes resemble the long hours of weeping; from the puffy eyes, the pinkish scleras, and the loud, long sniffing. steve's excited smile falls, eddie's shoulder slumps. it's sometimes amusing how they mirror each other's expressions.

"hey," steve turns the stove off and drops the spatula on the pan, a hand reaching out towards you with his lips into an upcoming pucker. but you dodge his hand, swerving, maybe even flinching with a stoic look. his heart swells.

eddie tries next. he moves away from the kitchen island, a hand hovering at your back to place itself there but you swerve away to take the decanter off the coffee maker to pour yourself a cup.

his hand falls disappointedly down his side, his lips twitching downward, looking at steve sadly and miserably.

you ignore them both, the octave sound of hot coffee falling onto the porcelain mug filling the silence that coalesces with the tv in the back and the muffled yelling of children outside of steve's house. out the corner of your eyes, you see steve swallow thickly before he takes a plate from the rack and tilts the pan until the eggs fall onto the middle, whereas eddie hesitantly goes back to eating his cereal.

when you place it back, steve sees you debate, whether you go back up with your coffee only, or sit down with a chair between you and eddie. he makes the decision for you, wanting to know what's wrong — he slides you a plate full of scrambled eggs and toast.

you stare at it for a bit, before you finally decided to sit down and look down at your food than at steve, though you speak your gratitude through a small 'thank you,'

they decide to settle in silence, both of them eating breakfast as you slowly sink into your corner, trying your best to eat your food faster so you could just go back into your room. you only wanted silence for now, anyway. you're still upset. too upset.

but eddie, poor boy can never stand the silence, looks at you and clears his throat. "so, what'd you do yesterday, sweets? don't think stevie and i saw you the entire day."

their cluelessness ignites the vexed incendiary inside your chest. your fingers tighten around your fork, shoving an egg inside your mouth, your eye twitching and your eyebrows furrowing together slowly as you reply,

"it was fine," you say curtly, sharply. both of them taken aback by your laconic reply. eddie senses something wrong, his mind racketing through countless memories, while steve tries to stop the bomb from exploding.

"yeah?" steve spreads the butter on his toast, the rough scraping of knife against the toasted bread. "uh, where'd you go?"

he looks at eddie cautiously, who's eyebrows raise like a shrug. you stab the egg this time. "an event."

"an event?"

at this point, you're about to break the plate. you shrug, taking deep breaths. "yes."

steve wipes his fingers on a towel hanging by a knob, taking a bite of his bread. "what event? why didn't you tell us?"

maybe you could have bent the fork in half if you could. your eyebrows furrow, all of you dissolving into nothing but a vestibule of exasperation.

eddie sees it as clear as day; he knew that what steve said had struck up a mark, so he shoots him an wide-eyed 'what the fuck' kind of warning to him, the soggy cereal stopping on the left side of his cheek.

"wow, gee, i wonder why i didn't tell you," you snort, though despite that, it's absolute irritation in your voice. with a hint of sadness, eddie thinks. "maybe because i told you, like, everyday of the fucking week. maybe even the night before that event."

it clicks to steve, only then, that you actually did tell him. and eddie, who's expression has fell similarly to his when it comes to a realization.

"i was thinking maybe you guys would have remembered because you promised." you continue, barely looking at them in the eyes, like they're embedded between the hills of your egg. "but maybe, maybe you guys didn't remember. so i guess it's my fault that i didn't fucking tell you about it,"

"babe, i—" steve looks forlorn. you don't feel guilty about it at all. maybe a little, even though your voice had been soft yet somehow sharp, because you really are upset. you had every right to be.

eddie reaches out to hold your hand but you flinch and he thinks he could have just sobbed in his seat. "sweetheart, we must have slept in. i- we're sorry."

"no, you're not," you can't help but sniff and blink from something that stings your eyes, pushing the plate of eggs away.

"we are, baby, hey–" steve rounds over the counter so that he could kneel in front of you. eddie, who's got no clue how to deal with this situation, decides to kneel beside him. "baby, come on..."

you look away from them with a small whimper, your bottom lip wobbling. "i just thought, maybe, you guys would have done the same thing. come to this event and be there, y'know? and i just- i just kept waiting and waiting–"

"and we're complete idiots," you feel eddie take your hand. you know it's him because you feel the roughness on his ever-loving fingertips that dotes heat over your trembling hand. "we slept in, (y/n)."

steve nods. "we slept in and we're idiots." he rephrases. he doesn't like the way eddie had said their reason, and pinches his thigh. he winces quietly that you miss. "that's– that's not a good reason. in fact, we shouldn't even be reasoning at all,"

then, it comes as a jagged whisper. it's a blunt knife that pierces deadly through a heart. "i just thought that maybe i was as important as you said i am."

the two boys quiet down and stare defeatedly, both rocking back from their weakened knees.

"you are important,"

"steve—"

"punch me in my goddamn head if i ever made you feel like you're not important."

and eddie, ever the jest, knocks his shoulder against steve's. "in fact, do it now. now baby, he's an idiot. he deserves it."

"you're just as much as an idiot as i am,"

"just stop," you dig the heels of your palms on your eyes, your chest heaving.

none of it is helping; normally, a thing like this was something you were just gonna brush off. but they'd promised, and you expected, and then all you felt was disappointment and utter shame. and now you're mad, because you feel that way and because they'd been the one to make you feel that way.

you're mad because they made you wait for nothing.

eddie's whiskey eyes are sorrowful at his mistake. it's a sight that makes you cry abruptly, looking away from them and hiccuping into your damp palms. steve's hands reach up to tug on your wrists and wipe your fat tears with his thumb, eddie standing up to move behind you and to wrap his arms around your neck to keep you close.

"stopping, baby," steve leans up to kiss your forehead. "stopping. we're stopping, honey, i'm so sorry,"

"it won't happen again," eddie's lips move against the hair on your temple as he spoke, his mouth puckering to leave the faintest kiss ever. steve picks up a tissue somewhere above the counter and wipes your tears. "i promise you, princess,"

"we promise," steve wipes gently under your nose. you let him, clasping weakly onto eddie's forearm around you. "we love you, okay? you're important to us,"

you sniffle, the slightest scrunch on your nose. your proclamation is baulky as you say, "i still don't forgive you,"

"you don't have to," eddie swerves in front of you to face you again, placing his hands on your arms and massaging them. "not right now, at least."

the sigh you admit reassures them, even the small smile that paints your tear-stained face. the two boys come up to kiss each cheek, making you giggle; forgiveness is yet to be built, but you know they're willing to work for it.

[luviwon]

no like I actually need sunoo to whine and cry while he thrusts into me filling me with his cum! Maybe that’s just me BUT…..😋☝️

oh, it's definitely not just you, my love.

sunoo is so devoted to you, the simple thought of having the permission to release inside you makes him feel too much already itself. picture the simple scenery of him struggling not to be overstimulated. glancing at your body will be enough to make him tremble and start bitting his lips hard while your hips are held down by his hands. he feels so good inside you, he needs more of you and he needs to make you his. he is so sensitive and overtaken by these emotions, he starts thrusting inside you at a fast pace and moans your name loudly. everything about this moment is perfect, incendiary. he would try so hard not to climax already as he wants to make you feel like in heaven but staring at your beautiful tits and the way they sit so nicely wouldn't be of much help. he held your hips harder while throwing back his head and whining aloud. you could feel how he fills you up with his sweet cum, his movements not stopping but in fact going faster as his whines get louder. sunoo couldn't control himself at this stage, the pleasure received from all this was making him start shaking. he was so out of breath. but your name didn't leave his mouth for a minute.

bounded for life

[lili-harg]

hello!!! I saw your requests are open so,

Can you do a rindou fic? Where the reader has family problems and rindou is just comforting her? Thank you.

Hello, thank you for requesting, I really appreciate that you trust me to write your ideas, I hope you like it 🫶

Saving your day with love .

Reader with family problems x Rindou

warnings: Mentions of family problems

Today had been a stressful day for y/n, she had been consumed by her good mood, too many homework and exams that made the young woman want to leave school completely. Added to her previous bad mood, when she got home her family was arguing (it wasn't surprising), but it still wasn't something y/n wanted to deal with today.

The young woman thought that if she crossed the room stealthily her parents would not notice her and she would reach her room satisfactorily without having to be scolded. So without wasting any more time he tried to do the same thing;

She closed the front door as softly as she could find, she moved slowly and it almost seemed like she had made it until she heard:

-Y/n, where the hell were you! said her mother furiously. The teenager knew that now she would have to deal with her incendiary screams and scoldings.

And as she predicted, it was. For the next fifteen minutes she had to deal with the anger of her parents, who seemed to take it out on her. When the young woman had the opportunity to free herself from that situation, she did so, quickly escaping to her room; when she closed her door and tried to calm his breathing, noticing that his eyes were moist and that tears had begun to fall from his eyes.

Without wanting to do anything y/n decided to lie down in her bed and ignore the world, without noticing the small detail that at no time did she answer the more than twenty messages from her now worried boyfriend.

Rindou had tried to contact his girlfriend since she left school, but no matter how many messages he sent, she did not answer. Upon noticing this, Rindou began to worry and, having no response, decided that the best thing would be to go see her.

Y/n had already managed to calm down and was about to fall asleep until she began to hear some beeps at her window. Without even thinking about it, she already knew who was on the other side.

Without hesitation she opened her window and saw her boyfriend Rindou, he looked as attractive as ever although he had a worried expression on his face, without further ado he entered the young woman's room.

-"Y/n, what the hell happened to you, you had me very worried and you didn't answer any of my messages," he said in a worried tone while taking her face in his hands, inspecting it and only finding traces of crying.

Y/n embarrassedly lowered her head and shook her head without saying a word.

-Come on little one, you know what you can tell me- Rindou was really getting worried, this attitude in his girlfriend was not very current and he was terrified that something bad had happened to her, leaving her too scared to speak.

Y/n sighs and tries to communicate what happened to her and how she feels

- I... I really didn't have a good day, school and mom and dad fighting just made me stressed and... The young woman couldn't finish explaining the situation. situation to her boyfriend when she burst into tears, Rindou without waiting a second hugged her and made her sit on the bed.

-"Shh, calm down, everything will be fine," he said while gently caressing her back, "everything will be fine, I'm here, beautiful." Rindou didn't feel like he was really the best person to cheer someone up but for his girlfriend he would do anything to see her smile shining on her face again.

After a few minutes, the young woman's crying faded, leaving a sleepy y/n in Rindou's arms. Without hesitation, he gently rocked her until she fell asleep peacefully, then he decided to put her to bed.

He covered her body with sheets and gave her a small kiss on her forehead and when he was about to turn around to leave and let her sleep she took his arm.

-Don't go, Rin, please, her voice took on a subtle tone of supplication and Rindou, being weak in the face of his girlfriend's requests, nodded and decided to sleep with her.

And thus embraced and only illuminated by the small light that entered through the window of the young woman's room, two teenagers in love gave everything from their hearts to heal the other.

[shibaraki]

SOFT INTERLUDE ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

tags: AFAB GN reader (called ‘angel’ once), NSFT, established relationship, fluff and smut, bath sex, vaginal fingering (mostly clit stimulation; reader receiving), heavy petting, quirk use

wc: 1.4k

“Oi! Where are you?”

Touya’s voice carries through your apartment with an urgency that startles you. Water sloshes loudly against the tub as you sit up straight, blinking away the lavender induced haze.

“I’m in here,” you call back to him. Your ears prick up at the sound of hasty footfalls, stare fixated on the slight crack in the door where it had been left ajar. A cold draft seeps into the bathroom as it widens and Touya pushes his way in.

Taller from where you’re sitting, though hardly reaching the crest of the doorframe, Touya pauses to skim over your naked form—once for signs of hurt or injury and the second, you suspect, for the sake of appreciation. He looks comfortable. A large white t-shirt drapes easily off his shoulders, the collar dipping to expose his clavicle and naturally following the old sutured scars.

His charcoal sweatpants are more fitted. The cuffs stop just above his ankle. You know he struggles to find pants that accommodate his measurements—he’s all limbs. Lower, you catch sight of socked feet, the left one solid red while the right is patterned with snowflakes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, crossing your arms over your bare chest to rub at the gooseflesh. “Close that, will you?”

“Your front door was unlocked,” he glares, shutting out the draft with a careful kick. “What if a random dickhead tried to break in?”

You snort and look him up and down, “Aside from the one infront of me, you mean?”

The tendons in his throat flex as he grits his teeth. A frisson of anticipation settles in the back of your spine when he moves closer, dragging the nearby stool across the tile with his foot and sitting beside you.

Magnetised, your body is turned at an angle as you lean toward him. His forearms rest on the lip of the bathtub and the frustration in his expression wanes with a quiet laugh when you rest your cheek against them. Peering up through damp lashes, he cups your jaw and draws you into a kiss.

Warm, his tongue dips along the seam of your mouth. His bottom lip is rough, not that you’ve ever minded. You coax him in, deepening, swallowing your name when he groans. It tastes like home.

“Missed you,” you mumble. Touya kisses you again, this time he’s smiling, and you know him well enough to hear the ‘I missed you too’.

“Sorry. S’been a busy fucking week,” he says. Your head tips back as he noses over the swell of your cheek, forging a path to your throat. A soft peck to your pulse point. “Work been alright?”

“You would know if you ever answered my texts”.

“I answer!”

“Cat pictures don’t count,” you laugh into the crook of his arm where he holds you like a cradle, wet skin saturating his shirt sleeve. “Neither do videos of your dick”.

“Makes you forgive me quicker though,” the bath is colder, but when you shiver it is at the flash of his wolfish grin, gaze all too knowing and incendiary as he sees right through you. “Let me”.

Touya reaches. The surface breaks, a soft sound echoing as his hand slips into the water. You feel it in the next breath—his quirk. Heat emanates from his palm, syrupy and slow as it suffuses and fills the tub. Gradual, subtle turns of his wrist, encouraging circulation, warming you inside and out.

A moan slips past your lips and you sink deeper until you’re swaddled to the shoulders, and his fingertips are brushing the inside of your thigh. They’re hot, twitching at the contact, and then purposeful as he begins to knead the muscle.

“Feel good?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it barely disturbs the quiet. You hear it like cymbals crashing, and his touch moves higher. Tension wrung from your body, you’ve no inhibitions to conceal your reactions, and he gets to marvel in just how honest they are.

The water moves, ripples between your legs. Your knees fall further, now braced either side of the tub, and suddenly you are an open book without a spine. “Touya,” his name comes on the end of an exhale. What was meant to be a warning is heard as a plea, and he presses his fingers to your clit as though that was all he needed to hear.

He hums a contented little note. “I won’t even ask you to say please,” and the gentle circular motion begins, pressure light. Touya strokes around your clit, starting small and tight, widening with each pass.

Arousal pools in your belly, spreads, seeking to fill every bit of you. It prickles at the nape of your neck, pushes the air from your lungs as his tentative fingers slide through your folds and spread, deliberately teasing.

Intertwined lavender and smoke pervades the air, condensation clinging to the tiles. You grasp his wrist, the scarred skin rough and pruning. Watching through half lidded eyes, you shudder at the loving hunger in his own, lips parted for heavy breath.

“Sensitive?” he wonders aloud, tongue sliding over his canine tooth. You whine as he plays with your entrance, barely dipping in, his fingertip crooked in a relaxed come hither movement. Hips chasing the feeling, you roll up against the heel of his hand and water laps up the bath's edge. He cups you full. “Look at you, all desperate. So fuckin’ cute”.

Touya indulges. Squeezes, retreats, smooths over your soft stomach to your breasts where they perk above the surface and back. In turn, you’re kept there; in a fractured kaleidoscope of pleasure and frustration.

Your thighs press together to relieve the ache. The bath oils leave you silken, and the dulled friction isn’t enough. “Hurry up or I’ll make myself cum,” you complain, voice airy with no real threat behind it. He kisses his teeth.

“Let me have my fun,” you hiss as he pinches your nipple, massaging over the sting with his thumb. “It’s not like I can fuck you like this. You’ve put too much… smelly shit in here”.

You concede, albeit with a pout, “That smelly shit helps me relax”.

Touya bends, hiding his fond smirk in the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll help too,” he nips at your puckered lip, coaxing you into another deep kiss. Dazed from the heat, the fervent touch, the slide of his tongue across your teeth, you’re barely cognisant of the hand settling back between your legs.

You pulse at the first stroke. Touya’s arm settles around your shoulders to support your weight as you sink into him. Your hips jump. Two fingers brush against your clit, then again, back and forth as your arousal swells.

This time you let him play, build the bridge as he pleases, drawing out the crescendo. Your breasts heave as the feeling swells. Gradually, the pressure behind his fingers grows in harmony with his rhythm. The tension in your body follows closely behind; abdomen clenched, trembling thighs clamped either side of his forearm, toes curled as your hips start to stutter.

“Touya,” you gasp, brows drawn taut as your face pinches. The bath water rocks up and down the tub, tipping over the side. “Touya. Fuck, I’m—I’m close”.

“Yeah. That’s it, angel,” he dips, lips brushing the shell of your ear as they shape around his words. His voice is rough and wanting, erring on a growl, almost like he was just as desperate as you. “Let me see you cum”.

It’s always a little more intense when he strings you along. You crest. Searing, the tight coil in your belly releases, and you cling to him as the pleasure pulses through you in waves. He wraps around you, keeping you tethered, gently rubbing your clit in alternating motions until you whine at the sensitivity.

He hums in amusement, and the sound settles around your shoulders. The water is hot again. There’s steam dancing on the water's surface in broad, svelte movements.

Touya kisses your temple as he withdraws his hand from between your legs. You can’t find it in yourself to complain when he cups your cheek, stroking his wet thumb in an arc beneath your eye. “Better?” he simpers, tilting his head to meet your lidded gaze. “Am I forgiven?”

Fatigue is starting to wear at your bones. You inhale deeply, wearing a satiated smile, though noticeably empty.

“Bed first. Then we’ll see about forgiveness”.

[starlightsearches]

Yes come to the dark side we have daddy issues and weekly therapy lmfao

But the way I would crumble so fast. I’d try to be defiant but uh. I’d do anything he told me to

so sorry i let this sit in my inbox for so long but now it gives me an excuse to write about hux hitting it from the back so 😚

some TWs for mentions of self-harm, somnophilia, and minor dub-con elements. 18+ only. female reader.

the thing about hux is that he's quite the romantic behind locked doors.

because everything about you is so different from what he's known—being loved and touched and felt so gently.

so sex is always soaked in emotion, wet lips and nudged foreheads and his blushing pink knuckles pulling you closer anywhere he can reach.

it's heavy, and so is this, but in a different way.

hux is incendiary, leaving sparks and ashes in his wake as he stalks down the empty corridors.

it all weighs on him. feeling overpowered, over-ruled, and worst of all, feeling impotent.

and he hates it more than anything, insides of his cheeks mangled from biting back all he wished he could say until his breath stank with the coppery scent of his own blood.

anger like this doesn't go away on it's own.

he could drive it out of himself. let it drip down his fingers with the blood from his knuckles, find ways to let the hurt bloom across his skin until everything else is washed away.

it’s what he would do, before you.

he's in his quarters instead, still in uniform, staring at you from the end of the bed you share most nights.

it feels wrong, and that's what he needs right now, watching you breathe with the cadence of sleep. his eyes tracing hungrily over the slope of your back, the curve of your ass and the plush skin of your thighs.

hux is not gentle when he grips at your hips, but you don't wake. not when he tugs you towards the end of the bed, not when your head slides from the pillow.

not when he yanks the waist of your shorts down over your ass.

he's not sure when he got so hard, or how, but his cock is pulsing at the jiggle of your ass when he bares it.

hands still clad in leather gloves, he grips at the tender flesh without any thought of gentleness, spreading your ass cheeks wide, baring you to him.

and he's not angry anymore, but there's something else terrifying inside of him, a pressure, a need he can't suppress in his chest when he spies your puffy pussy glistening in the low light.

you groan when his fingers split you open, tracing your slit with slow but insistent movements.

hux just shushes you, squeezing at his handful of ass while his fingers impatiently circle your clit.

you're not as wet as he's used to, but sleep has made you pliant enough. he slips his cock from his trousers and breathes hard, stroking the tip up and down your weeping cunt.

there's a whine on your lips when the head of his cock slips inside, eyes fluttering open when he pulls your hips back to meet his.

he presses the flat of his palm firmly against your spine, keeping you right where he wants you.

"go back to sleep, love."

and maybe hux doesn't want you to see him like this. maybe he's afraid of what will bubble to the surface if you look him in the eyes.

he just wants to get lost in it—in the slap of skin and the way your ass dents against his hip bones and the bliss of your cunt fluttering around him, the pace hard and fast and not at all what he's used to.

he's close already, neck stretched long and his eyes on the ceiling, vision fogged at the edges.

he's so close, but there's a sick guilt in the pit of his stomach, a faltering in the pace of his hips.

how could he use you like this?

hux wills himself to stop, to slow the tempo of his thrusts and beg for your forgiveness on his hands and knees, to deny himself of a pleasure he's never once deserved as part of his penance.

but there's the brush of your fingers, your shaky hand covering his own, pressing him tighter against the swell of your hip.

a swift breath, the sight of your pink tongue pressed between wet lips.

"armitage," you breathe, "please."

oh.

you like this.

and he's never been able to deny you anything.

he thrusts harder, deeper into your wet and aching pussy, fingers gripping at your hips close enough to bruise.

and when he feels you cum around his cock with that delicious cry, he's completely forgotten what had him so furious in the first place.

[amethysttribble]

“He resembles Princess Luthien greatly,” Oropher said and Celeborn stiffened on instinct.

He side-eyed his kinsman, bracing for the impact of whatever came next. Oropher never made idle comments. Oropher epecially never made idle comments to him, not without the direct intention of starting a fight.

Celeborn hoped this wasn’t intended to be a fight. He’d promised Gil-galad, and more importantly, Galadriel, that they wouldn’t so much as bicker tonight. They were supposed to stand next to one another in solidarity and pretend like the High Council of Lindon wasn’t fracturing at the seams and about to fall apart, the direct consequence of Oropher’s words and desires and pride.

But right now, Oropher at least wasn’t speaking of their king- ‘I don’t remember choosing him, do you think you speak for all of us?’- but of the one standing next to him on the ballroom dais. Of perhaps the one person whose name and presence between them was just as, if not more, incendiary than Gil-galad’s. Poor Elrond.

“He does,” Celeborn replied mildly, biting his tongue before he could ask why Oropher was bringing this up now. It wasn’t like he’d never seen the young lord- no longer a boy, not a child by any race’s measure, though it was hard to remember- before. It wasn’t like they all didn’t meet and talk often enough.

“More than either Elwing or Earendil. Or her.”

And, ah. There it was.

“True enough,” Celeborn said, and he wasn’t sure if Oropher wanted him to agree or not, but he wasn’t going to lie.

Elrond took greatly after dear Aunt Luthien. In some lights it was slightly nerve wracking.

Oropher crossed his arms rather than reply immediately, his face closed off. Not stony or hard like at council meetings, but his thoughts and feelings were far away from any observer. He actually looked like the lord they pretended he was, rather than the rogue marchwarden he actually was; regal. When Oropher looked like that he reminded Celeborn of Galathil.

He looked away.

“I think, in the details though, they are more present. His cheeks, for example-“

“And it’s funny,” Oropher said, and he even huffed a very sad laugh, trying and failing to make it sound like he actually was joking. The two of them hadn’t shared a joke since… since.

Celeborn certainly wasn’t laughing. He closed his eyes and swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. He knew Oropher did it on purpose, perpetually the preteen at his brother’s table delighting in ribald and shock.

And there were his words to consider.

“El-Elwing didn’t really take after Luthien very much.”

She didn’t. She’d taken after the person whose presence hung between Oropher and Celeborn like the unlight of Ungoliant, sucking the air out of the room. Which was a horrible legacy for someone they both loved so much, but grief did strange things to already strained relationships.

“I keep asking myself if there’s something about Earendil I’m forgetting.” Oropher was rambling now, highly uncharacteristic. Celeborn drew in a long breath and re-centered himself in anticipation for wherever this was headed. “Has Galadriel said anything about a resemblance to anyone in her family?”

Celeborn raised an eyebrow, but Oropher wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were locked somewhere past Elrond’s head. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

But Oropher acknowledging Galadriel’s family, Earendil’s family willingly?

Oropher had always seemed to operate under some purposeful mental dissonance, wherein he forced himself to think of Galadriel as some Telerin princess who had mystically made her way across the sea alone and by sheer force of will. And Earendil? He might as well have been prince to some lost, entirely independent Elven kingdom- not Sindar, not Laiquendi, certainly not Noldor- for how Oropher acted, for the most part.

He’d slipped in an argument about Gil-galad once when he shouted that, ‘Earendil was the only Noldo I would have ever had for my king and he’s gone!’

“She’s never made any special mention of a resemblance,” Celeborn said carefully. He didn’t want to call attention to the… mannerisms picked up from certain half-cousins that Galadriel had noticed. That wasn’t a resemblance, after all. “Why?”

“No particular reason,” he said, though it was becoming clear that there was a very particular reason, “just, many remark that his brother took after Earendil and I never saw it, so I-“

“I always thought Elros more so resembled Dior.”

Oropher’s head snapped over to finally look at him. He nodded, slow and low, not even slightly upset at being interrupted.

“Yes, I thought the same,” he said. “Funny that. Identical twins, but it’s in the- the bearing. Who they take after. Luthien and Dior.”

Celeborn fought off the shudder that threatened the shake him, to make him crack and crumble under the weight of the thing between him and Oropher that would never go away. He actually looked Oropher in the eye, and in that faraway gaze, this time he saw the same weakness.

“How much have you had to drink this evening?” Celeborn asked.

Oropher shrugged casually, with one shoulder, and that was plenty of answer. Surely he couldn’t be as drunk as either the time Celeborn found his and his friends deep into Galathil’s liquor cabinet or the night they drank themselves into a state in Sirion after… after. Still.

“That’s very unbecoming.”

“You see it though, right?” Oropher said, voice still uncharacteristically even, but when they met eyes…

He was such a weepy drunk.

“Elwing and Earendil’s boys, they carry themselves well,” he said, voice bitter as could be. “Beautiful, kind, clever, magnetic, the both of them. Princess Luthien’s wildness is in Elrond, and Dior’s wonder at the world is in Elros. They stand so tall. And, yes, you’re right, Elwing and Earendil are there in the margins, but there’s also- also them. And so much space is taken up, our- Lothig is eaten whole.”

Hearing Nimloth’s childhood nickname come out of Oropher’s mouth was like being stabbed. There was no more air. Just like that, Celeborn was drowning.

“You should be proud,” he hissed back, trying to keep his head above water. “That is a fine legacy to resemble, our princess, our king. We loved them as well. At least, I did.”

Oropher wasn’t listening. He never did.

“Do you think any of these people-“ he swept his arm out to gesture at the entire room, the entirety of Lindon’s court; Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Men and Dwarves in the margins, and one peredhil. “-care that they killed her?”

“Don’t put that on him,” Celeborn snapped quietly, “he doesn’t owe you grief for someone he never knew-“

“I don’t care what Elrond feels, I can’t even look at him,” Oropher spat out, every word sounding pained, and there was torment in his whisper quiet voice.

That whisper, more than anything, tipped Celeborn off to the fact that this conversation wasn’t just one of their drunken spats about trading blame.

“I would have raised that boy like we raised his mother and your brother raised me,” Oropher said, “but that didn’t happen, and I can’t look at him. He looks like Luthien. His brother looks like Dior. And that’s a wonderful thing for everyone else in this room, isn’t it? That’s hope. The beautiful king taken too soon reborn and the Nightengale who stole her happy ending walking among us, and that’s such a lovely end to this tale for them. But what about for us, Celeborn?”

For Celeborn? Celeborn was shaking with the effort it was taking to keep his breathing even. Galadriel touched the edge of his fea to ask if he was okay. He gently pushed her away.

Oropher was right about one thing, this was about their family; about Doriath and Menegorth and being the last two members of Thingol’s inner court on this shore.

Eru Iluvatar, how did it end up being them? Just a pair of hot-headed youths with the weight an entire dead kingdom on their shoulders.

“Gondolin and Nargothrond are gone too,” he replied, the words dull even to his ears. “Hithlum and Dorthonion, half of Ossiriand, and even Himlad and Thargelion. It’s about building something new for all of us. Hope is not a bad thing.”

“It’s different for us.”

Yes. It was. Because Doriath and Sirion need not have fallen like that, and the monsters who took their homes and their loved ones from them weren’t even defeated. They faded, sad and pathetic and allowed to escape by everyone and everything but their prize, and there was no catharsis in that.

And in this kingdom they spoke Sindarin, but they took a Noldorin king who ruled through Noldorin traditions- with a few of Cirdan’s lessons thrown in there- in a city built by Noldorin hands. After his death, Thingol had lost his war of cultural influence. Badly.

“No one here remembers her but us, Celeborn,” Oropher urged. “They remember our heroes and our most tantalizing tragedies, but they don’t remember her. They don’t see her. She’s just one more dead wife and mother, if they get that far, but not a cousin, a niece-“

“Enough, Oropher.”

“-an astrologist, a troublemaker, a queen, a girl who was so scared of being outshined-“

“Oropher!” Celeborn snapped, more harshly than he meant to. It made Oropher stop long enough that he could put a hand on his shoulder, though.

“Oropher, you’re weeping.”

He blinked harshly, then brought up a hand to wipe at his cheek. When he pulled away, Celeborn could see how wet the palm was. Oropher glared at the remnant of his tears like they’d personally offended him.

He muttered, half to himself, “Surely you can’t keep living like this. Ignoring what was done to us because it’s awkward and inconvenient for the new age they’re building.”

Could he? Celeborn didn’t know. He was trying. Galadriel was trying; she had as many wounds as him she was trying to swallow for the sake of something new and bright. But it was hard. Lindon made Celeborn feel old, somehow. But with Oropher he was always just a boy again, strutting around Menegroth, trying to make his place, being too loud and too proud and too sure of himself.

Perhaps that was part of why they couldn’t stop fighting. Always just boys when together. And those boys, they had a few things in common.

Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were in Oropher. And when Oropher looked at him, those same things were in Celeborn. There was no place for those things in this new world.

Because Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were forever gone on this shore. Oropher needed to realize that. Not matter how much it fucking hurt.

“Go to bed, Oropher,” Celeborn told him softly. “You’re drunk and emotional. You’ll embarrass your son. He’s one of those young people looking for something new. Something hopeful.”

And when they looked back towards Gil-galad’s dais and the youths surrounding him, there was Thranduil, charming smile on his face, making Elrond toss his head back and laugh. If anyone took after Nimloth, it was him; her mother and Oropher’s had been identical twins.

Celeborn’s hand was suddenly colder and hanging in the air. He turned back to the kid who showed up one day and took so much of his older brother’s attention and who he’d never forgiven for that small slight. Oropher was composed and looking like Galathil once more.

“I hate that you’re right,” he whispered. “And he probably needs me to be better than this. But I can’t be better here.”

And he left.

The next week, Oropher would formally announce his intention to travel east and settle there, alongside anyone who would join him. Celeborn, to the surprise of every other council member but Galadriel, raised no objection. Very briefly, the thought crossed his mind to join Oropher.

But that desire faded quickly. The envy didn’t, though, not for many, many years.

Not until the day he planted a little silver tree in Lothlorien.