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ladamedusoif · 10 months

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Sweets (Frankie Morales x F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 8

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.

FYI: I'm having so much trouble with taglists at the moment that I'm not going to use them for now - if you want to keep updated, follow @ladameecrit and turn on notifications.

Happy Festive Frankie Friday! 🎄

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; smut, oral sex (m receiving), established relationship, reference to P in V sex

Word Count: 824 words

Summary: Frankie’s smutty imagination means you’ll never look at a candy cane ever again without giggling.

Is there anywhere better to be on a cold winter night in mid-December than curled up on the couch with Frankie, watching a cheesy old Christmas TV special? He’s snacking on buttered popcorn and drinking a beer, while you suck thoughtfully on your favourite holiday sweet: a classic, red and white striped, peppermint candy cane.

Frankie shifts in his seat and exhales, long and slow. “Jesus, fuck.”

You stop sucking and look at him, a little startled at the outburst.

His coffee-dark brown eyes are looking at you with softness and need, his breath hitching a little as his broad chest rises and falls under the warm, brushed cotton plaid shirt he’s wearing.

He swallows hard as his eyes wander to your mouth.

“Baby? What’s up?”

Frankie flushes pink. “It’s…fuck. It’s the way you’re sucking that candy. It’s…fuck, my mind is in the fuckin’ gutter.”

He chuckles, but you can still see the tension written all over his face and throughout his body. And then it dawns on you.

“Francisco Morales. An innocent little candy cane, and that’s what you start thinking of?”

Your eyes fall to his crotch, and you realise just how hard Frankie’s been thinking about…that.

A cheeky smile spreads across his beautiful, boyish face. “It’s not my fault, baby. It’s that mouth of yours, all pretty and perfect and…”

He leans in and kisses you, groaning with pleasure and need.

You put the candy cane down on a coaster and face him properly, cupping his face in your hands and caressing his patchy whiskers with your thumbs.

“What do you want, Frankie? Tell me. Tell me what you need.”

His eyes widen as he looks at your mouth, then meet your gaze. “Need your mouth on me, baby. Please.”

You push back the coffee table to give yourself a little more room and sink to your knees in front of him, parting his legs so that you can move between them.

Frankie’s breathing grows more rapid as you unbutton the waistband of his jeans and tug down the zipper, exposing his cock straining against the light fabric of his boxer briefs. With a smile, you lift up the hem of his shirt just enough to plant a series of kisses down his soft middle, from his belly button down the fine trail of dark hair, until you reach the band of his underwear.

“Fuck, please. Please, baby.”

“I love you, Francisco. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

With a careful tug of his boxers, his cock springs free: already hard and leaking with pre-come in anticipation. You hum happily to yourself as you wrap your fingers around his length, stroking the velvety skin a couple of times as you lick your lips.

“Beautiful boy.”

He moans raggedly as you slip him into your mouth, gently building up a rhythm and keeping your palm wrapped around the base.

“Oh, fuck, baby!” Frankie’s hips buck upwards as you take him further into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the tip of his cock.

You stop for a moment to check in. “You okay, love?”

He’s panting hard, now, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ amazing, baby. Just…fuck…tingly, or something.”

“Oh god, Frankie.” You can’t help but giggle. “It’s the peppermint. I’m sorry.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Keep going, baby,” he murmurs. “Feels so good.”

You grin and lick a long, slow stripe up the side of his gorgeous dick before starting to suck again, carefully taking more and more of him before glancing up to meet his gaze again.

It’s always a pleasure to take care of him like this, to make your love feel so good, just the way he likes: to watch just how wrecked this big, strong man becomes under the touch of your hand and the gentle, rhythmic motions of your mouth.

Vulnerability is never too far from Frankie’s gorgeous face, but he never looks more vulnerable - nor more gorgeous - than in moments like this. Him, buried inside you and sweat leaving a sheen on his brow, kissing you deeply as he’s about to come. You, between his thighs, moaning with delight as you feel his broad hand reach out to hold your head in place as you bring him closer and closer to his release.

He pants harder and harder, babbling about how much he loves you, loves your pretty mouth, loves it wrapped around him. Frankie comes with a cry, reaching for your free hand to hold it as he spills into your throat.

He opens his eyes, hazy with pleasure, and caresses your cheek. With a languid tilt of his head, he beckons you back up to his side.

“C’mere, sweet thing. Your turn, now.”

#a merry fic-mas #holiday fic calendar #frankie morales #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedrostories

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inaconstantstateofchange · 9 months

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don't come crying - a young!Raphael fic

An incredible rendition of young!Raphael by @shahs1221, here: please go check her out and give her some well-deserved adoration for it!

A/N: I'm gonna be so honest, I have no idea how to tag this in a comprehensible way, relationship-wise. Suffice to say, the Mephisto-lovers are... probably going to appreciate this more than I wish you would, and if you too are fifty leagues down the Niche Forgotten Realms Characters™ rabbit hole, you may also be enticed by the Baalphegor inclusion. 18+, please and thank you.

Summary:

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here. Or: Centuries prior to the events of the game, Raphael's return from a routine fetch quest on Mephistopheles's orders is interrupted by a summons to the throne room. His father has a lesson to impart to him, and he's going to ensure it sticks.

This is part of an ongoing story I've had in the back of my mind for several weeks now. Rather than another WIP longfic, I'll be posting additional segments from this 'verse in a series if/when I add more. If @sky-kiss has any say in it, I'm sure I will.

The only background info you really need is:

All characters are drawn from actual Forgotten Realms lore.

Raphael has recently been plucked from the Material Plane to join his father's court on Cania, in the Nine Hells.

Due to Raphael's stunted development, and an unwillingness to be shamed by his spawn's weakness, Mephistopheles has placed Raphael under the purview of his consort, Baalphegor.

Baalphegor's body is able to produce an empowering draught, too weak to hold much significance to true fiends, but sufficient to bolster Raphael's growth.

Finally, it is a pet headcanon I've incorporated into this 'verse that Baalphegor is the same individual later know as Haarlep, but you are welcome to use your own interpretation.

Raphael stumbles through the extravagant entrance doors to Mephistar, the flesh-shearing winds of Cania grabbing after him as he ducks behind the solid, enchanted stone. He’s done his best to cover all exposed skin, but there is always some that escapes his notice, leaving him bleeding out strength he can ill afford to lose. He loathes these “errands” his father sends him on, tasks purported to test his skill, devotion, and cunning. In reality, it feels more like busywork designed to keep him weak and subservient, reminding him of his contentious existence in the hierarchy and reinforcing his dependence on his father’s dubious goodwill.

The desiccated parchment that proved the focus of this most recent quest crinkles slightly, as he shifts his gaze up, the slight sound echoing across the cavernous hall as he looks with certainty for the being he knows to be waiting for his return, just as always. But — they’re not there.

He furrows his brow, an agitated and disquieting anger growing within his gut. He strides across the marble floor on frostbitten feet he can barely feel, shoving the parchment at the lone figure of Mephistopheles’s chamberlain Barbas, standing at attention at his post, and wearing his habitual sneer as he looks down at Raphael. Raphael ignores it for now, as ever, but files the snub away with all the other insults he will one day be strong enough to return tenfold.

“Where is m—the Lady Baalphegor?” He demands imperiously. They are almost always waiting for him upon his return to bestow his reward. That is the deal, the entire reason he engages in these banal fetch quests even though they are entirely beneath his rank and status. He pushes sharply at the errant thought of the pretty fiction it makes, knowing all the while that his true choice is to bow to his father’s whims or perish. True or not, it does no good to dwell on such matters, not when he will be changing them just as soon as he can manage.

Barbas’s sneer gouges even deeper into his face, growing a biting and nearly gleeful edge as he answers Raphael, “Well, young lord, as your august presence must surely have ascertained, the Lady is certainly not here.”

Raphael can feel his face going blotchy and red, and curses his mortal heritage once again for its constant betrayals. The ice-blue crystals in the eye sockets of the chamberlain harden and glint with glee at the sight. Raphael spins on his heel, marching furiously away, the parchment crumpling further within his fist. Barbas’s mocking voice rings out behind him, “Don’t forget to report to His Grace, little lord! He insisted it be done immediately upon your return.”

Raphael almost turns again to berate him, but manages to stop himself at the last moment, lest he lose even more face from the encounter. He’ll make his report as quickly as possible, then hunt down his wayward… Baalphegor, and claim his rightful recompense. The brilliant halls of Mephistar blur around him as he storms through them, focusing only on making his way to his father’s great hall with haste.

He doesn’t wait to be announced, merely pushes firmly on the doors, both with his physical form and, in a manner only recently attained, with the lashings of his own metaphysical aspect. They creak open, the sound like distant screams even on the well-kept mechanisms, and he steps through without hesitation, words of complaint already springing to his lips, when he stops dead in his tracks.

He’s found Baalphegor.

The succubus – and they are in full succubus form in this moment – is perched indolently on his father’s lap, where he sits on his ostentatious throne. But not just perched, no — impaled, as he finds when, with stricken eyes, he watches them move their body in a smooth, undulating motion up, degree by degree, before dropping back down, brilliant hair falling around them and catching the flickering hellfire-light as it glints off their red-brown skin. Soft, melodious moans are driven from their throat with each movement, as if pushed out by the — by the member within them. Their round breasts shift with the motion, the revitalizing milk within them welling up and dripping down their chest, squandered and disregarded.

He swallows, throat dry, his eyes and chest burning in stark opposition with one another.

His father casts an apathetic glance across the hall, and his eyes alight on Raphael, a cruel smirk curling at his lips. “Ah, the returning triumphant! What have you brought me this time?” His voice is nothing but mocking, no attempt made to couch his disregard for his unwanted and unloved spawn.

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. Everything within him is raging at the broken contract, even as it boils with jealousy at the manhandling of something that is his, and it is only the barest dregs of his staunch self-preservation that manage to keep him from attempting something truly foolish. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here.

He holds the parchment, now looking rather worse for wear, out before him on a finely trembling hand. He searches for the words he needs in a mind nearly whited out by rage.

“I… your cult in Waterdeep sends their obeisance, y–your Grace.” He curses his tongue for its fumbling, driving home further how well his father’s ploy is working to discomfit him.

“Oh,” Mephistopheles waves a careless hand. “That collection of rabble. You will leave it with my steward.”

Raphael ducks his head a bare inch, keeping his eyes away from Baalphegor as much as he can, and turns to leave.

His father’s voice rings out after him before he has completed even half his turn, sharpening with the first warning edges of his infamous temper. “Where do you think you are going, whelp? You have not yet been dismissed.”

Raphael turns back to face him, slow and careful, as the true danger of the situation sets in. He has rarely found himself in the presence of his father when these moods strike, and never without at least the tenuous support of Baalphegor behind him. And yet… he meets their gaze now, searching, and the barest fraction desperate, but there is nothing. Their red eyes meet his without flinching, cold as Cania’s glaciers. Trickles of the subtly shimmering draught spilling from their breasts have reached down to their hips now, soaking into the thatch of hair between their legs.

He tears his eyes away and forces his attention back to the far greater threat, scrambling for an answer that will satisfy his father.

“My apologies, your Grace.” The epithet comes easier this time, its passage eased by his awareness of his own precarious position. “I misunderstood your direction, and wished only to carry out your will with utmost alacrity.”

Mephistopheles rests his chin insouciantly on his hand, elbow propped against the arm of his throne. His voice, when he speaks, is sardonic and shows no signs of the ongoing actions of the succubus on his lap. “Oh very nicely salvaged, whelp. My wishes, however, are for you to remain just where you are, and appreciate the lesson I’ve prepared for you.”

Raphael swallows, the boiling heat within him growing fiercer, rage intertwined with other, less-savory feelings.

With little warning, Mephistopheles moves his hand to entangle within Baalphegor’s tresses, pulling the succubus fiercely down onto him as he wrenches their head back against his shoulder. A tremulous cry breaks from their throat, and Raphael only barely keeps himself from starting forward at the sound.

Mephistopheles brings his free hand forward and toys with Baalphegor’s breasts, pushed forward into the air from their current position. He twists pitilessly at them, prompting yet more cries as the liquid inside spills out in greater quantities, splashing, wasted, against the smooth skin of Baalphegor’s stomach. It runs in rivulets onto the throne, and down, to collect into puddles on the floor of the grand hall.

Raphael feels his stomach turn even as his mouth, well-trained by association, waters, unhindered by every other horrible aspect of this waking nightmare.

Mephistopheles wipes his hand dismissively on Baalphegor’s hair, leaving behind silvery streaks, then draws them up by their hair and hip, beginning to move within them in earnest as he continues his reproach. Raphael wants to close his eyes, his ears, every one of his senses, but knows such an admission of weakness would be worse than his undoing.

“You’ve prevailed enough upon my largess, and I am no longer willing to indulge your weakness.” Mephistopheles sneers. “You’ve proven more fortunate than any other cambion within the Hells, but from now on you will make your own way, or fail. Such is the way of Baator.”

The fires around the hall burn fiercer in alignment with their lord as he looks down at his unloved progeny. “Should you find yourself desperate for one last taste to stay your appetites, however, you may lap it from the floor like the whelp you are, and thank me for the concession.”

Raphael feels like he is become hellfire himself, the hatred he knew within him for his progenitor stoked to dizzyingly fierce new heights. Jaw aching with the effort of withholding the flood of vitriol within him, he grits out, “My thanks for your… beneficence. I would not dream of prevailing upon it further.”

Mephistopheles snorts, dismissive, then turns his attentions back to Baalphegor, by all accounts having forgotten Raphael’s entire existence.

Raphael stands, Baalphegor’s unfeeling eyes burning into his, until he is finally – finally – dismissed. All the while, the ambitions within him, already cast in carbon, are pressurized further and further, until they are as fearsome diamond, reflecting the blood and fire around him.

He will not remain his father’s lesser for long. He will see him deposed, and make him suffer for these indignities heaped upon his person.

By Asmodeus, he swears it.

#voidling speaks #my writing #my fic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 raphael #baldur's gate 3 #raphael x haarlep #haarlep #young!raphael #raphael #mephistopheles #baalphegor #merry cursed-mas y'all #vflu compliant #forgotten realms #cfmi

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