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emmg · 1 day ago

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Bees

This piece of unholy crack is for my wife @jainydoe

I want a fic where bellara is emmrich's ward and rook does the whole Look at your dad keeping bees Bellara I'm gonna fuck your dad shtick

"So he, like, adopted you?"

Bellara gets bonked across the face by a very round, very enthusiastic artifact. "I guess? Kind of? A little bit before I was all grown up."

Rook pulls a face. "Why?"

Bellara idly scratches her ear with a wrench. "Oh, you know. Legal things."

Rook’s face only twists further. "That explains nothing. That is the opposite of explaining. What in the Maker’s name does that even mean?"

"Oh! Well, see, he was in Tevinter, and I sort of—not on purpose—ended up owing a lot of money. And then the people I owed were, um, very insistent that I give it back. Which was unfortunate, because I didn’t have it. And I told them I didn’t have it, but they still wanted it. So he paid it for me, and now I just use his money. It all worked out!"

Rook's eye twitches. "So… you're his mistress?"

Bellara blinks. "His what?"

Rook pinches the bridge of her nose. "Never mind. That was a no."

"Mphff," Bellara replies as her eyebrows are promptly seared off.

****

She doesn’t mean to stare at Bellara’s not-dad, but, well, here she is. Staring. Very accidentally, of course. Completely unintentional. It’s just—he’s her colleague now, and Bellara is her friend, and who could have possibly predicted that she’d one day reunite with Bellara only to find out that her not-dad was someone she’d end up working in—er, under—uh, near. In close proximity. Adjacent to.

At the very least, Rook thinks, the Mourn Watch dresses excellently. Or maybe Emmrich Volkarin just has an aesthetic because the man doesn’t walk—he floats. His coattails are so long and dramatic that every step he takes looks like he’s being ceremoniously carried by the souls of the damned. Which, given the necromancy, is not off the table.

They’ve been at this for, what, three months now? A season. A quarter of a year. Long enough for her to cycle through every possible thought about him and then loop back around for seconds.

Oh, he’s so polite and well-spoken, she thought at first, when he shook her hand with all the enthusiasm of a professor greeting a particularly promising student.

Oh, he’s a fucking creep, she thought upon learning he had adopted Bellara under circumstances that sounded alarmingly vague.

Oh, well, maybe not a total menace, she thought after Bellara’s half-baked explanation, which made it sound only mildly suspicious rather than deeply, horrifyingly illegal.

Oh, he smells good, she thought during her first week as he escorted her through the Necropolis, his hand casually redirecting hers away from things that would almost certainly kill her, and books that, to her absolute dismay, were not only sentient but also carnivorous.

Oh, he’s rather suave, she thought over the next few weeks, as he took her through Nevarra City, treated her to a hot drink, and assured her that she was always, always welcome to seek his assistance.

Oh, he’s handsome, she thought immediately after—so immediately that her brain barely had time to pretend it had arrived at the thought by accident. And he’s old enough to be her father, but mostly handsome, and the moustache is unreasonably attractive, and the height is even worse, and she should really, really not be thinking about any of this, and yet here she is, thinking about all of this.

"Rook!" Emmrich exclaims one incredibly random, incredibly uneventful day while she is, unfortunately, very busy looking at his hands. "Bellara tells me you have a particularly sweet tooth!"

She does not. She would die for pickles. She would haunt this plane for pickles. "Yes," she lies.

"Splendid!" he says, bringing his hands together and clasping them tightly. "Then you must visit us soon. I have recently come into possession of some wildflower honey—oh, it is exquisite, truly, the product of a most diligent colony. The foragers in particular have demonstrated remarkable efficiency this season, and I suspect the local flora has been unusually accommodating due to the recent shift in temperature."

"Right, well—"

"—Which, of course, brings me to the worker bees," he continues. "Fascinating creatures, Rook. Did you know they regulate hive temperature by vibrating their wing muscles? And the social structure! Unparalleled efficiency! Every single one of them understands their role perfectly—unlike certain apprentices I have had the misfortune of instructing."

Rook opens her mouth. "That's—"

"—And then there is the queen," he barrels forward, adjusting his cuffs. "A singular force within the colony, capable of laying thousands of eggs in a single day. A most demanding role, truly. Yet she is fed and attended to with such devotion! Such order! Such discipline! If only more societies followed such an impeccable model, we might see—"

"Bees?"

Emmrich finally pauses, as if just now remembering she exists. "Indeed, bees. What is so odd about them?"

A slow nod. "Nothing. Just bees."

Ah. Yes. Silly Rook. Silly, ridiculous, absolutely pathetic Rook who somehow failed to anticipate that obviously necromancy and beekeeping go hand in hand. Because why wouldn’t the man who commands the dead also spend his free time whispering encouragement to a bunch of little winged bugs?

She forces a smile. "I'd love to see your bees," she glances at his hands, "Professor Volkarin," she glances at his crotch.

"Wonderful," Emmrich replies, fingers moving ethusiastically. "Now, then. That is maudlin enough. Shall we return to our work? I regret to inform you that the integument of this dearly departed is well beyond viable preservation. A pity, of course, but such is the nature of decomposition. We cannot embalm everyone, though that does not mean we are without recourse in matters of preservation."

Rook stares at his mustache. "Mm-hm."

"It is but a matter of methodology. Acid or dermestid beetles?"

Dear gods—Tevene, elven, Andrastian, it hardly matters—she is, at this very moment, experiencing an overwhelmingly physiological reaction to the prospect of engaging in relations with a man who is, quite literally, vibrating with enthusiasm at the idea of either meticulously excoriating a cadaver or observing the natural efficiency of insect-assisted tissue removal.

Rook supposes there are worse wet dreams to have, worse ways to absolutely wreck her underwear. But if there are, they’re only marginally worse. A fraction. A hair’s breadth. What could be more concerning than getting embarrassingly, shamefully worked up over a man who talks about corpse preservation with the same breathless enthusiasm most people reserve for poetry?

She should be ashamed. She should be reconsidering her entire life. Instead, she’s two seconds away from letting him embalm her from the inside out.

****

Bellara's eyebrows have mostly grown back.

She’s eating a sweetroll and staring blankly out the window. “What is your not-dad doing?”

Bellara shrugs. "Something with bees. Oh, I don’t know. Emmrich’s taken with them. He cycles through hobbies. Manfred’s a big help though! He can’t be stung. Because he’s a skeleton.”

“Yeah,” Rook says, chewing, watching. “I get that.”

She does not get that. Mostly because she's not really listening.

This is getting fucking ridiculous.

Out in the garden, Emmrich Volkarin, a senior necromancer of the Mourn Watch, a man tasked with managing the corpses and souls of the dead, a man whose entire job is death, is delicately tending to his thriving apiary.

I wish he was fingering me instead of that honeycomb, she thinks.

And then: Actually, no, I wish he was doing both.

For the first time in her entire life, she thinks she would gladly, enthusiastically, joyously welcome a yeast infection.

Forget a locket, forget a pressed flower between the pages of a book—this would be her keepsake. A souvenir of her reckless devotion, a parting gift from a lover who, in this scenario, has not gone off to war but rather retreated indoors to alphabetize his collection of sentient, bloodthirsty tomes and, of course, check on his precious bees. And instead of a love letter, she'd get an ungodly amount of discomfort, a medicated salve, and a firm recommendation to avoid sugar for a while.

Or, she could just walk off a pier and let the ocean absolve her of whatever the fuck this is.

"Bellara," Rook says after clearing her throat, because she needs to clear something before she says this, preferably her entire fucking soul. "I don’t really know how to tell you this. But. Like. I’m going to fuck your not-dad."

Bellara pours herself a cup of tea. "Oh."

"While his bees watch."

Bellara chews. Swallows. Looks at the wall. "Yeah, they do that. They're bees."

****

It doesn’t get that far, mostly because Emmrich is self-conscious. Not about himself, not about his station or his dignity. Instead, he is deeply, tragically preoccupied with the goddamn bees.

There’s a great deal of nervous glancing, a fair amount of softly muttered hesitation, and at least two instances of him clearing his throat as if that might somehow dissolve the situation entirely. Meanwhile, Rook, having very graciously cornered him in his own garden (while Bellara is mercifully elsewhere), informs him, quite politely, that she is going to ride him until his very narrow hips give out. Or, if that’s too much for his delicate sensibilities, she is happy, delighted, even, to let him make use of those long, elegant fingers instead.

Or—and—and this is the option they end up going for—she can simply kneel and suck the very essence of his being out through his very academic, very esteemed cock.

"Ah—yes—well," Emmrich says before trailing off. His hands twitch at his sides, his jaw tightens, but it is the unmistakable way he keeps looking at the beehive, as though his tiny buzzing witnesses might be horrified by this development, that really seals it.

"Your, ah, interest is certainly reciprocated, my dear," he continues, voice smooth but just a bit strained, "but—oh—perhaps—oh—we might consider a more… traditional approach? A courtship, if you will? A proper engagement with dinner, and wine, and—Maker help me—a door that closes?"

"Hmpf," Rook says, pulling her mouth off his cock before deciding that, truly, there is nothing worth saying to that.

She sincerely hopes a bee stings him right in the ass so that he stops waxing poetic about the sanctity of romance and just concentrates on fucking her mouth, this handsome, ridiculous, too-tall, too-suave, insufferably sweet, bee-obsessed, not-dad of a man.

#bees lol #this is just stupid crack #emmrook #rook x emmrich #emmrich x rook #dragon age the veilguard #datv #my stupid writing

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scoutofmymind · 22 hours ago

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hold on is the bi fic coming today?! might cancel plans w friends im not kidding

À Trois — { Luigi x Reader x OMC }

Content: NSFW — MDNI Another Situationship, Luigi is canon techie, reader is a chef, interesting new French-Canadian techie chef hybrid enters the arena, m/m/f, anal fingering, all kinds of penetration, general filth!, original Male Character insert

Wc: 6,415

Notes: Chaos erupts on a packed Saturday night when your sous chef quits, forcing you to call in a favor. Enter a quick-witted, intriguing French-Canadian with a mop of curls and an eye for opportunity — a friend of a friend who might just turn disaster into something much more interesting.

Hi! So I should probably give some warnings before this but I kinda just want you to read it blindly hehe🐇

What I will say, is if this isn’t your thing, just don’t read it! I have plenty of other things to read on my Masterlist pinned on my blog and if you don’t wanna read my stuff, there’s other accounts and shit to read, hon!!

I liked writing this almost too much, and I think it’s because (as I’ve briefly mentioned before) m/m content is what I’ve written the majority of in my time as a writer, so this was a good introduction to dipping my toes deeper in the straight smut shores. This piece focuses on vulnerability, specifically involving Luigi, and very deep and sexual fantasies and desires.

Additionally, I would like to add I very recently watched We Live in Time after I started writing this and Almuts culinary ventures encouraged me to keep readers ambitions as a chef. Was very much envisioning the Bear vibes, too.

Also, anon! I hope you went out with your friends because Mama Scout is a very slow editor! I swear I went as quickly as possible, but that might mean I left some oopsies.

This is a Pinterest board to help you envision my version of Alex — but with that being said, please feel free to imagine him in whatever way resonates with you!

•

"I just want to die." You say dramatically, though your voice caught no wind of your unseriousness, sounding as if you truly had meant it from the bottom of your heart. "If I have to fill another puff pastry to be graded by that fucking wrinkle one more fucking ti-"

Luigi had interrupted you by nipping at your neck, gentle and soft but enough to snap you back into the moment, shared there on the couch in your apartment.

"I hate him," He whispers against the delicate and sensitive skin of your neck, the prickle of his growing facial hair making you shiver. "N'I never even met the guy." His tongue flattens below your earlobe, wet and hot, tasting your skin. His hands tighten possessively at your waist, and you can feel the tension in his fingers, the way they press into you like he's trying to leave marks deeper than skin.

You huff softly and hook your fingers into his sweater, pulling him closer. "Good." Your hips are eventually aligned with his, nestled into the spot in his lap that fit the shape of you so perfectly. "Isn't that what friends are for? Hating the same people."

You can feel him nodding, and in the back of both of your minds the sentiment echoes.

Friends

The word hangs between you like smoke, heavy and suffocating.

His fingers trace absent patterns on your hip, each touch sending sparks through your clothes, and you wonder if he can feel you trembling. You wonder if he knows that every time you refer to each other as friends, it feels like a beautiful lie, a comfortable cage you've both locked yourselves in.

Your foreheads are almost touching now, and you can count his eyelashes, dark against his cheeks when he blinks.

The room feels too warm, too small.

This had all started innocently enough, but had tumbled into something that felt cathartic, and as natural as drawing the next breath. Luigi knew just how to soothe you when you went on a tangent, wondering if culinary is even worth the hassle, and you'd convince him to rest after spending hours, staring at the same code and expecting it to unravel itself.

On the other side of the coin, he knew just the angle you liked it when you were on top, and you knew which buttons to push when he was getting close to the edge. His hands would always find your hips in the dark, steadying, grounding, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

All of that had lead here, two years later, drowning in debt but doing it together.

Your tiny apartment, always filled with the smell of your latest baking experiments and the soft glow of his laptop screen at 3 AM.

His coffee mugs mixed with your measuring cups in the sink.

Your cookbooks scattered among his programming manuals.

Neither of you had planned this.

But the memory of how it started still makes you smile.

That first night when frustration over finals had turned into something else entirely. Him, cursing at Java errors until 2 AM; you, covered in flour and close to tears over a failed soufflé. Somehow you'd ended up tangled together on the bed, comfort turning to kisses, friendship morphing into something neither of you had dared to name.

Now here you are, his thumbs pressing into your hipbones like muscle memory, your fingers twisting into his sweater — the same dance you've been doing for years, but it never gets old.

"You're thinking too loud," Luigi murmurs against your neck, and you can feel his smile against your skin. He always knows, somehow, when you're getting lost in your head. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, bringing you back to the present moment, to him.

"I just don't know what all this is for." You grumble, and it's the same sentence you rattle on once a week — even Luigi is starting to wonder if maybe you're onto something, this feeling so persistent it's become its own shadow.

But beneath that doubt, he knows better.

He's witnessed your passion in the way your hands dance through prep work at 3 AM, seen your drive in the burns and scars you wear like medals, and more importantly, he's watched your fierce determination to carve your place in a world that keeps trying to push you out.

Every time you prove another condescending male chef wrong, he sees that fire in your eyes that reminds him exactly what all of this is for.

•

It's day two of restaurant week, you're already down two servers, and your sous chef just threw his apron at you and stormed out — all because you dared to suggest his sauce was breaking. The dining room is full, tickets are piling up, and you're seriously considering whether arson is a viable career move.

"Chef?" Lucas pokes his head into the kitchen, looking nervous. "I might have a solution. My friend Alex — he used to run a kitchen in Montreal before getting into tech. He's moved nearby. He- he could help."

You're about to say you don't need some tech bro's help when three tickets print simultaneously and your saucier drops a pan. Although the worst images of Luigi’s grad class flashes before your mind, you’re resisting your fight or flight, landing on an almost comical freeze.

"Fine.” Your stare is blank, watching as the tickets roll in. “But if he can't keep up-"

"He can keep up, chef.” Lucas promises, already texting.

Fifteen minutes later, a tall man with messy brown curls walks in, already tying an apron.

He takes one look at your ticket rail and starts rolling up his sleeves, his arms crossed over his chest as if he’s admiring an art piece in a museum. "Alexandre Dubois," he says quickly, the earlier mention of his home in Montreal evident in his accent. "Where do you need me?"

You point to the chaos of your saucier station. "Can you make a decent béarnaise?"

His smile is quick and confident. "In my sleep, Chef. Traditional? or are we playing with modernist techniques?"

Before you can answer, he's already moving, grabbing eggs with one hand while adjusting your immersion circulator with the other. The next six hours are a blur — a whirlwind of perfect sauces, synchronized plating, and Alex's voice cutting through the chaos in a mix of French and English.

In the end, you couldn't tell anyone the details even if you tried, and you do, sat in a booth in the vacant restaurant, Alex sitting across from you as you scrub your hands over your face.

"I don't remember anything," you whisper, sipping from the glass of wine in front of you, having gone behind the bar to pour it yourself.

Your hands are still shaking slightly — adrenaline crash, or maybe low blood sugar.

Who’s to say.

"I think that's a defense mechanism.” Luigi murmurs, only a hint of humor in his tone. He's tucked beside you, shoulder warm against yours, and you lean into it slightly. Turns out, he had known Alex from KubeCon just last month — some massive tech conference downtown where Alex had presented his restaurant management platform.

You think that's what Luigi said, anyway.

You genuinely couldn't hear anything besides the imaginary ticket printer still squawking in your mind.

"You did beautifully," Alex says quietly, finally reaching for his wine. "That kitchen — you’ve built something special there. I had fun.”

You make a noise that might be a laugh or a groan. "A kitchen that nearly became a funeral march tonight." But you're smiling a little now, the wine and the company slowly unwinding the tension in your shoulders.

"I still can't believe you were actually cooking," Luigi says to Alex, shaking his head. "When I saw your presentation at KubeCon about automating kitchen workflows, I just assumed-“

"That I was another tech bro like you who'd never worked a line?" Alex's grin is knowing. "Non, I did my time. Ten years at home in Montreal, then Paris. The software came after — I kept seeing problems that needed solving." He pauses, takes a sip. "Who better to make restaurant software than a chef? Though I admit, I haven't jumped into service like that in.. Two years? Three?"

"Could have fooled me," you murmur, and his eyes catch yours, something warm in them that makes your breath catch slightly.

"High praise, coming from you," he scrunches his nose, freckles becoming more prominent as the wine warms his cheeks. "Luke told me about your kitchen. About you. I may have been particularly interested in helping tonight."

Luigi shifts beside you, and you feel him exhale slowly. "Funny," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Lucas told me some interesting things, too."

The air changes subtly, charged with something you're too exhausted to properly analyze, or maybe you're just not ready to acknowledge the way Alex's gaze keeps moving between you and Luigi, the way Luigi's hand has settled on your knee under the table.

The heat bouncing off of each of you.

The silence shatters with the unmistakable growl of your stomach. Alex's posture snaps straight, professional instincts overriding everything else. "Chef," he breathes, voice caught between concern and disbelief. "Tell me that wasn't-“

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," you confess, heat rising to your cheeks. The day had spiraled in that way only restaurant life can — you'd meant to cobble together something from prep scraps between tasks, but then the lunch rush hit, followed by inventory, and suddenly it was dinner service with nothing but coffee and determination keeping you vertical.

Alex's expression shifts from desire to decisive action in an instant.

He glances from you to Luigi, then back again, shoulders squaring with newfound purpose. "My place is three blocks east on Clark," he says, keys already appearing in his hand. The invitation is casual, but the glint in his eye suggests he knows exactly how to seal the deal. "Been saving a special bottle for the right occasion — Chateau Latour."

Unlike your wide-eyed response, Luigi maintains his composure, but his attention is caught by the way you practically vibrate with excitement.h His expertise lies in absorbing your rants about reducing sauces rather than reducing wine lists — and your own sommelier ambitions had been temporarily shelved when the kitchen claimed you — he finds your enthusiasm infectious.

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse — the contrast almost laughable.

Here's Alex, dark ink creeping up his neck from beneath a worn Black Flag t-shirt, keys hooked through his belt loop like any other line cook, standing in the middle of what could be an Architectural Digest spread.

His blue beanie comes off, revealing that mess of hair he was pushing back during service, as he pads across heated marble floors in scuffed Vans.

The space is all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, but there are hints of the real Alexandre from Montreal scattered throughout — a battered leather jacket tossed over a $10,000 armchair, a crystal ashtray on the balcony holding the remains of his American Spirits, dog-eared Bourdain paperbacks mixed in with leather-bound first editions on the shelves.

The wine wall is a thing of beauty, a temperature-controlled showcase spanning an entire wall, though you notice he keeps his everyday drinks in a mini-fridge by the couch — sparkling water, craft beers and the kind of natural wines that come with cartoon labels.

The kitchen is a chef's dream — yours, in particular — Gaggenau everything, knives worth more than first cars — but there's also a well-loved cast iron pan that's clearly his favorite, seasoned by years of late-night cooking.

Luigi whistles low, taking it all in. "Never would've guessed, Chef.” he says with a grin, the sentiment still strange on his tongue. He knew Alex as a techie. Not a chef.

"Yeah, well," Alex shrugs, already heading for the kitchen with that familiar kitchen-swagger that both of you take heavy mental note of, eyes following him like he’s on a stage. “money doesn't make food taste better." He stops to light a cigarette on his way to the wine wall, the flame catching the faded stick-and-poke tattoo on his knuckles.

Your glances shared with Luigi across the kitchen island grow more frequent as the night deepens, like two regulars sharing secrets at the chef's counter after closing.

Each look is a silent conversation about Alex — the way his hands move with practiced grace, how his voice drops when he's concentrating, the slight curl of his mouth when he catches one of you watching. For Luigi, it's rediscovering someone he thought he knew; for you, it's discovering someone you wish you'd known all along.

His hand finds yours under the counter, warm and grounding, but doubt still gnaws at the edges of this moment. Maybe you're both reading too much into Alex's invitation — perhaps this is just what he does, this tech wonder with a chef's soul, feeding strays past midnight in his penthouse kitchen.

Your phone buzzes, Luigi's message lighting up the screen.

I'm gonna say it

You huff quietly, fingers dancing across your phone screen while feigning interest in Alex's enthusiastic discourse on his Japanese steel collection. He's talking about the way his yanagiba catches the light, but all you can focus on is how his own eyes catch it instead, bright and alive with passion.

Go on then

Luigi seems lost in a trance, captivated by the cadence of Alex's voice as he demonstrates proper blade technique with his hands.

The notification sits unread for two long minutes before he finally tears his gaze away to unlock his phone.

He's hot

The crude simplicity of it makes you bite back a laugh — trust Luigi to distill this magnetic pull into two blunt words. But he's not wrong. There's something raw and electric about Alex, the way he commands the space without trying, how his tattoos peek out when he reaches for the top shelf, the slight rasp in his voice when he gets excited about something.

You watch him plate with the precision of a surgeon and the flair of an artist, and your next messages to Luigi is equally succinct.

I know

We're in trouble

I thought you'd never touch another man again huh?? What happened to THAT??

Luigi's eyes roll dramatically at his phone, though his lips twitch with amusement. You've heard his declarations countless times — "I'm bi, but men are exhausting" and "I'm done with the whole scene" — always accompanied by that same frustrated wave of his hand, as if trying to brush away his string of romantic disappointments.

Dude it’s pride month and this is how you're going to treat me?

Your playful shove lands harder than intended, sending Luigi slightly off-balance. Your shared laughter, too loud in the intimate kitchen space, draws Alex's attention like a magnet.

He turns, wooden spoon still in hand, one eyebrow arched in that way that makes your stomach flip. "What?" he asks, voice low and amused, glancing theatrically over his shoulder as if checking for projectiles. "Do I need to separate you two?"

"Well, I'd apologize," you manage, watching Alex pour more of the wine with deliberate slowness, "but something tells me you're not actually upset.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and Luigi's grip on your thigh tightens reflexively. The air feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. You're acutely aware of every small movement — the way Alex's shoulders flex as he sets down the bottle, how Luigi's breath catches when those dark eyes find his.

"Upset? Non." Alex circles the counter with predatory grace. "Curious, though." He stops just close enough that you can smell his cologne, see the faint scattered burns on his forearms from years in professional kitchens, matching yours. “About what's got two of the brightest minds I’ve ever met acting like teenagers in my kitchen."

Luigi makes a sound that might be a laugh if it wasn't so breathless. "Would you believe we were discussing network architecture?"

"No," Alex says simply, and the authority in his voice makes both of you straighten instinctively. "I wouldn't." His hand comes to rest on the counter behind you, effectively caging you both in. "Want to try again?"

The hunter has you cornered, and somehow, that's exactly where you both want to be.

You blink instinctively at Alex, your fingers wrapped around Luigi’s that twitch with sudden anticipation — of what, he wasn’t even sure. And cat’s got both of your tongues, because Alex laughs at the beat of silence that falls between you again.

“What’s the story here, hm?” He gestures lazily at your interlocked fingers and the way you hold Luigi’s hand between your thighs like it’s meant to be there; you realize now you’re closer than ever to experiencing one of your most beloved fantasies, the one you’d told Luigi a million times about after finding out he was bisexual.

“I’d literally cut my tongue out of my mouth to see you get fucked.” You blurt it over your oatmeal, causing Luigi to freeze, a long, drawn out sigh deflating him.

“Well at least then you’d shut the fuck up about it.”

The air grows thick with unspoken tension as eyes dart between the three of you in an electric dance. When Alex's hands find your thighs, the touch is deliberately slow, possessive. "No need to play shy now." His voice drops to velvet. "Are you dating? Fucking?" His gaze slides from you to Luigi, hungry and knowing. "Please fucking don't tell me it's neither."

Luigi swallows hard, and you watch his throat work. "We've been- we’ve had-“ The words tangle in his mouth, caught somewhere between confession and confusion.

"Ah," Alex hums, a sound of pure satisfaction. He doesn't need Luigi to finish; the truth is written in the way you lean into each other, in years of shared glances and stolen moments. His thumb traces circles on your thigh as understanding dawns in his eyes. He imagines the desperate moments over your kitchen counter after brutal workdays, knows about the languid afternoons when Luigi worships between your thighs like a man finding religion. "I see.”

"And do you both want this?" Alex asks, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles. "Because I've imagined it. Every possible way." His voice drops lower, intimate. "The way Lui would look taking my cock while he's inside you.”

Luigi's breath catches sharply, and you feel him gravitate toward you as Alex's hand captures both your chins, tilting your faces together like he's arranging a masterpiece.

"Look at each other," he breathes, and the command sends electricity down your spine. When your eyes meet Luigi's, your heart stutters — his pupils are blown so wide the brown is nearly swallowed by black, his full lips parted and flushed deep rose. A beautiful flush stains his cheeks, and you've seen him like this countless times before — desperate, wanting, on the edge of losing control.

But this is different.

The weight of Alex's gaze transforms something familiar into something thrillingly new, dangerous and electric.

It's like seeing Luigi for the first time all over again.

Alex's thumb traces Luigi's bottom lip, and you watch, transfixed, as it parts beneath his touch. Your breath catches at the raw intimacy of the gesture, at how naturally Luigi yields to him despite barely knowing him.

His other hand slides up your thigh, stopping just short of where you're aching for touch. "Tell each other what you want," he commands softly. "Both of you."

Luigi swallows hard, and you watch his throat work. "I want-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale when Alex's thumb presses slightly into his mouth. "I want to see if you can keep up with both of us," he manages finally. "Wanna see if you’re as strong as you look."

The words send heat flooding through you, and Alex's grip on your chin tightens slightly. "And you?" he asks, dark eyes fixed on your profile as you stare at Luigi. "What do you want?"

Your voice comes out rougher than you expect. "Want to watch you fuck Lu," you breathe, feeling Luigi's fingers dig harder into your hip at your words. "Want to see him come undone for someone else.” Your fantasy uttered aloud almost makes you moan, so close you can taste it. “I’ve thought about it for years.”

"That can be arranged," Alex says softly, “Give him some love.” He directs you to kiss Luigi, and you do — all soft lips and delicious spit, again, something so normal, so written in your code feels so new and different.

You know Luigi must be aching for some sort of friction, his hips stuttering against the seam of his dickies as he pulls away. The two of you finally look to Alex again, like lambs before a wolf — willing sacrifices to his altar. "My room is just around that corner." He gestures to a room with sweeping views of the city lights, dominated by a luxurious king-sized bed. The decor grows more personal the deeper you look — still expensive, but uniquely Alex; rich leather accents, dark wood, carefully chosen art. "Attendez-moi, mes petits anges."

Despite years steeped in French cuisine and culture, you've never understood French the way you do in this moment.

You and Luigi stumble into his room in a tangle of limbs, falling onto the plush bed where you undress each other with trembling fingers and burning intent. "You're finally going to get what you've always wanted," Luigi teases, his clothes scattered across the hardwood floor, mingling with yours until there's nothing left between skin and silk sheets.

"Don't act like you haven't been dreaming of this too," you swat his chest playfully, taking a moment to drink in your surroundings. Then doubt creeps in, and you turn to face him, voice softening. "You do want this- want that- want him — right?"

Of course he does. You can see it in the way his pupils have swallowed the rich hazel in his eyes, the slight tremble in his fingers when they trace your skin. He's a leaf caught in a storm now, ready to be carried wherever this night leads.

But..

"Oh, Lu." You cradle his face between your palms, unable to suppress a fond smile as you drink him in. He's ethereal like this — flushed and wanting, a stray curl falling across his forehead, skin practically luminescent in the dim light. "Are you nervous?"

He blinks slowly before nodding, following it with an overdramatic sigh that's so quintessentially Luigi. "What if I-“ he trails off, and it's jarring to see this crack in his usual confidence. For all his natural sensuality, there's a new vulnerability in sharing this first time with you, in letting you see him completely undone. What if seeing him like that - seeing another man inside him — changes everything?

What if you can't look at him the same way?

"C'mon." You settle between his legs, hearing the distant clink of dishes from the kitchen where Alex tidies up. It's almost amusing how the day's hunger has transformed into something else entirely.

The soft tear of tinfoil drifts from the kitchen — dinner waiting patiently to be revisited.

Luigi lies before you like a Renaissance painting, all golden skin and flush-stained cheeks, dark curls falling across his forehead. His breath comes in gentle pants, chest rising and falling with anticipation, fingers twisted in the sheets beneath him, cock stood proudly against his belly, flushed pink and leaking little dribbles of excitement over his bellybutton.

You can't deny your own nerves, haunted by the same fears but in a different key. It had always been you and Luigi — this delicate dance of yours, this perfectly balanced equation. Until Alex came along with his sharp wit and gentle hands, his ability to speak six languages and still leave you both speechless.

"You have no idea, Lu." The words spill from you like a confession as you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, feeling it pulse against your tongue. Your fingers dig into his thighs, grounding yourself in the moment, in the taste of him. "How beautiful you are when you really fall apart.”

And yes, you've witnessed Luigi's pleasure plenty before, seen him come undone beneath your touch — but there's always been this unspoken limit, this boundary you've never dared to cross. Your body, beautiful as it is, lacks certain equipment, and you've never found the courage to suggest alternatives, to ask him to trust you that deeply.

"Oh, petite étoile," Alex's voice carries from the doorway, rich as aged cognac. You don't stop your attention to Luigi, but you feel the shift in the air, the electric charge of being watched, and the familiar act becomes something new, something thrilling under Alex's appreciative gaze. "Making you feel good, hmm, mon coeur?" His accent wraps around the words like a spiders carefully weaved silk, and you feel Luigi shiver beneath your tongue.

He whines — a delicate sound he tries to swallow back, as if embarrassed by his own pleasure. You know better, know exactly how to unravel him. Your tongue swirls around his cockhead with deliberate precision, a dance you've perfected over countless nights, and his attempt at restraint crumbles like sugar in rain.

Another moan escapes him, deeper this time, as his gaze flickers between you and Alex who’s taking his time, each piece of clothing removed with maddening slowness, like unwrapping a gift he plans to savor. You arch your back, rise slightly on your knees — a subtle invitation.

It works.

You hear Alex's sharp intake of breath, feel the heat of his approach even before his hands find your hips.

And then he’s to his knees at the foot of the bed, his tongue eager to taste you, his fingers buried in your heat almost immediately. “Fuck,” you whisper, watching Luigi’s eyes light up with adoration, with love, with uncontainable lust.

You had thought this through in the last moment — the best way to ease his uncertainties would be to show him just how beautiful vulnerability can be.

"Ooh," Alex's groan resonates through you, his fingers working with practiced precision, curling just right as his thumb traces maddening circles against your clit. Each movement is deliberate, calculated to make you tremble. "You watching, Lu?" His voice drops to a velvet whisper as he tears his gaze from where his fingers disappear inside you, seeking out Luigi's face with an intensity that makes the air crackle.

"Take notes," you manage through a breathy giggle, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Luigi's inner thighs. You feel them tighten beneath your lips as another wave of pleasure courses through him. But Alex, the choreographer of your shared desire, seems to have another act prepared — some new way to push your boundaries, to guide you and Luigi through uncharted waters just when you think you've found familiar shores.

"Get him ready for me," Alex commands, his hands spreading you open with reverent curiosity, watching as your arousal creates dark constellations on his bedspread. There's something almost scientific in his observation, mixed with raw hunger. "Lu, I don't want to assume but — out of practice with the boys, oui?" His words are careful, considerate, even as they drip with desire.

A moan escapes him then, pulled from deep within by nothing more than the tableau before him.

You, displayed and wanting, and Luigi, trembling with anticipation.

"Couldn't blame you of course," he adds in a whisper that carries layers of meaning — an acknowledgment of what you and Luigi share, a testament to your completeness as a pair, and wrapped within it all, his profound gratitude for being allowed into this sacred space between you.

Your cheeks flush crimson, heat blooming across your skin as you meet Luigi's gaze, finding in his eyes the same mix of shock and raw desire that must be evident in your own. Your glance darts to Alex, words stumbling as the full weight of his suggestion settles over you. "You- you mean-"

The small black tube rolls across the sheets toward you and Alex's confirmation comes in the form of a slow nod, punctuated by the teasing press of his cock against your entrance, making you gasp until the sound morphs into something more determined, more primal — a wordless promise that you're ready for whatever comes next. "Jesus," the word escapes you in a reverent whisper, heavy with the realization that tonight is becoming a dizzying sequence of fulfilled fantasies. "I guess we're making all my dreams come true in one night."

That simple phrase draws twin laughs from them both, your own joining the harmony as you return to your devoted attention between Luigi's thighs, pressing tender kisses against his heated skin.

Alex begins to ease himself inside you, a careful, measured claiming that ends with him fully seated, drawing a soft sound of pleasure from deep in his chest. "Mmm, my angels," he breathes, the endearment floating through the air like a dizzying, poisonous gas. From his position, he has the perfect view over your shoulders, watching Luigi's features contort in exquisite pleasure as you work a single, slick finger into him with careful precision. “So good to each other.”

The sensation is entirely new — sex has become something different, something more.

It's overwhelming in its intensity, but already you feel yourself becoming addicted to this heightened state of being; the one where your hips move in a gentle rhythm against Alex, who maintains his controlled pace, ensuring your careful ministrations to Luigi aren't disrupted, and between your thighs, Luigi trembles and shakes, his cheeks painted with twin flames of need and vulnerability.

The crimson flush spreads down his neck as he surrenders to this new experience, caught between desperate want and the sweet ache of exposure.

The vulnerability only heightens his arousal, his cock twitching against his stomach as his composure crumbles.

His jaw goes slack, lips glistening in the amber glow of city lights that filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Far below, the city hums its nighttime symphony, a distant urban lullaby that feels worlds away from here. "Fuck," the word drags out of him, long and desperate, "Gimme more, baby.”

You're eager to grant his wish, your chest swelling with an unexpected cocktail of emotions — fierce pride, profound tenderness, and pure awe at his trust in you. It's a strange and beautiful revelation, this moment of watching Luigi surrender to pleasure, to vulnerability, to you.

The pride that floods your chest now somehow eclipses even that sun-drenched day in when you watched him cross the stage in his graduation gown — a comparison that would be comical if it weren't so achingly true.

"Mm," your hum resonates through the heated air as you introduce another finger, watching in rapt fascination as Luigi's body responds. His back arches like a devotee at prayer, offering himself up completely on this altar of shared desire. In this moment, he's transcended simple partnership — he belongs to you wholly, and tonight, by some beautiful alchemy, to Alex as well. "Where have your manners gone?" The words barely leave your lips before Alex responds in kind, quickening his own pace inside you, a delicious reminder that in this dance, every action demands an equal reaction.

"M'sorry," Luigi's whisper comes ragged and desperate, his bottom lip caught in a vice between his teeth. The indentations left behind are deep enough to threaten blood, a physical manifestation of his struggle to maintain control. "Fuck — please," he begs, the words carrying both surrender and demand, need stripped bare of any pretense.

To quell the tremor in your hands, the rising panic, your mouth finds solace, purpose, on Luigi’s cock. Hard and slick with his need, it strains against your lips, a silent plea you answer with a fervent pull.

He tastes of himself, of salt and arousal, but tonight, a sweetness blooms somewhere in the back of your throat

Alex’s hands tighten on your hips, anchoring you as he sets a bruising pace. His eyes, dark with desire, flicker between you and Luigi, a connoisseur appreciating the interplay of flesh and longing, a masterpiece rendered in sweat and gasps.

Beautiful.

Shattering.

Luigi’s gaze is fixed on you, raw and unguarded as Alex’s hips slam against you, a friction that echoes the storm inside you both and you meet his look, swallowed by the vulnerability etched on his face, the pleasure that paints his features.

His breath hitches, a strangled sound that mirrors your own.

“Tell me,” Alex breathes, the words catching in his throat, his chest heaving, each inhale and exhale a testament to the shared precipice you’re all teetering on. “Tell me where you want it, darling.”

You don’t have to speak.

Your fingers and mouth are too preoccupied with their work on Luigi. You let your body do the talking — leaning back gently, pressing yourself against Alex’s groin, pushing him deeper inside, your body tensing around him to keep him there. And that’s enough.

He fills you with a familiar warmth, but one different from Luigi’s.

Welcomed, of course.

But different.

When he pulls away, a gasp tears from your throat. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, reading your mind. You haven’t finished, and that simply won’t do. “not done with you.”

Alex coaxes you onto your back beside Luigi, skin touching skin again. Your hand reaches out, cupping Luigi’s cheek, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “Think she’s done enough?” Alex asks, his gaze falling on Luigi, who nods slowly, nerves flickering in his eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Yeah?” Alex coos, soft praise laced with understanding.

He’s packed with muscle, similar to Luigi, yet as Alex hovers over him, their bodies seem to fit together like perfect opposites. Luigi, usually all rigid edges and tough exterior, has softened into a vulnerability you’d only dreamt of witnessing — flushed cheeks, pupils dilated beneath a heavy-lidded gaze that finally finds yours.

He looks desperate for a kiss, for any type of comfort — and that’s precisely what he receives.

Your lips brush against his, soft and reassuring, while Alex's hands smooth over the taut muscles of his stomach. Alex then positions himself above Luigi, their bodies aligning, a symphony of muscle and limb, toned and intertwined, and you’re captivated by the exquisite beauty of the scene, the raw vulnerability on display, until a low groan is wrenched from Luigi's throat, a sound you’ve only heard once before, a sound that has echoed in your memory, a sound you've yearned to hear again.

It's a sound that speaks of pleasure bordering on pain, of surrender and release.

“That’s it,” Alex whispers, his voice a gentle caress, his touch even gentler as he moves slowly, deliberately, deciphering every nuance of expression that flickers across Luigi’s face, attuned to his every need, every shift in breath and muscle. He savors the moment, prolonging the anticipation, building the tension with each measured stroke. “Good boy.”

You can’t tear your gaze away.

The raw beauty of this moment, this unguarded version of Luigi you’ve fantasized about for years, captivates you. None of your imaginings, even the most intensely focused, had done him justice.

Perhaps some of those fantasies bordered on fetishization, but that intensity, that yearning for vulnerability, has always been at the core of your connection with him.

And this is it, you realize.

This is that vulnerability, unleashed in its most potent, breathtaking form.

You watch his face contort, muscles tensing, then relaxing as he rides each wave of pleasure. Finally, he surrenders to the riptide, a cascade of whispered moans and gasps escaping his lips as he seeks yours, then Alex’s, in fleeting, fervent kisses.

The sounds he makes are unmistakably Luigi – raw, rough, deep, and passionate; a symphony of raspy breaths, soft puffs, and pouty sighs. "I'm-“ he huffs, his damp curls, looser than usual, a messy halo of hazelnut brown. The scent of vanilla and tobacco mingles with the tang of arousal. "Fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, exposing his neck, an invitation for your wet kisses. “I’m gonna-“

"Up you get," Alex murmurs, gesturing for you to join them, creating space amidst the tangle of limbs. Muscle slides against muscle, a compelling juxtaposition of strength and softness. You settle over Luigi, guided by Alex's hand as he aligns Luigi’s cock with the slick remnants of himself still glistening on your thighs.

A chorus of moans follows the connection.

Somehow, improbably, this position works.

You rock your hips against Luigi, slow and gentle, a rhythm usually reserved for lazy Sunday mornings. Now, however, the languid pace isn't about leisurely pleasure, but about carefully navigating the edge of overstimulation, reluctant to let go of the exquisite sensation.

But even this tempered pace is overwhelming, a delicious overload of sensation.

He’d become a mess beneath you, torn between focusing on the sensation of Alex fucking into him, that little spot that made him feral nudged each time, and you — the ever so familiar warmth of all of you, and the wetness of the mess Alex had left for him to add onto.

Alex kissed gently down the sides of your neck when you sat up again, changing the angle in which Luigi had been seated inside of you, his perspective something he could have never dreamt up in a million years, but god, what a sight. “Fuck, Lu.” You whimper, reaching back to tug at Alex’s curls, similar to Luigi’s, but different in their own respects.

Alex’s hands roam your torso, they slide over your chest, one wrapping gently around your throat for a few moments before he uses them again to get better leverage with the position you’re in.

Breaths become synchronized, the crescendo building to a fever pitch, your half-squeal, Luigi’s muffled groan, and Alex’s breathless whine as the same warmth he’d imparted onto you had been shared with Luigi, and the sticky, delicious mess inside of you made messier.

“My little angels.” The sentiment leaves his lips again, and both you and Luigi have the same thought — you wouldn’t mind being his angel again. Whenever he wanted, so long as Luigi was by your side.

He watches as you collapse beside Luigi, your bodies tangled together as as you held each other through the last waves of pleasure, Alex arriving again eventually to feed you both, refusing to allow you to lift a finger, fed patiently from the same fork shared between the three of you.

#ayyyyeee #time to clutch ur pearls #thIS WAS FUNNNNN!!!!!#dont look at me #read the tags #req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione fic

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pinklotushere · 25 days ago

Text

*throws this and runs*

Blüdhaven was used to the flips, the twirls, and the relentless quips that came with Nightwing. The acrobat in black and blue had long been the city's shadowy protector, darting from rooftop to rooftop with a grin that never quite matched the chaos he left behind.

But something had changed, and the people of Blüdhaven were starting to notice.

“Yo, remember last week when Nightwing—uh, if that’s still him—just shattered Luka’s arm? Like, no banter, no nothin’? Just crack.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair at The Last Stop Diner, his gaze fixed on the group of regulars seated at the corner booth. He wasn’t the only one with questions.

“I thought I was imagining things,” Carrie chimed in, stirring her coffee. “But I swear to God, the guy’s built like a brick wall now. You see him take down the Steel Street crew? No flips. No acrobatics. Just…straight punches.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Eddie slapped the table for emphasis. “He didn’t even bother dodging. Just ate one of their hits like it was nothin’ and decked the guy right after. I don’t think he even grunted.”

“Maybe it’s steroids?” someone suggested.

“Or a mid-life crisis,” Carrie shot back, rolling her eyes. “Dude looks fifty now, minimum.”

But speculation didn’t make sense of the facts. Gone was the lithe, nimble Nightwing who once turned gang fights into chaotic circuses.

In his place was a towering figure, six feet of raw muscle and no nonsense, fighting with the kind of technique you’d expect from a hardened boxer rather than a trapeze artist.

Even the criminals were baffled.

“Hey, Luka, how’s the arm?” Eddie called to a guy limping past the diner window.

“Shut up,” Luka snarled, holding his sling protectively. “Don’t know what that guy’s problem is, but it ain’t normal.”

The Steel Street gang had been laughing when they saw Nightwing show up last week.

“Aww, here he comes,” one of them had jeered, “with his flips and twirls!”

And then the old man had decked him.

No clever quips, no acrobatics—just a straight, brutal left hook that left the guy crumpled on the ground. The others tried to jump him, but every one of them got the same treatment. A solid punch here, an elbow there, and a particularly nasty uppercut that sent Luka to the hospital.

By the end of it, the gang wasn’t laughing anymore.

The rumors started spreading.

“You think it’s still him?”

“Gotta be. He’s wearing the suit.”

“But the guy’s, like, twice the size he used to be! And where’s all the snark? I haven’t heard him say anything in weeks.”

Whatever had happened to Nightwing, one thing was clear: Blüdhaven’s protector wasn’t playing games anymore. And the city hated it.

“I miss him,” Carrie admitted one evening, staring out at the skyline. “Like, the real him. The guy who made all this crap we deal with…bearable.”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “The flips. The jokes. The way he’d tie those gangsters up in, like, Christmas lights and leave ‘em swinging from a lamppost? Where’s that guy? Where’s our guy?”

When he came back, the city didn’t let him go quietly.

It had been months of fear, confusion, and speculation, but when Nightwing finally swung into action the way he used to—quips, flips, and all—it was like the entire city exhaled at once.

Carrie spotted him first. “No way,” she breathed, pointing to the figure perched on a rooftop, striking his usual pose.

When he leapt down, somersaulting through the air to knock out three gangsters in one motion, Eddie cheered so loud he nearly lost his voice.

The word spread like wildfire

By the time Nightwing finished his patrol, there was a small crowd waiting for him at the edge of a park.

People—actual civilians—approached him with tearful smiles, holding out fruit baskets and baked goods.

“Uh…” Nightwing hesitated as a little girl shoved a bouquet of flowers into his hands. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re back!” Carrie exclaimed, throwing her arms around him in a hug so tight he nearly dropped the flowers.

“Don’t ever leave us again,” Eddie begged, thrusting a pie into his free hand.

“Wait, what?” Nightwing blinked, completely baffled.

“You abandoned us!” an older woman scolded, shaking a finger at him. “Where were the flips? The sass? Do you know how scary you got?”

“I…uh…” he stammered, utterly lost.

The crowd parted slightly, and to Nightwing’s utter disbelief, a few familiar faces emerged from the shadows. Gang members. Former enemies. Even a couple of low-level villains.

“Yo, man,” muttered one of the Steel Street crew, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh…we kinda brought you a thing.” He held up a sleek, black and blue leather jacket. The stitching was uneven, and the Nightwing symbol on the back looked like it had been traced from a comic book, but it was clearly handmade. “Figured you could use something fresh. Y’know, for the cold nights.”

“...Thanks?” Nightwing said, taking the jacket with a mix of confusion and astonishment.

Another thug shuffled forward, holding a battered book in his hands. “Here.” He thrust it at Nightwing. “It’s a joke book. You’re always crackin’ one-liners, right? Well, these might be better than what you’ve been using. No offense.”

“None taken,” Nightwing replied dryly, tucking the book under his arm.

A burly enforcer stepped up next, dragging a pair of free weights behind him. “These are for ya. You were hittin’ like a freight train last time, so, uh…might as well keep it up, right?”

A lanky member of the Steel Street crew awkwardly handed him a single boxing glove. “For when you’re really feelin’ old-school,” he joked. “Signed it for ya too, in case you wanna auction it off someday.”

Nightwing stared at the growing pile of gifts in his arms, the ridiculousness of it all threatening to overwhelm him.

“So, uh, promise you’re not gonna leave us hanging like that again?” Eddie asked, still clutching his pie.

“I…promise?” Nightwing managed, his voice tinged with disbelief as he juggled the flowers, joke book, weights, and jacket.

Somewhere in the back of the crowd, a man muttered to his wife, “You think he’s weirded out by this?”

“Probably,” she whispered back. “But it’s Nightwing. He’ll make a joke about it later.”

Nightwing, overwhelmed but smiling faintly, realized he’d never understand Blüdhaven’s people. But for once, he didn’t mind

#dc robin #nightwing #dick grayson is a ray of sunshine #dick grayson is a gift #dick grayson #I dont actually nnow how long bruce was Nightwing for #bludhaven #bruce + nightwing suit = nightmares for thugs #bruce in Blüdhaven #it was a bad era #everyone loves nightwing #who can blame them #i would die for him #i love him #i dont actually know how long bruce was nightwing for #but im dramatic #so it's months of silent torture for everybody involved #nobody noticed at first because bruce knocked them out before there was even a fight #most people just ended straight up losing memory

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