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pinkberrytea · 7 months ago

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He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable.

Little death—a gift he bestowed upon her, and which she bestows upon him in turn. As her lifeblood touches his lips, Astarion reminisces about the fateful eve when he first sank his fangs into her pretty neck.

Come, gentle night; and when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars.

Astarion x Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 3.1k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: i can't be the only one who is convinced my man is down bad since the very first bite, right? he is so interesting to me! i wanted to explore this idea further, hopefully i did it justice. thank you for reading!

( part 2 here )

tags: blood drinking; fluff & smut; possessive behavior; masturbation; body worship; mildly dubious consent; dry humping; somnophilia

“Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Footsteps. You hear them approaching, although in your half-unconscious torpor, you can’t tell if they’re near or far. You’re likewise unsure of what has disturbed your sleep, even if as of late, nights have been restless and plagued by nightmares, the worm etched in the recesses of your brain a constant, unforgiving reminder of your plight. Your mind is still hazy, fragments of your dreams clouding your thoughts, so you rely on your primal instincts instead—you smell nothing but the crisp evening air, feel nothing but the cool breeze caressing your warm body, see nothing but endless darkness from behind your closed eyelids, but your ears don’t fail you. You instinctively hold your breath, muscles tensed, staying as still as possible as if playing dead; the footsteps are now almost upon you, the crunching of leaves growing louder and muffling the noise of the crickets singing, and your skin becomes covered in goosebumps in anticipation, the pit of your stomach twisting and turning. Whoever it is, you seem to be their intended target.

Suppressing the mounting panic rising within your chest, you try to gather your bearings and make sense of the situation. You know where you are—Elturgard, or more specifically, a camp in the wilderness, somewhere between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. Finding a cure for the parasite wriggling in your head is the reason you’re here, and the companions with whom you’re sharing your camp are afflicted by the same condition. Ah, your companions—the footsteps must belong to one of them, surely. The soothing heat of the campfire has significantly dwindled compared to how it was when you turned in, its crackling so low you can barely hear it, and the night is sufficiently chilly that your bedroll fails to offer enough shelter, so you wonder if they are about to tend to the dying flames, or maybe ask you to help them do so. You wait expectantly, pricking up your ears, but suddenly, the crunching sounds come to a halt, and you sense a presence looming over you. A shiver runs down your spine, and your heart starts beating faster, thumping so loudly you’re afraid it may give away your awakened state. The presence silently kneels down beside you, crawling even closer, too close for comfort; and then, you feel it—cold digits ghosting over your cheek, their featherlight touch almost tentatively soft.

Astarion.

Now you remember. You offered to let him feed on you earlier, a habit which you’ve unexpectedly picked up in recent days, although the reason for such eludes you. Perhaps it was his pained expression when he asked you the first time, or maybe something else—you’re not entirely certain, but the fact of the matter is, he is here, except unlike other nights, you are fully aware of your surroundings. Not only that, it has been no more than a fortnight since your little tryst in that pretty clearing, which it seems both of you are intent on pretending never happened. You more so than him—it would be insincere of you to claim you haven’t noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes, how he leans closer when you talk, the cunning smirks and wistful glances. Truth be told, you’re still unsure what to make of it all; none of it is how you expected it would be, not your time together, and certainly not the aftermath. Him, too—though it may be bold of you to assume so, you can’t help but think that his show of vulnerability, however brief, had not been intentional. Ever so often you idly muse over the raw perplexity etched across his face when you invited him to drink from you then, how he looked at you in utter disbelief, letting the mask of a debonair lover slip for a split second; how his kisses became more fervent, his touches less calculated, the confusion never truly seeming to leave him until you were done. And then, the morning after—the hurt in his voice, the complex feelings he appeared to be trying to suppress seeping from every word, as if he had been prepared for anything and everything but genuine yearning, and you ruined it all for him.

“This isn’t about hunger. It’s about pleasure.”

The digits on your cheek slide downwards, gliding across the curve of your jaw and towards your slender neck, where they stop for a brief moment, only to then press down on it, feeling around as if searching for something—an artery, pulsing so very tantalizingly with your precious crimson, a feast set out entirely for him. With his other hand, he gently runs his fingers through your hair and brushes it behind your shoulder, exposing his prize, and repositioning himself to straddle you, he lowers his head until his mouth is hovering right above it. He stays like this for a while, and your blood runs cold as it dawns on you that he may have noticed you are not asleep, but before long, his skin finally comes into contact with yours—however, rather than the sharp pain you’d been expecting, you feel only the pillowy softness of his lips; a tender kiss, which is then followed by another, and then another. One of his hands stays tangled in your hair, cradling your head, and he splays the other on the ground beside you to support himself. His fangs lightly graze the throbbing vein with each peck, almost teasingly, until finally, he sinks them into the sensitive flesh, carefully and steadily so as not to wake you. The uncomfortable sensation is not foreign to you, although it is clear he has become more accustomed to this, even if you have not; his technique has significantly improved, and after the initial stab, it hardly hurts anymore, other than a dull ache every time he swallows, which he does quite enthusiastically.

“Just you and me and—well, maybe a little death?”

Letting out low grunts and guttural moans as he drinks, Astarion sucks ever so vigorously, seemingly more at ease due to your apparent lack of consciousness. Your face gradually grows warmer as you notice tension building up low in your stomach, the noises he makes and the feeling of his plush lips and wet tongue against your skin causing your body to react with pathetic wantonness. You try to stifle the impending arousal, doing your best to remind yourself that he is only feeding, nothing more, nothing less; until you notice the hand on which he had been leaning make its way from its place on the ground to rest on your waist, gingerly moving upwards until his long fingers brush against the plump of one of your breasts, almost as if by accident—it is, however, no accident when two of them then pinch a pebbling nipple through the thin fabric of your nightshirt, delicately massaging the pert nub while the others knead the squishy surrounding flesh. The ache between your legs swells with desire, and you flusteredly bite back the whimper threatening to escape the confines of your closed mouth; believing you to be deep in slumber, he has no reason for such restraint, and his vocalizations increase in frequency and volume alike.

Having to now use his upper body strength to keep himself propped up, he decides to instead gently fall on top of you, momentarily unlatching from your neck to then slightly push you to the side and press his strong chest flush against your back, one hand woven in your hair and the other cupping your breast still. With almost desperate keenness, he hooks one of his legs over yours, shoving his crotch against your rear, and immediately you notice the rock hard bulge nudging the space between your buttocks. The tips of your ears burn bright red at this realization, making you wonder how common of an occurrence this must be; as your mind wanders to the night when he first bit you, he sinks his fangs back into the bruised vein, and your eyes water a little due to the sudden pain, which you quickly forget about once you feel his hips start almost imperceptibly grinding against your own. Wedging the bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, he moves it to and fro, almost in rhythm with his sucking of your blood, the digits on your bosom earnestly playing with your nipple and those in your hair tenderly caressing the tousled tresses.

“Hm—hnng…” Astarion groans lewdly, lasciviously, making suggestive wet sounds while sensually lapping at your crimson. No longer satisfied to feel you up through your clothes, he sticks his hand under your shirt, and his cold fingers quickly resume fondling the soft skin of your breast, in response to which shock waves shoot up your legs and arms. Freeing the digits tangled in your hair, he brings them to your ribs, sliding their pads along your navel and down towards your groin, where he then firmly grabs one of your supple thighs. That’s when it occurs to you how unlike your night together he seems to be acting—eagerly exploring your body with almost adolescent clumsiness, his movements sloppy and impulsive, he appears to be entirely focused on taking rather than giving; having no reason to try to impress you, he acts greedily instead, intent on achieving his own personal ecstasy above all else, a fact that doesn’t bother so much as instill in you a puzzling sense of relief.

Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he tightens the grip of his leg around yours, and for a short while you all but forget that your crimson is running down his throat still, unable to focus on anything but the heat irradiating from his skin as it becomes ever warmer the more he feeds. When you notice you can no longer feel the tips of your toes, it is far too late—a tingling sensation spreads across your heavy limbs due to the loss of blood, and holding onto a single thought proves far too difficult, your mind now a messy whirlwind of memories and abstractions. Your arousal persists even as your conscience starts to wane; slick soaks through your underpants, the sweet scent of which causes Astarion to immediately stop moving, freezing as if caught with his fingers inside the cookie jar. After what seems like an eternity, both his hands and fangs leave your helpless form, and he shuffles behind you, presumably looking for something—before you can even begin to wonder what, you feel him press a soft piece of fabric against the fresh set of bite marks on your neck, which he uses to gently wipe the thick red blooming from the small wounds.

Worried that any further stimulation might disturb your sleep, he decides to attempt a less bold approach instead, pulling away slightly, although your legs remain twisted together. Barely awake now, the echoes of the forest reach your ears in hushed, distant hums, but you can still hear him as he brings the bloodstained cloth to his nose, taking in your scent deeply, eyes closed and a libidinous moan falling from his pretty lips. One of his now freed hands hastily makes its way to the waistband of his pants, only to then slip under it, and as soon as his elegant digits brush against the velvety crown of his cock, he wraps them around its engorged girth, squeezing lightly and drawing pearly droplets of precome from the weeping slit.

“Mngh…” he croaks, his voice raspy and hoarse, and you can’t tell for sure, but a whisper that vaguely sounds like your own name wafts through the air and vanishes into the evening sky as he starts sliding his hand up and down his length, smearing the clear liquid seeping from the leaking tip all over himself. Prior to your night of passion, this is how he would choose to relieve the painful erection inevitably provoked by his daily feedings, only he would retreat to his tent then; once you became more intimate, things changed, and raw eroticism would percolate into every session, images of your moments together sweeping through his mind and springing his aching sex to life with each gulpful of your lifeblood. The instant you offered him your neck, all he had ever known suddenly came into question—drinking from you while balls-deep into your tight cunt was an experience unlike any other, to the point of almost completely resignifying the concept of pleasure for him. By owning your body, he had made you his, even if only temporarily; your blind trust was something he had never before experienced, and not once had he felt so powerful as with you squirming under him, completely submitting to his whims.

“Astarion, please…” he recalls you whimpering, the sound of his name on your pink tongue so enticingly sultry, stirring up in him all sorts of conflicting feelings; lust, infatuation, guilt, anger, all blended together and indistinguishable from one another. How beautiful a vision you had made then—such a pretty, luscious thing, flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes glinting with coquettish longing. The more he finds himself caring, the more he hates you for it; the more his hatred for you grows, the more he wants you by his side. Choosing to manipulate you into a tactical alliance was the culmination of careful and meticulous deliberation—at once deadly and most pleasing to the eye, yet seemingly unaware of either fact; a naive, kind fool, lost and alone, his perfect target from every angle, you were the obvious candidate. He had no way of knowing at the time—how you would unwittingly beat him at his own game and steal your way into his undead heart, without even really trying.

While pumping his now glistening cock, your precious face is all Astarion can think of, every detail of it perpetually burned onto his retinas—long, thick lashes, curtaining doe-like eyes; sweet little freckles speckling the bridge of your nose; smooth skin and plump rosy lips, so soft and kissable. And your scent, oh, your scent—delicious and intoxicating, such a lovely, delectable bouquet. Although now warm, his hand could never compare to the feeling of your slickened walls clenching and fluttering around him, and no amount of pressure would ever be able to replicate the sensation of stretching them open, coaxing yelps and cute whiny pants out of you with each nudge of your cervix. He wonders for a moment what other expressions he has yet to witness you make; in what other manners he has yet to take you, in what other positions he has yet to watch you come undone. Maybe on all fours, that round ass of yours sticking out so very invitingly, begging to be devoured; maybe on your knees, darkened lips wrapped tightly around his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down onto the swollen peaks of your perky breasts as you accommodate all of him like the good girl you are. Each idea is more enticing than the one before, and the very thought of acquainting himself with all the ins and outs of your body makes him feel alive, bulging veins and tumid cockhead pulsating madly against his sweaty palm as he goes over the endless possibilities. He had tasted you once; now, he craves every inch of your being, his hunger insatiable.

“Mine…” he growls possessively, picturing your tits bouncing and the rouged knot atop your dripping core throbbing for him as he feels his climax draw nearer, rubbing the cloth sullied with your crimson against his nose, your taste still fresh in his mouth and a trail of red running down his chin. You are not his, not yet, but although he curses himself for it, he would bring his simple plan to fruition, for all the wrong reasons; he wants you, he needs you—his own little bundle of joy, his light in the darkness, his glimmer of solace, his, his, his, and his alone. He won’t share your kindness, not with your companions, not with anyone, and he cares not if his greediness makes him unworthy, for he never deserved any of it in the first place; regardless, you’d still extend a hand to the wretch who put a knife to your throat, toyed with your emotions and sucked you dry, in more ways than one. You may not realize it, but in sharing your life essence with him, you breathed color into his world, roused within his soul a vital spark he’d long forgotten had once ever been there. He may not be entitled to it, but he’d still have it all—he’d still have you, to the bone and beyond.

“Oh, gods…” With one last stroke, Astarion empties himself on his hand and stomach, legs convulsing and hips stuttering, letting go of the cloth to then nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, lips pressed against the bloodied gashes maculating your otherwise flawless skin. The inside of his pants is now covered in come, yet even as the thick fluid runs uncomfortably down his thighs, he feels strangely at peace—happy, even. His softening cock twitches and jerks still, but fearing that his luck may soon run out, he lets go of it and wipes his fingers on the hem of his shirt, which he learns is also stained with his seed; once they’re sufficiently clean, he wraps both of his arms around your waist in a tight embrace, focusing on the gentle raising of your chest as you inhale ever so softly, finally at rest.

“This is a gift, you know.”

He won’t forget it. Regardless of what may lie ahead, he won’t. Warm flesh, beating heart; as your crimson courses through his veins, the thread of life now connects you both, your fates forever intertwined. When morning comes, all will be back to normal, but for now, he shall hold you, cradle you, as he would a lover. A true lover—though what would that be, if not prey that wakes by his side once the dawn breaks? Disturbing as that thought may be, it is of little import for now; basking in the clarity of death, he allows himself a moment of reprieve, for your time together is far from over. What treasures will the future bestow? Why—finding out is but a matter of waiting.

#personal #astarion #bg3 #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x you #astarion x reader #tavstarion #my fics #fic: bloodless

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cedarmoonzz · 6 months ago

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Hello! I was wondering if I could request a small continuing to your Ford fic? I really enjoyed it and tugged my heart strings. I love you work so much and if your able to do that without any issue, I'd love that!😭💜

yes! i love that six fingered cartoon dilf with every fiber of my being!

once more to see you •｡ꪆৎ ˚

continuation of: between the bars followed by: slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford x reader

content: angst, stanford's poor attempt at comfort lol

summary: when your fiancé’s episodes of paranoia spiral out of control, you come to a difficult realization.

You’ve always seen yourself as someone grounded in logic. Pragmatic to the bone, you’ve relied on reason and science to navigate life, finding comfort in facts and the concrete reality they bring. But lately, that sense of security has started to unravel.

The cabin was frigid, its icy air wrapping around you like a shroud, seeping into your very bones despite your efforts to ward off the chill. The socks you wore—a secret purchase made without Stanford’s knowledge—offered little warmth, though they greatly softened the sound of your steps as you quietly drifted from the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the closet, nursing your third cup of coffee that night. Each breath you took was quick, shallow, as if the cold air was stealing it away. As you finally settled at the desolate kitchen table, a wry thought flickered in your mind: could the layers of plywood and fiberglass beneath you truly muffle the frantic beating of your heart, hiding it from your fiancé’s ever-watchful ear? In your own, the rhythm pounded, echoing like a circle of drums, impossibly loud in the oppressive stillness of the cabin.

Stanford’s paranoia didn’t burst into your lives all at once; it crept in quietly, almost imperceptibly, like a shadow growing longer at dusk. It all began when he developed a peculiar fascination with triangles—a simple, geometric shape that, in his hands, took on a life of its own. He transformed the cabin, once a place of warmth and refuge, into a gallery of trigonometric stained glass, each piece more elaborate, more intricate than the last. At first, you found it endearing, even charming, and you laughed it off as just another of his harmless quirks. You told yourself it was just Stanford being Stanford, his brilliant mind forever chasing new ideas.

But as the days turned into weeks, the triangles began to multiply. Their sharp, precise edges cast strange, fragmented light across your home, turning familiar spaces into something alien, almost unrecognizable. You began to notice how the once-welcoming cabin now felt distorted, its atmosphere thick with an unspoken tension. And yet, you didn’t see it for what it was—not at first. You didn’t want to see it. You told yourself it was just the glass, just the way the light hit it, just the way Stanford was channeling his creativity. You ignored the way your stomach twisted with unease, dismissed the creeping dread that settled in your bones.

You shook your head, trying to banish the haunting thoughts that swirled in your mind. There was no time to dwell on what had already happened; what mattered now was moving forward. Rising from your seat, you made your way to the bedroom you and Ford once shared, a space now overshadowed by his office chair, which had become his sanctuary. You reached into the closet, your fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of your thick army jacket. The worn texture offered a rare comfort, a tangible reminder of a time before everything had shifted. As you fumbled through the pockets, your hand closed around a pack of cigarettes—an old habit you had left behind during your second year of graduate school. A fleeting wave of nostalgia washed over you, mingled with regret for the time lost. You slipped the pack back into your pocket and donned the jacket, its sturdy fabric promising some semblance of protection against the biting night winds and the snow that still whirled outside the closed window.

Your gaze then fell upon your boots, left carelessly on the closet floor, caked in mud from past forest excursions with Stanford. You reached down, lifting them with a mixture of sentiment and practicality. With the boots in hand, you carefully descended the stairs, each step deliberate to avoid the creaking floorboards. At the kitchen door, you set the boots down and slipped them on, their familiar weight grounding you in the present. Quietly, you opened the door, the chill of the night air meeting you as you stepped into the darkness, ready to face whatever lay beyond.

You stood on the porch of your home, clad in baggy sweatpants, an oversized coat, and your old brown army boots. The cold night air wrapped around you, but the weight of the familiar clothing offered a small measure of comfort. You instinctively reached into your pocket, a gesture that felt oddly nostalgic, like reconnecting with a part of yourself that had been missing. Pulling out a cigarette, you brought it to your lips, and then you fumbled into your other pocket, searching for a long-abandoned lighter. Your fingers brushed against the cold metal as you hoped to find one still with fluid.

After a moment of fishing, you finally found it. With a deep breath, you shut your eyes, the cigarette resting between your fingers as you brought the lighter to your face. The small flame flickered to life, illuminating your face in the darkness as you lit your former vice. You’d given up smoking years ago, recognizing it as a bad coping mechanism, though it had always managed to calm your nerves better than any of the so-called remedies Stanford had suggested—yoga, green tea, or otherwise. Stanford had never missed an opportunity to chide you about it, yet in moments like these, when the world felt overwhelming and uncertain, the familiar warmth of the smoke provided a fleeting solace, a small rebellion against the chaos of your thoughts.

You couldn’t shake the image of your fiancé from your mind. The one person you had always relied on as your rock, your steadfast partner in all things logical and real, now seemed a stranger. He had become obsessed, shining a flashlight into your eyes, searching for something hidden in the depths of your pupils. Each time that harsh beam flickers across your eyes, it chips away at your sense of reality, leaving you to wonder if his strange behavior is a sign of something far darker lurking beneath the surface. The familiar comfort of the cigarette seemed almost to mock the confusion and dread that now defined your days, as if trying to find stability in a world that had become increasingly alien.

“[Y/n].” Ford’s voice sliced through your reverie, its suddenness filling you with an indescribable anxiety. The feeling was sharp and unsettling, a gnawing presence that you couldn't quite classify as rational or otherwise. It wrapped around you like a cold fog, clouding your thoughts and intensifying the sense of disorientation that had already taken root.

He stood behind you in the doorway, the light from behind casting a soft, almost ethereal glow around him. From this angle, you might have thought he looked perfect, a vision of calm and composure that seemed untouched by the chaos of your shared reality. The gentle halo of light made him appear almost otherworldly, a serene figure caught in a moment of stillness.

Yet, his appearance betrayed a different story. His hair was frantic and messy, a wild tangle of curls that seemed to reflect his inner turmoil. The bags under his eyes had deepened, etched by sleepless nights and relentless stress. Despite the disarray, there was a softness in his gaze, a look of tenderness you had missed with all your heart. It was a fleeting reminder of the warmth and affection that once defined your relationship, now overshadowed by the encroaching distance and disquiet that had come to dominate your lives.

You had tried so damn hard to stay quiet, to remain out of his way. You'd let him overwork himself to the bone if that’s what he wanted, even though it felt like a slow erosion of everything you once knew. You’d had the argument too many times to care by now, the words always seeming to fall on deaf ears. All you wanted was to avoid the inevitable confrontation, to give him space, even as his obsessive behavior grew ever more unsettling.

"Stanford," was all you said in response, your voice barely more than a whisper. You lifted the cigarette from your lips, the smoke pooling around you like a hazy veil. As you exhaled, you cast a glance up the staircase, the familiar sight offering no answers, only a silent reminder of the space between you both.

“You’ve started smoking again,” he observed, his tone carrying a note of quiet surprise. The statement lingered in the air, the drifting smoke accentuating the distance between you. It was as if the sight of the cigarette in your hand was a reflection of the changes he could no longer ignore.

“Didn’t think you’d notice.”

The cigarette met your lips once more. You took a long drag, the smoke filling your lungs as your eyes remained locked with his. In that moment, it felt as if time itself had frozen, leaving you both suspended in the delicate space between old familiarity and the evolving distance that now defined your relationship.

“Of course I would,” he said, his voice carrying a soft tinge of regret.

You dropped the cigarette into the snow, watching as it hissed and sizzled against the cold ground. With a decisive step, you crushed it underfoot, pressing it into the snow for good measure. The smoldering embers were quickly extinguished, leaving only a faint trace of smoke lingering in the frosty air.

“Sorry,” was all you could manage to utter, the word feeling woefully inadequate in the weight of the moment. It hung between you, a simple apology for the complexities that neither of you could fully address.

“It’s cold. You’ll catch your death out here,” he muttered, his voice laced with a blend of concern and weariness. He stepped aside from the doorway, making way for you with a gentle gesture. The warmth from inside seemed to beckon, a stark contrast to the frigid night air.

You looked into his eyes, and he stared back, the moment stretching between you as if everything else had come to a halt. The world outside faded into a blur as snapshots of your relationship flickered through your mind—moments of laughter, shared dreams, and fleeting happiness. With each memory, you found yourself questioning what had gone wrong, what could have been different, and what measures you might have taken to alter the course of events.

In the midst of that frozen silence, a question slipped from your lips before you could even stop yourself: “Ford, are you still in love with me?” The words hung in the air, unexpected and raw, their weight adding a new layer of complexity to the already tense moment.

His head snapped towards you, eyes widening with a shock that seemed to crystallize in the cold night air. His gaze pierced into yours with a fierce intensity, as if your question had struck a chord deep within him. His eyebrows knit together in a furrow of confusion and apprehension, while his mouth tightened into a thin, resolute line. The change in his demeanor was palpable; his posture straightened as though he were bracing himself for a storm.

With a determined stride, he marched to stand beside you in the snow, the door to the house slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud that echoed through the night. The two of you stood together, the moonlight casting a ghostly glow upon the snow, which reflected a bluish light that danced across the scene. The snow-covered ground sparkled faintly, but the surrounding darkness clung to you both like a shroud.

He stared down at you as you stared at your feet, standing only an arm's length away, the proximity intimate and charged. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft shushing of dormant branches swaying in the wind, their gentle rustling mingling with the quiet stillness of the night. The cold air wrapped around you both, creating a palpable silence that stretched between you, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind through the snow-laden trees.

His hand reached out, fingers closing gently around your chin. With a deliberate motion, he angled your gaze upward, drawing your eyes away from the snowy expanse at your feet and into his. The touch was firm yet tender, guiding your focus to the depth of his own eyes. It was just like he used to do moments before he pressed his lips against yours.

Your eyes met his, and in that brief, suspended moment, you saw the glistening, unshed tears pooling in his gaze. They shimmered in pale light of the moon, their potential to fall betraying the fragile veneer of his composure. The raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes was a stark contrast to his usual facade, revealing a depth of sorrow and vulnerability that seemed to unravel the very essence of his being.

“Don’t you ever ask that again,” his voice cracked, the words trembling as they escaped his lips. He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours, the closeness both intimate and overwhelming. In that tender contact, you felt a deep ache, missing his touch more than you had admitted to yourself. The warmth of his skin against yours, the vulnerability that he seldom showed, was a poignant reminder of what you had longed for but also feared.

Your breath caught in your throat, the tightness nearly choking you as emotions surged within, rendering you on the brink of tears. Frustration twisted inside you, mingling with a deep-seated ache as you grappled with having surrendered so effortlessly to the solace of his presence. The warmth of Ford’s touch, so familiar and comforting, had shattered your defenses with an almost unbearable intimacy.

In that raw, exposed moment, you recognized a profound truth: you loved Ford with a depth that went beyond reason. You understood him completely, and you would remain steadfast by his side. Even if it meant losing yourself in the process, he would always draw you in. It was a certainty you could not escape.

#ford pines x reader #gravity falls #angst #gravity falls x reader #stanford pines #stanford pines x reader #bill cipher #mitski

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yolli-es · 3 months ago

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I love jinx she’s my everything and my comfort character so I’m really insecure not even in normal insecurity like I’m on an deep level and I have a really bad eating disorder was wondering how would yandere! Jinx handle that I’m insecure about everything about me and i hide all my body I can’t eat or look in mirrors if I did I’ll break them (you don’t have to do this request I think it’s absolutely ridiculous also I’m okay I’m in therapy now)

Is it my fault? 🧊

Tags: NO spoilers for season 2, mention of blood, theme of uncertainty.

Well, I was gone for quite a while, lol, but I was able to fight off the teachers and come back 💪🏻 I hope you are glad to see me again, and I also have to say that I wrote about this from my point of view, and I am sorry if I did not understand your state of mind. This topic is not so close to me, and I really tried 🙏🏻

Jinx knew from the start that something was wrong. You were always too shy, closed off, and scared. You never exposed your body. The world saw nothing but your palms and head. Is this your style? No, you always look embarrassed when your clothes suddenly ride up and just a little bit more is visible. She thought that society, all those people around you, were to blame for everything. They must have just rammed their shit into you and are enjoying themselves. Jinx won't let them trample you that easily! But nothing changes even when you become a couple and Jinx becomes your rock and protection from any unwanted contact. No, she cut you off from the world. Seeing your insecurities seemed right to her. Jinx just makes your life easier, doesn't she? You didn't change.

It seemed to only get worse.

Mirrors. It took Jinx a moment to realize you were doing this. Everything in Zaun was broken, even the people. And yet there was something strange about the mirrors in your house. She resisted for a long time and attributed everything to her new quirks. Then she counted the number of cracks on all the mirrors you could reach. And she knew. Her stomach twisted, her pupils dilated, and she wanted to pass out. No, she was going to do it right now. You were breaking mirrors. Everywhere you could reach. How could she not notice? There's blood in the cracks that can't be washed away. Damn, did you do that with your bare hand? No, no, no.

"It's my fault."

It took all her strength not to lose the last fragments of her sanity. She honestly didn't understand why. You weren't threatened, you didn't talk to anyone, and you were always under Jinx's supervision. Unless....no. She would never have affected you like that. Jinx held back then and didn't tell you anything. No matter how much Mylo screamed, Claggor was right. This would scare you; she had to act rationally now. She needs to give you time and herself time too. Jinx needs to know the real reason for your behavior. Now she will be even more attentive.

Jinx had no idea then that the broken mirrors were just the tip of a deeper problem.

You rarely dine together, usually having to eat on the run or while working. But today is a special day—your anniversary. You've been together for a year.

Jinx bites her lip, Her nails make an audible sound as they scratch the tray with the rich cake on it. She baked it herself. But right now she's not thinking about the cake or even the anniversary. Jinx can't sleep, can't work, and even explosions don't bring pleasure. What else are you hiding? She's been watching you for weeks now after she found out about your horrible habit, but Jinx still hasn't found out anything new. But there's something else going on with you, something she doesn't know about. She feels it. Mylo chuckled. Jinx hissed. She smiled tensely before starting the conversation.

"We've been together for a long time, haven't we?" She forced herself to smile, but it came out ragged and menacing. "I mean, we're like family now. Do you consider me your family?"

Jinx, trying not to make it too obvious, leaned forward. It looked menacing. You certainly noticed it. She's just trying to keep herself together, not to give away the pressure that's built up inside her.

"Hmm, yes, Jinx, I've told you that many times! You mean a lot to me." You smiled, sincerely as always.

But Jinx doesn't believe you now. No, she just can't. Anxiety, fear, and misunderstanding are eating her up from the inside.

"Good," Jinx sat down on the chair, creaking it closer to the table. "Then let's eat."

But Jinx doesn't even try to start eating, just looking at you. A new thought flashed through her mind. Strangely, despite her obsession with your existence, she's never watched you eat.

"Are you okay? You're looking at me like that," you swallowed nervously. The atmosphere was definitely not friendly.

"Oh, sorry," she didn't even try to put on a happy face this time, "start without me."

You hesitated, looking down at the plate. Jinx carefully cut a small piece of cake and placed it right in front of you. It was fluffy, with lots of cream, and covered in food coloring. It looked beautiful and delicious. You picked up a fork and began to break it into pieces.

"So.. how's your work?" You looked up, suddenly more confident and clearly in high spirits. This confused Jinx. She responded without really thinking. Her gaze was glued to you and your hands. You didn't like it and began to distract her in various ways. This had been going on for ten minutes now, and you still hadn't put a bite in your mouth.

Jinx's eyes, which had been looking at you emotionlessly until now, suddenly narrowed in concern. And you realized. Your seat suddenly became uncomfortable, and the room was hot.

"You don't like it?" Jinx asked quietly, cautiously, almost scared. Shyness, hiding your body behind baggy clothes, breaking mirrors, and not wanting to eat your once favorite cake. Was it ever your favorite? It seemed like the puzzle was coming together in her head.

"What? Oh, no! I'm just not hungry." You were caught off guard. Is this the end? Has she figured it out, and is she going to leave you? Will she be angry or cry? You couldn't stop thinking, going over all the possible reactions Jinx might have. Unfortunately, your girlfriend wasn't stupid. She noticed it was evident on her face. The trick that worked on everyone else had no effect on her.

You can't eat. Every time you eat something like this, your conscience gnaws at you. You want to spit out everything you ate.

"I'm so sorry," was the first thing Jinx said. "I'm sorry; I should have noticed. Are you... is this because of me?" Jinx spoke softly, but there was no hint of tears on her face. There was no emotion at all. You were hurt by what was happening. Any reaction she might give would hurt you.

Jinx is about to explode with emotion. She's trying so hard to be "normal" right now so you can rely on her to open up. It's heartbreaking, but it's having the desired effect, and you're plucking up your courage.

You took a breath. This is going to be hard.

Of course Jinx thought she was just taking shitty care of you, cruelly ignoring your problems and leaving you to suffer alone.

But that's not true. You never shifted responsibility to others, realizing that you were simply insecure in yourself. You certainly met shitty people—more than you wanted. But who in Zaun pays attention to them? You just suffered from constant comparisons to others and couldn't do anything about it. You honestly fought with yourself, your shyness, and other shit that was dragging you down. Jinx only helped you along the way, without realizing it. Every time she proudly held your hand walking along the busy streets, every time she unashamedly said, "Yes, this is my future wife," and every time she ignored the advances of a conventionally beautiful girl.

Your silence and her speculations brought you here.

And yet you came to understand Jinx. How could it be otherwise? She will never let you go.

But you will never want to leave.

"Oh, I'm always here," Jinx hugged you, and you did the same in return. It was a pleasant ending after several hours of relentless altercations. You were silent, whispering, screaming, crying, and didn't understand each other. But now everything became clear.

Jinx, on her yandere side, is not ready to leave everything just like that. Now in your house there is only one whole mirror, specially stolen from Piltover. You often eat together, and Jinx tries to make each meal as relaxed for you as possible so that you simply forget about the food itself. She will definitely not let you go, love you less, judge you, or make the situation better by force. Not with this problem. She will do everything you ask to make you feel better.

Jinx loves you.

In her strange way.

That's all! I hope you haven't forgotten about me 😅 This work is quite short, but I hope I was able to convey the main points and mood.

#arcane x reader #jinx x reader #arcane jinx #arcane jinx x reader #jinx arcane #jinx x fem!reader #arcane #arcane headcanon #arcane league of legends #arcane netflix #yandere jinx

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antinousletmehit · 1 month ago

Note

Heeyyy beautiful human 🫶

Was wondering if you could do another tiresias x fem!reader?? He sees everything in the future...except her 😮(Bella and Edward who?) and she's super blunt and straight up tell him he's pretty

Idk if this made any sense 😭

Luv u <333

୨୧┇Pairing: Tiresias x Fem!reader

୨୧┇enjoy!

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

Tiresias sat on a weathered stone, his mind was elsewhere, piecing together fragments of futures yet to unfold. You approached cautiously, the crunch of your footsteps breaking the silence. You weren’t intimidated by the prophet, but there was a way in how you carried yourself, as though stepping too loudly might unravel the fabric of his visions.

“Another visitor,” Tiresias said before you could speak. His voice was deep and calm, with a weight that seemed to come from knowing too much. “Odysseus sent you?” You shook your head, realizing that he couldn’t see you. “No. I came on my own.”

His head tilted slightly, and though his empty eyes couldn’t meet yours, you felt the sharpness of his attention. “Curious,” he murmured. “Most people come to me seeking answers, yet I can’t seem to see you.” You blinked, surprised. “You can’t see me?”

“I see all futures, all fates,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “I see past and future running free. But you…You’re an strange. I can’t see yours.” You tilted your head, considering his words. “Does that bother you?”

“Bother?” Tiresias chuckled dryly. “It intrigues me. I’ve seen the rise and fall of kings, the betrayals of lovers, the deaths of humans. And yet, you remain a mystery.” There was a pause, long enough that you started to feel the weight of his gaze—or lack of—again. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, biting your lip before deciding to speak.

“You’re pretty,” you said, completely straight-faced.

Tiresias blinked, his usually composed demeanor faltering for a moment. “What?”

“I said, you’re pretty,” you repeated, folding your arms as if daring him to argue. His lips parted slightly, as though he was searching for a response but couldn’t quite find one. Of all the futures, all the fates he’d witnessed, this was clearly not something he’d predict.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” he finally admitted, his voice softer than before.

“Well, they should,” you said with a shrug. “You’ve got that whole mysterious, wise thing going for you. It works.” Tiresias let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re a strange one.”

“Thanks,” you replied, grinning.

For a moment, the silence between you wasn’t heavy or ominous, it was warm, almost comfortable. Tiresias tilted his head again, as though trying to see you in a way his visions couldn’t.

“Why are you really here?” he asked after a beat. You met his blind gaze with unwavering honesty. “Maybe I just wanted to see the great Tiresias for myself. Turns out, you’re not so scary.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”

“Maybe both,” you said lightly. “But if it makes you feel better, you don’t need to see my future. I’m not that interesting.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You may be the most interesting person I’ve encountered in a long time.” Your grin widened, and without thinking, you reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Tiresias didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he simply sat there.

#epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #tiresias #epic tiresias #Tiresias x reader

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iniquitousyearning · 1 year ago

Text

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Four- Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, TomRiddle, weaponizing!Tom (slightly?), Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"Outstanding, naturally," you said, your voice laced with confidence and your grin so wide it seemed to stretch beyond the boundaries of your face. "Must you even ask?"

The morning sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a warm glow over the room as you and your friends gathered for breakfast. Emily, your blonde-haired friend that you've known since your very first day here, couldn't help but to snicker at your bluntness, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

It’d been almost two weeks since you’d last met with Mattheo, since there was no tutor session last week due to your exam in Advanced Magical Studies. Admittedly, you were thankful for the break.

"Is there any subject where you don't get perfect grades?" Your other friend Michael said, widened eyes glancing at your marked exam in your hands. "You're a natural born Ravenclaw prodigy...I don't know how you do it, I simply can't wrap my head around it."

Emily, in between bites, nodded vigorously, her admiration evident. "It's true, you seem to effortlessly ace every bloody class. Meanwhile, I'm literally up to my neck in notes, struggling away in hopes of achieving a Meets Expectations."

"Come on, Emily," you said, sitting up a bit taller in your seat. "You earned an Outstanding on the exam too. Your intelligence and dedication are remarkable. You give yourself far too little credit."

She shrugged, taking a moment to chew her food thoughtfully. "Maybe," she conceded, her eyes briefly meeting yours. "But your brilliance seems innate, effortless. It's both inspiring and, I must admit, a tad infuriating."

The corners of her lips twitched into a half-smile, acknowledging the mix of admiration and friendly jealousy in her words. You couldn't help but to blush at her compliments, feeling proud of just how much your intense studies over the years have paid off. Your friends know just how much of your life you've dedicated to your education, and that by this point--after grinding away for years and years, the knowledge was just seamless to you. It just came naturally.

"Good morning, my dear students," came a gentle yet resonant voice from directly behind you, shattering the comfortable silence. "And how might you find yourselves on this delightful, sun-filled morning?"

As you turned, you were met with the twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore, his warm presence enveloping the room with ease.

You rose from your seat, your hands clasped together in front of you. "Good morning, Professor; it's always a pleasure to see you. I'm wonderful, how about yourself?"

Your friends gave similar responses, each earning an attentive nod.

"Very good, very good," Dumbledore's voice resonated warmly, his eyes crinkling with a kind smile. "Thank you all."

His gaze shifted to you, a mix of gentleness and concern in his eyes. "I would be grateful for a moment of your time in my office, if you could spare it. It concerns your peer tutoring sessions. Would you be able to join me before the day's lessons commence?”

A sickening twist gripped your stomach, causing your once radiant smile to shatter into fragments. You battled to shield your fear, but it threatened to consume you--every horrifying possibility flooding your mind in a torrent.

Your eyes were drawn involuntarily across the room, zeroing in on the Slytherin table, only to find the devil himself, Mattheo Riddle, the harbinger of your academic ruin--was already fucking staring, smug arrogance practically radiating off of him as he relished your clear discomfort. His calculating gaze felt like a vulture circling its prey, keenly observing every nuance of your nervous demeanour--and you were certain you were about to collapse to the floor.

Snapping yourself from your trance, you returned your eyes to your Professor, mustering up the best fake smile you possibly could. "Absolutely, Professor--it's no trouble at all."

"Wonderful," he smiled, nodding. "Shall we?"

With a subtle nod, he gracefully guided you out of the Great Hall, your fingers tightly clutching the strap of your bag after bidding your friends goodbye. Your heart raced in your chest, the anticipation of the impending conversation tightening its grip on your every nerve. You trailed closely behind Dumbledore, the echo of your footsteps blending with the murmur of distant conversations.

As you approached the Hall's exit, Dumbledore's movements came to an abrupt halt. He spun around with a swift grace, his piercing eyes sweeping across the tables like a lighthouse beam cutting through the fog, searching for someone specific amidst the bustling sea of students.

And when his searching gaze finally landed on the person he sought, he outstretched his arm, a subtle wave beckoning them to follow. Your eyes widened in complete horror as Riddle stood up, tossing his bag over his shoulder with an air of arrogant nonchalance. Slowly, he began making his way toward you, his every step seemingly echoing off the walls of your mind.

The lot of you moved briskly, following Dumbledore to his office, Mattheo not deigning to acknowledge your existence except for the few brief, unsettling glances he kept throwing your way, a knowing smirk plastered across his face, practically casting a shadow of impending doom over your academic future.

As you entered Dumbledore's office, your heart continued to race with fear, the heavy weight of impending disaster hanging over you like a storm cloud. Dumbledore gestured for you and Riddle to sit down, the creaking of the chairs adding to the palpable tension in the room. You could hardly bear to look at Riddle, certain that his presence here meant he had failed the exam. Your post-graduate career seemed destined to crumble before it even began.

Your mind spun with catastrophic thoughts, the urge to throw up from nerves clawing at your throat. Just as you prepared yourself for the devastating news, Dumbledore's voice cut through the suffocating silence like a lifeline.

"Well, I must be frank, and I hope you won't take offense, Mister Riddle," his tone was incisive, his words carrying a weight of honesty. "I didn't harbor high hopes for substantial improvement in your academic pursuits when you commenced this new tutoring arrangement. Considering your history and the difficulty you faced in finding a suitable mentor, my expectations were rather restrained."

Your breath caught in your throat, your head spinning, nerves screaming in fear as Dumbledore spoke. His gaze was penetrating, his words hanging heavily in the air. He straightened in his chair, clasping his hands together in front of him.

"However, it is entirely safe to say that I was beyond pleased when I found out that you had achieved an 'Exceeds Expectations,' on your recent exam--which, if I may point out, is your highest grade thus far."

Your mind reeled, struggling to grasp the reality of the situation. Dumbledore's words echoed in your ears, and your jaw dropped in utter shock.

"Exceeds expectations," you repeated, your eyes wider than the sun and just as blaring. "Exceeds expectations! Mattheo, that's amazing!"

When you glanced at Mattheo, his eyes practically glimmered with a peculiar mix of pride and smug arrogance. His confident smirk persisted, etched on his features as he reclined casually in the chair beside you, choosing to remain silent; but you both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with approval as he continued. "Your efforts in guiding Mister Riddle have not only benefited him but also showcased your exceptional skills as a tutor. It's a rare talent to break through someone's barriers, especially someone as formidable as he...I encourage both of you to continue this fruitful collaboration, nurturing each other's potential to the fullest."

You were gleaming. Screaming. On the verge of tears. This felt like a miracle, like music to your ears. The surge of emotions threatened to overwhelm you; you wanted to run until your legs gave out, to kiss Mattheo's stupidly infuriating face until it was raw. This was all you had ever wanted, more than anything else in the world.

"Thank you so much Professor," you beamed, your voice filled with excitement. "Your encouragement means more to me than you could ever begin to imagine."

"No, thank you, dear," Dumbledore said, a benevolent smile gracing his features. "Oh, and since I have you here, I was actually wondering if you'd be interested in joining the Hogwarts Mentorship Guild. Currently, it's coincidentally being overseen by Mister Riddle's brother, Tom...I do believe it would be an immensely beneficial experience for you. It's quite selective, but with my personal recommendation, your entry would be assured. You'd have weekly meetings with Tom and the other members-"

Every word that fell from Dumbledore's lips ignited an exhilarating flutter in your chest, a surge of excitement threatening to crack your ribcage open and pierce through your heart. The prospect of joining the prestigious club had been a cherished dream for years, and now, the reality of it was overwhelming. You basked in the euphoria, savoring the moment, until Mattheo's voice abruptly shattered the joy that had filled your soul.

"Professor, if I may," Mattheo spoke up, his tone surprisingly earnest as he straightened in his chair; his jaw tensed and his eyes dark. "I was actually wondering if she could tutor me in Potions as well...I could definitely use the help...it's been rough, to say the least."

His request hung in the air, creating a pause charged with unexpected tension. The elation that had filled you moments ago now mingled with apprehension as Dumbledores gaze darted between the two of you, his demeanour shifting as he leaned back in his chair.

"That would be up to her, Mister Riddle...I would imagine you'd struggle with doing all three, my dear witch...how about you think on it, and get back to me in a weeks time with what you'd prefer to do, yes?"

With anger simmering beneath your skin, you nodded and mustered a fake smile as you stood up. You extended your hand, shaking Dumbledore's firmly, concealing the turmoil within you. After exchanging polite goodbyes, assuring him of your prompt response, you spun on your heels with a sense of urgency that left Mattheo in your dust. Ignoring his calls that faded into the distance, you marched toward your dorm room, determined to shut out the world and the infuriating presence of Mattheo Riddle.

Right now, you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him--nothing at all. But of course, he wasn't having that.

The heavy, urgent pounding on your door reverberated through the room, rattling your bones and intensifying your annoyance. Mattheo's relentless assault on the door seemed never-ending, refusing to halt for even a moment. Fearing the spectacle he might create in the hallway and the questions it would spark among your peers, you reluctantly decided to put an end to the commotion.

With a surge of anger-fueled determination, you swung the door open, gripping a fistful of his tie between your infuriated fingers as you pulled him inside. The door slammed shut behind him, the noise echoing your frustration, and you kept your grasp on his tie, shoving his back up against the wood of your door.

"Potions?" you hissed, your voice laced with seething anger as you pressed against him. "In the name of the four fucking founders, Riddle, potions?"

He blinked, clearly startled by the intensity of your rage. "What-"

"You're about to shatter one of my lifelong dreams just because you can't handle a cauldron and some bloody ingredients?" you spat through gritted teeth, eyes burning with fury. "Are you genuinely that hopelessly inept?"

Your response was met with a suffocating silence, his lips parting as if searching for words that never materialized. His jaw clenched, his eyes darting away briefly, a clear sign of his inner turmoil. The weight of his silence only fueled the blaze of your anger.

"Haven't you taken enough from me?" you hissed, the emotion in your tone nearly tangible. "Haven't you wreaked sufficient havoc on my life?"

Mattheo's eyes darkened, his irises smoldering with unspoken fury as he silently wrestled with his words. His fists clenched at his sides, the intensity of his emotions evident, yet the silence persisted. You could practically feel the weight of his suppressed anger hanging heavily in the air.

"You really have nothing to fucking say, do you?" you spat, your voice sharp with disappointment. "The arrogant Slytherin prince, always ready with a cutting remark, suddenly struck dumb when he's called out...how utterly predictable."

You scoffed, your frustration mounting as his inability to respond only fueled the fire of your own indignation.

"You're unbelievable." You said, finally releasing his tie and spinning away from him, moving across the room with deliberate pace before you spun back around, meeting his dark eyes from against the opposite wall. "I'm happy that your grades are improving under my guidance but I think you'll have to find someone else to tutor you in potions...I'm sorry, Mattheo."

Riddle blinked, stepping forward. "I don't need help in potions."

You paused. You weren't sure if you'd even heard him correctly. "What?"

"I don't need help in potions." He repeated, taking another step.

"You don't-" your brows pinched, your words falling short as Mattheo veered closer. "But you-"

"My grades are bad, yeah," he said, voice low and hoarse. "But I'm not failing. And I certainly don't need a tutor."

Your chest constricted. You weren't following him. "Then why? Why'd you say that to Dumbledore?"

He inhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw locking with tension. Swallowing hard, his throat worked as he landed himself roughly an arms length away from you, his eyes darker than the midnight sky and twice as intense.

"Because," he said, taking a singular step closer. "I don't want you anywhere near him."

His words slammed your chest so hard you almost fell over. "Excuse me?"

"My brother," he said, his tone flat and unwavering. "I don't want you anywhere fucking near my brother."

Your jaw dropped, the air catching in your lungs. A whirlwind of conflicting emotions engulfed you, each one sparking a fire in your core that you desperately wished to ignore. Your head spun, torn between the lingering anger and the new surge of shock and disbelief at his words.

"You're not serious..." you spat, peering up at him as he loomed over you, hastily taking a step back to create some distance between you. "Riddle, please tell me you're fucking joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he replied, his expression carved from stone, taking another step closer and erasing the space you had just tried to create. "Huh, Raven? Do I?"

Anger swelled inside you, clouding your vision. "You've lost your fucking mind," you said, your voice dropping so low you weren't even sure if he'd heard you. "You're being controlling, Mattheo. That's...you can't just..."

Mattheo tilted his head, backing you up against the wall, a predatory glint in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "I can't, what?"

Your throat went dry, his hands pressing against the wood on either side of your head. "You can't just-"

Your words were cut short as Mattheo leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. "Can't what, Raven?" he murmured, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Go on, spit it out."

Gods, curse him. Curse him to bloody hell.

"You can't just control my life like you own it, Mattheo," you whispered against his lips, ignoring the fiery desire that flared within you, something you fought fiercely to suppress. "Outside of that classroom, you don't hold any power over me."

Mattheo's lips curled into a sly, taunting smile, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Oh, Raven," he murmured, his voice a dangerous whisper, "you have no idea how wrong you are...inside that classroom or out, you're mine to control...I believe I've proven that today--you'd have never gotten the offer to join that fucking club if it wasn't for my improved grades."

You scowled, your back pressing firmly against the wall as his lips trailed down to your jawline. Frustration mingled with desire, a dangerous combination that sent your senses reeling.

You cursed yourself inwardly, loathing the way your resolve seemed to crumble under his touch. Why did a boy this bad have to look so fucking sweet? Why did a boy this bad for you have to taste so fucking good?

"No...you're wrong, Mattheo..." you whispered, your voice trembling, trying to inject conviction into your words despite the turmoil inside you. "You're so fucking wrong."

"Am I, Raven?" He teased, his voice smug, one hand shifting to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. "So you're saying, that if I told you to get on your knees for me, right now in the middle of your dorm room like my good little whore, you wouldn't do it?" His lips grazed your ear, your lids fluttering involuntarily. "Or...if I told you to take off your shirt so I could cum all over those beautiful fucking tits of yours, you'd say no...hm?"

Your breath caught in your throat, his touch and words igniting a fierce battle within you. As much as you knew the next words form your lips were an entire fucking lie, you simply couldn't help yourself. Merlin knows your body and mind were betraying you, all you had left was your mouth--which was never known to go down without a fight.

"That's right, Riddle..." you whispered, your voice barely audible, betraying the tremor in your resolve. "I'd say no...one million times over I'd say no..."

Mattheo groaned, the noise reverberating down your spine as he breathed it directly into your eardrum. Your thighs screamed in need at the sound--your stomach flipping as his hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your neck.

"And if I asked you to kiss me?" He murmured, his intense gaze locking onto yours. "Would you still say no then?"

Your heart was beating so hard you were certain he could hear it. "I...I would..."

"Yeah?" He said, his voice a sultry whisper, wetting his lips as he glimpsed yours. "You sure about that, Raven?"

Your lungs sputtered, trying your best to keep your composure as you nodded, glimpsing his lips now. "I'm sure, Mattheo..."

His nails dug into your neck, every inch of your body ablaze as your gaze darted between his dark, intoxicated eyes and his plush, inviting lips. You cursed yourself, the internal struggle fierce and unrelenting. You cursed yourself so intensely, you could almost taste the bitterness of your own self-reproach.

"Mm." He hummed, grazing his lips over yours with feather like precision, before he pulled back. "And what would I have to do to change your mind, huh? Do you want me to fucking beg, princess?"

A low, desperate sound escaped your lips, a primal mewl reverberating in your chest. "That might help..." you breathed. "Maybe if you got on your knees while you did, it'd be far more effective..."

"Fuck...I've created a monster, haven't I..." he huffed, smirk teasing his perfect fucking lips, both hands falling to your hips as he slowly dropped to his knees in front of you. "A beautiful, slutty little monster..."

You were speechless, body blazed with desire, torn between the intense pull in his eyes and the irresistible temptation of his lips. Holy fucking hell you wanted to kiss him so unbelievably bad, you weren't sure how much longer you could continue playing this little game; the desire only strengthening as he ran his hands along your curves, rough palms smoothing down your thighs as he peered up at you--chocolate curls sitting messy over his forehead, his dark eyes burning wounds into your flesh.

"Kiss me, Raven..." he whispered, holding your sight, voice strained weigh desire so intense it was palpable. "Please, fucking kiss me."

That did it. That absolutely did it.

Without a second thought, you bent at the waist, seizing his tie and directing his mouth to yours, your lips crashing onto his in a feverish, desperate kiss. At the passionate connection, a low moan slid past your teeth, your fingers entwining in his hair, deepening the kiss. His tongue sought entrance, and you willingly granted it, eliciting a low, primal growl from him. His hands tightened around the backs of your thighs, anchoring you in place, not daring to move an inch higher.

Mattheo nipped your bottom lip, smirking as he tugged on it gently before releasing it, blinking as he met your eyes. "I love the way you moan for me, Raven..." he purred, hands slowly moving up, slipping under your skirt. "You have no idea what I could fucking do to you."

You whimpered as his hands slid higher, gripping your ass under your skirt, his face dangerously close to your sex. Your fingers curled tightly into his hair, gripping the strands within your palms as your entire body quivered. His lips left a trail of hot, fervent kisses along your outer thigh, igniting a path of tingling sensations in their wake.

"Gods..." you moaned, unable to form any other coherent word as his hands explored and caressed places on your body that no one else had ever touched before. "Mattheo..."

"Fucking hell..." he groaned, his grip tightening. "If you do that again I might not be able to stop myself Raven...I might have to rip this fucking skirt off and make you moan my name over and over until it's the only word you remember..."

Your breath caught in your throat, your head spinning in a whirlpool of desire at his words. Every fiber of your being trembled, quivering under his touch. Mattheo pulled himself up to his feet, his hands still firmly gripping your ass as he pressed himself against you, the strength of his grip pulling your crotch against his. Even through the fabric of his trousers, you could feel his aggressive erection pressing against you.

Involuntarily, you moaned again.

"Mhm, that’s right...” Mattheo hummed, wet lips grazing your ear. "…and you say I don't have control over you..." he purred, licking a slow line up the side of your throat. "You're fucking melting for me and I've barely touched you, Raven..."

His mention of control snapped you back to your senses, not wanting your earlier anger to be neutered so easily, despite the lake pooling between your thighs for this cunning enigma of a man.

"I'm still mad at you, Mattheo..." you managed to croak out, head falling back as he pressed his lips to your neck. "You can't keep doing this...you can't keep sweet-talking me out of my anger for you.”

"Is that what you think I'm doing here?" He huffed, one hand leaving your ass and gripping your hip with enough force to shatter your bones. "Maybe I just can't keep my fucking hands off of you...maybe I like knowing I'm the only one who's ever touched you like this, the only one who's ever fucked your throat and seen those perfect tits of yours...maybe I don't like sharing...maybe I don't like the thought of my brother getting you alone and trying to take what's mine..."

You whimpered, chest constricting. "And you told me not to get attached?" You said, ignoring the burning, screaming flames that ignited at his admission. "You're utterly delusional...I'm not your fucking toy-"

“Yes you are.” He huffed, a deviant grin crawling over his lips. "And believe me, I'm not attached, princess..." he said. "I'm possessive, and there's a fucking difference. I know my brother...I know exactly how he operates."

"If it's anything like how you do, then I can understand your concern." You scoffed, not even attempting to hide your smirk. "But I'm not a child, I don't need protection. And believe me when I tell you, one irritating Riddle man in my life is more than enough."

His jaw tensed at your words, and he loosened his grip, almost fully releasing you, but not quite. "You can do all three."

You paused, lips parting, but he cut you off, sensing your incoming confusion. "Tutoring me in advanced magical studies and potions…plus the stupid club. You can do all three."

"What?" You were dumbfounded, nearly speechless. "I-I can't, Riddle...Dumbledore said-"

"He's only saying that because he thinks you'd actually have to tutor me in potions...we can just make him think you are...imagine how impressed he'll be when you tell him-"

"Oh, Mattheo! That's brilliant!" You beamed, excitement filling your eyes, all of your earlier anger and concern and disappointment seemingly flowing from your flesh, dissipating into the charged air. You gripped his face, giving him a kiss on the cheek, smirking as you pulled back. "You really changed your mind rather quickly."

"I see how much it upset you." He shrugged, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't want to interfere with your goals, Raven. I just want you to know that even though he's my brother, I won't refrain from kicking his fucking ass if he tries anything."

Your jaw fell open like you wanted to reply, but words would fail you, and he smirked. “Tell Dumbledore you’ll do it. And I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Without giving you the chance to respond, he spun around, briskly making his way out of your dorm without another bloody word--leaving you entirely at a loss, unable to comprehend what the hell just happened.

————

CHAPTER FIVE->

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strang3lov3 · 1 month ago

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Underfoot

You get off on Roman's shoe.

Tags - dom!roman, smut, rough sex, gross sex, shoe humping/grinding, shoe licking, humiliation, degradation, masturbation, cum eating, biting, hitting, kicking, a sprinkling of ass play, nipple biting, dacryphilia, no aftercare we die like men, sex as sh, manipulative romey, bully romey calls you all sorts of nasty things, oneshot. Idk. believe it or not this is consensual. romey’s all fucknutty, reader has self esteem issues. A/N - this one’s an acquired taste, i think. it made me squirm as i wrote it lol. This is a one shot and can be read alone buuuuut in my mind it works as a continuation of tear you apart. Thank you @cum-a-calla for holding my hand and @endlessthxxghts for betaing you sick fucks that i hold so dearly in my heart!

“You again, huh?”

Roman’s lips curl into an amused smirk. He licks them as his eyes lazily scan down the length of your body, tracing the long, curved lines of your breasts and waist and hips. You pick at your nails and shift your weight between your two feet, a nervous tick. He loves that tick. “Yeah,” you mutter reluctantly. “Hi.”

Roman grins. “Hi,” he says, and something about his voice mocks you. He’s good at that. Making you feel uncertain and squirm uncomfortably without saying much of anything. It’s all in the way he looks at you, how he smiles. You know it when you see it. It’s just him.

You know what you’re here for, the same thing you always want when you visit him like this. The pain that walks the line between good hurt and bad hurt, the pleasure and the agony. That specific violence you crave, only from Roman’s hands. All that ache inside releases with the way he hits you hard enough to bruise, blood rushing to the surface. The drawing of your blood, skin burning in that horrible way that only he can ignite. Only Roman can scratch that itch, satisfy your raw, instinctive need to be hurt by him.

It’s that strange intimacy, too. The way bodies connect, that vulnerable proximity that comes with breath shared, the faintest bit of tenderness that hangs through the air even when it’s wrapped in something darker. Your special little arrangement that only makes sense between the two of you. But it works, right?

The room is dark, lit only by lamps. It’s late and everyone’s gone home - should have, at least. But Roman, Roman’s still here. Lying on his stupid gray couch as if he was waiting for you, almost like he knew you’d be here. He probably did, honestly, how he knows you so well. In ways you don’t even know yourself. You wonder what tipped him off, what about you today told him that you’d show up for him to satisfy your shared, twisted craving. You could ask, but he’d never tell you.

“Was wondering how long you’d make it without it,” Roman says, voice dripping with that smug superiority. “My little slut. Slut for pain,” he smirks.

Roman stretches then, neck craning over the armrest, back arching in a languid movement as he groans. You watch him, caught in the strange, raw beauty of the way he exists - so profoundly human, the folds in the fabric of his shirt shifting with his breaths. He looks so lovely like this, Like someone could love him. You could, honestly. Would be nothing new for you, the moth drawn to the flame. “Well, c’mon, then,” he snaps, the sharp command cutting through the quietness. “Quickly.”

You know the rules. You’re naked and he is not. Never is. As you take off each of your garments, baring yourself completely to him, Roman unbuckles his belt and only pushes his pants just enough down his thighs. He does this just to fuck with you, twist the knife a little as he knows how badly you want to feel his skin on your skin, or the full weight of him on top of you. You want that, don’t you? Will you ever admit it?

You’ll only ever get fragments of Roman, scraps tossed at you like you’re a dog begging under the table. Enough of him to tide you over for the moment, never satisfying you fully.

Roman spits into his palm before reaching for his cock, working it to its full length. “Fuck yourself first,” he says, voice flat, dismissive. “I’m really not in the mood to hear you bitching and moaning when it hurts, so. Do what you need to. It’s kinda supposed to hurt anyway, y’know. Guess you can add this to the list of favors I’ve done for you.”

“I know. Thank you.”

With two fingers, you trace your seam, already starting to drip with arousal and you hate yourself for it.

“Ah-ah. One finger. One. C’mon, you know better.”

Roman’s done this before. He likes the show of you fucking yourself with just one finger, knowing it’s not enough to prepare you for his cock. It doesn’t even do much to get you wet, really. It’s just another way for him to humiliate you or something, no real desire behind it. It’s all control, making you rub salt in your own wound.

You push a single digit past your lips and slide it through your slick folds, circling your clit just once “In,” Roman instructs, and you push your finger inside yourself, feeling your hot, throbbing insides, “And out,” Roman says, voice still irritatingly casual, like he’s watching a performance. But he is, isn’t he?

Roman squints slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches you fuck yourself, a lazy smile curlling at the corner of his lips. He continues to fuck his fist, all lazy and slow, like he’s bored, couldn’t give a shit.

“Yeah, like that, sweetheart. Think that’s enough? That good?”

“I-”

“Changed my mind, I don’t care,” Roman interrupts with his tone clipped, cutting you off with a wave of his hand. “Just shut up and come here.”

He sits up and slaps his thigh twice in invitation - or command, really - before reclining back against the couch, settling in as he folds his arms behind his head.

You hesitate for a moment, then move toward him, straddling his lap as his eyes flick over you. You grip his toned shoulders instinctively as you steady yourself. You reach between your bodies and touch the head of his cock, wet with his sticky precum, and line him up with your entrance. “Yep, like that. Down you fuckin’ go,” he says, hands finding your hips as he takes the liberty to force you down with a firm push. The sting is immediate and sharp, and you inhale slowly, breath catching in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut. Stars dancing behind your eyelids. You let out a long exhale to match.

“Is that a new coping mechanism or something, huh?” Roman mocks. He shifts beneath you, adjusting so that he’s buried inside you completely, his smirk never faltering. “No, no, I’m kidding. That’s good, you know. Healthy.”

You hold onto the back of the couch, knowing better than to hold onto Roman. Can’t get too friendly, he says. He’s almost maniacal in this way, how he keeps you isolated while being inside you. Minimal contact. Everything he does, he does to you. You’re a vessel, he tells you. A fleshlight with a head attached.

“Hey, right here. Focus right here for a second,” Roman grabs your jaw, digging his thumb and forefinger into the hollows of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh against your molars. “You remember the rules, right, sweetheart? You don’t get to cum on my cock, yeah?” Your skin tickles as Roman pushes some hair out of your eyes, the action starkly tender in comparison to the harsh way he holds your face.

You nod quickly. “And you remember why?” he adds.

“I don’t deserve to,” you answer through your teeth, voice all muffled with the effort it takes to get the words out. Your jaw aches under his grip, and you remain obedient.

Roman tilts his head. “Repeat it,” he demands, tone low and unyielding.

“I don’t deserve it.” The words feel heavier this time and tears begin to blur your vision, stinging at the corners of your eyes.

“Yeah, good. Good girl. Took you long enough to remember, though that’s how it always goes with dumb sluts like you, huh? Always all stupid and fuck drunk. I know you can’t help it,” he murmurs, voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “Whatever. Just fuckin’ move.”

You move yourself up on Roman’s cock almost all the way, then sink back down again. It takes you a minute to build a pace but Roman demonstrates patience, surprisingly. The fullness of his cock inside you, the ache it brings.

“I hate you,” Roman whispers. “Do you have any idea how much I fucking hate you?” Without allowing you to answer, he takes control then, like he’s unable to help himself. He bounces you hard and fast, your ass hitting the top of his firm thighs with each pass. His eyes are dark and wild as he watches your body move, all that rippling, moving flesh just for him. “I’d even bet I hate you more than you hate yourself. How about that?”

Roman grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head to the side harshly, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your neck, causing an involuntary whine to escape your throat. He bites your shoulder, growling as he pounds into you. “Hey. Does it hurt yet?” he mumbles, squeezing his jaw even tighter, breaking your tender skin with his sharp canine teeth.

“Yeah,” you whimper, keeping your eyes tightly closed to fight back tears. In truth, you love the release that comes when he makes you cry. But it’s the game, you know? How long can you hold out, how long until he breaks you?

“Yeah, good,” he grunts. “How about this one, then? Tell me, scale of one to ten.” Roman pushes you back and lowers his head, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth before pinching it hard between his teeth, causing you to cry out. “Shhhh, shut the fuck up and take it. Fucking take it,” he growls, swatting your ass before repeating the action with your other breast. “Give me a number.”

“Ten, fuck- oh, fuck. Ten,” you wail.

“Damn. That bad, huh? You gonna cry?”

You shake your head, gripping the couch cushions hard enough that you could tear the upholstery, dig your fingers inside. “Mm. Wearing your big girl panties today, I see. Very cute,” he says, shifting so he’s lying back against the couch again, dragging you along with your nipple still between his teeth. “You’ll cry, just like you always do. Watch.”

Roman slaps you across the cheek, and it’s more of a beating than a proper smack. He’s done it to you before, and you sobbed for hours when he did. Must’ve hit a nerve. He watches your reaction with a twisted smile plastered on his face, his eyes crinkling. You look away, biting down on your wobbling bottom lip. “Oh, man. You’re trying so very hard to hold back those tears, aren’t you? Hey–look at me.”

You turn your head back to look at Roman, and that’s all it takes for you to burst into tears. He’s so handsome and so fucking sick, and you are too. Roman looks satisfied with himself, murmuring some insult before resuming his brutal assault on your cunt. “Yeah, there it is. Cry for me.”

Your crying turns Roman on even more, makes him feel like an animal. Breaking you down like this. Not like it’s hard, but still. He relishes in the power, knowing it’s all him that does this to you. His violence. Roman’s.

Roman fucks you brutally, just like he always does. Hands on your ass, one slides up your waist to squeeze and grope your tits. He inches the other toward your ass, circling the tight ring of muscle with his middle finger before pushing it inside, making you feel fuller than you already do. All you can do is take it, sobbing above him as he uses you. You summon the courage to look at him, with his cheeks flushed all over, a light sheen of sweat glittering at his temples. “You’re so fucked,” he tells you. “Just–all fucked up. I think–fuck– think you’re prettier like this. Really, I mean it. C’mere, baby.”

Roman wraps his arms around you, leaving you with no choice but to hold him too. It feels…unnatural, but you relish in the closeness all the same. He changes the way he fucks you so that it’s less of a clean thrusting and more of an intense rolling of his hips, as he knows your clit is grinding against his pubic bone, his wiry hair only adding to the friction. You can’t help the moan that spills from your lips, “Oh, Roman.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Roman groans, his cheek pressed against yours as he rocks his hips over and over into your dripping, tight pussy. He makes noises in your ear, knowing how much you love it. Kisses your throat to add insult to injury. You’re gonna come, and Roman knows it. Planned it. It’s a test, all part of the game. And look at you, falling for it. You really should know better.

It sort of takes you by surprise, that hot, sticky pleasure building in your gut. But nonetheless, it’s there. Roman’s tongue is tracing patterns on your neck and his hands hold you tightly, and you feel like you’re his. You cave, allowing yourself to touch him as your orgasm approaches. Feel the twitching veins in his neck, the muscles in his biceps tensing as he moves with you.

Roman times it perfectly. Right when you’re about to come he pulls out of you, the sudden loss of his cock causing you to cry out in frustration. “You stupid fucking cunt. What’d I tell you, huh? What did we talk about? Get the fuck off of me. Down.”

Roman shoves you backward with brutal force and you land on that awful, rough carpet, the wind knocked from your lungs. He stands above you, cock in fist as he lifts a leg and presses it against your ribcage, dragging it down, down, down your tummy until it rests against your mound. And you can’t fucking help yourself. You rock your hips, grinding your clit against the bottom of his shoe, and Roman’s beside himself. And you, you’re not even here. You’re trying to tell yourself that this isn’t happening, you poor thing. Cute.

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “You’re gonna get yourself off on my fucking - my shoe, you fucking loser?”

You figure the picture in front of him should be enough of an answer, but it’s not. “Hey–” Roman gives you a little kick against your cunt. “Answer me, you fucking slut.”

“Yes,” you sob, release once again approaching. Roman smiles in surprised delight, fucking his fist as he watches you writhe below him. Hair falling in front of his face, a lopsided grin with the dimples to match. He looks so tall like this, and you follow the line down his torso and his legs until all you’re looking at is his fucking shoe. The shiny black leather, the patterned socks. God. You moan his name loudly as you come, and to ruin your orgasm for his own amusement, he kicks you. And you moan louder, convulse even harder, pussy clenching around nothing. Fucking pathetic.

“Oh- fuck. Are you fucking real? I kick you and you come harder? Holy fuck,” he scoffs, squeezing his cock harder as he strokes it. “That’s fucking gross. Seriously, you are so fucking disgusting. Yeah, you should be crying. Jeeesus,” he laughs, his giggles turning into breathy moans as he rapidly pumps his fist. Roman comes then, spurting hot ropes of his come all over you - your face and your neck, your eyes, hair. Nothing that’ll be easy to clean up, of course. Roman hopes you’ll pass someone on your way home who’ll see the wreck he made of you and judge you for it worse than you judge yourself.

You’re a mess of drool, tears, and come by the end of it. Roman’s fucking drunk on power, absolutely elated with how this all turned out. Couldn’t have planned it better if he tried. You sit up then, but Roman quickly steps closer to your head, pressing the sole of his shoe against your throat and forcing you back down. “Ah-ah,” he tuts, dangling his shoe above your face before pressing the rubbery tip of the sole against your lips. “You know better than to leave a mess.”

If you enjoyed, it is MANDATORY that you drool and slobber in the comments or rb's or in my inbox. Be feral i DEMAND IT In all seriousness, your kind words mean the world to me ♡ ty for reading

Romey Tags

@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @moth-maam56

@kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink @romanarose

@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @ziggymars

#roman roy #roman roy x reader #roman roy x you #roman roy smut #Roman Roy x reader smut #roman roy/you #roman roy/reader #succession #succession fic #kieran culkin #Kieran Culkin characters

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tragedybunny · 1 year ago

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A Little More Than a Nibble - Astarion x F!Reader

Astarion wakes you up at camp looking for a late night snack. You both end up with something a little more. (Fluff, Angst)

Yes I'm on the Astarion train. How can you not love him?

This short is set before Astarion's act 2 confession

Something called to you from the dark, stirring you out of sleep. Fragments of the waking world brushed against your consciousness; a dying fire, a far off owl calling, a presence hovering over you. The cold influx of terror lasts only a moment as you realize the presence is not only familiar but expected at this point. “Are you awake darling?” Astarion’s voice exudes the beguiling charm that’s become so familiar to you, familiar enough you’ve started to catch the hint of artifice that lays behind it.

Sleep-heavy eyes drift open to find him kneeling down next to you, red eyes fixed on you. The deep slumber is hard to shake off and your answer is no more than a drowsy whisper. “I am now.”

“Oh apologies my sweet but I was just wondering if…” He lets the words hang for a moment, waiting for your mind to catch up, to finish the implication. Really though it could only be about one of two things since you’re the one in camp that’s been both fucking and feeding him. And with the ungodly hour, you can easily conclude which it is.

“No luck hunting?” He deserves at least a little teasing for waking you like this.

“Actually I was thinking about you and couldn’t get the taste of you off my tongue. Would you mind terribly if I had just a little taste, just a slight nibble?” Perhaps you’ve been too indulgent with him and he’s grown used to getting his way with you, a habit you really should put to an end. If only the mere suggestion of those teeth at your neck didn’t make you quiver with excitement.

Still, it won’t do to placidly let him have his way every time. “You say slight nibble, and I wake up woozy the next morning. I fail to see what I get out of this little arrangement.”

For a moment, you think you see the slightest hint of hurt at your refusal, before he swiftly resumes his flirtatious persona. “Why, you get my gratitude and affection. Both of which are undying, I might remind you.”

It’s not the honeyed words that convince you, it’s the ghost of an emotion, the possibility of vulnerability, that there’s something beneath the mask he shows everyone, even you. Not that you would really refuse, you’re too far gone for that. Life as the daughter of a noble house of Baldur’s Gate primed you for this, to fall for a man so wrong, and dangerous, and not at all anything you should want. Rebellion after years of complicity, years of forced perfection and crafted smiles, of doing everything expected of you. The Illithid ship had given you a terrible burden, but it had also been more freedom than you’d ever known in your life. Freedom that didn’t necessarily come with inbuilt wisdom. Silently, you throw back the covers, beckoning him into the bed roll beside you. With a satisfied smile, he gracefully slides in, body pressed against yours.

The first time you’d let him do this it had been awkward, sloppy almost, a fact explained by the later revelation you were his first. Now familiarity has led to comfort, intimacy of its own sort. Different than just sex, but no less thrilling. An arm around your waist, he buries his head into the crook of your neck, lips brushing up against it in a gentle kiss first that makes you shiver before the bite.

The sharp ice of those teeth piece your skin and drive into the blood flowing in your veins. Then you feel it, the echo of your blood flowing into his veins. It had frightened you the first time but now it sends a wave of bliss through you. An involuntary sigh escapes you and you know if his mouth wasn’t full, he’d be tormenting you for how much you enjoy it. Arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him tighter against you, as though you are begging for more. You are though aren’t you? You can’t get enough of this, of him.

Drifting away, you lose yourself in him, a sweet surrender to an inexorable pull. As promised though, he’s only taken a taste when he lets up, pulling away, and licking any drops from your skin. The control he’s starting to show is impressive, even if it leaves you yearning for the strange connection of his feeding. Knowing that he never lingers after any encounter between the two of you, you unwrap your arms which feel so much heavier now, letting him go. Unexpectedly, he remains, head now resting on your chest, forehead pressed to your cheek. “Not going to eat and run?”

“In such a hurry to be rid of me?” He murmurs, his face hidden so you don’t even have a chance of reading his expression.

You’re not naive, despite what the others might believe. There’s nothing more you expect beyond what already passes between the two of you. Even if you believe you could care for him, he’s not open to you that way. Still, even if the tone is nonchalant, you feel there’s a loneliness behind it he's not quite hiding all the way. “I didn’t say that.” He doesn’t ask directly to stay and you know he won’t, so you pull the covers over the two of you and put your arms back around him and without saying another word.

With a subtle shift, you feel him get near your throat once again before stopping himself. “Perhaps I should go.”

“You don’t have to, I trust you.” Tentatively, you reach a hand up and softly stroke it through his silver hair. First he tenses, and you wait for a reproach for being too tender with him, but none comes. A moment later and you feel the tension release and he relaxes again. Your eyes are heavy, your body desperately craving sleep, but you're afraid there will never be another moment like this, with him so close, and not pushing you away. So you fight to stay conscious, and keep your fingers moving gently as long as he allows it. Sleep comes to claim you again though, and just as the world fades around you, lips brush your collarbone and the arm around your waist holds a little tighter.

The dawn comes, and the camp stirs. When you find the empty space in your bed roll, you tell yourself your heart doesn’t break a little and get ready to get on with your day.

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x f!reader #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #my writing #my fanfiction

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amymbona · 6 months ago

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I need to be Tashi's long forgotten girlfriend that's not so forgotten. A girl that she used to date in Stanford after she broke up with Patrick and hurt her knee, before she married Art. A girl that had nothing to do with tennis, studied arts and always kept a notebook and a pen in her pocket.

A little lady who was such a sweet, soft thing for Tashi, never once raising her voice at her, docile and gentle, but also very indifferent to the world around her. Locked in her own tiny reality that she only allowed Tashi to be a part of. Tashi had found a completely new world with her, full of nothing but love and tenderness, no fake feelings or overexaggerated pity. Just a little bubble of two girls that make bracelets together and hold each other while falling asleep.

She hasn't seen you after Stanford, actually unsure why. You must have changed your phone number and moved states, perhaps you moved to the very other side of the world, for all she knows. But even now, years later, she can't help herself and think about you when Art is eating her pussy like a good lap dog. She taught you how to do that as well, and you used to be the most shy and tender little thing, afraid to suck too hard or stick your tongue too far, too afraid you would cause her any pain. That's why she's constantly pushing Art further, literally begging him to be violent with her. To bite and claw and suck and pull just so she could remember the warm softness of your plush lips.

You were such an ethereal being, perhaps too unreal. Perhaps you were just a fragment of her imagination, something she made up to help overcome the grief surrounding her injury and the loss of her boyfriend. The gentleness that she had received from you was such a gift. Nobody has treated her the way you did until you disappeared. Perhaps people were right. Perhaps Tashi is an awful human who doesn't deserve a single good thing in her life.

Years later, she meets Patrick in New Rochelle, bumping into him in the hotel lobby. The two bicker for a while, unable to act like two adults, until she notices a gold shining thing on the finger of his left hand. With a smirk so sharp that could slice her throat, he admits to have married a wonderful fairy, sweet little thing. That night, after her husband admits to wanting to retire, she irrationally threatens to leave him if he loses against Patrick in the next day's match. But feeling too guilty, unable to possibly divorce her lover, she goes to sleep with Patrick in exchange for his next day's loss.

Her whole world crumbles into smithereens when she sees Patrick stroll towards the court, hand in hand with a familiar, beautiful face. She's raging, absolutely livid, unable to believe that such an ugly ass man has married the most precious, delicate human to ever walk on this Earth. You haven't changed a bit, at least not overall. Your hair is a bit longer than she rememebers it and your lips are painted an unusual shade of red, too dark for your complexion. But the hearts in your eyes, now directed at Patrick, they still shine the same way that they used to when you glanced at her.

She basically runs towards the locker rooms, hoping not to bump into you, and there she quite literally gets on her knees and begs Patrick to win. Promises that she will buy him whatever he asks for, promises to let Art be his because she knows that Patrick has always loved Art and Tashi has always loved you. She cries too, allowing Patrick to laugh at her and make her look like a fool. At that point, she's absolutely pathetic, completely desperate for her sweet love, and she'd even let Patrick publically humiliate her if it meant you'd be the one wiping her tears away in the end.

It's always easier to win than to lose, so it's no surprise when Patrick completely demolishes Art. He leaves the blonde boy literally sobbing and the craddles him in his arms, promising that everything is going to be okay, that he'll take care of him after he retires. But is Tashi happy? She's unsure. You left her, after all, made a ghost of her presence. So for the first time in her life, she feels like a complete failure, hurriedly shuffling towards your and Patrick's hotel room, knowing your husband is too busy with her own.

You open the door with a soft smile, looking like an absolute goddess and greeting her like an old friend. As if nothing this absurd has happened ever before, you let her in and kiss her forehead. Tashi basically falls into your arms and holds onto you as if you're a dream that's going to disappear. She breathes in the gentle smell of your body and floats in the warmth of your skin. You're real, her sweet girl. You're real, holding her and calling her yours.

#challengers #challengers x reader #tashi duncan #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan blurb #tashi duncan fanfic #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #tashi duncan x art donaldson #art donaldson x patrick zweig

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astracora · 23 days ago

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Turning Point - Part 8 (Final)

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability. Sylus myth mentions.

Word Count: 5610

Written: 17th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. This was rough... Truly romance is hell for me to write (don't ask why an otome game is the only game I write fic for, it's a mystery). I hope you enjoy, final chapter of Turning Point. Thank you for reading ❤️

Now Playing: I Adore You, By HUGEL

Masterlist AO3

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Sylus has spent a lot of his life alone.

It's an indisputable fact of who he has been, and who he continues to be.

A monster, a warlord and a criminal.

There was one fragment of time when he was surrounded by those that loved him, and then they were taken from him.

The dreams of cutting through thick scales, of tearing parts of himself off, throwing them across the cave floor, shivering in the corner. He begs and pleads with gods that don't listen, to fix him. To make him better. To make him worthy.

Good.

Instead he is punished, and reminded of why he is a beast. A failure. A creature to despise.

His hands useless when faced with the blood splattered members of his family. The once warm home turned to a desolate cave, full of nothing but remains.

Home is deeply embedded in a soul, the parts of himself that he wishes he could erase, will never leave him. He is a beast that has little value, outside of what he can provide. Be it a scapegoat, or sating greed.

Throughout his life, he has abandoned being seen as anything other than a monster. That even you, with eyes full of hatred and hurt, had seen him that way. Fury curling your lip, and snarl in your throat. Lunging for him with the knife in your hand.

He has been alone for such a long time, he has forgotten how to be around others. Luke and Kieran are the sole exception. They are unbothered by his harsh tone, finding him more amusing than terrifying. It should not surprise him that EVER are as capable of breaking a mind, as the Justiciers were. They may as well be cut from the same disgusting cloth. He sometimes wonders if they are.

So when he snarks, or bites, or teases, they respond with laughter and response. He has adapted to their countenance. Understands that they will mirror what he offers back.

You… sometimes you respond in kind, biting and scratching, little crooked smile on your face and a twinkle in your eye. Other times, you ache. Look at him like his words have cut somewhere he can't reach to heal. That is when he eases, remembers a field of flowers and the ways he wanted to be before the world decided to destroy dream and hope.

He thinks he is learning to be around you, how to hold you without hurting, and how to soothe your heart with his words and actions. How to be who he wants to be… a fragment of the man left over from the moment he truly thought you could be together after you shared your souls.

With poetry and music, he has carved out a place as himself, so that he can share it with you. In a world where he gets more time, and more space, to share and offer what he is to you. Regardless of what the world says about him, he has only ever cared what you say about him.

He is learning to believe the words you offer him, as who he truly is.

You may not remember, but he always will.

He is, however, still adjusting to the others. He has no basis for adjusting to others, it has been too long since he was in a home that was warm. He has approached them similarly to Luke and Kieran, and while their responses rumble his chest. Fill him with amusement at the discovery of something new, he is aware that they are not as unbothered.

The doctor will ignore him if he teases, until his buttons are pressed enough that he will get a furrow between his brow and speak to Sylus in a voice that is deep and close to a growl. He finds the push entertaining, because breaking people who are so upstanding is a sick satisfaction of sorts.

There are, however, moments when he returns with a wound, and the doctor tends to it. Your hands aren't as steady yet to handle a needle and thread when his EVOL cannot help repair him. The shackles around his power too sturdy, too hindering, and he cannot keep pulling your resonance to him until you feel stronger. Wary of pushing you too far, or making you feel as though that is all he wants. As the doctor watches over him, carefully mending his skin, he wonders at the concern in the man's eyes. Teases him for it.

To worry for a criminal. Not many would.

It receives a huff and eyeroll, and a slight pressure in his wound as the needle pushes through skin, "What you are doesn't matter, who you are does."

Sylus finds himself thinking about it, he knows the doctor is a moral man. His files affirmed that much, observations to understand your life. To blend in better… to be part of it.

It still feels odd for the doctor to help tend to his wounds. Like he doesn't deserve it.

He finds the fish the most fun to tease, to argue with, no fire in his words as the fish gets more agitated with him. He reminds him of you, feline-like and prone to swishing his tail and baring fangs. You are jovial with yours ever since he has gained access to your life with affection. The fish it depends, on his mood, on his health, on the day of the week. Some days he enjoys the clash, Sylus notes, finding the chance to bite and growl fun, other days it is accompanied by genuine frustration. Evening out as the months have gone on, settling down to be less angry.

The more they argue, the more Sylus sees the entertainment in his eyes, even though the fish denies it. There are times when he sees the man painting, stepping over to watch the paint to canvas. Sometimes the fish will ask if he's looking for anything in particular.

"I'm trying to understand." He answers honestly sometimes.

He would be ashamed at the widening of the fish's eyes, but then he shrugs, and speaks as he paints, "Everyone sees something different in my work, some see nothing at all. I see something that others may not. Doesn't matter what you see, as long as it's what you see."

So Sylus stands, and watches him paint, and thinks. The fish makes no other comments, but moves to the side a little, so that he can see better. So he can study easier. Sylus thinks he sees the sunrise over daturas, another day coming, this one with more hope than the last.

He later goes to buy one of the fish's paintings. To think about more.

The prince is more complicated, he is quiet and he sleeps often. Sylus is unsure if he's sick, or simply prefers the land of dreams to reality. If he had been asked many years ago, he would have agreed. Dreams had been the only time he had kissed you, afterall.

He teases the prince, but receives little in response, except for the occasional cold look. The moments he understands the man most are when Xavier is helping you. He notes the way he lights up, and takes account of the differences. It is in small actions, often that you may not notice, but Sylus does.

He, along with the doctor, ensure Xavier's pillow is clean, that he has food when he returns from missions, that he isn't eating junk food every day.

That when he returns, there is something warmer waiting for him.

Sylus thinks if it were him, that is what he would want, after long days working.

This process, of understanding, of learning, unsettles him to begin with. That he is changing, not just for you, but for others. He enjoys feeding you and your heart, and he begins to look forward to reactions to his food from the others. It is a strange feeling to sit down at a table with others, to share food.

It is… pleasant. The voice that sounds like yours speaks in his mind. Like your busy soul in his chest. Singing and dancing everytime he teases the fish, or chuckles at the doctor's dry wit, or realigns the blanket on the prince's shoulder.

He enjoys his days more, the more you grow and become yourself. No longer as restricted into yourself. No longer aching as dearly. He sees when the days are harder, but you are brighter. He knows that being able to hunt again, likely buoyed you beyond anything else. Still, he is relieved to have a hand in helping you climb the cliff out of the abyss.

Sylus was honest, when he told the others that he had no intention of leaving. That no matter what your heart spoke to you, his path would always lead him to you. That he would keep hold of your hand as long as you wanted it. No matter what form it took. That he was not simply there for your heart but every part of you, that no matter the snapping fangs of fate, you are his destiny.

He has spent too long without you, he is not about to lose you now that he has you again.

While he has long known himself to be greedy, craving your presence, what contact he can receive, every laugh from your lips, every look in your eyes that tells him more than your mouth has managed to… He has found himself craving more.

The warmth around a table he has never known.

The return to a home that is not empty, or full of skeletons.

A place that does not tell him he is a monster.

Perhaps it is the blood on the fish's hands, and the blood on the prince's, that he knows he is not a beast to them.

It is the lack of judgement in the doctor's eyes, that he still matters despite what he has been created to be, forced into being.

Every choice he has made, every path he has taken, he has never expected to find those who do not look at him and see what he is told he is.

You bring change to his life, no matter the time. Opening up worlds he cannot hope to understand in just a moment. He needs many moments, all of them. So he is greedy, he does desire, and he knows those feelings will never fade away from his soul. That hungers and needs and demands.

Seeking the warmth of this space for as long as he can, not leaving its embrace without good cause, just like he does not leave yours easily, when it is offered to him.

Sylus can only hope you will see his heart as well, and accept it once more.

He is, however, struggling with the fact that his kitten has decided to become jumpy once more. Skittering out of his grasp, fleeing at the first moment.

The recent weeks you had sat in thought, mumbling to yourself, keeping them at arm's length. He has seen you leave with Tara and Simone, and he has waited for you to come to him.

To explain the startled look that you give when he sneaks up on you. To finally stop running away from him.

He believes that he is growing accustomed to you, that he knows now when you run from him to hide in an alley, to lick wounds that you're too scared to show, when he would happily dress them for you. To when you are simply thinking, and processing, and trying to find the space to work out how to approach.

He did not lie when he said he did not wish to pry, despite his impatience, and his need to know everything there is to know about you. He does not want to pull it out with his EVOL or against your will. You will speak to him when you are ready.

Sylus does find the skittish nature somewhat adorable, but the fact that he has not been able to hold you, touch you for any long period of time, or share a bed with you as you slept and he watched over, is bothersome. He misses watching you lower your guard, and he does not want to go back to when you daren't even touch him casually with a tease.

So he uses the morning to try to… corner you. He will not pry into your mind, but he will seek out the touch of your hand. Place it against his chest, and let you feel your joined hearts beat a song against his ribcage.

Instead, however, as he approaches you before you leave, intending to go out with Tara, yet again, he is called by the twins. Demanding his time, a report that cannot wait. Time he cannot waste, because he needs to see to Onychinus.

As much as he wishes to tell them to handle it, he has not heard them sound so frantic and serious in a long time. While he has little desire to leave, he is not willing to abandon them or his organisation, when he needs both.

Sylus catches your hand before you pull away, tugging you into his arms and crowding you against the door.

"Sy?" Your voice shakes, soft against his ears, as beautiful as always.

He leans down, long fingers tilting your face up so that he can look at you. Mismatched eyes wide, and trembling with something. Something he wants, something he yearns for, something he desires desperately. Waiting for the moment you speak it into existence.

"Have a good day, kitten. Miss me." His lips brush against your temple, and he inhales against your hair, before leaving you.

Not before he feels the twitch to your fingers, and the tightening of your grip…

And the soft, pleased exhale against his skin.

—-----------

You have spent two hours setting up. Two hours spent scurrying around, cooking, decorating, arranging.

Tara has run in to grab supplies for you as well, eager and excited. You're sure it's so she can hear every single detail when you're done, but you're thankful. You can leave the house alone, but it is always to meet someone. Being alone in a supermarket fills you with dread, least of all because of your arm.

She doesn't question, and she helps. When she finishes lining the things up you forgot, she offers further help which you reject.

You have to do this, you have to make this worth it. They have raised you up off the ground, caught you when you slipped. You have to return it.

You know they would not ask, would not want you to see it as something to return, but you have to make them see.

When you have struggled, or been tired, or worn down, they have offered food, or gifts, or presence. If that is how they show you that they care, you will return it.

You can only hope you return it in the way you hope.

There are some half deflated balloons that you failed to breathe enough air into, your lungs aching before you could even get through one. You are not as dextrous with your metal hand, so when you cut ingredients they are uneven. You fight to swallow the irritation and the pain in your chest. Even though the need to cry burns at them at things you cannot quite get right.

That it has to be perfect. You have to be perfect. Even if you never were, and even if you never can be. At least for this, you want to be…

There's a voice in your head, cold as the chain around your ankle, that reminds you you're incapable of perfection. That you are going to mess this up, and hurt yourself and others.

The knife trembles in your grip as your limb shakes.

It is a squawk that shakes you out of it, Mephisto flies over in a flurry of feathers and glowing red. To settle on your metal shoulder, talons steadying him. He has gotten familiar with perching there over time, since you stopped flinching at anyone touching your prosthetic.

It has become his favoured perch.

His feathers settle, and he bumps your cheek with his head, keeps red eyes on you as your hand settles.

He does not move, as you resume cutting, as you breathe through the feeling, edges closer to the heat of your neck with his body overtime. You think if a robot bird can sleep, he would do so settled there.

His presence helps, he reminds you of Sylus, but he also reminds you that you're not alone. That even the robot bird that Sylus denies is his pet, cares to see you keep going. It silences the beast at your ankle enough that you keep going.

You prepare meals that Caleb taught you how to cook, when he worried you wouldn't be able to survive alone during your studies, even though he never left you alone long enough to really go that long without food. Turning up at the apartment you shared with friends when he got chance, to hand you over a tupperware of food. To poke around the place and make sure you were alright. To lie on your bed and listen to you tell him about what you had been doing.

Even if you lied. That things were fine, that you were doing well. You knew he saw the truth, but you think he just liked the moment to listen to you talk. To see you in front of him. Alive.

You think you understand better now, how he felt. It always hurts to remember that it took losing him to realise.

Tara's words about regrets flit in and out of your mind. That there would be things you wished you'd done if you died tomorrow. As you cook, and you think about the last hour you have before the people you care about return, you know there's a few.

You're going to make an effort to tick them off.

—-----

He has been listening to the twins talk for two hours, and he cannot help but feel like this meeting should have been a call. Or a message.

The twins aren't stupid, despite their chaotic inclinations and their need to cause trouble wherever they can, they don't often bother him without need. Not concerning work. He trusts their capabilities for a reason. Despite their curiosity over if someone will ever claim his head.

He has been tempted to tell them that you are the one, but has decided when the day comes for you to cut his shackles, he would rather see the looks on the twins' faces.

No warning. He imagines it would be quite a sight. He hopes they're not wearing their masks when it happens.

Still, as he reads through his messages, he thinks he knows why they dragged him out here.

So he looks at them, watches as they chat. Luke waves his hands as he speaks, and there is something he notes. The two are trying to feed off each other's energy. Getting more animated as they go.

They are running out of fodder.

"You two-" They jump as his voice drops, looking at him through their crow masks, "are you going to explain why Kitten sent you to summon me away?"

"We don't work for the Hunter!"

"We work for you, boss."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Why would we follow their orders-"

"-when we don't work for them?"

He says nothing, watches them, watches the way their shoulders pull in, and they gravitate towards each other. As if being closer will defend them from the glowing red eye in Sylus' head.

Before he even gets time to pry, they deflate. "Aww man, we didn't even manage three hours like they asked."

"We got close though bro. Two hours and twenty minutes with the boss, that's good going."

"Is it enough?"

"You two!" He raises a brow, and watches as they look at each other, then back at him.

"We were told to keep you away for three hours, so they could do something at home."

"Don't tell them we told you, they'll be disappointed…"

He's joked before that you have the two acting like your henchmen, and he's starting to realise it is not simply a joke. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes. You have full control over Onychinus, every password, the location of every base, access to all of his weapons.

Full dominion over him.

Of course you've won over the twins.

"They won't be disappointed." Sylus sighs, "I'll stay for the last fourty minutes." It's a small concession, time wasted in favour of not ruining whatever you are doing. He could check with Mephisto but there is some warning in his chest. Over the heart he has shared with you, that asks him to wait.

That the waiting is worth it.

So he will wait for the three requested hours, and not a second longer.

It is a long wait, however, so while the twins chatter to him, they have abandoned mission reports and are now sharing information on games they want to play, or places they've been, he messages the other three.

The minutes go slower than expected, but finally he watches it pass, and stands.

"Have fun boss!"

"Good luck!"

He doesn't question them, he's almost curious what you told them to gain their help, but he thinks if it was any plan to be mischievous with him, they'd accept without any reason.

There is a kind of satisfaction in knowing he has the twisted loyalty of the two, they certainly don't work in any way his enemies would understand.

He also doesn't hate the fact they bring a smile to your face, or you to theirs.

When he finally returns to the apartment, he sees the other three sat outside, staring at the door. "You all look like loiterers. You're going to get reported. How will the good doctor cope with a criminal record?"

"How does one suit you?"

"Always a story to tell at parties."

The prince's head is resting on the fish's shoulder, he blinks a little, "You're late." Before he stretches and stands.

"Yeah crow, we've been waiting."

"Rafayel almost walked a hole into the floor going around in circles." Xavier adds.

"You almost broke the door down."

"Impatient." He yawns, shrugging as if it's not a problem. "Sylus can replace the door again, it's fine."

"Have you forgotten your fingerprints are registered?" Sylus asks, raising a brow.

"Quicker to break through the door."

He watches as the doctor rubs at the bridge of his nose, sighing so deeply he's surprised he doesn't fall under the weight of it, "You two act like such children sometimes."

"Not gonna share the macarons I bought with you then."

The doctor frowns, the furrow of his brow deepening, turning his face so he can hide some of the blush on his cheeks, "I'm alright with that."

"They're strawberry."

"I apologise."

"Too easy doctor."

"Can we go in now?" Rafayel stands, barely holding himself back from beginning to bounce on the heels of his feet.

"Alright fish."

Sylus watches as Rafayel opens the door. When it swings open, and they enter, the first thing he notices is bunting.

Hung from the ceiling, along the walls, in purples and blues. There are large red ribbons tied around chairs. Balloons half inflated on the floor in pink and green. A banner along the length of the dining table that has 'Thank you' drawn onto it in messy block letters, yellow stars decorated around it.

All four of them pause. The smell of fresh food, plates and bowls piled high on the table. And gift wrapped boxes, messily wrapped with some torn paper, next to each of their seats.

You are standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot to music, bouncing a little on the spot. Singing along with Mephisto whose squawks leave a lot to be desired in the music department.

He is sure that in this they are unified. Watching as you sing, and move, and twirl to grab something from the side. The feeling in his chest is molten and bright and warm, and if he ever loses it he knows he will have truly died.

"Kitten." Escapes him on an exhale as you smile that familiar crooked smile to yourself.

Your spatula clatters to the floor as you twirl to face him, and see all four of them. "Oh, I lost track of time, shit." You squat to clean up the mess in a panic, receiving a disgruntled cry from Mephisto as he flies off his favoured perch over to sit on the top of a dining chair.

"What is all of this?" The doctor asks, as Xavier rushes over to help you clean up.

You hesitate where you stand, toying with your fingers, before pointing over at the table, "I wanted to thank you."

"You don't have to thank us, cutie. Is this why you've been so jumpy?"

You close your eyes and he watches as you take in a long inhale, steadying yourself, and shivering a little, before you open them again. Flames burning in the depths of them, "No. I wanted to tell you something."

He wants to make a joke that you look like you're about to go to war, as you walk past them and indicate the table, to where there are gifts on the table, each with an initial scrawled on the paper. Yet there's a feeling like if he jokes, he's going to shatter something, and he hesitates before pushing it down, to follow as you lead.

He finds the one with an S, and lifts it up, it's a cube wrapped in black and red paper, with a small golden ribbon. He can tell you've torn the paper, struggling with the hand you still can't control for intricate work. You have given him one gift before, the handmade crow phone charm, one he knows matches the charms for the others. It's crooked and it's not perfect, but you made it. For him.

He has shot a man for almost breaking it during a fight.

His chest feels too hot, as a dragon he isn't sure he's ever felt such a thing before. He thinks if he had really kissed you that day so long ago, before it had all shattered, it would feel like this. It makes him feel sick, but he wants it to last forever.

"They're nothing big, it's. I wanted- You needed-" You sit then, slumping and covering your face to force their air in and out of your lungs, "Sorry. Please open them."

The paper comes away easy, and nestled inside with tissue paper is a red mug with a crow that looks suspiciously like that plushie you'd had him catch, and a key inside, with a series of charms. A crow, a star, a snowflake and a fish. He hesitates as he stares at it, hand careful. Like he could crush it easily if he tenses too hard.

Like it will shatter if he moves just a little.

Disappear if he blinks.

"Rafayel was right, when he told me that the password to your place can change easily, your key can't." You're looking down as you speak, and he can see you out of the corner of his eye, though he doesn't want to look away from his gift, "Well I could change the locks, I guess, but it's- That's not the point."

There's a wince before you tighten your hands into fists in front of you, the air is still and they watch. He can feel something and he's not sure what it is.

"You all made sure I could stand back up again, you were here for me when I needed you and wanted you. I wanted- needed you to know that I'll always want you here. That when you go back home, you're welcome anytime, that I-" Your voice keeps trembling, and pausing, and he wants to reach out, to hold you, to take your face in his hands, to cry with you he thinks, "I love you all so much. I needed you to know, before you went. Before this was over, and I had to say bye to this life."

"Cutie, do-"

"I love you. The- ah- the kind with- shit. I should have written this down."

He finally releases the keychain, approaches you as your hand trembles, eases his thumb over your skin, and watches as Xavier hooks his chin over your shoulder. Zayne and Rafayel crouch down to look up at you, a hand pressed to your knees. The contact eases the strain out of your body, but you must feel the small tremor in his, because you tighten your grip on him.

When you speak, you have found your ground, "I never settled down long enough to think about it, what you all are. I knew you were important, precious, but I didn't have a name for it, or wanted to think about it. I was sure if I didn't think about it, if I lost you it wouldn't hurt as much. If something happened to me, you'd be alright." He watches hands tighten against your skin, because he knows his own does, losing you is not an option, "I was wrong. Even though so many days have hurt, or felt like agony, you were home for me. Safe. You feel like love should feel. When I think about where I want to be, it's anywhere you are."

Your hand shakes as you reach out, to ease over Zayne's cheek with your fingers with your metal fingers. Flinching when he gasps at it, when he leans into your hand, taking it in his to press it further against his skin. "I don't know where to go from here, or what you all want. I know I'm asking a lot, and I understand if you don't feel the same way. I needed you to know, before you left, when I was ready. I don't want to keep looking back, I want to move forwards."

There is a shudder in your frame as you swallow, you take the time to look at them all, even though the angle Xavier at pulls at your neck, and Sylus feels that feeling he got when he used to fly, when you hold his gaze. Freedom, falling, soaring. Able to go anywhere, and do anything. When he held you and soared when you could not sleep, while he can't do that now, he can always take you on the back of his bike. Every sleepless night.

Forever.

"I love you."

It is measured, it is careful, and it is spoken on a tremble. Unused to vulnerability, wilfully shown. A wound on display, not hidden and kept under covers. No longer smothered under the bloody blanket, no longer trembling in the darkness.

He watches you look at him, tears streaming down your face with the weight of feelings he knows you struggle to process, and he was right.

You truly are beautiful when you cry and let him see.

"We're not going anywhere, darling." Zayne whispers against your hand, as he kisses against your palm. Cool lips against cool metal. You close your eyes at the feeling, shiver down your spine.

"You're home, starlight." Xavier nods, brushing lips against your cheek.

"Of course we love you cutie, forever, and always."

Sylus watches as Rafayel kisses your knee and squeezes your leg, watches more tears spill from your eyes, in what he knows is relief. Turns your hand so he can press his lips to your wrist, to your palm, to your fingertips, and sighs against your skin, "Thank you for telling us, beloved."

Thank you for loving him again. For embracing him once more.

For seeing him as more than a monster. For seeing a future that he has a part in.

For walking the path with him once more.

For accepting him as your home.

Later when Sylus has had his moment of breathing in the scent of you. Eased against the junction of your neck, hand tracing shapes into your hip. Whispering affection and murmurs of beloved against your skin.

When they have eaten, when mugs have been placed in the cupboard of your apartment, waiting for when they are needed. When he has stared at the key you have given him willingly. Offering him entrance whenever he wishes, trusting him in your territory. That he watches you sleep against the doctor's chest. Relieved and exhausted.

He knows there is more to do, conversations to have, things to fix, to arrange, but he feels like he is finally back at the starting line, prepared for the race ahead.

As he places your prosthetic back on its stand, and pulls a blanket over the prince who has rested his head in your lap, and cleans up some of the mess, so that the fish can paint the image in front of him, he leans down to place a kiss to your head.

Sylus thinks back to the empty cave, the blood splatter and the bones of the past. He thinks about loneliness and eternal exhaustion, of a search for something he worried he may never grasp again.

He is a boy again, standing in the cave, surrounded by family and loved ones, and this time, he has the power to protect it.

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1chaerry · 2 months ago

Note

Hello dear Chae, please could you write a (platonic) Kim Dokja x male!reader, the reader is a constellation and Secretive Plotter's husband, I hope I don't you mind , take care of yourself 🤍

hii!!! I love anything to do with ORV!! Okay, so this fueling my ORV obsession more. hope you like it!!

A Plot-Twist In The Stars

summary: a sudden sub-scenario appears for Kim Dokja and for some reason, all the Constellations seem excited for it. Kim Dokja skeptically accepts it.

c.w: fluff, fluff, FLUFF, a bit of plot [come on, it's ORV], sub-scenario, platonic love,

w.c: 2.7k

disclaimer: Reader is called 'Saram' meaning 'Human/Person.'

Kim Dokja had long since learned to distrust the Star Stream’s attempts at “entertainment.” So when the system announced a new sub-scenario with a flourish, complete with a suspicious lack of immediate death flags, he instinctively frowned

[A SUB-SCENARIO HAS BEEN TRIGGERED!]

Objective: Accompany [The Secretive Plotter’s Husband] for one (1) day.

Reward: ???

The chat room exploded with excitement.

⎡ Constellation Prisoner of the Golden Headband is rolling on the ground laughing. ⎤

⎡ Constellation Bald General of Justice eagerly leans forward, wondering how this will play out. ⎤

⎡ Constellation Demon-like Judge of Fire clicks her tongue, muttering something about romantic plots. ⎤

Kim Dokja's brow twitched. “Why do I feel like this is going to be humiliating?”

“What's wrong?” Yoo Joonghyuk said gruffly, arms crossed as he eyed the notification on Dokja’s screen.

“No,” Kim Dokja replied flatly. “Something about this feels deeply wrong.”

Before Yoo Joonghyuk could retort, the world around them shimmered, and Kim Dokja found himself somewhere else entirely.

The setting was surreal: a cozy, starlit garden with soft cushions and a low table laden with snacks. Across from him sat a man—tall, elegant, and exuding an aura of mischief. His eyes glittered with a sharp intelligence that made Kim Dokja’s survival instincts scream.

“Ah, so you’re the famous Kim Dokja,” the man said, resting his chin on one hand. “My husband speaks of you often.”

Kim Dokja’s brain short-circuited. “Your… husband?”

The man smiled. “I am [Halo of the Golden Sea], the Secretive Plotter’s beloved, or, Saram, if the moniker is too long. Don't worry, it's a false name, won't cause you probability.”

Kim Dokja stared. “The Secretive Plotter… has a husband?”

⎡ The Constellation Secretive Plotter coughs awkwardly. ⎤

The man—no, the Constellation—leaned back, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “You seem surprised. Did you think he was incapable of love?”

Kim Dokja did not say, Yes, absolutely.

Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, “What exactly is the purpose of this scenario?”

“To spend time with me, of course!” Saram replied brightly, before leaning closer, his voice dropping suggestively. “Don’t worry—I don’t bite. Much.”

Kim Dokja scooted back instinctively.

⎡ Constellation Abyssal Black Flame Dragon bursts into laughter, finding your plight amusing. ⎤

⎡ Constellation Secretive Plotter sighs but says nothing. ⎤

Throughout the day, Saram found every opportunity to fluster Kim Dokja.

While showing Dokja the starlit garden that seemed to exist between realities, Saram casually commented, “You know, for someone who deals with life-and-death scenarios daily, you have a surprisingly composed face. It’s almost… infuriatingly unreadable. Are you always this calm, or is this just for me?”

Dokja avoided eye contact, trying to focus on the nonsensical task of categorizing glowing star fragments. “I just… don’t let things get to me.”

Sarambraised an eyebrow. “Really? Not even when I look at you like this?” He leaned closer, his expression playful but his gaze sharp.

⎡ Constellation Bald General of Justice whistles approvingly. ⎤

⎡ Constellation Demon-like Judge of Fire mutters, ‘I ship it.’ ⎤

Saram casts a glance at the Constellations, "Behave, you children."

There's a silence from the Constellations which made Dokja gulp, wondering how much power this man had to quiet them all.

Dokja turned away, his voice clipped. “Do you always tease strangers like this?”

Saram laughed, the sound warm and unapologetic. “Only the interesting ones.”

As the day wore on, Saram grew bolder in his attempts to rattle Dokja’s composure.

At one point, he leaned against a tree, arms crossed, and watched Dokja struggle with yet another nonsensical task involving glowing orbs. “You know,” he said casually, “if I weren’t already married, I might have considered claiming you for myself.”

Dokja froze mid-motion, nearly dropping the orb in his hand. “Excuse me?”

Saram smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “What? Can’t I appreciate a brilliant mind and an unyielding spirit? Don’t tell me you’re completely oblivious to how captivating you are.”

Dokja’s face burned, though he quickly masked it with his usual deadpan expression. “I think your husband might have something to say about that.”

⎡ Constellation Secretive Plotter silently tightens his grip on his sword. ⎤

Saram laughed, completely unbothered. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He knows I like to keep things interesting.”

As the scenario progressed, Kim Dokja began to notice a certain spark in Saram's behavior that made him uneasy, and it wasn’t just the unnerving way he casually teased him throughout the day. It was the subtle but undeniable attention that Saram seemed to give him—like he was studying him, analyzing his every move with a sharp, calculating gaze.

Though the garden was serene, with a gentle breeze rustling the trees and soft light from the stars above, the atmosphere between them felt charged with something far more intense than just casual conversation. Every glance from Saram lingered just a little too long, and every comment was laden with something more than what was on the surface. At first, Kim Dokja brushed it off as part of the oddity of being in this strange scenario, but soon, he realized that there was an unmistakable curiosity behind those bright eyes.

Saram would often watch him intently as they sipped tea, as if waiting for Kim Dokja to reveal something of himself—his thoughts, his plans, his secrets. There was an eerie quality to it, like he could see right through him. And the way he’d occasionally smile, just the slightest curl of his lips, gave Kim Dokja the distinct feeling that he was being toyed with.

“Tell me, Kim Dokja,” Saram asked that afternoon, as they walked side by side through the starry garden, “Why do you always seem so guarded? Are you afraid of revealing too much?”

Kim Dokja stiffened at the question, instinctively shutting himself off even further. “I’m not ‘guarded,’” he replied stiffly. “I’m just… cautious.”

Saram chuckled, the sound warm but tinged with something mischievous. “Cautious, yes. But you’re not fooling anyone. You’re hiding something, aren’t you? Something important.”

Kim Dokja’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was an unsettling truth to what Saram said.

“It’s none of your business,” he shot back, trying to regain his usual composure, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that every word out of Saram’s mouth felt like a carefully crafted move.

And that was when he realized: this wasn’t just a random Constellation. There was something strategic behind the way Saram spoke, something calculated in his interest in him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Saram wasn’t simply curious about him—he was intrigued.

The other Constellations had been amused by the sub-scenario, but Saram’s interest seemed far deeper. He wasn’t just playing along for fun. No, he was actively pulling at the threads of Kim Dokja’s life, his story, and perhaps even his own motivations. It felt like he was trying to understand the very fabric of his being, as if he could somehow use it for his own ends—or perhaps to simply learn about him on a more personal level.

Kim Dokja could tell that Saram was a skilled manipulator, one who thrived in situations where he could read others and subtly influence them. And yet, for all his caution, Kim Dokja couldn’t help but wonder…...

Did Saram actually want something from him? Or was this all just a game—one that Saram was determined to play to the very end?

As they shared a quiet moment, sitting beneath the stars, Saram leaned in just a little closer, his gaze sharp but playful. “You know, Kim Dokja… I find you fascinating. There’s something about you that’s both frustrating and intriguing. I wonder…” His voice dropped, almost teasing. “What would it take to get you to let me in? To show me the real you?”

Kim Dokja couldn’t help but tense at the question, feeling a surge of irritation mixed with something else. Was it fear? Or was it just the sense of being cornered by someone who could so effortlessly navigate the intricate web of his emotions?

“I don’t let anyone in,” he said, voice steady but the words betraying him. “I’m not a person you want to know.”

But Saram only smiled wider, like a cat with its prey. “Ah, but that’s exactly what makes you interesting.” He leaned back slightly, as if giving Kim Dokja a moment to reconsider, but the glint in his eyes never wavered. “You’re not as impenetrable as you think, Kim Dokja. Maybe, in time, you’ll come to realize that.”

The rest of the day unfolded with a constant undercurrent of this unspoken tension. Kim Dokja couldn’t shake the feeling that every word, every interaction, was another thread being woven into a bigger, more complex pattern that Saram was crafting with remarkable precision. As much as he tried to distance himself, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that Saram was interested in him—more so than any other Constellation Kim Dokja had encountered.

And it wasn’t just curiosity. No, Saram seemed to be quietly testing his boundaries, pushing to see how far he could go before Kim Dokja either cracked or completely shut him out.

The more Kim Dokja tried to maintain his distance, the more Saram seemed determined to break down his walls. It was becoming less about the scenario itself and more about the challenge of unraveling the mystery that was Kim Dokja.

By the end of the day, Kim Dokja realized that Saram wasn’t just interested in him because of the Star Stream or the scenario—it was because he saw something in Kim Dokja. Something that made him worthy of fascination.

Whether Kim Dokja liked it or not, he had unknowingly become a part of Saram’s plot—a plot he had no idea how to navigate. But that was nothing new for Kim Dokja, was it? After all, he had been thrown into enough convoluted plots to know that sometimes, the best way to survive was to embrace the chaos and play along.

The day was an utter whirlwind of chaos.

Saram insisted on dragging Kim Dokja through activities that ranged from mildly ridiculous (picking constellations to “adopt” as stars in their garden) to outright absurd (convincing Kim Dokja to play tag while the chat room provided commentary).

At one point, Saram raised a glass of wine and smirked. “You know, Kim Dokja, you’re not half bad. Maybe I’ll convince my husband to let me keep you.”

[ Constellation Secretive Plotter glares coldly. ⎤

Kim Dokja, somehow completely sober, replied, “I think your husband would kill me. Again.”

Saram only laughed. “He wouldn’t dare. I’m the only one who gets to torment you today.”

⎡ Constellation Secretive Plotter looks away, his ears suspiciously red. ⎤

As the day came to an end, Kim Dokja collapsed onto the cushions, exhausted but somehow… content. Saram lounged nearby, still radiating that chaotic energy, but with a softer, almost fond smile.

“You’re interesting,” Saram said. “I can see why the Star Stream loves you.”

Kim Dokja groaned. “I hate that.”

Saram chuckled, then stood. “Well, this was fun. But don’t think you’re off the hook. If you survive the next scenario, we might meet again.”

The world shimmered once more, and Kim Dokja found himself back with Yoo Joonghyuk and the others.

“What happened?” Yoo Sangaj asked, concerned.

Kim Dokja stared into the distance, his voice hollow. “I… bonded with the Secretive Plotter’s husband.”

The chat room exploded into laughter once again.

⎡ Constellation Secretive Plotter silently vows to make amends for the day’s chaos. ⎤

And somewhere in the Star Stream, Saram laughed.

The garden was quiet now, bathed in the soft, silver light of the stars. The stars above twinkled as if to remind Saram that time was still passing, even if it felt as though the entire world had paused for a moment. He leaned against a stone pillar, his gaze fixed on the starlit horizon, though his mind wasn’t on the scenery.

Behind him, the shimmering air twisted as a familiar presence appeared. It was a subtle distortion in the fabric of reality—one that only someone accustomed to the Star Stream’s constant manipulations would recognize.

"I see you’ve finally arrived," Saram said, not turning around. His tone was calm, almost casual, but there was a flicker of something more behind his words.

The figure that appeared behind him, silent as ever, stepped into the moonlight. The tall, imposing silhouette belonged to none other than the Constellation known as Secretive Plotter. Despite the heavy air between them, the quiet tension was almost… playful.

"Saram," Plotter’s voice rumbled, low and deliberately distant. "That was a rather… interesting day."

Saram allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "Interesting? Or just entertaining?" He raised an eyebrow, turning to face the other Constellation. "You didn’t think it would be easy to keep things simple, did you?"

Plotter’s expression didn’t change, but the glimmer in his eyes seemed sharper, like the gears of a complex plan were grinding slowly into motion. "You are… unpredictable."

"I prefer to think of myself as entertaining," Saram replied with a playful shrug, stepping closer to Plotter. "But I think you enjoyed it more than you’re letting on."

For a moment, there was silence. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled, because neither of them were in a rush. Plotter studied him, his gaze steady and unreadable.

"Why him?" Plotter asked after a pause, his tone quiet but cutting through the night air like a sharp blade. "Kim Dokja. Why go to such lengths with him? You know what kind of person he is."

Saram chuckled softly, eyes glinting with mischief. "He’s interesting, that’s why. He’s got this air of… complexity about him. You can never quite pin him down. Don’t you find that fascinating?" He tilted his head slightly, like he was watching Plotter carefully for any reaction.

Plotter didn’t answer immediately, but the corners of his mouth twitched, as though a rare smile had almost escaped him. It quickly disappeared, replaced by the usual, unreadable mask.

"You know him well," Plotter finally said. "But I wonder… do you see something in him beyond that? Or is it just the game for you?"

Saram met Plotter’s gaze unflinchingly, his eyes sparkling with something deeper. "Is it so wrong to want to have a little fun while playing the game? To see how long it takes before he finally cracks, or maybe—" He stepped closer again, his voice lowering to a near whisper, "—to see what lies beneath all those layers he’s so desperate to keep hidden?"

Plotter didn’t react, but the air around him seemed to crackle with the unspoken understanding between them. Despite his cold, distant demeanor, it was clear that Plotter had been watching his every move. And in that silent exchange, the tension between them was palpable. There was no need for words—both understood exactly what the other was thinking.

"And you?" Saram continued, this time leaning in ever so slightly, close enough for Plotter to feel his presence. "Do you ever let your walls down, or is it just me who has the privilege of seeing them crumble?"

Plotter’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, the faintest trace of something that could have been a smile playing at his lips. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar, cryptic expression. "I have no need to lower my guard with you," he said, his voice low and controlled. "But you… you are something else."

Saram laughed, the sound rich with amusement. "I suppose we are something else together, aren't we?" He paused, then leaned in, his tone suddenly more serious, more intimate. "But don’t think for a moment I won’t be keeping an eye on you. This game of ours… it’s just beginning."

Plotter met his gaze evenly, his eyes filled with that same cool, inscrutable depth. "I don’t need your protection, but I’ll be watching, too."

They stood there for a moment, the starlit garden between them, both of them perfectly aware of the unspoken understanding that tied them together. It was a strange alliance, one forged in the midst of games and plots, but it was real in its own way. Neither of them knew what would come next, but neither of them was ready to let go just yet.

As the night air drifted softly around them, Saram smiled—a smile that wasn’t entirely light, but more of an invitation, a challenge. "Shall we see where this story takes us next, then?"

Plotter’s only response was a silent nod. He stepped back, his eyes lingering for a moment longer before turning to leave.

But Saram stayed, watching the stars as they sparkled above.

"Let’s see how far we can push this game," he murmured to the empty night.

#omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv spoilers #omniscient reader's viewpoint x reader #where are all the orv fics?#secretive plotter x reader #secretive plotter #kim dokja #kim dokja x reader #yoo sangah #yoo joonghyuk #constellations #prisoner of the golden headband #orv kdj #orv x reader #there is a scarcity of orv fics

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sheriffaxolotl · 2 months ago

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Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.

Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?

Content Warning: Description of injury and blood ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The rhythmic pounding of hooves slices through the haze of pain. Your entire body aches, but it’s the jagged, burning sensation in your side that consumes every thought. Each breath comes in shallow bursts, the edges of your vision blurred, but you fight to stay conscious. The air reeks of blood and dirt, the sun searing your skin.

Stay with it, you tell yourself. Don’t fade now.

The wound bites deep, a tether holding you to the world. That, and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath you. The pain is unbearable, each jolt of the horse sending fresh waves of agony ripping through you. But you’re alive. Not dead yet. That grim truth is all you have to cling to.

The rough leather saddle digs into your skin as you slump forward, vision swimming. The world blurs with every move, the edges of consciousness threatening to give way. Blood seeps warm and sticky beneath your clothes, but you can’t dwell on it—not now. Thinking about it will undo you.

Fragments of memory flash through your mind: the campfire, the men, the fight. Gunshots. A trap. You recall the fire of the gun in your hands, the brief surge of triumph as your shot landed true. Then came the pain—searing, all-consuming.

Who did this to you? The thought spirals in your fractured mind. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The horse stumbles slightly, jolting you back to the present. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, the agony flaring anew. The sound of your own shallow breathing drowns everything else out, until a voice cuts through the noise.

“Stay with me.”

The voice is low, firm, and tinged with urgency. It pulls you back, anchoring you against the pull of oblivion. You turn your head slightly, eyes straining to focus, and catch a fleeting glimpse of him: Arthur Morgan. His familiar drawl grounds you, his steady presence a lifeline in the chaos.

The warmth of his arm braces you as the horse charges forward, his grip firm yet careful. The leather reins creak, and you catch the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. It brings you an odd comfort.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur murmurs, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “I need you to hang on.”

A weak, bitter laugh escapes your lips, a cruel parody of defiance. “Only ‘cause you asked so nice…” The words tumble out, strained and barely audible.

Arthur spurs the horse onward, his breathing steady but his heartbeat frantic against your back. His urgency is a sharp contrast to the lethargy clawing at your limbs. You’re slipping, and he knows it.

The edges of your consciousness flicker, bright sparks turning to embers before dissolving into the darkness. The world tilts, a chaotic blur of sound and sensation, and for a moment, everything goes black. You lose the shape of his arms around you, the thud of the horse’s hooves beneath you. The pain recedes, leaving behind only the distant, rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears. The wind carries the faint, rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves, a deep, steady thrum that draws you deeper, pulling the last of your thoughts, your memories, your fears, into the void.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The pounding of hooves slows, the sharp crunch of dirt underfoot stirs you awake once more. Strong hands haul you from the saddle, not gently, but with care born of necessity. Your vision swims, catching fleeting images: the flicker of a campfire, shadowy figures darting in the firelight, voices cutting through the haze.

“Come on, girlie,” a voice whispers, rough and urgent. Arthur. The gravelly tone catches in your ears, thick with exhaustion and a quiet strain. There’s a rawness to it, like the edge of a blade that’s been used too long, but beneath it, there’s something steady—something anchored. A confidence that can’t quite disguise the fear threaded through his words. The words are almost a command, but with a tenderness buried deep, like he’s trying to reassure both you and himself.

“Almost there,” he adds, the drawl of his southern accent seeping into the syllables, giving the words a warmth that contrasts with the urgency. The sound of it is grounding, familiar in a way that makes the world around you feel a little less threatening. It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to believe in his own words.

A moment later.

Voices.

"Careful with her,” someone says sharply. “She’s bleedin’ bad.”

Cool hands press against your side, applying pressure to stem the flow. The pain flares, white-hot, and a strangled cry escapes your lips. Arthur’s voice is a constant thread through the noise.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though his tone wavers.

A woman’s voice joins his, sharp and authoritative. “Careful! We need to stop the bleeding before she goes into shock. Someone go get the supplies! Reverend!”

The camp blurs in and out of focus. Cool cloths press against your forehead, the sting of antiseptic cuts through the fog. Every sensation feels distant, muted, like it’s happening to someone else.

“She’s losing too much blood.” The woman’s voice is sharper now, tinged with desperation.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens. “She’s not dyin’. Not here, not now.” His voice carries a fierce conviction that makes you want to believe him.

Your breathing comes in harsh, shallow gasps as you open your eyes again, only for the world to spin. Your vision narrows in on the looming figure above you—Arthur. You can make out the shape of him now, darkened against the campfire. His face is a mask of concern, his lips moving, but the words don’t quite reach you.

“Open your eyes,” he mutters lowly, but it sounds distant, as if he’s speaking through thick fog.

A rough, half-sarcastic laugh escapes you, though it’s weak and breathless. “Fine mess I got myself into…”

The words feel foreign, so far removed from the weight of the pain. But somehow, they escape, even though they carry with them the faintest echo of something you don’t fully understand.

Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens, firm but gentle. “We’ll get you patched up. Just hold on.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. The words are too far out of reach, tangled up with the pain and the weight of everything that’s happened. Your thoughts are swimming, slipping between memories that don’t quite make sense and the sharp, burning agony in your side. Your head lolls to one side, and your body shudders, a chill running through you despite the heat of the campfire.

The world dims, but Arthur’s steady presence anchors you.

“Stay awake, spitfire,” he says softly, the nickname laced with something unspoken. It stirs a faint flicker of warmth, like a distant memory brushing the edge of consciousness.

The warmth of Arthur’s hand is steady on your arm, his grip unshaken despite the commotion around you. You feel his breath against your ear, his voice cutting through your fractured thoughts.

“Hold on. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this.”

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he believes it—or if he’s just saying it to keep himself together. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re still here, and the voices haven’t stopped. Not yet.

The moments bleed into each other, each breath sharp and fleeting, but somewhere amid the blur of pain and fading vision, the voices begin to grow more distant. The chaos around you settles into a steady rhythm—softer murmurs and the movement of people working. You feel hands on you, their touch careful and practiced, pressing and adjusting with an urgency that pulls you back to the present.

A new cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, the sudden chill shocking you back to awareness. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering as the pain in your side radiates with a sharp bite. A voice, belonging to the woman, drifts through the haze.

“We’re lucky. The bullet went clean through; didn’t hit anything vital, from the looks of it.” Her voice, while tinged with worry, carries a note of relief. You try to focus on that, the small sliver of fortune.

Hands work quickly, removing torn fabric and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The sting of antiseptic sears your skin, sharp and biting. The world wavers, edges blurred with fatigue, but the cool touch of the cloth remains. You shift slightly, feeling the taut muscles in your side tense as the cloth is replaced with bandages, rough and raw but securing the wound with an iron grip.

Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog again, low and steady, urging you to stay with him. You can feel his grip tightening on your arm, firm yet gentle, as if trying to beacon you back to the world around you.

The muffled sound of boots pounding on the dirt fades into the background as you force yourself to take another breath. You’re grateful for the simple fact that the bullet went clean through. For a moment, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be alright. The voices around you blur into a comforting lullaby, soft and rhythmic, as if time has slowed to match the steady press of hands and the pulse of life still burning within you.

“Arthur…” The whisper escapes your lips, rough and barely audible. The sensation of your voice feels distant.

You feel his presence this time before you hear him, the shadow of him falling over you like a protective veil. He leans closer, his face etched with concern, the firelight casting deep lines across his features. “You with me?” His voice is urgent but gentle, like he's fighting against something he can’t control. “I need you to stay with me now, you hear?”

A tiny nod escapes you, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for him to catch. His breath catches, just a fraction of a second, before he exhales slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, the words so soft they might be meant for himself. “Just a little longer.”

But the camp around you seems to blur into nothing, a fading hum in the distance. The voices become indistinct murmurs, the movement of people turning into the background noise of a world you're slowly drifting away from. Each breath feels harder to pull in, your chest heavy with the weight of it, and your vision narrows to a thin line now.

You can feel Arthur’s grip, firm but tender, his calloused hand against your skin, grounding you as you fight to stay conscious. “Hold on, almost done,” he says again, his voice wavering once again.

The air feels colder now, the world spinning faster, and your breath comes in short, jagged gasps. The firelight feels far away, distant as the shadows stretch longer. The voices grow muffled, like you're sinking deeper into water, and the weight of the night presses down harder on you.

“Damn it,” Arthur's voice growls, low and fierce. “You’re gonna make it through this. Just hold on, spitfire.”

The nickname cuts through the haze like a beacon. Spitfire. It ignites something faint but stubborn—a flicker of warmth in the growing void. You cling to the sound, not for the word itself, but for the way he says it. It’s not a command but a promise, wrapped in affection and fear. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but the effort is too much.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion. The cold gnaws at you, threatening to drag you into a place you won’t return from. For a moment, you surrender, letting the darkness cradle you. But his voice pulls you back.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, fierce and pleading all at once. “Stay with me. You hear me, spitfire? Stay awake.”

The nickname strikes you again, a whisper of warmth against the encroaching chill. You latch onto it like a lifeline, the way it curls around you, soft and steady.

The edges of your vision finally fades into a dark blur, the firelight fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns. Your body sinks into the cold, bone-deep and unrelenting, but his hand doesn’t let go. You don’t think you’ll make it back this time, but as the void rises to claim you, his voice cuts through one last time.

“Spitfire.”

The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. AO3 : Chapter 1

#Arthur Morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan #sheriffaxolotlwriting

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aneveningsword · 1 year ago

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𝑭𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮

pairing: Jordan Li x gn!reader warnings: not proofread, hurt/comfort words: 1498 summary: a video from a party leads to accusations being thrown, with betrayal and jealousy clouding the mind it is only expected something goes wrong.

masterlist

Fights with Jordan were never malicious; they were always about something stupid or the stress of class. When the two of you fought, it was always followed by a heated makeout session and hushed apologies. It was never serious, and there was nothing you couldn't forgive each other for. However, the subject of the fight was sometimes just in someone's head.

The aggressive knocks on your dorm room door were nothing new; with your headphones on, you could barely hear anything. Rising from your couch, you cross the small space to the door, opening it with a smile that only grew as you saw Jordan on the other side.

"Hey, I wasn't expecting you." Your voice trails off slightly as you notice the deep frown on their face. Taking a moment to take in their appearance you notice their vphone clutched harshly in their hand, for a moment you wonder if it is going to shatter in their hand. Pushing past you to get into your room you were a little shocked with their aggression.

Shutting the door quickly, you turn to face them, confusion written on your face as you try to figure out what's wrong. "You good?" Their nostrils flared slightly as you huffed in response to the question. "Am I doing well? Are you okay? "What the hell is this?" Their voice was accusatory, their dark eyes boring into yours as if they were looking for a flash of guilt to prove they were correct in their accusation.

A video was playing on their vphone, which was thrust into your face. From what you could tell, it was from the weekend party you attended. It was supposed to be a small gathering for your friend's party, but it was blown out of proportion, and many more people showed up. Regardless, it was a fun night that you will never forget. However, Jordan stands there with a video of someone performing a keg stand that you wish you could remember.

"Looks like someone having a good time?" The video loops again as you try to figure out what caused such a reaction from the person in front of you. Your words pull a scoff from Jordan as they watch you with anger swirling in their eyes. "The fucking background, I shouldn't have to explain it." Their words were laced with venom as you tried to see what they were talking about. What could possibly get them so upset to storm into your dorm and begin yelling at you over something.

After a few moments, you realised what had gotten them so worked up. You and a guy were in the crowd that gathered around the person of the moment, encouraging them to keep drinking. Matthew? Max? Martin? His name slipped your mind, the alcohol erasing it from your memory. They were attached to your side, their hands a little too low, and their face whispering something in your ear before hovering over the exposed skin of your neck in the video. You couldn't help but frown as you saw it, desperately trying to recall how you got into the situation.

You could remember the disgusting feeling of his hands on you, the drunken flirting, and the kiss they tried to give you in small fragments. You'd put a stop to it before it got too far, telling them to get lost and that you weren't interested in them at all.

"That was nothing-" "Nothing? I sure looked like something." Jordan's anger-filled voice cut you off before you could explain yourself, their emotions clouding their judgement. You knew you should not rise to their bites, to begin yelling back and fighting with an equal amount of venom. But you were feeding off the anger and betrayal in the room.

"I don't know why it's any of your business. It's not like we are together." What Jordan and you had was delicate, you weren't officially together yet treated one another as partners. There had never been a conversation on exactly what you two were, simply a couple of people who fool around and seek each other out at times. Not a couple.

"It became my business when you act like a fucking slut." You it was not the yelling that caused the pang in your heart, not the tone or the way they looked at you with such anger. But the accusation of you being a slut, as though you were asking for a man to accost you while trying to celebrate your friend. "Go fuck yourself Jordan. God, I don't act like such a brat when you flirt with people. If I knew you were so insecure I would've wasted my time with you."

Your words seemed to strike a nerve with them, and your choice of words hurt them. There was some distance between you two, a small safety bubble in your eyes. But when Jordan took a step towards you, it popped, and you quickly took a step back to regain the distance between you. In reality, you don't know why you did it; you weren't afraid they'd hurt you physically because you knew they weren't like that. But the possibility of it existed.

In their masculine form, they could be rather intimidating, they were tall and muscular, and their voice was deep and loud without even trying. They towered over you with little effort, intimidating you without even trying.

Jordan's expression changed from one of rage to one of guilt and concern. It was never their intention to scare you or make you fear they would attack you. When they saw the video, they were just frustrated and hurt, feeling betrayed. A part of them knew they were wrong; you weren't together, you weren't their partner; you were simply someone who held a special place in their hearts. The sting of betrayal for what had happened was still there. But it was overshadowed by the guilt he felt for instilling fear in others. They knew in their masculine form they could be intimidating, they often used this form to make sure people were listening to them when making a point.

"I-" The shift to their feminine form was instant, their voice becoming softer, their features more rounded and their frame much smaller as though they were trying to curl into themself to appear less threatening. Their voice was laced with guilt, words dying in their throat not knowing what to say to make this better. To make you feel more comfortable and safe with them, instead of fear that they might do something. "I didn't mean..."

"I know," Your voice is soft as you speak, you feel stupid for allowing a small fear to consume you. To think that they were that low may that they may hurt you over a video and harsh words. Embarrassment flooded your system along with a small sense of guilt for the whirlwind of emotions you have caused them. "I just... I don't know why I did that."

"I would never hurt you," Jordan's voice matches yours in tone and volume, eyes searching yours for a hint of fear that you may still possess. "I know," Your small confirmation pushes Jordan towards you, their steps are slow and small giving you enough chance to back away or shoo them off. But you don't, needing the sense of comfort only they can bring.

Jordan's hands grab your hands softly, starting small to ensure you are okay with physical touch. When you give on negative reaction, they wrap their arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. You sink into their touch, arms wrapping around them as a small sigh leaves you. "I didn't mean for him to be all over me," You begin, finding this calm moment the perfect time to explain your actions. "I didn't want to cause a scene, not at my friend's party. It didn't go further than that, I promise. I got him to leave me be, he was just a stain on a good night."

There was silence for a moment, Jordan allowing your words to sink in and for a moment they felt silly. To think you would eagerly be all over a guy you just met at a party. That you would throw away what you both had for some man you clearly barely remember. But the jealousy and betrayal was still there, gnawing at the back of their mind.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have barged in here to yell at you. I didn't want to scare you." The small apology brought a smile to your face, it was easy to forgive Jordan and it was easy to love them.

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