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pinkberrytea · 5 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!

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 · 4 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 · 2 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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slytherinslut0 · 1 year ago

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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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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 · 5 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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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.

#jordan li x reader #jordan li #gen v #gen v jordan li #gen v x reader #gen v imagines #jordan li headcanons #jordan li imagines

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jozor-johai · 2 months ago

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Just a thought about Archmaester Marwyn's motives, maybe...

Archmaester Marwyn is of course infamously mysterious, appearing on-page in only one chapter, and once he finally appears he immediately departs. He gives cryptic warnings and advice to Sam, but the reader is left desperately wondering what to believe and what should be taken as untrustworthy ravings. Amidst all that, readers are left with very little to be sure of when it comes to Marwyn’s actual motives.

He says this of his plans, a brief enough description:

“Get myself to Slaver’s Bay, in Aemon’s place. The swan ship that delivered Slayer should serve my needs well enough. The grey sheep will send their man on a galley, I don’t doubt. With fair winds I should reach her first.”

That's still quite cryptic—sure we knew why Aemon wanted to reach Dany, but does Marwyn have the same reasons? Or even similar ones?

However, there’s a fragment of an idea from an Asha chapter that I think should not go overlooked, and might offer some additional insight into Marwyn’s investment in Daenerys. Asha asks what Rodrik the Reader is reading, and it’s a book by Archmaester Marwyn:

“Nuncle.” She closed the door behind her. “What reading was so urgent that you leave your guests without a host?” “Archmaester Marwyn’s Book of Lost Books.” He lifted his gaze from the page to study her. “Hotho brought me a copy from Oldtown. He has a daughter he would have me wed.” Lord Rodrik tapped the book with a long nail. “See here? Marwyn claims to have found three pages of Signs and Portents, visions written down by the maiden daughter of Aenar Targaryen before the Doom came to Valyria. Does Lanny know that you are here?” (AFFC The Kraken’s Daughter)

So shortly we finally meet Marwyn, we learn this: he claims to have found three pages of visions written down by Daenys the Dreamer, who predicted the Doom and saved the Targaryens from destruction.

What might Marwyn have found contained in those pages? Even three pages of such a valuable lost book might be enough motivation and insight to propel Marwyn to act, especially when he claims to have seen much and more besides through his glass candle.

Marwyn claims not to trust prophecy… but perhaps his attitude is affected by these three pages of Signs and Portents.

“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy.” Marwyn turned his head and spat a gob of red phlegm onto the floor. “Not that I would trust it. Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is . . . and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy, said Gorghan. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time.” He chewed a bit. “Still . . .”

That “Still…” might hold a lot of weight here.

This is but one of many minor mentions of Marwyn have preceded his appearance, but especially because this detail from Rodrik comes from the same book he finally appears in I think it should be given special attention. I think it’s no accident that GRRM gave us this insight, no matter how brief.

Just making an observation.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #jozor thoughts #valyrianscrolls #daenerys targaryen #marwyn the mage #sam tarly

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sheriffaxolotl · 17 days 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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rachalixie · 1 year ago

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a/n: tiny drabble about minho and an egg. i think chan ghost wrote this. anyways.

minho has this superhuman ability to make your cute aggression flare up so much that smoke comes out of your ears. like when he laughs, the real kind of laugh where he can’t control the sounds coming out of his mouth and his teeth are on full display behind wide lips. or when he pads towards you in oversized clothes, fluffy socks on his feet that look kind of ridiculous, and drops his weight right on top of you so he can snuggle into the crook of your neck.

or right now, as he’s trying and failing to peel a boiled egg. he’s frowning at it, a deep scowl on his face and narrowed eyes trained on the tiny fragments of eggshell that simply refuse to come off. his tongue pokes out of his mouth, a flash of his front teeth glinting out as he carefully peels back a larger piece, only for it to break off and leave him adorably defeated.

you have to take a moment to control the emotions bubbling out of you as you look at him, push back your wonderment of how someone can be that freaking cute while doing something as mundane as peeling an egg. or, failing to peel an egg in his case. how can this man, a usual expert in the kitchen, struggle with something so simple? if anyone else showed this kind of incompetence you would get irrationally annoyed, but with him you hope he never learns how to do this on his own because what would you do if you never got to see this again?

you take the egg from him gently, fond smile permanent on your features as he looks at you with a shiny pout. he drops his hands to his lap in defeat as you peel back the shell in expert motions, tucking your fingers past the membrane and sliding the egg right out of it’s protection. you hand it to him, ignoring the little voice in your head that tells you to shove it right into his mouth so that his cheeks puff up in fullness, the urge only growing when he beams up at you with a fragile thank you. he nibbles at the egg, tiny bites and little munches accompanied by soft noises and you have to look away from him before you do something rash.

later, you’ll tease him for it, sharing egg-flavored kisses as he tries his best to defend himself. but now, you’re content to watch him enjoy his prize.

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids #lee know #lee know imagines #lee know fluff #skz fluff

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avocado-writing · 10 months ago

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notes: full version of this. contains mild brat taming, spanking, holy imagery. reader is genderless. special love to @dhampling who read over the start for me, and M for being my beta 💕

pairing: astarion x LG!Paladin!Reader

rating: E

words: 3k

Astarion looks at you, and he wonders.

He wonders, back when he was a spawn stalking through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, if his sheer proximity to you might have burnt the alabaster skin from his bleached, undead bones. That is the force of your radiance.

Every part of you is a perfect fragment of your god. Sunshine-brilliant and drenched equally in his glory and wrath, there could be no doubt that you are a child of Pelor. You carry his emblem on your armour and his love in your heart. Your skin has a dreamy pearlescent lustre, soft and hearty, and you seem to glow from the innate light within you.

It makes Astarion sick.

You are so nauseatingly good. When he met you on the road near the crash site it was your first instinct to help. Not to second guess his nature, not to wheedle any masked truth from him, but to draw your sword and offer protection to a stranger.

He got the jump on you, of course - but he recalls how easily you laid him out on his back in return. When he was staring up at you, forcibly unarmed, and the sun framed your face like your god had in that moment blessed you with a halo just to spite him.

And still you had reached out a hand to him in friendship.

You hadn’t withdrawn when the truth of his condition came to light. He figured someone of your vocation would try to run him through without a second thought. But instead of offering him the point of your blade, you offered him your neck.

“If my blood will strengthen you then I will gladly share it,” had been your words. He wanted to prove you wrong for your kindness, to drain you dry just to spite you - and your taste had been ambrosia. Sweetly blossoming on his tongue he had almost lost himself in the taste of you, until once again your firm hands pushed him away.

No. He would not get to end you that night.

Every day the two of you bickered. You, the stalwart immovable paladin; him, the nefarious rogue always up to something. The two of you were total opposites. It seemed almost cruel that fate had forced you into being travelling companions. And yet…

And yet.

Whenever you finished swapping barbs (well, the threw barbs at you, and you remained unbothered in the face of them, deflecting his venom with the pavise of your cool-headedness) he would see you smile as you turned away. He’d be well aware there was one on his own face, too.

Stupid. Weak.

How he managed to get you into bed after that party at the Grove, he’ll never know. It was a gamble and the dice were not in his favour. But he gave it a go anyway, drolly mentioning the quality of the wine and the overwhelmingly oppressive atmosphere. When he suggested meeting you later that night he braced himself to be staked.

But that hadn't happened.

You’d been surprised, definitely. Eyebrows raised and smile sudden, but you’d said yes. You’d even giggled at the idea, dizzy like a schoolchild.

And, admittedly, he felt an erotic thrill as he sauntered to meet you in that clearing. One he thought himself incapable of experiencing any longer. He was never excited about sex any more. He’d tried to convince himself it was due to his stygian soul, that a creature like him lying with someone as pure as you would be a defilement, would be sullying your holiness - something to bring you down a peg or two. Make you not so out of everyone’s reach.

Out of his reach.

Perhaps, though, in the corner of his mind he tried to wall up, he just relished the idea of being close to you.

And close to you he was. Your grip on his cock was warm and sweet as he slid inside you. You bared your neck and he found the bite marks that were becoming a permanent fixture on your skin, the softest place on you - every other inch was hard muscle. A reminder of that shield you carried, the righteous sword you swung. He made love to you in the most passionate way he knew possible.

He hadn’t realised he’d wanted to hear the sound his name made from your lips as you came around him. It burned into his soul.

He expected you to fall asleep quickly, after, but no. You’d actually held him. As if he weren’t some creature of the abyss but…

Well, your equal.

You hand had caressed his back in a way he’d never known before, soft and sweet, reading his scars like braille but not asking for their origin. Instead you’d opened up yourself a little and let him hear some of the chapters of your life.

He wasn’t surprised when you told him you swore your oath as a teenager. You grew up in the church, devoted from youth, and he could picture you: pocked-faced and wide-smiled, knowing exactly how you wanted to live the rest of your life.

So sure-footed. He was jealous. He was smitten.

“Do you ever regret it?” he’d asked, burying himself into the warmth of your body. You’d shaken your head and looked him dead in the eyes, so utterly sincere that it moved him.

“I rarely regret anything. Not my oath, not the nautiloid… not you,” you’d whispered before kissing him.

And, true to your word, you never did.

Nowadays? You make him feel safe. Protected. Watched over both in and out of battle - whenever anyone tries to take advantage of his vampirism, when they act like he is a thing rather than a person, you are the first one to his side to defend him.

It forces him reevaluate how he feels about himself; question if he is, in fact, a being worthy of love.

He hates it.

He is looking at his reflection in the mirror of you. Yes. You do see something worthy in him, something worthwhile and deserving of your nurture. It makes him so damned scared. Because if that’s true, it means maybe there’s more to him than the vicious little cretin he portrays himself as. Maybe he is worthy of it all. Of kindness. Of love.

Of you.

His soul begins to itch. He needs to do something to realign his universe, put things back into the way they’re meant to be. He needs to be a rogue, damn it!

Your adventure has called you back out to the Emerald Grove. With Isobel safe after the attack at the Last Light Inn you were comfortable leaving the Shadowlands for a while under the knowledge that before you fought Kethetic things were unlikely to get better, but also unlikely to immediately get worse. Astarion erects his tent on soft grass, relieved to not be surrounded by magical darkness, and waits for you to be distracted.

It does not take long. You are swept up in good-natured conversation with Wyll, discussing some sort of swordfighting technique he neither knows nor cares about. When he is certain that no eyes are on him he simply melts into the gloom of evening.

Where he belongs. Pathetic creature.

As far as he can tell, nobody notices him. The shadows cling to him like a second skin, like his body was made to have them mould around him, and he heads into the Grove. It is easy enough. The druids are all busy, guards down ever since the tieflings left, he just needs to not make too much noise and they are easy to pilfer from. Nothing too big or obvious. Nothing they really need. A healing tincture here, a handful of rare herbs there, a couple of silver pieces left loose on a stone desk. But the more he takes, the less it thrills him.

It occurs to him that none of this has the same impact that it used to. Once, the idea of robbing good people blind filled him with glee. Now, he can only picture your face every time his hand flits out to snatch something up. How disappointed you’d be with him. He is trying to fill a hole in himself and it is one that you have made. It sounds violent, but truth be told it’s anything but - he has been split open by your kindness, as if you were simply trying to carve away the rot and allow him to properly heal. That healing has barely started, and he's trying to patch over the necessary work with old bad habits which used to bring him joy. Not any longer, though.

No. His soul isn’t in it today.

He returns to camp with his heart and pockets heavy. He wonders what he should do with his ill-gotten gains. Return them? Perhaps, as quietly as he took them in the first place, making sure no attention is paid to him. Gloss all of this over like an artist sealing a painting, finish this nasty piece of work.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that, when he pulls back the fabric door of his tent, your presence there makes him actually jump.

You’re sitting on an old wooden chair, dragged over from your own quarters, legs crossed with one of your pauldrons in your lap. A cloth is grasped in your hand and you’re taking your time shining the metal. He catches you doing this a lot. You like to make sure your armour is in tip-top condition, every day. You once told him cleaning your plate mail is an act of worship for you, and he found that quietly ridiculous; Pelor forbid you get any blood on the thing saving your life every battle.

He freezes when you look up at him. The door falls closed, trapping the two of you in the canvas together.

“You’re up late,” he says, trying to affect nonchalance. He does not think you’d be here if this was a social call, at least not with such a serious countenance.

He’s been rumbled.

“Mm. I was in bed when I received a missive.” You hold the pauldron up and breathe a stream of warmth onto it, watching it fog before polishing the same spot.

“What sort of missive?”

“Nettie said she saw you skulking around the grove.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Bloody druids and their bloody perception. He’s going to torch that bloody Grove and all of those green-fingered bastards in it.

Except no, he’s not. He’d never. Not now. But he still finds himself going on the offensive, crossing his arms and scowling.

“Oh! ‘Skulking’, was it? Was that the actual word she used?”

“Yes, Astarion.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, so he just harrumphs.

“You know that I do not lie,” you add on, as if his silence threatens to be damnation of your oath.

“Mmm, I’m aware of that, and it is incredibly vexing!”

Finally you put the pauldron aside, all attention on him now. Hands clasped in your lap. Serious.

“Turn out your pockets for me please, Astarion.”

Fuck. Fuck.

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

You sigh.

“Is that because you’re denying you went and robbed our druid friends, or you just don’t want me to see what you took?”

His face burns. He doesn’t answer.

“Please, Astarion. Be a good boy.”

Oh. Oh. His body has an… involuntary response to that, one he wasn’t expecting at all. He feels himself throb as those words settle about him.

“You’re not in charge of me,” he protests, but there’s little oomph behind it, because slowly his defences are beginning to fall. You need do so little and he is laid bare at your feet. He would lay himself bare at your feet.

He wonders if he can push you further. He wonders if this is all working for you as much as it’s working for him.

“I know I am not, my heart. But when you act like a brat I have little choice but to treat you like one.”

His mouth falls open at your brazenness, a perfect pink ‘o’.

His lips say, “I’m not acting like a brat!”

His cock says, I am and it’s on purpose.

“Pockets,” you say one more time, and he feels the full force of your gaze upon him. Half-hard and flaming-cheeked, he gives in. Slowly he divests himself of all of the grove’s trinkets and treasures, laying them out on the floor at his feet in a slow display of shame. You remain absolutely neutral through it, face hardly moving an inch. When he unhands the final bunch of herbs you finally speak.

“Come here.”

If his heart needed to beat, it would be racing. He feels himself twitch in his underwear.

He comes to you.

You reach out, wrapping a strong but sure hand around his wrist, fingers encircling its width perfectly… and then with a single tug, you topple him over into your lap.

He squeaks. Well, really, it is more of a moan, as he lands across your knees, your palm running across the swell of his arse. He’s never been so humiliated. He’s never been so aroused.

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask, voice feather-light, as solemnly as if you were swearing a vow.

Ever since he escaped Cazador, he never lets anyone do anything he doesn’t want to his body. He won’t let them have control over him ever again. But this? You? That is different. He knows if he said a single word to the contrary, you would cease. You would not exploit him or take him for granted. He knows that he is precious to you, a thing to be treasured.

And for that, he trusts you to the ends of the world with him. To take care of him.

To give him what he needs.

So when you ask him if he wants you to stop, even though he knows what’s coming, he whispers, ‘no.’

The first smack steals the air from his lungs, a breath he did not need but must have taken on his way over to you. It is a firm sting, and his cock goes from half-mast to full embarrassingly quickly.

Your hand goes back.

On the second smack, he finds himself mewling, a desperate little noise beckoned from the back of his throat from your ‘punishment’. It is one of rapture. He begins to try and rut into your thigh for some sort of relief, but you open your legs wider in order to remove his purchase on you.

He whines. It isn’t fair. You keep going.

On the third, his arse has begun to smart. If he had blood his cheeks would be rosy, he’s sure. And yet each strike is like lightning up his spine. He has begun to leak into his britches just from this, and he feels pathetic and small, but so thoroughly safe and looked after in your embrace.

You ask him if he wants to continue. He nods so violently his neck threatens to break.

If this is the penance Pelor would have you deliver, perhaps he can find it in himself to be a religious man after all.

His head empties as you keep striking, but he hears the way you pause after every slap to listen: take notice of if he wants you to stop. When the only sounds you hear are moans of satisfaction, you keep going. He lies there, bonelessly aroused and limp-bodied, his whole universe centred entirely onto your hand and his cock.

“Do you want to come, Astarion?” you ask, eventually, voice heavy with desire. He nods, and for the first time he realises he has tears of overstimulation trickling down his face, so desperate is he to find release.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck…” he groans.

“And you’ll be a good boy if you do?”

Fuck. Anything you want.

“Yes…”

Your hand snakes round to cup him through his trousers. It only takes a couple of strokes over the fabric, and your touch is enough to finish him off. He comes in his underwear like a teenager who cannot control themselves, mewling and sobbing in desperation. It is like a blinding light across his eyelids, he swears for a second he sees your god in the white-hot intensity of his orgasm. The best one he’s ever had.

You’re an angel, a fucking angel sent to be his salvation.

As he rides out his climax against the meat of your palm, he feels the other one rubbing across his sore backside. It occurs to him you’re using your Lay on Hands to soothe some of the sting for him, which, if he were more lucid, he’d find utterly ridiculous; however as it is the ache in his arse is still pleasant but now less demanding of his attention.

You manoeuvre him to sit up, letting his whole body collapse into yours. He is aware, through the cotton-clouds of his thoughts, that you are whispering his praises. Telling him how well he did. Reassuring him how much you care for him. Letting him know how proud you are. He’s never been so pleased in his life, and rubs his face into your neck, like a pampered cat seeking attention.

“Are you alright?” is what you ask eventually, after you’re sure he’s returned to himself properly.

“To be honest, I don’t remember the last time I was better,” he manages, and you laugh in a gravelly little chuckle.

“Good. Your happiness matters to me.”

He can’t think of anyone who that’s ever been true for. He’s humbled that you have the sincerity to voice it. You are so… you’re so…

Wonderful.

Even now, you care. He’s never had that before.

“Astarion…”

“Mmm?”

“Tomorrow, you’re returning those things to the Grove.”

He groans and you laugh again.

“Come on, now. You said you’d be good.”

“Fine! Fine. Just… don’t make me think about those nature-loving freaks while I’m bathing in the afterglow, hmm? I just had an orgasm that sent me into the astral plane. I’d like to enjoy it there a little longer.”

You do not argue. He feels your lips curl into a smile against the soft skin of his neck.

Later, you’ll carry him to the nearest stream and wash him, your hands dancing across his skin like worship. You’ll treat him as if he is a holy relic. Precious.

It will be then, in the water and softness of your touch, he will realise that he loves you.

The next day he gives back what is stolen. He can’t look at your thighs without his cheeks burning.

taglist & those who seemed interested: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @clairetheflower @foxiecelery @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate @dhampling @wereallbrokenangels @tilldeathdonugget @useless-contributions @beardedladyqueen @hopeful-n-sad

#Astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x y/n #astarion ancunin #astarion ancunin x reader #astarion fic #bg3 fic #astarion x tav #Astarion smut #Also it says your skin has a pearlescent lustre. That isn’t meant to reflect skin colour - rather how matte it is

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sacrificialtomb · 15 days ago

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YOUR KISS MAKES MY TONGUE BURN

⌗ SONG┆carnival ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ TAGS ┆f!reader, wlw, heavily inspired by song lyrics, power play, power dynamic, dominant arle, suggestive? ★ ₊ ˚⟡

⌗ NOTE┆got bored and was looking for songs in my playlist to write into fics, chose arle cus I don't write much for her ★ ₊ ˚⟡

The dim glow of the moonlight filtered through the thick curtains of the parlor, casting fragmented shadows across the dark wooden floors. You sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, clutching a glass of untouched wine. Across from you, Arlecchino leaned against the edge of her desk, her arms folded neatly, and her steely gaze pinned you to your seat like a predator sizing up its prey.

She looked as she always did—immaculate and untouchable. That tailored suit molded to her frame, the sharp angles of her collarbones peeking out beneath the starched white shirt. Even the faint smirk that played at her lips made your stomach twist in ways you refused to name.

“Cat got your tongue?” she drawled, the mockery in her tone biting but smooth as velvet.

You swallowed hard, though the lump in your throat didn’t move. “I didn’t come here to talk,” you muttered, setting the glass down on the mahogany table between you. The clink of crystal against wood echoed in the silence like a gunshot.

Arlecchino tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. The corners of her mouth curved upward further, a dangerous thing, like a blade catching the light. She straightened, taking a single, deliberate step toward you, and you couldn’t help but flinch when her gloved hand cupped your chin.

“Oh?” she murmured, tilting your face upward. “Then why did you come here, Y/N?” The way she said your name—soft and venomous—sent a shiver racing down your spine.

For a moment, you considered lying, saying anything to mask the gnawing need that had driven you here in the first place. But it would be pointless. Arlecchino had a way of cutting through your defenses like paper. She knew—she always knew.

Her thumb brushed over your lower lip, slow and deliberate. “Still so quiet,” she mused, her voice dropping an octave. “You know, silence can be damning, little flame. It makes me wonder what thoughts you’re trying to hide.”

You turned your face away, breaking her hold, though it took all your strength to do so. “Don’t call me that,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Why not? It suits you,” she said, circling you now, a wolf stalking its cornered prey. “So bright, so fierce when you want to be—but oh, how quickly you flicker when I get too close.”

“Stop it.” The words came out sharper this time, cutting the air between you.

Arlecchino’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, something raw. “You think you can walk away from this?” she asked, her voice like a knife gliding just beneath your skin. “From me?”

You wanted to. You wanted to stand and storm out, to never look back. But the memory of her—of her touch, her voice, the heat of her lips on yours—rooted you in place.

“Your kiss makes my tongue burn,” you said suddenly, the words escaping like an accusation. You weren’t even sure what you meant by it. Only that it was true. Every time she kissed you, it set you aflame in ways that felt both unbearable and addictive.

Arlecchino stopped her circling, standing behind you now. You felt her gloved fingers brush against your shoulder, ghosting down your arm until they reached your wrist. She leaned in, her breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“And yet,” she whispered, her tone thick with amusement, “you keep coming back for more.”

You clenched your fists, refusing to turn and meet her gaze. “I don’t want this,” you said, though the words tasted like a lie.

“No?” Arlecchino’s hand tightened on your wrist, enough to make your pulse race. “Then tell me to stop. Tell me to let you go, and I will.”

The room seemed to freeze. The only sound was the rapid beat of your heart.

You couldn’t say it. You couldn’t tell her to stop, no matter how much you hated yourself for it.

She chuckled softly, the sound low and almost affectionate. “That’s what I thought,” she said, releasing your wrist but not your attention. She stepped back, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “I wonder what it is about me that keeps you crawling back, little flame. Is it the thrill of the chase? Or do you just enjoy the pain?”

You shot to your feet, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You disgust me,” you spat, though your voice cracked on the last word.

Arlecchino’s smirk returned, sharper than ever. “Maybe,” she said, her tone maddeningly calm. “But that hasn’t stopped you yet.”

The air between you was charged, the tension crackling like a live wire. You hated her for being right—for always being right. But more than that, you hated the way her words made you feel. Like you were both drowning and burning alive.

She stepped closer, her movements deliberate and slow, giving you every chance to back away. But you didn’t move.

When her lips met yours, it wasn’t soft or gentle. It was rough, a clash of teeth and tongues and heat that made your knees weak. Her hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against her as if daring you to fight back.

And maybe you should have. Maybe you would have, if the fire she ignited in you didn’t feel so damn good.

Her kiss made your tongue burn, just like it always did.

And you hated how much you loved it.

#arlechinno genshin #arlecchino #arlechinno x reader #genshin fanfic #fem reader #wlw post #wlw yearning #wlw #female reader #afab reader #writers and poets #writerscommunity #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing

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wheredafandomat · 2 years ago

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Queen of the nine

Loki x female queen! Reader

18+| contains angst, smut, powerful queen bitch reader!

Basically Loki is locked up and you gotta go get your man

“Loki, don’t go, don’t leave me, please.” You pleaded, practically on your knees as you tugged his tunic.

“I—” he began, glancing down at you in a moment of uncertainty before his resolve returned “I must reclaim my rightful throne.” He declared.

“B-but you promised,” you whimpered, “you said we could leave together, make our own destiny.” You sniffled remembering your own cursed fate.

“This is me making my own destiny.”

It had been another uneventful day. Between signing truces and assigning roles, there was little room for one’s own enjoyment. You had recently taken up crocheting as a hobby yet you found little time to finish any projects. One thing you could agree with your late mother on was that this job wasn’t for the faint hearted or anyone with any desire for creativity. This job was demanding, it required those who were able to remain stoic and impartial, something that was unnatural to anyone with any kind emotion. People always waited for smiles, frowns, any slither of adour, something that took every ounce of energy to not express. To do nothing was the hardest job of all. That’s why you found yourself breathing deeply when one of your chambermaids greeted you with the news of Queen Frigga of Asgards passing. In that moment, every memory of the place that you had fought to bury deep within your psyche surfaced. The moments spent laughing, learning from Frigga, walking through her flower garden holding hands with Loki, Loki. You bit your lip as you recalled every precious second spent with Loki; the smiles, the kisses, the love, the sex, the promises, the deceit, everything up until the point he abandoned you.

“Your majesty, your majesty.” She called, getting your attention again.

“Yes, sorry.”

“Will you be attending the royal ceremony?”

“Yes, could you arrange a carriage for me please.”

“Of course.”

Your journey to Asgard was a quiet one, your gaze cast over the mountains as you tried to bite down every last fragment of emotion you had, especially in front of your foot soldiers. When they looked at you they saw a valiant queen, not a weeping wench; you wanted to preserve the former. The closer you drew, the more uneven your breaths were. You wondered how Loki looked, whether he looked as aged as you no doubt did. After hearing that his conquest for Midgard was unsuccessful, there was nothing more. By the time that you had become queen, you found yourself disinterested in how Loki ended up. You did discover that he resided in Asgard again but you didn’t want to visit to be certain, you couldn’t. Now however, you wished you had, considering you were about to be reunited with the man who left you the morning after declaring his undying love for you. What if things were awkward? No, this was Loki, your Loki.

“Your majesty, we have arrived.” One of the men spoke. You snapped out of your thoughts, looking out of the casement, eyes widening as you took in the familiar gates of the palace. Before you could open the door, it swung open.

“Your majesty.” Thor greeted, offering his hand as he helped you out.

“Thor.” You smiled, hugging him tightly once you stepped out. You hadn’t realised how much you had missed him. “Although I am happy to see you, I apologise that it isn’t under better circumstances.” You frowned as you pulled apart. His smile faltered for a moment before he replied.

“Thank you your maj—”

“It’s simply y/n to you.” You noted.

“Y/n then.” He corrected himself before pulling you into another hug. You looked around, unable to resist the feeling of despondency you felt at not seeing Loki.

“Where’s Loki?” You questioned, mumbling into his shoulder.

“He—um.” Thor stuttered causing you to break the hug.

“Thor?”

“Imprisoned.” He stated.

“Where?” You gasped.

“Here.” Thor spoke, scratching the back of his neck nervously as he observed your reaction.

“Here? On Asgard?” You almost choked.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Odin has his son, prince of Asgard, imprisoned on Asgard?” You questioned incredulously.

“Yes.” He mumbled.

“Today of all days?” You scoffed getting angrier.

“Yes.” Thor confirmed quietly.

“Take me to Odin!”

You made your way to the royal chambers of the palace where Odin was currently. Thor knocked his door before receiving passage only to be pushed passed by you.

“Y/n” Odin smiled “I’m glad to see you made it here safe.”

“My condolences.” You offered, making your way to him before you exchanged a quick hug in greeting.

“Well as you know, I’ve still got a realm to govern” he shrugged, breaking the hug “not much time to grieve” he added, although you could tell he was hurting.

“Of course.” You agreed.

“Sit.” He spoke, gesturing to a chair. “What bothers you child?”

“It’s Loki.” You answered. Odin's jaw clenched before he replied.

“Loki? What about Loki?” He answered, seemingly angry at the mention of him.

“Am I right in thinking you’ve got him imprisoned here?”

“Yes, he’s a traitor to Asgard.” Odin spat.

“But today of all days—”

“He is a traitor y/n.” Odin insisted

“He deserves to say goodbye too, she was his moth—”

“No.”

“Ple—”

“No!” He thundered causing some of your guards to push through the door before you stood, gesturing them away. Once you had assured them that you were fine, you turned your focus onto Odin again.

“Apologies for the intrusion but you’d do well to remember that I’m not the child that left Asgard, I am a queen, the queen of the nine and therefore your superior. My asking was a kindnesses, but now, I order it.” You spoke firmly. Odin narrowed his gaze slightly, jaw clenching again as you studied his expression, finding it hard to remember that he wasn’t actually Loki's biological father despite their uncanny resemblance in this moment. Exhaling, Odin relaxed.

“No, you aren’t the same y/n that left here, although, I see your devotion to Loki hasn’t changed.”

You opened your mouth to answer before he spoke again.

“Very well, Loki has today, he’ll have to return to the dungeons this time tomorrow and not a moment later.”

“Thank you.” You smiled curtly before turning to leave.

“And y/n, you’d do well to remember that you are a guest in my realm.” Odin asserted almost warningly, causing you to pause.

“And yet, I’m more powerful than you in it” you answered, flicking your wrist as you turned to face him again before an apple appeared in your hand.

“What’s this?” Odin scoffed.

“A ticket” you stated “one night, one bite and you’ll be reunited with her although only briefly, your time isn’t now.” You finished in a whisper, handing him the apple as a gift for allowing you to see Loki as well as a demonstration of your power.

“Thank you.” He nodded earnestly before you left.

“Please, release Loki.” You instructed Thor.

Once Thor had left, you busied yourself in the throne room, taking the time to sit and appreciate the view from Asgards Throne.

“It suits you, regality.”

“And yet a throne would suit you ill Loki.” You answered, gaze focusing on the man walking out from behind a pillar.

“Would it?” He questioned, stepping towards you.

“You’d realise that a throne doesn’t change anything, you’d still be a Jotun, you’d still feel unloved and you’d still be angry Loki, just all whilst sitting on a throne.” You explained.

“A throne nonetheless.” He shrugged as he reached you before kneeling, picking your hand up and placing a kiss at the back of it. “Y/n.” He addressed fondly.

“Hello Loki.” You grinned, Loki reciprocating your smile. Standing up, you threw your arms around him in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry for your loss.” You spoke into his chest as he held you tighter before pulling back, cupping your cheeks.

“Thank you, for giving me today.”

Nodding, you hugged him again.

The ceremony for Frigga was pleasant, although still. Asgard was grieving their queen, an irreplaceable force. Following the official ceremony was a party celebrating her life and rein. This event was a lot more joyous, upbeat.

A plethora of staff greeted you, having remembered you from when you were younger, praising the woman you had grown into. As well as that, there were kings and queens from other realms saluting you, thanking you.

“Care to dance?” Loki offered as he approached you leaving some of the other royals shocked at his brazy behavior; they obviously didn’t know your history with him.

“Very well.” You accepted, placing your hand in his open one.

Loki held you against him as you began waltzing around the room, nearly all eyes on you both.

“Do you remember in our youth when we’d sneak in here and pretend it was our wedding?” Loki recalled as you smiled zealously.

“And we’d pretend our juice was wine.” You added.

“Before we grew older and realised that wine wasn’t actually all that pleasant.” Loki chuckled.

“Yes, then we realised that if we were to actually wed, we wouldn’t finish the night drinking wine.” You snickered.

“No, we discovered something else.” He spoke teasingly before dipping you, your eyes focused intensely on one another’s before he slowly picked you up again, holding you firmly against him as the moment passed.

“So” you began, clearing your throat “in your conquest to take over half the realms, did you encounter any loving princesses, or maybe a prince?” You queried.

“A bit of both” he answered, a pang of jealousy reverberating through you “I expect the same as you but nothing that ever compared to my first love, to you.” He finished, his hands finding your waist as you lifted your head from his chest.

“I fear I wasn’t your first love Loki.” You admitted, Loki’s brows knitting questioningly. “Your first love, your first companion was dejection” you explained, hand running through his hair “I only wish I had entered your life sooner, maybe things would have turned out differently.”

Loki closed his eyes, hand finding the small of your back as you continued swaying.

“Maybe not.” He uttered.

Once the night drew to an end, you as well as the other guest royals were escorted to your rooms for the night. Loki insisted he escort you so halfway though you told your men to head to bed. The both of you walked, back of your hands touching occasionally. When you reached your door, you found yourself wishing the walk was longer.

“Tonight was—” you started.

“Delightful.” Loki finished.

“Yes, delightful.” You agreed, your eyes meeting again.

“Well, goodnight y/n.” Loki bid leaving you feeling a little forlorn.

“Goodnight Loki.” You smiled curtly before turning and opening the door, closing it behind you as your back hit the door with a thump and a sigh. You thought about Loki, about opening the door, hugging him, kissing him. You thought about the possibility of this being the last time you see him, the last time you touch him. Your mind swam with questions, thoughts, regrets before you decided you’d quickly chase after Loki. Turning, you swung the door open before being met by Loki who was still facing it. Exchanging a small laugh between you both, you kissed him deeply, Loki reciprocating your eagerness before you pulled him inside, closing the door behind him. Loki was quick to discard of both your clothes, kneeling once again as he kissed your stomach. He lifted your legs, helping you step out of your underwear before he was exploring your centre with his mouth. It felt like old times again, your relationship restored in a matter of hours like no time had passed. As always, he had you a moaning mess before laying you against the bed and kissing you passionately. You widened your legs as he positioned himself between them, kissing your neck as he rutted against you.

“I want you.” You spoke softly, looking up at him as you smoothed his hair out of his face.

“I’m right here y/n.” He answered, taking your hand and kissing it before entering you. You both moaned as Loki bottomed out, lacing his fingers with yours.

The sex was slow, intimate, consuming. Each calculated thrust erased decades away from each other, every round removing centuries. Your mind expunged the hurt, the betrayal, the desolation as he drove into you, chest pressed to yours. You could feel his heartbeat, feel his breath tickling your ear, feel him evading you in the most pleasant way. You hadn’t realised how much your body yearned for his, how much you had missed his tender touch, his warm embrace, the sound of him in your ear as he came. The night was a loving, sweaty, close odyssey.

When you awoke, it was to the rays of light beaming in and the feeling of Lokis chest pressed to your back as you slumbered in a naked nirvana. You stayed like that for a while, pressed together as the daunting knowledge of this being the last morning of you both like this dawned upon you. You enjoyed it nonetheless regardless of whether this feeling was fleeting.

“Goodmorning.” Loki smiled, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“Morning.” You answered, spinning in his grip to kiss him properly.

Eventually you both moved your affections to the washroom, fucking against the wall before relaxing in a pool of warmth. You sat between Loki’s legs as he pulled your back against him, both of you melting into the water.

“I don’t want this day to end.” You murmured as if your quietness made reality less real.

“I know my inamorata” Loki replied, kissing your shoulder, the familiar moniker sending a shiver down your spine “but I must face the consequences of my own actions.” He finished causing you to sigh.

“Regality suits me but I’m just lonely, Loki. I govern all nine realms, billions of beings and yet I’m so lonely, a throne changes nothing.” You laughed mirthlessly.

“As long as I live, you’ll never be alone, I’ll always be here.” Loki insisted, kissing your neck.

Once you were out of the bath and dressed, the guards began preparing for Loki’s return but you had other ideas. You couldn’t face life alone again. You couldn’t leave without Loki. Despite him previously abandoning you, you couldn’t do the same to him, not now. When Thor knocked your door, knowing Loki was with you, you began executing your plan.

“I require an audience with Odin.” You began, Loki’s brows knitting in confusion.

“Okay.” Thor answered unsure.

“And I require Loki’s presence too.”

“Y/n.” Loki called.

“Get it done Thor.”

As planned, Thor had arranged a meeting with Odin just before it was time for Loki to return. On the journey to the throne room, you briefed Loki on the plan. He agreed, still wanting to do his time. When you approached, you sauntered in confidently.

“Loki is leaving with me.” You declared.

“That’s absurd!” Odin scoffed.

“Make no mistake, he will not be a free man, he will serve his time but in my home realm.” You delved.

“I forbid it.” Odin spat.

“You cannot have a prince locked up in the dungeons of his home realm, that’s what’s absurd.”

Odin remained silent for a few moments seemingly thinking.

“I’d be happy to have your guards watch him but he will be on my soil, think of it as me taking him off of your hands.”

“Fine” Odin relented “but when the time comes, I’ll require a favour from you.”

“Simply call for me.” You agreed and just like that, Loki was coming home with you. Reunited, at last.

“Fine” Odin gave up “but when the time comes, I’ll require a favour from you.”

“Simply call for me.” You agreed and just like that, Loki was coming home with you. Reunited, at last.

“Simply call for me.” You agreed and just like that, Loki was coming home with you. The two of you reunited, at last.

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