𝒞w : smut (barely much) — hyunjin's just yearning atp, this might aswell be a drabble js in a different format, drunk hyun
[ 𝒮unzy's 𝒞allin' ] : slight style change... idk how i feel yet... let it simmer for a smidge longer | my situationship is going drinking on valentines guys should i lowkenuienly trust him ORRRR slime him out... lmk
i'm sorry for dropping dead for a while, i just started college and have been busyyyy
but anyway i've been captured by a lot of fanfics and one of them is @kinschi 's werewolf au..... not the cleanest art but i really wanted to draw this wolf
I was wondering if you have the time, could you write a Simon x reader smut where they’re friends with benefits but after a harder mission reader needs something softer?? So ghost adjusts to give her said intimacy just once??
Thank qqqq!!!!!!
if i have the time?????? omg yes.
wrd 1.7k give or take
I made you a shit solider bc it felt right, but you're a smarty pants to make up for it so it's fine. I hope I understood the assignment??? This is my first request!! I was so excited I kinda just started writing and this is what came of it so I hope you like it!! I am a primarily fluff writer, I tried to write the smut for you I really did but it all felt wrong, so I went with some general suggestive nonsense, i hope that's fine.
**warnings: near death experience, pre-existing relationship, power dynamic if you squint? idk tell me what i miss
I wrote this in one go, it's unedited so fingers crossed I made sense
He knows the look. The face you make when a mission goes sideways. The panic in your belly that sours into fear that could get you killed if you don’t focus. You knew better, you were trained better. Simon didn’t coddle, he swore it wasn’t in him. He was brute force and harsh words that were somehow considered effective training methods. You didn’t learn that way, but he didn’t care. It was his way or the highway. That thinking made him a shit trainer but an excellent fuck buddy. You liked the heavy hand, in the bedroom that is. You liked being tossed around and used like a toy. It never got old, not exactly. You are very curious by nature so of course you asked a lot of questions during the late nights you shouldn’t be spending together, he gave up nothing. The agreement you made was no strings. No strings did not require you to know more than his name, his rank, and the size of his massive cock. You said you wanted casual, but were you built for casual? Nothing about you was casual and that showed each and every day. Sex isn’t casual, and near-death experiences are the furthest thing from casual as far as you’re concerned. You were expected to put it behind you. They do, so why can’t you?
You could still feel the heat of the bullet against your temple, the flash of the scope across the yard that had you frozen in their sights. That terrifying zip of air playing in your mind on a loop the whole ride back to base. The warmth of his breath barking in your face about how you could’ve been killed, like you didn’t already know that. He once asked you if you even knew what you signed up for, and in truth, you knew what you signed up for until you were in it. Until the recruiter abandoned you at the base that trained you for combat they swore you’d never see. Then somehow, despite being the weakest recruit, the worst shot, and the absolute last person you would want at your six. You were assigned to a taskforce that just never quits.
Sex wouldn’t fix your head. It wouldn’t solve the sickness in your gut that has only gotten worse since your very public shaming after touching down at headquarters. You didn’t have anywhere else to go. The other recruits enjoy watching you fail far too much. You couldn’t trust Johnny to keep a secret from the team to save his life. Kyle, the captain's prodigy, would just give you advice on how to do better next time. You didn’t want to do better, you wanted out. You knocked, expecting one of two things. One, the most likely, he’ll ignore it. He’ll see your weepy figure through the peep hole and pretend he didn’t. Two, he’ll give you a different reason to be weepy, a better reason. Then there was option three, the option you were hoping for but knew better. You just needed someone to listen.
“Figures,” he scoffed, moving out of the path that would take you directly to the bed. You floated into the spotless space. Stripping your jacket and your shoes, crawling onto the rock-hard mattress and pulling your knees tight against your chest. “If you’re looking for comfort, yer in the wrong room.” He locked the door anyway, turning to see you. An absolute wreck. A hundred-year-old sunken ship worthy of divers and underwater cameras. A glorious, impossible to look away from, should be displayed in a museum someday, wreck.
“Please,” you inhaled the overwhelming musk of gun oil and 3-in-1 shampoo that settled the sick feeling creeping up your throat, “I just need an honest chat with my lieutenant."
He cleared his throat, gave you a curt nod and posted against his notably empty desk. Crossed his arms, muscles tight and broad chest on display but you didn’t squirm like you usually do. There was no flutter in your belly when he flexed, no second glances. It made the muscle in his jaw tick, teeth clenched so hard he could crack a molar. He thrived on the effect he had on you. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but watching your thighs tighten if he so much as breathed too deep in your presence was a favorite pastime. It drove him nuts really. How wet you get at the sight of him. The way you lick the sweat off his skin like it’s pure sugar rather than all sodium. Yet all those subtle things he does to pull you out of your own head went ignored, you were unmoved. Perfectly still, frozen in your fear even after a scolding, a formal reprimand from the captain himself, a shower, and the dinner he knew for a fact you didn’t touch.
“I’m shit at this…”
“Yep,” he rasped, popping the P like a shot fired.
“What does the captain even want with me? I’m supposed to be an analyst!”
“Yer a soldier, just like the rest of us.”
“I was recruited for my brain! Not my ability to-”
“To nearly get yerself killed every bloody chance y’get?”
“Wash me out,” you whispered, “please.”
“Wot?” He’s heard you say a lot of crazy things, but that takes the cake. The recruits down stairs would kill for the position you’re in and you want him to kick you out?
“You’re my superior, you…you can do that, right?”
“I can,” he sighed, pulling in a deep lung filling breath to remain composed, “but I won't."
Simon didn’t get it at first. You were a nuisance. It was pretty cut and dry. You were a great lay and an excellent way for him to work out his frustration, but in the field? You don’t belong there. Capt. John Price, a sucker for a lost cause it seemed, saw more in you. He saw what the recruiter saw. Your eyes that see the small stuff, your head that processes the things around you differently than the rest of them. The lieutenant didn’t have to agree, but he did have to follow the order. It took a while but eventually he caught on. You may not see the scopes, and you may miss almost every shot you take, but you do spot every trip wire. Stopping them in their tracks before they ever get close, throwing your arm out like a mom who slammed the breaks haphazardly. You can disarm a bomb in your sleep, you cut through code and encryptions without breaking a sweat. You map routes, organize charts, take care of all of their reports for them as a thank you for keeping you alive this long. The mission was rough, but today you saw the subtle pattern of scuffs on hardwood flooring that helped them navigate the minefield just waiting to blow the team to bits. You walked them through that house of puzzles like it was a game. Solved every problem for them and kept their mind on the mission. You had such an attention to detail and they needed it, even if it meant keeping you alive was now a bolded bullet point on their job description. “Go sleep it off,” he gestured to the door with his eyes, “we can run drills in the mornin’.”
“Could I stay with you?”
“No.”
Your head fell against your knees, nodding the whole way down because you knew he was going to say that. The agreement stands and this conversation was pushing it. No sleepovers, no personal chit chat. Friends with benefits is a strong term because you two are not friends. Something he never fails to remind you in so many words, or in most cases a lack of. “Yeah okay,” you sniffled, “I figured.” You inched off the bed, eyes so obvious down it felt like a punch to his gut.
All of this was new. Your body caught fire with your fear, but he went cold. Watching the blood drip down where the bullet just barely nicked your ear, the drywall crumbling behind your head from the sheer force of the round that would’ve exploded your skull on impact. Casual didn’t include the vivid images that flashed through his mind of what it would’ve been like to carry you out of that house. Skull cracked, your beautiful brain in chunks of mess and blood, finally meeting your parents but only to pass them off a flag that wasn’t worth it. Nothing about watching you die would have been worth it. Not when he hadn’t kissed you like he meant it yet. His long arm stretched and stopped your hand just before you'd grabbed your jacket.
“I am in no mood to get you off,” you sniffled, still sharp as ever even if you are lost in your own head. He huffed, a brief sound of amusement as he walked you back to the bed. The mattress dipped, creaking to accept his weight, a tight grip on your hands that guided you right between his knees. You were so nervous to touch him the wrong way your hands just hovered, pissing him off all over again because you never make anything easy. His head lowered, forehead resting against the softness of your abdomen. “I could’ve died today,” your voice wobbled, a shaky hand soothing down the black fabric of his balaclava.
“Not on my watch.” His touch was different. Unsure, nearly as shaky as you while he carefully peeled you out of your sweats. Kissing the exposed skin with a reverence. Gentle, guiding, less concerned with himself and more concerned with what made you gasp. Chasing every shudder, every pulse jump, every single tell that made him crave you that much more. Letting you lead, explore, indulge. Maybe there was a reason he requires you to be face down and ass up, because that way you can’t look at him like that. His favorite color being swallowed by your pupil when you so much as glance into his dark eyes that were unbelievably warm tonight. Unintentional, uncontrollable, so telling it made him sick. He didn’t deserve that look. The things you’ve seen him do, the blood on his hands, the lives he’s taken. Even if everything he’s ever done was in the name of his country, he’s not a good man. He was bred to fight and built to kill. He was supposed to be training you, but maybe you’re training him. Teaching him to give in to temptations, to be softer, borderline kind. To break countless rules and protocol because your gentleness was intoxicating. Addicted to the way you whimper his name, your tightness molding around him like a custom-made toy, fluttering with each precise thrust up he gave. The way you come undone, riding out your high with the freedom he gave you to use him this time. Eyes drunk with a look you couldn't place even if you tried. A loving glaze watching your jaw go slack, eyes rolling back, finally letting go of that fear now that he’s finally willing to give you what you deserve. You collapsed against his chest, slick with mess and sweat alike, hoping for an extra moment of kindness to catch your breath before he shoved you off like a dirty cum rag. “You can stay," he muttered against the red-hot split tip of your ear. Your body found rest almost instantly, weighing on him in a way that was oddly right. Not crushing or smothering, but firm. A weighted blanket of warmth and safety that he wasn’t sure what to do with, but he knew enough to know the sensation of safety is too rare to give up. Whether this was for you, for him, it didn’t matter. It was out in the open now. A thought in his head that he’d never get out. In a matter of minutes, you went from a hole that needed plugging to a girl that needed loving. His trigger finger dragged up and down the length of your spine, slow, comforting. A one-time thing you thought, but a one-time thing was enough to ruin everything. This was no longer casual, and in truth maybe it never was.
Maybe all that distance only put off the inevitable, but that was tomorrow’s problem.
- - - -
that was fun, let's do it again sometime :-)
p.s if you copy or feed my work to ai i'll track you down and kill you myself
I can not find a SINGLE SOUL that likes ONE SPECIFIC SATELLITE INVESTOR. It's just none of them in general I have not seen a single investor why are they all hiding
This is your sign to draw more investors and I'LL even try with my ASS drawing skills.
A handful of f reader insert scenes with m demonic love interests. Fluff, hurt/comfort, and smutty shenanigans that lean kind of poly.
You (kind of unnecessarily) tried to save Ludwig’s life. Out of pity, he lets you crash at his place for a few weeks after. It probably wouldn’t be so bad, but he doesn’t live alone.
Reader stays with the triplets until she gets back on her feet. Smut, family shenanigans, and possibly even romance ensues.
Mervin is kind of crabby after his heat he gets sick. You begin searching for employment. And Ludwig helps you out on a high pain day. 5900 words.
Content warnings for this chapter include: mild isolation, some blame from the resident pride demon, pain and sickness during menstruation, the briefest and undescribed animal death (Obie eats a pigeon), and smut.
Smut warnings include: consensual fingering and groping whilst menstrating, brief joking/discussion of menstural oral (does not actually occur), soft stuff that turns a little rough, unintentional and unplanned breath play (hand over mouth), nonconsensual biting (from both parties), dry humping, semi-public sexual stuff, lack of aftercare because of an interruption.
Divider by firefly-graphics. Characters by @eldritch-spouse.
Masterlist - A03 - Previous
You get used to living in Perdition.
Well, it would be more accurate to say you get used to living with Ludwig and his brothers. You’re not allowed to leave the house by yourself; the triplets make no secret of the fact that they live in a bad neighbourhood – a bad ring, as Ludwig puts it.
It’s frustrating, but you don’t doubt them. It only takes a few brief tours around the area for you to understand. You attract stares everywhere you go. Leers, really. And watching what demons do to each other (both strangers on the street, and the brothers among themselves), you hate to imagine what they might do to a human.
It’s as if everyone here speaks several additional languages that humans just aren’t fluent with (literal infernal aside). Greed. Hunger. Violence. The first time you watch Mervin and Ludwig descend into a proper argument, you’re horrified. Nothing you’d seen at home – and you were no stranger to domestic scraps – could prepare you for it. Teeth and claws and broken furniture. Mervin draws a gods-damned weapon. You’d seen people fight before. But not like this. You’d dismissed yourself and locked yourself in the spare room the first time it had happened.
Obie had dragged the two upstairs by the horns and made them apologise for scaring you.
It’s not the only thing you notice. You don’t put your finger on it for a while. It takes several outings with the triplets, several more incidents and scraps before you start to suspect another key difference between demons and humans.
It has something to do with their priorities. Their sense of self. Their interactions within a community. Humans aren’t selfless, by any means. But bonds form fast between them. Connections are quickly made, common goals are easily worked towards, and interconnectedness is practically built into our genes. The human instinct for empathy, to help those around us, to lean on each other for support – it's as if demons lack it.
It truly is survival of the fittest for them. You suspect that if a demon can’t survive alone, they won’t survive at all. You see it in the way they think of themselves first. How Obie might reach for your food, before hesitating. Or Mervin opens his mouth to speak, before thinking better. That consideration, cohesion are learned traits. Conscious choices to practice, and not instinct.
It scares you more in strangers. That the curiosity is not the first thing demons look at you with, but hunger. You’d feel like prey if you didn’t watch them do it to each other too. Like every person is a mark; looked at with the question ‘what can I gain from using you’ before asking something more basic, like ‘who are you’.
Long story short, you don’t mind keeping to the house.
The first time you go anywhere without them, it’s to Sloth, to stay with Katia. The circumstances are odd. Mervin had just come back from one of his extended trips. He’d strode through the door, seen you in the lounge and frozen for a moment, before stamping straight to his bedroom, and shutting the door with a slam. Ludwig had come home early that day and explained that Mervin was sick and needed the house to himself for a week.
It didn’t make sense to you. But what did you know? Mervin was almost never around. You didn’t know what he was like when he was sick. Still, the hesitation when Ludwig had explained the situation, the look he shared with his mother when he dropped you off at her place – it led you to suspect that a key piece of information was being kept from you.
It fills you with paranoia. But Katia is lovely. Spending time with her helps ease the anxiety in your chest. Most of her hours are spent at work or sleeping, but the moments of lucidity she spends with you are enjoyable. She shows you how to cook a few new meals. Lets you go through her photo albums and look at baby pictures of her sons. On the weekend she even takes you clothes shopping, and for the first time in almost a month you feel at ease, wearing clothes that you’ve chosen for yourself.
When Katia returns you back to the common ring, Mervin is still home. He’s currently your least favourite triplet, but you make an effort to smile. “Feeling better?”
He scowls, and you’re surprised at the amount of vitriol in his expression. “As if that’s your business.”
You try not to visibly deflate.
Katia tsks and frowns at her son. She pats you on the back. “He’s just embarrassed, sweetie. Don’t you pay him any mind.”
She gives you a peck on the cheek before leaving, and sound of the door closing sends a wave of dread through you. You really don’t want to be alone with Mervin.
But when you turn his expression has softened. If only marginally. He tilts his head. “She likes you.”
You’re not sure what to say. You shrug as you take your shoes off. “We had fun.”
You feel his stare on you, even as you cross the room. You head towards the kitchen, hoping for something to eat.
“She bought you clothes.”
His tone is almost accusatory. You can’t help but flush, shame starting to weigh on you. “She’s very kind.”
To your dismay, he follows you to the kitchen. He crosses his arms and watches when you pull out the materials for a sandwich. Uncomfortable, you ask, “Do you want one?”
He scoffs. “How long are you going to keep eating our food? Wearing our clothes?”
You don’t let it show, but his words strike deep. You’re more than aware of the position you’re in. You cast your eyes towards the task at hand. Prepping food. “I don’t like it either. But it’s kind of hard to find a job when I’m forbidden from leaving the house.”
He crosses his arms. “Excuses.”
“Did you want to escort me to Earth every morning?”
“Now you’re asking us for transport too?”
You’ve had enough. It’s either cry or snap. And you are not going to cry in front of Mervin. Instead you slam your knife to the counter.
“I didn’t ask for this. I did not ask to be shunted from place to place my whole damn life. I’m sorry if that inconveniences you,” your tone is in no way apologetic.
He’s silent as you leave.
Immediately upon returning to your room, you regret the encounter. The last thing you need to be doing is antagonising your benefactors. But still. Ludwig was the one who invited you here, and if Mervin has a problem, he should be taking it up with his brother.
--
You finally get a new job.
It’s not without its difficulties – transit mainly. One of the triplets has to take you through a series of rifts. One to Earth. One to continent you hail from. Another to a large town. Ludwigs talks about establishing a proper route, about using the most stable rifts, and being prepared for a disruption to travel if any of them close. There’s a lot of jargon you don’t really understand. But he gets you back to Earth. Back to ‘gainful employment’.
Mervin straight up refuses to be your escort. He’s not around enough anyway. Ludwig handles it most days, but Obie is always available to fill in when Ludwig is busy elsewhere. Neither seem to mind your spotty hours. You tell the triplets when you start and finish, and they’re usually able to have you delivered on time.
Sometimes you take an afternoon for yourself. Spending time in a human city is good for you. You visit a library. Buy yourself necessities. Even do some grocery shopping. Nobody seems to fault you for it, and Mervin certainly complains less when you start bringing home your own food.
And so you fall into the new routine. Working four to six days a week. Ludwig or sometimes Obie walking you there, chatting about your day or your plans. Finally starting to feel at ease in their home, now that you’re less of an imposition.
You’re a shift worker, usually working mornings at a cafe. Your customer service is without fault and you know how to use a coffee machine. It was enough to get you the job. That and your eclectic resume.
There’re still moments that throw you off. Behaviours from the triplets that take you by surprise, or the occasional week when you’re banished to Katia as one of them comes down sick with something. The three of them are rarely united about anything, but they all seem intent on keeping you in the dark regarding that odd ritual.
One morning you wake up and are immediately torn over whether or not you should go to work. It’s a little late to call in. And Obie had already promised to take you. But your underwear are saturated with blood and your gut is torn up in cramps. Your period isn’t usually this bad, but you can already tell that today is going to be a hard one.
You decide to suck it up. It’s just a bit of cramping. Of pain in your joints. Sure, it’s nauseating, and it takes a few minutes before you can stand and walk without limping. But you’ve done this before, and you can do it again. You didn’t survive this long by flaking out of work when things got tough.
You almost miss the odd look Obie gives you as you head downstairs. Perhaps you mistake it for sympathy. You wear a grimace and make no effort to hide your discomfort. Still, Obie doesn’t say much on your way to work. He seems distracted, focusing his attention on the details around him, often picking up items to chew on.
You try not to gape at the number of small things that disappear as you pass. A handful of bark flakes from a pot plant. A table number at an outdoor cafe. A pile of junk wrappers from his pockets. (Garbage from the pavement. A handful of leaves and twigs and flowers from any trees you pass. An actual bird that doesn’t have the fortune to flee in time.) He’s not hidden his gluttonous habits from you, from what you can tell, but today he consumes far more than usual. You wonder if he’s unwell.
You put it out of mind when you get to work, saying your goodbyes and clocking in for the day.
You don’t last long. It’s probably only an hour or two before you’re curled up on the couch in the break room, banished there after the manager spotted you limping. She tells you to go home. You’re torn between humiliation and gratitude. You send a message off to Obie.
Unwell. Can you bring me home early?
He sends you a thumbs up and you’re left to wait.
His behaviour on the way home is almost distraction enough from your pain. There’s pretty much always something in his mouth; this time he’d brought food from home with him. You watch curiously as he pulls out several sticks of gum when his food is gone. He only chews for a moment before he’s swallowed them too. It’d almost be funny if he didn’t seem so distracted. Ravenous to a degree which you’ve never seen.
“Are you alright?” You ask at one point.
He finally glances your way. Shrugs. “Smelt something tasty.”
The explanation makes sense, if a little understated. You give him a sympathetic nod.
Obie drops you off at the door before mumbling his excuses and leaving.
You make a beeline for the lounge, planning to lay down and watch some tv. You grimace as you round the corner – Ludwig is already sprawled across the couch.
“Is there room for me?”
“Thought you had work?” He doesn’t quite straighten, but he does change his angle, leaving enough space for you to squeeze in beside him.
Carefully, you do. “I was sent home sick.”
Ludwig tenses and turns your way. “You smell like blood.”
You grimace.
You know that demons have superhuman senses, and that such things are normal to them. But you still can’t help but feel self-conscious around them. Every time your heart speeds up, or your breath hitches, you have to wonder if anyone notices. If anyone overanalyses it. If they can tell when you forget to wear deodorant or can smell your lunch on your breath.
You’d go crazy if you let yourself worry about it too much. After moving in with the triplets you decided to believe that they might notice these things, but they likely wouldn’t care. The same way you’d react if you saw a customer with a large zit, or a coworker having a bad hair day. You choose not to make a big deal about the things people can’t change.
But if Ludwig is going to bring up the little details, if he’s going to speak without tact, why should you?
“Probably because I’m bleeding from my vagina.”
Ludwig winces. “Oh. Oh.” He snorts. "Guess that explains his behaviour.”
“I don’t follow.”
Ludwig gestures to the door. “Obie. Your blood. The smell.” He shrugs. “Delish.”
Your nose crinkles. “Gross.”
He grins. “I thought humans loved the blood drinking gimmick. Ya’ll go mad for vampires.”
“Pop culture aside, I doubt many of us want to consider period blood in that context.”
“Why? Blood is blood.”
Your lip curls. “It’s different. Different composition. Different texture... Full of waste products... I really don’t want to think about it.”
“I’ve seen that demon eat literal garbage. I don’t think he’s worried about your waste products.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
He doesn’t get a chance to tease you further, straightening when another series of cramps has you tucking your knees to your chest, gripping your abdomen to ease the pain.
“You alright?”
Your reply is hoarse. “Just peachy.”
He touches his hand to your back. “What usually helps?”
“Heat pack. Pain killers.”
“I can have Ob bring some home. What else?”
You clutch a cushion to your chest and rest your head against the couch end. “It’s fine. It’s just pain. I don’t want-” you stop. Restart. “You don’t need to do anything else.”
Your eyes spring open when Ludwig grabs a fistful of your hair. Starts tugging on it. Gentle tugs, reminiscent of schoolyard teasing. Until a sudden yank that leaves your scalp stinging.
“Ow!” Impulse has you slapping his hand away. “The fuck is your problem?”
His voice doesn’t hold a drop of concern: fastidiously sweet. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” The tone drops and becomes resolute. “You should let me make it up to you. Tell me how to make you feel better.”
You scoff at the ploy. “There’s nothing to do. Unless you want to spend the next few days waiting on me.”
He pinches your cheek. “What, you want some coddling?”
You swat him away again. “Your words, not mine.”
“Hmm.” He rearranges himself. Before you have a chance to protest, you’re pulled between his legs, your back to his chest in an awkward embrace. “How’s this?”
Your eyes are wide open now, and you’re stiff with surprise. Ludwig hadn’t struck you as the cuddling type.
You’re still formulating a reply when he wraps an arm around your midsection, his forearm coming to rest against where your cramps are strongest. You note the heat, normally oppressive, seeping through the back of your shirt to relax your muscles.
“That’s... that’s actually great. Fuck.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh.
You frozen, still unsure how to respond to the proximity. You haven’t been hugged in... a long time.
He pinches you again. “So what’s this shit about you imposing?”
“I didn’t say-”
“You implied.” He adopts a higher pitch, in mockery of your voice, “’You don’t need to do anything, being here is enough because I’m so sad and pitiful, wah.’”
You mumble out a curse. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You going to answer the question?”
Your nose crinkles and you cross your arms. This isn’t a conversation you want to have. “I don’t like relying on other people.”
“Obviously. Why?”
You shrug. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
There’s a silence before Ludwig sighs. His fingers tangle in your hair again, this time to scratch at your scalp. It feels nice.
“Are you always like this, or did Mervin say something?”
You scowl, not pleased to have been read so easily. Your silence is answer enough.
“I’ve lived with those two for decades. Believe me when I tell you that you’re a perfectly pleasant housemate in comparison. You’re tidier, quieter, more polite-”
You shrug off his words. He’s not wrong. But years of living precariously has instilled into you a deep wariness of getting comfortable.
“-and I told you that Mervin would talk shit.” He pauses, just enough for smugness to creep into his tone. “He likes you, you know.”
You huff. “Doubtful.”
“Yeah, he’d never tell it to your face, but I know my brother. And he’s said some pretty interesting things when you’re not around.”
You almost turn to check his expression. Your stillness has probably given away your interest.
“I don’t believe you.”
Ludwig shrugs. “Believe me or don’t. But I know he likes you.”
You chew on your lip, considering your recent interactions with the demon. If he likes you, he isn't very good at showing it.
“Not as much as Obie though.”
You get the distinct impression that you’re being teased. It’s hard to be mad with Ludwig kneading your shoulders, but still, you feel ill at ease. “You’re just making fun of them.”
“I’m serious. Why else would he be so jittery today?”
“You said that I smelt tasty.”
“Do you think everyone smells good to him?”
You scrunch your eyes closed. Lean your head back to rest against his shoulder. He’s starting to give you a headache. “How would I know?”
“I guess you wouldn’t. Good thing I'm here to keep you informed.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s such a Mervin thing to say.”
He crinkles his nose. Flicks you on the forehead.
And despite yourself, you start to relax. It’s incremental. You’re still uncomfortable. You’re in pain and leaning against an absolute furnace of a demon. But your muscles loosen, and your breathing evens.
You could probably sleep off the worst of your cramps if Ludwig stopped fussing. His ministrations aren’t particularly disruptive, but they do hold your attention. He squeezes your shoulders. Presses the flat of his palm above your mons, where the pain is worst. Gently scratches at your scalp and massages the back of your neck.
You haven’t been just touched in a long time, and there’s a walled off piece of you that stirs to life at each point of contact.
When he wraps his hand around your throat, the heat and firmness of his grip nearly have you melting. It’s enough to have you forgetting yourself, and you let out a hum of satisfaction.
“You know, I’ve heard orgasms relieve pain.”
Reality slams back into you, leaving you hyperaware of how you’re draped across Ludwig’s lap. The work he’d put into relaxing you is completely undone as you thrum with tension. Your mouth shuts tight with embarrassment.
Your jaw is stiff when you reply. “Are you coming on to me?”
He huffs a laugh. “Maybe. I guess.”
You struggle to process. “Weren’t you just telling me that Obie liked me?”
“Mm. You do have a knack for charming my family.”
That doesn’t answer your implication. “Wouldn’t he be upset?”
Ludwig shrugs. “First come, first served. And if he really has a problem, I don’t mind sharing.”
You almost sit up, thoroughly scandalised and shocked.
Almost.
Ludwig is silent. Patient. Awaiting a response. Or perhaps just content to watch you reel.
You take a breath. Try to consider his suggestion.
It has its appeal. You haven’t gotten off in a while. Long enough that just sitting in Ludwig’s lap is enough to set your heart racing. But thinking about any form of intimacy ties your stomach up in knots that have nothing to do with your period.
“I don’t want to fuck this up.” You’re thinking of your position here. Your welcome, and the things that could change if you were to start a casual fling.
His lips brush your ear, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck. “No strings attached. I’m just offering to help out a friend. Relieve some pain.”
“Get your dick wet?”
His hand creeps upwards, dipping under the hem of your shirt. It's hard to concentrate on anything else. “Not even.”
You bite your lip, frozen with consideration. Anticipation.
You like Ludwig well enough. He’s handsome, even. Rough around the edges, sure, but disarming with his occasional teasing and laid-back behaviour.
“No strings attached?”
“None.”
“No further expectations?”
He lets out a huff. “You can say no.”
You shake your head. You’re not opposed. Just wary. Scared, even.
But if he’s being genuine- if you have nothing to lose from accepting his help-
Your knees fall apart and you relax further into Ludwig’s grasp.
Then why not?
“Okay.”
Given permission, his hand disappears beneath your shirt. Traces the contours of your stomach. It almost tickles, how gentle he’s being. Something you hadn’t expected. With his free hand he squeezes your thigh. What limited area he can reach in this position is subject to deep, massaging touches.
It helps to relax you, until your head is lolling back and your muscles are going slack again. And at first it seems like he’s content to just explore. Mapping out your abdominals. Your ribs. The underside of your breasts.
He thumbs at the bra and tsks.
“That can’t be too comfortable.”
You hum your agreement.
“Are you attached to this bra?”
You shrug and shake your head. It’s just a plain white bra, one of multiple you own.
“Good.”
You’re pulled out of your lull by the sound of tearing cloth. Air touches your breasts, and you realise what he’s done.
“You shit-”
He grips you by the jaw, movements taking on a hint of force. Impatience or desire, you’re not sure. But your words are cut off when he crushes his lips to yours, tongue invading your mouth.
The tips of his claws dig into your flesh where he grips your thigh. The sudden intensity has you reeling. Fuzziness closes in on your thoughts, enough to keep you pliant. There’s a part of you that’s indignant about the bra. The rough treatment. But mostly, you just want to see what he does next.
“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips. “Wanted to see you. Feel you.” He emphasises with a squeeze of your breast.
He goes back to kneading your thighs and you can’t help but squirm. You need your pants off. Now. You need to feel him against your skin.
Impatient, you unzip them. Manage to shimmy them down to your ankles before giving up. But Ludwig gets the idea.
Teasing, he runs a single digit up the inside of your thigh. The point of his nail prickles against your skin, hard enough to hurt.
You can’t stop your hips from twitching. The shuddering intake of air. Your murmured little, “Fuck.”
The sound must do things for Ludwig, because he stills. Then takes hold of your throat, nuzzling your neck and grinding against your back. You become aware of his erection.
“You sound good,” he says against your ear.
He palms your core and huffs a laugh when you shudder. “Feel good too.”
You’re wet. When had that happened? Slick to the point where it’s too easy for him to stroke you through the cotton. It’s impossible to miss when he runs a claw directly over your clit.
You buck, biting back a little groan. It’s getting harder to think. To control yourself.
Ludwig chuckles at your response. “Someone’s keen.”
You want to retort, but only manage a whine in response. He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last time somebody touched you like this.
Almost as if to punish you, his hand leaves your underwear. You do whimper this time, when he takes hold of your throat. The grip is solid, but not choking. Enough to scare you. Thrill you. But still light enough to keep you at ease. Even if you wish he’d go back to stroking your clit.
He presses his lips to yours again. Starts to knead and squeeze at your breasts.
You protests slip away as he fondles you. The pain too- you're too preoccupied by the cold air on your chest. The scrape of claws against your skin. At the hot breath on your face, the kiss with entirely too much teeth, and the tongue that keeps stuffing into your mouth.
He’s more intense than you’d expected; the hand around your throat drifting up to grip your jaw. He ignores your attempt to break away for air. Steers you back towards him, insatiable and eager. The heat of his skin turning the kiss sweltering. Sweaty. Almost too warm. Too crowded.
But damn if you aren’t into it.
Finally you grab him by a horn and yank his face away, desperate for air, for an inch of space.
It doesn’t deter Ludwig. He just reaches back towards your underwear, pressing kisses against your neck instead. Sucking hard against the tender flesh of your shoulder. Relishing the gasps he draws from you. Rubbing between your legs again.
You’re deeply embarrassed by the way your underwear are starting to stick to you. It has you torn, the desire to be touched combatting your reluctance to be vulnerable. An instinctual compromise has you covering your face.
“None of that,” Ludwig intercepts you by the wrist, pinning your arm to the couch. “I want to hear you.”
You’ve no choice but to let your head slump back. It’s an effort not to clench your jaw, to let your body relax. To allow your composure to fall, and a string of soft gasps to escape you.
It’s a blessing when he pulls your underwear aside. The cold air shocks you out of your self consciousness. Pulls you out of your own head a little more.
There’s a moment of tension before he touches you, your knees spread as far as you can manage, trying not to cant your hips with how desperate you are for friction.
He doesn’t touch your clit straight away. Your control breaks pretty easily, and you find your hips leaving the couch, seeking out his touch.
He huffs a laugh against your ear, stilling his hand and waiting for you to settle.
With the softest little huff you do, nearly vibrating out of your skin with the effort it takes to keep still as he places his hand on your mons. Strokes across your vulva. Spreading you open and exposing your wetness to the air.
“If I’d known we’d be doing this, I’d have filed down my claws."
You become hyperaware of them. Tense. With anxiety, with anticipation. Part of you is afraid of pain. Of a possible misstep. But mostly you just want to be touched.
Ludwig flexes his hand. Rubs you with the pads of his fingers quite harmlessly. His free arm wraps around your chest and holds you in place when he finally touches your clit.
You arch at the touch, inhaling shakily.
It’s nothing fancy. It’s not like you haven’t touched yourself the same way before.
But the breath on your neck, the change of scenery, the erection pressing into your back-
“Shit,” you murmur.
Then you’re coming against his fingers, far too quickly.
Ludwig clamps a hand over your mouth. Your moans come out muffled; still entirely lewd. You grip his forearm, nails digging into his skin as you arch against him.
His chest rumbles at the contact and he grips you tighter, grinding against your ass. In a moment that both startles you and extends the aftershocks of your orgasm, you feel teeth clamp down on your shoulder. Hard, jagged, just shy of breaking the skin.
Your moans turn into whines and you buck against him. He only grips you harder, hand skewing enough to cover your nose too. You’re not getting any air, and while part of you panics, another part of you melts. Light headedness kind of feels nice when your heart is pounding and pleasure is still rolling through your being.
Still, all things in moderation.
Soon you can hear your heart in your ears and your chest is aching for air. Your wriggling doesn’t dissuade Ludwig at all, but you desperately need to breathe. You could probably communicate this to him, could probably just tug his hand away from your face. But your limbs aren’t really back under your control yet, so instead you do the next best thing and bite him.
“Oh- f-fuck.”
His hand leaves your face as he grips you by the hips. Holding you in place as he grinds against you, lowly groaning against your shoulder.
He stills.
You both pant heavily in the following silence.
“Did you just...”
He relaxes back against the couch. “Oops.”
“Ludwig!”
Your embarrassment at how quickly you came is immediately washed away. You turn to stare your disbelief, but Ludwig isn’t even looking at you. His brow is raised, and he’s looking up towards the doorway-
The front door opens.
“Hey, sorry, I forgot my phone-”
Obie only takes two steps into the room before his head whips towards you and he freezes.
You’re still hazy, and for a moment nobody reacts. Then shame rushes in and you’re yanking your shirt down, clamping your knees shut. Your mouth opens, and you want to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out.
Ludwig wipes his hand on his pants and snorts. “I guess you caught me... red handed?”
Eyes wide, you turn to him, incredulous. How can he be joking right now?
A noise escapes the glutton. The sound of air- a hiss or perhaps a sharp inhale. You don’t have a chance to identify it further before his brows crease and his shoulders square. He reaches towards the wall, blindly groping for the first object in range. He rips a poster from its place. And stuffs it into his mouth.
Ludwig straightens. “Really? You’re going to be like that?”
Obie's jaw sets. He swipes one of the t-shirts hanging off the back of the couch – one of Ludwig’s. And swallows it whole too.
Ludwig sighs. “C’mon man, that was a collectible.”
Incensed, Obie continues, grabbing at knickknacks across the room and stuffing them into his mouth. You notice all of them belong to Ludwig.
You’re surprised that Ludwig doesn’t move from his spot. Doesn’t act to stop his brother, only grumbling at each disappearing item.
You wince at the crunch of ceramic as Obie chews on a mug. Otherwise you’re still frozen in place, not sure what to make of the scene.
“I told you he liked you,” Ludwig mutters.
“You did what?” Obie says around a mouthful of pottery, his voice shrill.
“What? It’s not like you were being subtle.”
Before you have a chance to blink Obie is striding across the room. Mouth still full of ceramic, he starts to cuss Ludwig out, reaching out to grab him by the shirt, heedless of your proximity.
Ludwig just keeps smirking.
You wriggle out of his lap, unnerved by the prospect of being caught between two warring demons. Still jelly legged, you yank up your pants and stand, not wanting to be anywhere near them if they’re going to have it out.
But you stagger.
Pain flares through your abdomen and a hiss escapes from between your teeth.
Obie and Ludwig fall silent, still. Before-
“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” and “Hey, we didn’t mean to scare ya.”
They both miss the mark, but share twin looks of remorse.
You shake your head. “Just period pain. Standing hurts.”
They reach for you at the same time.
“Did getting off help? Do you want more?”
“Have you had any meds? Or some food to settle your stomach?”
The fretting is short lived however, when Obie pauses and shoots Ludwig what you can only assume is his version of a glare.
“Seriously? That was your excuse?”
Ludwig shrugs. “She needed a little pampering.”
“Pampering. Is stuff like a foot rub. Or brushing her hair. Or carrying her bag. Not sticking your fingers inside of her!”
You bite your lip at the statement. You’d convinced yourself that a short fling with Ludwig wouldn’t be a big deal. But Obie might be right. You’d done it in the house they shared. In a space they shared. After having been told that the glutton had feelings for you.
It really was a dick move. You should have considered what might happen if you were caught. Taken things to a private room. Turned him down completely. Anything but what you’d done.
Obie and Ludwig don’t look like they’re going to come to blows. But you don’t want to stick around and listen to their bickering. It’d only embarrass you. Guilt you.
“I’m going to lay down,” you mutter, heading for the stairs.
The pair fall silent.
Obie follows you upstairs. You really hope he won’t stop you. You don’t know what to say.
“Hey.”
You do your best to wipe the discomfort off your face before turning to face him. “Hi.”
His cheeks are red, and he twiddles his thumbs, before stuffing his hands into his pockets. And pulling them out to fidget again.
“I- uh. There’s chocolate. In my room. If you want some.”
Standing there, pain creeping up your back, loose bits of your bra hanging limp under your shirt, and a mess of blood and slick in your underwear, you try not to grimace.
“That’s sweet of you Obie.” You’re tired. Tired of being perceived and fussed over. Of being embarrassed. Of feeling gross. But you get the feeling that if you blow Obie off right now, you might damage something irreparably between you. “Normally I’d love some, but-”
“I’m sorry.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“I wasn’t trying to shame either of you. I was just... jealous. Mad. That he made a move before I could. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
It takes you a few moments to decide your reply.
“I need a shower. And to change.”
His face falls and he steps back. Forces a little laugh. “Oh. Of course. I’ll just be-”
“I’ll come by after? If you want?”
He stills, as if surprised by your reply. The embarrassment leaves his features and he straightens, “Yeah, okay. I’ll just tidy up a bit. See you in a bit?”
You drudge up a smile and reply before turning back to your door. “See you in a bit.”
i hate to be this person but: there really isn’t a perfect faceclaim for eliza, and i don’t believe that there is a truly perfect faceclaim for any literature-based or non-visual-media-based characters.
Helloooooo, my dears, I thought that I should do an intro post on my blog since I've never really posted on here, despite my lurking.
I've had tumblr blogs for various things, but BG3 deserved its own corner, I felt.
ANYWAY.
I'm Laur! It's nice to finally meet you!
I'm really big on books, BG3, I crochet, knit, cook, bake, blah blah blah. The typical things, I guess? I'm a part-time college professor (literally, idk how I did it, but I did)
I also LOVE to draw fan art, write little one shots/AU's, and make friends.
I'm 25, my pronouns are she/they, and I'm more than a little bit queer.
I've been coming up with my own AU re: BG3 where I'm developing partners in game for each companion (although I am a sucker for BloodWeave, if I'm being 100% honest)
If you have any questions, just let me know! If you'd like to make friends, message me!
I'm thrilled to be here and a part of the fandom, and I hope that I can make all of my creative ideas come to life for others to experience if they're interested. (:
I'll also probably use this as a place to post all of my various thoughts, playlists, etc.
