But Your Honor, I Love Him

A happy little collection of comfort reading. 18+

[kymawrites]

bound by fear

a/n: this was a request! (sorry I've been mia)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: physical and emotional abuse by a parental figure (alluded to and described), anxiety, violence, misogyny, language

note this fic is a bit heavier than my usual. please take care of yourselves if this could be triggering for you - this is not meant to romanticize trauma, but I think sometimes fics that include these topics can be a comfort for some <3

word count: 9.2k

synopsis: You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

You never wanted a mate. A mate was the last thing you ever wanted for yourself, after escaping from your wretched father. You never wanted another male in your life, controlling every decision, every thought, every breath that you made. You couldn’t have a mate.

Mates were rare, you had told yourself. It was unlikely that you would ever come across yours. It was an irrational fear, really. Especially once you fled from your camp—once you found an isolated cottage hidden deep in the Illyrian Steppes, miles away from any Illyrian camp. 

It was a dilapidated thing when you stumbled across it, but it protected you from the unforgiving cold of Illyria and the wet snow that seeped through your clothes. It was the first place you felt safe, once the adrenaline had ebbed away and the oxygen returned to your lungs.

You made the place your own. Months passed, and the previous owner never showed. Eventually, you worked up the nerve to venture into the closest camp, and in a rare bout of luck, you befriended a female who owned a shop on the outskirts of the territory. She gave you any supplies and food you needed in exchange for tailoring. It was the only skill you had to your name.

Two years passed with the same, monotonous routine. It was admittedly a lonely life. Sometimes you longed for friends, for companionship, for family—then you remembered what family could look like, and decided you much preferred your solitary existence. Perhaps one day you could leave this mountain, seek refuge in a new court, and build an entirely new life for yourself. For now, though, you would stay put in your cottage, in your forest, and relish in the peaceful life you had found after nearly three decades of torture.

That was your plan.

Then you met him.

~ ~ ~

Two Months Ago

You thanked the Mother every day for bestowing the gift of nature to this world. The trees, the snow, the skittering and chirping animals that hid amongst the brush and tree canopies—they all provided you with a comfort that you were certain you would have gone insane without. Every day, you walked through the surrounding forest, absorbing the sounds and smells and the kiss of fresh air on your skin. All little joys you never had before.

It took months before you had the courage to amble around so freely. Months where you barely left your little cottage, a shell of a female that was terrified of discovery. You eventually ran out of food, though, the non-perishables left behind by the previous occupant long gone. You had not escaped your father just to die at the hands of starvation, so you bundled yourself in whatever clothes and scraps of fabric you could find in old drawers to make yourself appear larger, then trekked to the nearest camp. You befriended a local shopkeeper who knew all too well the cruelty of Illyrian males, and she swore to do whatever she could to help you stay hidden.

You never asked her name, and you never offered yours. It felt too dangerous—too personal. You were grateful for her help, but you couldn’t risk attachment. She couldn’t risk catching the wrath of an arrogant male. 

She is the one that suggested that you take walks. To explore nature in a way you never could before. To take another slice of newfound freedom.

Your daily walks became a ritual. They were yours, and this forest was your home, and no one was around for miles to threaten you or scream at you. No one was around to hurt you. You felt safe in a way you never knew was possible, even if the fear that your father would one day find you still lingered.

The cold was biting today, and you almost skipped your walk all together, but decided against it. You had weathered far worse than some cold air, and your Illyrian skin was acclimated to the bitter weather. There was no reason to skip it.

Something was nagging at you though, the entire time you were out. There was an ache in the center of your chest, a dull anxiety, or anticipation, thrumming up and down your core. You rubbed at your chest as you took a step up to your cottage, the weight of your foot making the old wooden staircase creak. 

An unfamiliar scent hit you, and you froze. There was cedar, which wouldn’t be all that unusual in the middle of the forest, but it was so potent, and it was mixed with salt. How you imagined the sea must smell. 

Someone was here. Someone was in your home.

The door flew open, and towering in the doorframe was an Illyrian male, with blue siphons adorning his body. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and the breath was knocked from your lungs when that achy tension inside your chest snapped. The male stumbled slightly, his hand coming up to clutch his chest, and you knew he felt it too.

The mating bond.

It was unmistakable. The bond had snapped, and this male in front of you was your mate. This Illyrian male, that had invaded your home.

You took off running. You didn’t know where you were going, but you weren’t going anywhere with him. Your father must have sent him, and the Mother had a cruel and twisted sense of humor for binding you to him. The snow crunched beneath your feet, a likely beacon for the male to follow if he was determined, but you couldn’t care.

You couldn’t stop moving. Even as branches and twigs slapped at your skin, as snow fell into your hair, clinging to your eyelashes and mixing with your hot and silent tears. This couldn’t be happening to you. You were finally free. You were finally settling down.

You would rather die than succumb to the fate of an Illyrian male’s mate.

Something—someone—grabbed your arm, yanking you to an abrupt halt. You twisted to face your attacker, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with the male. Your mate.

His grip was firm, and it only tightened when you tried to break away. 

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Soft. It made you falter.

You still tugged at his grip, trying to break free, but it was no use. “Like you don’t know,” you spat.

You waited for the inevitable blow, for the retaliation, but it never came. He simply stared at you, his brow slightly furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. “Is someone following you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, tugging at your arm again. “You.”

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, you realized. Nearly honey in the sunlight. You swallowed hard, averting your gaze as the little confidence you had wavered.

“How long have you been living in my safe house?”

Your eyes snapped back to him, your mouth going dry. “Yours?” you croaked.

He nodded slowly. “I’m particularly interested in how you broke through the wards.”

You shook your head. “I—I didn’t,” you stuttered. “I swear. I didn’t. I just found it, and it seemed abandoned. I’m sorry. Please—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his face inexplicably softening, and your words died in your throat.

“Let me go,” you demanded, but the words fell flat as your voice wavered.

His grip loosened, but not enough that you could run off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he swore quietly.

You were trembling. Your entire body was shaking as you stared at him in disbelief. He was lying. He had to be. He was trying to coax you into a false-sense of security, to convince you to let your guard fall, and then he would sink his fingers into you. He would drag you back to that camp, to your father, perhaps. Maybe he would drag you back to his home, and make you answer to his every whim.

“What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was so gentle it made you shiver. 

You still didn’t answer. He surely knew your name already, but in case he didn’t, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him.

“My name is Azriel,” he continued, unphased by your silence. The name made you falter, as if you recognized it somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. “I work for the High Lord.”

You blinked at him, brain turning fuzzy. “The Shadowsinger?” you croaked, an entirely new chill of fear running up your spine.

“Yes.”

“Where are your shadows, then?”

“Away.”

You stared at him, the very axis of your world tilting beneath you as you stood before your mate. Your mate, that worked for the High Lord of Night. The Shadowsinger, who was feared across Prythian, and hated amongst Illyrians. You didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Azriel let you go, and the anger that flooded his eyes as he dropped your wrist made your stomach lurch. He stood and watched you tremble before him, the snow seeping into your boots as fresh flakes stuck to your lashes. Fear sunk its claws deeper into your core with every second that passed and he left your desperate question unanswered. 

Then he just vanished. His body was swallowed whole by a swarm of dark shadows that came and went as easily as the breeze. The knowledge that he could winnow, that he could appear anywhere at any time he wanted made your stomach churn.

You stood there in a daze as the snow fell around you and branches creaked in the wind. The sun was creeping below the horizon, and your legs started carrying you toward your cottage before you could even begin to fully process the situation you were in.

You tripped on one of the old wooden steps as you climbed to the porch, the snow biting at the bare skin of your hands you used to catch yourself. A single sob fell from your lips as you pushed yourself back up, forcing yourself to move inside and out of the bitter cold. You frantically started packing your belongings, parceling out what you would take, what you would have to leave behind, all while a chasm grew in your chest. The entire time you felt like someone was watching you. A sixth sense screaming at you that you were not alone. 

It had been years since you felt such panic, a bone-deep fear that would haunt you for months. It was such a sick and icy feeling that left you pain-stakingly numb, so numb that as the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself slumping to the floor in front of the crackling fire you couldn’t remember feeding. Silent tears fell down your cheeks as you sat there motionlessly, letting the minutes tick by and the odds of him coming back for you grow.

You had a mate. An Illyrian was your mate. One of the most powerful males in Prythian was your mate. There would be no escaping him. You could try to run and hide in another court, but you had no doubt that he would find you before you crossed the border. Probably before you even left Illyria.

Defeat and exhaustion weighed you down, your body sagging as the last of your fight faded out. Somehow, sleep managed to claim you, and you laid there on the floor until morning, when a soft and persistent knocking dragged you back to consciousness.

The fire still burned before you, the flames flickering as the wood crackled and popped. Your head snapped toward the door as the knocking continued. Dread swam in your stomach as you realized who must be on the other side of the door. In all your time living here, you had never had a visitor.

You debated making a run for it. Jumping through a side window with nothing but the clothes on your back. You weren’t sure your useless wings could fit through the frame though, and you would likely freeze to death if you somehow managed to escape him.

You slowly walked toward the door on shaky legs, your hand trembling as you let it hover over the lock. The knocking stopped. You couldn’t understand what sort of game he was playing. He had made it clear last night that he could just waltz into your home at his leisure. Your home, that was never really yours.

“I know you’re there,” his soft voice startled you. His voice was muffled through the door, but it still made your heart race. “Please,” he begged as you stared at the wooden door. “Please, can I talk to you?”

He sounded almost desperate. Your mind spun as you processed his request—his request, not a demand. Not a threat. You stumbled as heat pulsed in the center of your chest. It was unsettling, feeling the physical pull the mating bond had on you, practically screaming at you to go to this male.

You shakily unlatched the lock, feeling sick as you unexplainably opened the door for this male. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, his breath seeming to catch in his throat as he stared at you. Your grip tightened on the door.

He was dressed in plain clothes. Black boots, black pants, and a navy sweater. You could still make out the matching glows of the two siphons on his wrist, but the other five were gone. His wings tucked in tighter as you took him in, and your face burned as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Hello,” he said quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. You couldn’t imagine it as the natural cadence of this Illyrian warrior, the Spymaster of  Night Court. 

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your face impassive as your resolve wavered. “What do you want?”

Azriel’s face was calm and unflinching. “What is your name?” he asked, again.

As much as you wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened, you knew that was not an option. Your soul was tied to this male on your porch, you had been living on his property for years—there was no escaping from this. “Y/N.”

He repeated your name softly, and you hated the tug you felt in your chest as the syllables fell from his lips. You hated that warmth that flooded your skin as his eyes glanced over you briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You have blood on your sleeve,” he observed quietly.

Your gaze fell to the fabric around your wrist, splotches of blood staining the dirty fabric. You could only imagine how disheveled you truly looked. The thought did nothing to quell your nerves. He likely didn’t want a mate that looked so poorly, whose hair was unbrushed and clothes were muddied. You didn’t care what he thought of you—but the thought of already angering the male you might be shackled to for eternity made you faint. You were certain you had done enough damage last night.

Mother above, this was really happening. You really had a mate. You were a fool to think your newfound freedom would last. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice making you flinch. You stared at him in disbelief as his eyes assessed you with seemingly genuine concern.

“What?” you rasped.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, his eyes slightly wider as they met yours. “Do you need a healer?”

You let go of the door to cover your blood stained wrist, your heart pounding against your ribcage. A healer. He would take you to a healer? You had never been allowed to visit one. Even if you had…your camp’s healer was a male. You would have rather died than to try to seek the help of another wretched Illyrian male.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he said, “My name is Azriel.”

You blinked. “I know.”

His throat bobbed, and he glanced away. “Last night was…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

His face was soft, and his shoulders fell slightly as answered, “I just want to know you.”

~ ~ ~

Present

You didn’t believe Azriel when he told you all he wanted was the chance to know you. All he wanted was to have a conversation. Once a week. Nothing more. It was ludicrous. Insane. 

At first, he wanted you to come to Velaris—but as soon as he uttered the words, you panicked and started begging him to leave you be, to not take you away, and he let it go. He swore up and down that he would never take you anywhere or make you do anything you didn’t want.

His promises fell on deaf ears. You were no fool. You had seen too much, endured too much, to ever believe such frilly promises from a male.

Except, two months had passed, and his promises remained unbroken. He let you stay in the cottage, and he showed you how to activate certain wards and enchantments that had apparently been at your disposal this entire time. For two years you had been chopping wood in the snowy forest when the damned cottage could apparently feed the fire itself.

Azriel came by every week like clockwork. The same day and time, and for only an hour. He never entered without your permission, even if it was technically his cottage that you had staked a claim to. The first couple of weeks were wrought with stiff and awkward silence, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he filled your pantry and medicine cabinets, cleaned the fireplace, swept the floor—all things that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself—but he did them anyway. 

The third week your resolve snapped. Your anxiety ignited into a fiery rage that had you snapping at the male who had decided to make you soup, of all things.

“When will you grow tired of these games?” you snapped.

Azriel briefly tensed, his wings twitching slightly before folding in tight behind his back. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his face sincere as he said softly. “I'm not playing any games.”

You scoffed. “Then when will your patience grow thin? How many more weeks before you just take what you want? Before you drag me to that city of yours so I can play the part of the pretty mate to the High Lord’s Spymaster?”

Azriel slowly sat the spoon down on the counter, letting the soup simmer on the stove as he turned to face you. His eyes were hard as they looked at you, his jaw clenched tight. The look made your stomach fall, your heart pounding as you took a timid step back, cursing yourself for such a foolish outburst.

His eyes immediately softened when you moved away, and he didn’t make any effort to go near you. “I will never force you—”

You grit your teeth. “So you’ve said.”

“And I will say it again, and again, and again. However many times you need to hear it.”

He always said the right thing. It was infuriating. Although, even now, weeks after the bond had snapped and thrusted him into your life, you still didn’t believe him—and yet, you had started to anticipate his visits, rather than dread them. You had started to see them as a nuisance, instead of a threat. 

He was due for a visit today, and he was late. The sun had moved past its apex in the sky, and the light was starting to filter in through the west windows. You ignored the unease you felt in your stomach with every minute that passed and he didn’t show. You told yourself you would be glad if he spared you of this week’s visit. Perhaps, he had given up on you entirely.

You couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest, though, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that was bubbling deep in your core. 

You jumped when three knocks sounded on your door, and you instinctively moved to answer it. The band wrapped around your lungs loosened when you saw Azriel standing on your porch, looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he greeted breathlessly. You moved to the side to let him in, and you shut the door behind him as he toed off his boots that were unusually caked in mud. His leathers had matching streaks painted across them, and there were dried flakes of it caked to the dark strands of his hair. 

“Are you okay?”

Azriel appeared as startled by your question as you were. You didn’t know what compelled you to ask him that, why you would even care, but for some reason, you did.

He blinked slowly, his lips parting slightly before finally answering softly, “Yes, I am.”

You swallowed hard, looking away toward the fire.

“My nephew started flying today,” he explained. “Unexpectedly, and he had an accident.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Yes,” he said, voice still soft. “He is.”

You nodded slightly, dragging your eyes back to meet his. His eyes were already glued to you, and you forgot how to breathe for a second as you stood there under his gaze. The air felt charged and heavy as you stood there before each other, as if lightning was about to strike and shake you to your core. It was alluring. Intoxicating. Then something squeezed inside your chest and it felt like someone curled a finger around your rib, coaxing you toward the male in front of you, and a new wave of terror doused whatever delusion you had danced with momentarily.

You took a step back, and Azriel’s face fell slightly before he caught it. “Can I clean up?” he asked, breaking the tense silence as he pointed behind him to the tiny bathroom.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. He quickly disappeared inside the tiny room, and you didn’t breathe until you heard the door click shut.

You slumped onto the wooden dining chair beside you, your hands rubbing at your temples as your stomach churned with anxiety. You hated this. You hated that the Mother was so cruel. How could you have a mate? Had you not suffered enough? Were the last two years the only taste of freedom you would ever get?

You knew your time left in this cottage was ticking. The minutes you had left to cling to your last dredges of independence were slipping through your fingers. Every time you looked at Azriel, every week he showed up on your doorstep, you were reminded that this was temporary. The life you had started to build for yourself was no longer yours.

And every time that damned bond linking the two of you together for eternity tugged at your chest, it made you want to scream. You had briefly thought about rejecting the bond. About severing the “gift” bestowed upon you by the Mother in two. Every time you did, though, it felt like an axe to your chest. You couldn’t stomach being bonded to an Illyrian male, but you weren’t sure you could survive cleaving the bond either.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Azriel stepped out with damp hair and a clean face, but his leathers were still muddied. He seemed to hesitate in the doorway, and it was unlike every other time he had been here, when he moved around your home with purpose and confidence—fixing things and stocking your pantry and needlessly stoking your fire. He looked almost…boyish.

He took a small step forward. “I need to ask you something,” he started. You folded your hands in your lap, your palms turning clammy. He glanced at the chair next to yours—the only other chair at the table—then back at you. You thought it might be a silent question, but you weren’t sure.

He tentatively moved for the chair, his eyes watching you, and when you made no move to stop him, he pulled it out from the table. He sat a bit awkwardly, his frame far too large for the wooden seat, and his wings bumped into the table as they unfurled and then snapped shut while he shifted around. The sight of his wings moving so gracefully made your heart hurt. It had been a very long time since you appreciated the beauty of Illyrian wings, since you witnessed their elegant strength without fearing it. 

Without fear. The thought made your heart tumble, and you stared at the male beside you in disbelief and reluctant awe. This was the closest he had been to you since that night in the forest. If you could still stretch your wings, they would no doubt bump into his.

“How much do you know about mating bonds?”

His words were like ice water over your head. Your breathing turned labored and shaky as you met his eyes hesitantly. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. You hated that a small part of you liked seeing him like this—so normal, even if he still wore his leathers and siphons. “Humor me, please.”

You suddenly felt foolish and naive. What was there to know about a mating bond? “I—” your mouth was dry as you searched for the right words “—I don’t know. I guess it’s eternal? Chosen by the Mother and honored above all other bonds.”

His face was unflinching as his eyes roved over you, your skin tingling in the wake of his gaze. “What else?” he asked.

You blinked. There was more? You shifted nervously in your chair, tucking your hands between your thighs as you thought of what else he wanted you to say.  “I suppose it means I belong to you,” you added quietly, avoiding his gaze as the acidic words dripped off your tongue. You might as well have set the last scraps of your freedom on fire.

“That’s not—” Azriel started hurriedly, and you looked up to see his wide and slightly panicked eyes, “—That’s not what I meant.”

His shoulders slumped forward a bit as he looked at you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his leathers were stretched tight over his thighs as he rubbed his scarred palms over them. It of course was not the first time you had noticed the scars lining his flesh, but something inside you ached at the sight of them this time. You found yourself wanting to know who did that to him—then, a more terrifying thought creeped in, and you wondered what he might have done to provoke them.

How much blood was on his hands? How old was he? How long had he been fighting and killing for this court? How long had he served as fodder for faeries’ nightmares and horror stories?

“Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you out of your spiral, and your heart started racing as you met his eyes. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Gods, what had he been saying? You should have been paying attention. How long had your thoughts been wandering?

His eyes were sad as he told you, “I need to leave.”

You blinked, the daze you had faded into clearing from your vision. “Why?” you asked, voice unexpectedly gravelly.

His eyes flitted over your face, searching for something. “Rhys needs me to do something for him,” was his vague response.

You swallowed, nodding once as your eyes stayed glued to him. The setting sun illuminated his tan skin beautifully—it was nearly glowing. His eyes were bright and honeyed, if not a little glossy. His hair was slowly drying in soft waves, the strands falling slightly over his forehead. And his lips. Mother, his lips were soft and pink and—

“Y/N,” Azriel said again, and your face heated as you were once again yanked from your thoughts. Panic clutched you again, and your chair screeched against the floor as you stood up quickly. You scrambled away from him, leaning against the kitchen counter as you folded your arms across your chest.

Azriel’s lips were parted as he stared at you, and you wished he would stop. You wished he would leave, and never come back. You wished these confusing and conflicting thoughts would stop plaguing you. You wished you didn’t find yourself attracted to this male who was your mate. This Illyrian male that terrified you to your core, no matter how pretty he was or how softly he spoke to you. 

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt alongside the snow outside your cabin, and never face this new fate that had been bestowed upon you—because despite all of the fear and anger you had toward this male, toward the mating bond that wound your soul to his—you didn’t actually want Azriel to disappear. You didn’t want him to abandon you. You didn’t want him to hate you, despite your desperate and icy attempts to push him away. It was all so fucking confusing.

“The mating bond,” you rasped, and the words seemed to rattle around inside you. It was the first you had ever spoken of it, ever outwardly acknowledged its existence. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

Azriel stood slowly from his chair, but he made no move closer to you. His face was solemn as he said, “Yes, I—” He swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I do. I will—but I have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure what to make of the wave of rejection you felt at his words. Two months ago, two weeks ago, you would have rejoiced he was leaving early. Now, it left you feeling cold and untethered. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He lingered beside the table for another moment, as if he was hesitating. Then his shadows swarmed around him, and they swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in your cottage, and for the first time you resented the solitude that you once cherished.

~ ~ ~

The sun had set and the moon had long ago taken its place since Azriel had inexplicably rattled you and then left you in a whirlwind of shadows. You had replayed your conversation over and over in your head, and every time it left you even more anxious and confused. 

The heat from the fire warmed your skin as you watched the flames flicker in front of you. You weren’t sure how long you had sat there on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you as you sat alone—your thoughts and the orange flames your only company. You should have gone to bed. It was late, and you were exhausted, but there was a part of you that wanted to wait—that wanted to see if Azriel would return, however unlikely it was.

A knock on the door made your head snap toward it. For a brief moment you felt relief—relief that Azriel had come back. Then ice slowly spread through your veins, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door. That was not Azriel on the other side.

You didn’t know how you could possibly know it wasn’t him. You just knew in your core it wasn’t. Azriel made you nervous. You were always on edge around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were always waiting for him to snap and treat you how every other Illyrian male you had encountered did.

This feeling was different. There was some primal part of you screaming “Danger!” and “Fucking run!” but you were frozen to your couch. You had never felt that when Azriel visited. You had not felt true and imminent danger in two years. It was not your mate standing on your doorstep.

The next knock made you flinch, and it was louder, more impatient. Panic was taking over, and your legs felt numb as you finally rose from the couch, but you just stood there and stared at the door. You had nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run, no way out except through the front door where your past sat waiting to tear you apart and drag your pieces back with them.

The wards. Azriel said this place was protected by wards. They should keep whoever it was out, right? The next round of pounding shook the door on its hinges, though, and your momentary confidence suddenly dwindled. 

The heavy pounding didn’t stop. It only grew more and more persistent, more violent, until the force made the entire cabin tremble. “Open this fucking door!”

That voice flooded your veins with acid. You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your nightmares. It haunted you everywhere you went.

Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep waiting for Azriel, and this was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. Your stomach flipped inside out when he banged on the door so hard the windows rattled.

This was real. Your father on the other side of your door was real, and you were still fucking frozen in place as he screamed and pounded. You shakily reached for the dagger that had rested on your mantel since you first found the cottage. The black metal was warm from the fire, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in your palm. You didn’t know how to use it—how to properly defend yourself—but it was more than you ever had before.

“I will burn this place to the damn ground!” He screamed, his voice rough and feral. “Don’t think I won’t watch you burn with it! Open the door you worthless bitch!” He started kicking the door, and your heart stopped when you heard the wood splinter. 

You had no doubt he would burn you alive in this place. Maybe the wards would protect you. Maybe they would fend off any flames he lit. Maybe they would keep him out when he inevitably broke the door down. Maybe they wouldn’t.

You should have asked Azriel more questions. You should have asked him just how safe you were here. You should have asked him how to wield the damned blade that must have been his that you now clutched uselessly at your side. You should have asked him—

“You knew it was only a matter of time before someone made you my fucking problem again,” he spat. “A fucking embarrassment. Maybe I should just burn you to ash.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat, and your lungs were paralyzed. Azriel. Did Azriel—did he tell you father where you were? You couldn’t fucking breathe. You never told him where you came from, who you were hiding from, but it wouldn’t be hard for the Spymaster to figure out. He had cut your visit short today. He had given you some vague excuse for why he had to leave—was this why?

Your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sob that escaped your lips. The skin of your cheeks was damp with silent tears, and you looked at the window to the right of you. There was no other option. You couldn’t stay here.

Your body’s movements were driven by pure adrenaline as you swung the window open, pulling it roughly to break it from its hinges, leaving the frame fully open for you to climb through. The glass shattered on the ground as it fell from your grasp and you shimmied through the too small frame. Your wings snagged on the wood of the cabin, and you yanked them free with a stifled yelp of pain as they were pinched and scraped against the worn wood.

You knew your father had to have heard you. You knew he would likely catch you, but you didn’t have to make it easy for him. You took off running toward the forest, your feet quickly going numb from the snow that seeped through the thin fabric covering them. 

There was a sick sense of deja vu that washed over you as you ran between pine trees and shrubs, branches smacking and scratching at your skin. The Mother really did have a sick and twisted sense of humor.

Pain ricocheted up your nose and bloomed under your eyes. You were no longer running. You weren’t standing. Your cheek was pressed against hard stone and your palms were outstretched in front of you, caked in dirt and blood. A heavy weight lifted from your back, only for a more intense pressure to replace it at the center of your back. You let out a wheeze as the air was forced from your lungs.

A disgustingly familiar hand yanked your head up by your hair, and another gripped either side of your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were as cold and vile as you remembered. He was the epitome of evil. You thanked the Cauldron you took after your mother, and your own face didn’t remind you of the monster leering at you now.

He tugged at your hair, snapping your neck back even farther as his boot still pressed into your spine. You thought he might snap you in two right there. 

Your eyes caught on the blade scattered beside you, too far away to even think about grabbing it. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he seethed, spit pelting your face. “Do you know what you cost me?” he screamed.

“First your mother embarrassed me when she was too weak to survive birth. Her only purpose, and she couldn’t even fulfill it. Then she left me with a pathetic and disrespectful runt of a daughter. No son to make me proud.” The punch shocked you, and you felt your mouth fill with an all too familiar metallic taste. Your cheek throbbed as he yanked on your hair again. “Then she runs away. Abandons her camp and responsibilities. Fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend you were dead, because you were so lousy at covering your tracks, Illyrians across camps said they had seen you.”

A tiny, microscopic ounce of pride nestled in your chest. You had only ever been to one camp. The shopkeeper and you had planted seeds of doubtful but not implausible rumors of your whereabouts to specific patrons of hers—you wanted to be everywhere and nowhere—and it had worked.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, and he kicked you in the ribs, rolling you onto your back and into the frozen earth. The next blow resounded with a sickening crack that left you gasping and wheezing through your tears. You hoped he killed you. If this was your fate, you would rather die now than face an eternity in his hands. In his hands, that your mate had dropped you into.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he straddled your hips, his weight a crushing force on top of your injuries. You hated him. You despised him for taking everything from you. He reached for the blade behind your head, and you held your breath as you waited for the blow. You expected him to go for your heart. Instead, he dragged the blade down the delicate membrane of your wing, leaving the skin in tatters as he repeated the motion.

The scream that left you was blood-curdling. You had never felt such pain. You had never experienced such all-consuming agony. You thought you might die from it—from the agonizing violation.

Then he was gone. One moment his weight was searing against your skin, and the next he was gone. A guttural grunt of pain had you weakly turning your head, and you could barely make out the sight of two figures fighting in the snow. Your vision swam as you watched them, as you watched one male land blow after blow to the one lying in the snow. Then they vanished into the shadows, and you thought you might join them.

~ ~ ~

Fingers on your jaw had you jerking from your daze, your vision clearing slightly to focus on the male hovering over you. You twisted away from him, screaming in both terror and pain as everything hurt. The touch fell away, and you squeezed your eyes shut again, tears falling as you sobbed and shook in the blood-stained snow.

“Y/N—”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please—don’t. Leave me. Leave me alone. Please!” you begged, eyes snapping open again when he touched your hip. “Please!” you screamed. “I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the male said, his voice sounding strangled. Your eyes snagged on his scarred hands hovering tentatively over your body. Azriel.

You sobbed harder. “I’m sorry,” you weeped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are stuck with me, I’m sorry—but please—please don’t take me back there.” You gasped through your tears and pain. “Please don’t leave me with him,” you cried, your entire body shaking. “I will do anything—”

“He will never touch you again,” Azriel growled, and you swore a tear ran down his cheek. You might have been hallucinating. “I promise.”

You stared at him—stared and stared as you shook and cried before him, desperate for a reprieve from this pain. His arms slid under your legs and back, and you screamed as your ribs shifted and your wings dragged against the ground. “Stop!” you cried. “Please, don’t—Azriel, please, I’m begging you. I will do anything, I swear—”

“Sweetheart,” the word was strangled as it fell from his lips, but his grip didn’t loosen. He stood slowly with you thrashing and crying in his arms. “You’re safe, I promise. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then please,” you whimpered, “Leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it isn’t safe, and you need a healer.”

“No,” you gasped. “No healers.” You couldn’t handle another male touching you, leering at you, prodding at you while you laid broken and vulnerable.

“She won’t hurt you,” he soothed. “I swear it.”

She. A female healer?

“Close your eyes,” he murmured gently, and a warmth slowly seeped into your frozen core as you stared into his eyes.

You don’t know why you listened to him. You don’t know why all of the fight in your body had suddenly dissipated as he held you in his arms, or why you let your head loll against his chest as exhaustion took over your senses, and your eyes fluttered shut. Featherlight whisps brushed against your cheeks and arms, gentle phantom-like touches tracing up and down the gashes in your wings.

You slowly opened your eyes when warmth washed over your skin and you felt Azriel walking. You were in someone’s home. A home—unlike anything you had ever seen. There were paintings adorning the walls and carpets lining the wooden floors. A fire crackled in the room Azriel carried you past, and he slowly maneuvered the two of you up a smooth wooden staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice was so embarrassingly weak. You were weak, and fragile, and an embarrassment. What was the Mother thinking, giving the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, you as his mate. You were still trembling and frozen to your core, yet your entire body was ablaze with pain. You were helpless in Azriel’s arms, and as his fingers dug a little tighter into your skin, you realized you were truly at this male’s mercy. It was terrifying.

His grip immediately loosened. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered—begged—as he climbed the final step. “You never need to be scared with me.” He moved down the hallway as he said, “You’re in Velaris. My home. You’re safe here.”

Don’t be scared. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.

His words swam around and around in your head as he carried you through an open doorway, and sat you gently on the bed. You wanted to believe him. Everything inside of you wanted to accept Azriel as your mate, to relish in his touch and presence, but everything you had endured at the hands of other Illyrian males—of your father—had you ready to leap out of another window to make a run for it.

You flinched as you watched the blood and mud on your clothes and skin seep into the clean bedspread beneath you. “The bed—”

“I don’t care about the damned bed,” Azriel nearly growled.

You nodded, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you tried to swallow the anxiety and fear still bubbling in your core. The room was spinning a bit, and you faintly recognized the brush of something cool against your cheek as a dark tendril of shadow flitted from you to Azriel. 

Azriel had one hand gripping yours while the other was wrapped firmly around your forearm, his strength alone keeping you upright. It was probably for the best. You weren’t sure you would ever get back up if you lied down right now. You couldn’t fathom the pain you would be in if you put pressure on your ribs or your wing.

“Madja will be here soon,” he said softly, and you absently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back gently. A beat of tense silence passed, and you stared blankly at the wall in front of you, replaying the night on a loop in your head. “Y/N,” Azriel started, “who was he?”

Azriel’s tone told you he already knew the answer to his question—he just needed you to confirm it. There was no point hiding it anymore, and you were fairly certain he was the one who led him straight to you anyway. “My father,” you rasped. “How did he find me?” You forced yourself to meet his eyes, to watch them for any flicker of a tell, of emotion, that gave away what he had done.

His throat bobbed. “I don’t know.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you relished in the gentle touch before recoiling, pulling you hand away. His hand fell to his side, but the one keeping you upright stayed on your arm. You supposed it would make sense for a spymaster to be a flawless liar.

“Then how did you know he was there?” you asked, and you braced yourself for the inevitable anger—braced yourself for the blow he would deliver for such an insolent accusation after he had saved you—even if he was the reason you needed saving. 

Azriel stiffened, and you glanced at his face that had gone pale. “I felt your panic,” he said quietly. “Your terror—” You sucked in a sharp breath when his hand fell away and his shadows replaced him, the inky black tendrils holding you up.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised gently, his eyes glossy in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. “They would never hurt you—I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I don’t know how your father found you. I don’t know how he got through the damned wards.”

Your face flushed at that, shame dragging sharp claws down your back. “I ran.”

Azriel shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. He should never have been able to even see the cottage, let alone step a foot on the porch.” His eyes snapped to you, the hazel of his irises warming slightly. “This was not your fault. You did the right thing by running.”

Another wave of excruciating pain washed over you, and the shadows surrounding you somehow`` held you up as your body tried to fold over. A whimper escaped your lips, and new tears started to fall as your body started to wake up. The adrenaline was fading, and you were quickly reacquainted with an entirely new awareness of the pain your body was in. 

Azriel’s face twisted as if he felt your pain alongside you, and even in your delirium, in your mind-numbing agony, your mind snagged on something he said. “My terror,” you gasped. “What do you mean you felt it?”

Azriel seemed to be using all his restraint not to touch you. “I felt it through the bond,” he murmured, albeit reluctantly. As if now was too inconvenient for him to be having this conversation, but he kept speaking, perhaps to distract you. “I’ve never felt such undiluted terror, Y/N.” His words were whisper-soft, and his eyes still shined with pain. “I’ve always felt your fear around me—it’s not uncommon—but this? This was terrifying. It made my heart stop dead. And your pain,” His voice cracked. “As soon as I felt your pain, as soon as I realized something was wrong, I left. I left in the middle of a meeting with Rhys and tens of Illyrian camp lords because all I could feel was my mate hurt, possibly dying—and I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hand finally reached for you again, his knuckles barely grazing the bruised and bloody skin of your cheek. Your head was spinning, from both pain and confusion as you struggled to make sense of his words—make sense of him feeling you through this, this bond—you didn’t know what to say.

His touch fell away as quickly as it came. “You never have to be mine. If you never want that, it’s okay. It’s your choice. Always.” That made your heart clench, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t think of much else besides the pain radiating across every part of your body. “But I’m yours.” Tears fell down both of your cheeks, and you absently wondered if you had ever seen a male cry. If you had ever witnessed a male show such vulnerability and tenderness. “I will always be yours. I am devoted to you—and I will always protect you, I swear it.”

The door swung open then, and another Illyrian male appeared in the doorway, moving briskly toward your bed. His eyes met yours, and your entire body tensed, your muscles screaming in agony as your panicked mind grasped for some way to defend yourself. Azriel’s wings flared out and he stepped forward, effectively blocking the male from your sight, and you from his. “Cassian,” he growled.

“Feyre is getting Madja,” the male said hurriedly. “They should be here any minute.” There was a pause, then the male asked Azriel softly, “What can I do?”

Azriel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned to look at you over his shoulder. You could only imagine how pathetic you looked. You were in tatters and bloodied and shaking like a leaf and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t move. If this male lunged for you, it would be over. There would be no defending yourself.

Azriel turned back toward the male. “You need to leave,” he gritted out. “And get Nesta—please.”

The door clicked shut softly behind the male, and Azriel’s wings folded back in as he turned to face you. You stared at him wide-eyed and shaking. You had so many questions, so many fears, but you couldn’t find the words—the strength—to speak them.

“That was Cassian,” Azriel murmured. “My brother. He would never hurt you. No one here will hurt you.”

He kept making the same promises, kept saying the same words, and you wanted to believe him. Mother, you wanted it more than anything. His eyes drifted away from you, focusing on the wing splayed out beside you. The injured wing, that was starting to shake more than the rest of you. A new fear leached into your brain. Would you lose your wings? They were useless but they were still yours. They were still a part of you. You couldn’t—the thought of having a permanent reminder of your father’s cruelty made your stomach twist.

“Not long ago,” Azriel said softly, his voice slicing through your panic, “Cassian’s wings were in tatters. Ribbons. I thought he might never fly again—but Madja healed him. You would never know now that the fate of his wings was in peril, besides some faint scarring. She’ll heal you, too.”

As if his words summoned her, an elderly female came rushing into the room, the door flying open on its hinges. She pushed Azriel to the side fearlessly, and you stared at her dumbly as she dropped an armful of supplies next to you on the bed. She completely ignored the swarm of shadows around you, pushing you to lay back on the bed. You screamed as your ribs shifted and your wing throbbed, and a low growl came from beside you.

Azriel had Madja’s wrist in his hand, his eyes glowing with something feral, but there was no fear or pain on the healer’s face. “Shadowsinger,” she said calmly, her voice even and steady. “Let me do my job.”

Regret flooded his face, and he immediately dropped her wrist. Madja started ruffling through her belongings, and you grit your teeth as nausea clutched at your throat. You would not throw up. You weren’t sure you could survive the pain that would accompany it.

Your head snapped up as Madja took scissors to the hem of your dress, cutting a quick and uneven line up the center. Panic took over you, and this time you were the one to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?” you asked frantically.

“I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”

“No,” you rushed out. Not with him here. You couldn’t. He couldn’t see you like that. You would have rather laid on hot coals than laid there naked and injured in front of a male—in front of Azriel.

Madja followed your involuntary glance to Azriel, and something like morose understanding softened her wrinkled face. Her head turned to Azriel, who was watching the two of you with wide eyes. “You need to leave,” she told him.

Azriel’s hackles instantly raised. “Excuse me?”

“Leave,” Madja repeated, her voice holding no room for argument.

“I am not leaving my mate—”

“Az,” another feminine voice said from the doorway, snagging Azriel’s attention. Her voice was cool and steady, not unlike her eyes or stature as she moved toward the three of you. “Go wait in the hall.”

He glanced at you again, but you couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be right outside,” he swore quietly, and you knew he was looking at you, knew he was promising you that he wasn’t leaving. The unusual but familiar warmth that inexplicably soothed a tiny piece of your battered soul reaffirmed his words. You didn’t understand how he did that. You didn’t understand a lot.

“Go,” the female said again as Madja resumed cutting at your dress. The door shut softly behind him, and you listened for his footsteps, listened for his breathing and his heartbeat, and a tear fell down your cheek as you heard them, unwavering outside the door.

You never wanted a mate. It terrified you, being bound to another male for eternity. You feared him. You couldn’t even stand him being in the same room as you while a healer tended to your wounds—and yet, the thought of him leaving terrified you more.

You were frightened by having a mate—but you couldn’t deny that in the two months you had known him, Azriel had never made you feel the way your father did, not even the first night you met him. You thought you might even feel safe, knowing he was outside, that he would come if you called. 

That is what truly frightened you, you thought, more than anything.

~ ~ ~

part 2

[littlejuicebox]

You'll stay still, won't you, little love?

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Reader/Tav

Summary/Setting: Sometime in the beginning of Act 3; you and Astarion are exploring intimacy/sex

Rating/Warnings: M+ / 18+ only please/ Smut with little to no plot / Light BDSM / Soft Dom Astarion vibes / Some mild in game spoilers / PiV / CW / fingering / teasing and overstim if you squint / not beta read or edited too much

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I'm a degenerate, idk what else to tell you guys. I’m shocked this came out of my brain, but here we are. Enjoy or be totally flabbergasted or avoid it entirely I don’t know about you all but I simultaneously want to do all three. 💀

-----

You suspected Astarion enjoyed exploring intimacy with you, perhaps more than he thought he would. The first few weeks after his confession at Moonrise Towers resulted in a rather chaste arrangement between the two of you. Days were filled with stolen pecks and occasional hand holding between missions; nights were spent mostly cuddling half-naked or sometimes simply making out.

When a situation became particularly heated, he would always break away, panting. The flush on his face and the thrumming of his undead heart told you he enjoyed these moments, and his erection pressing into you always became quite the distraction. 

Gods, how badly you wanted more. But you had to force yourself to pull back and allow him to take the lead, never pushing further than he was willing to give. 

For a few weeks, a bit of grinding and caressing above the waist was as far as Astarion would advance. But shortly after leaving the Shadowlands, something within the silver-haired elf changed. He’d become quite intent on exploring your body almost every night, putting his masterful fingers and tongue to work, almost desperate to watch you come undone.

“You don’t have to, Astarion,” You pant one evening, after a few weeks of nearly daily interactions quite similar to this one. The rogue was working his nimble fingers inside the edge of your small clothes, aiming to delve into your already soaking folds. The bulge of his cock, barely covered by his own underwear, pressed against your rear as he slowly rocked his hips into you.

“I know, my love,” He murmurs, removing his mouth from where it had been tenderly suckling your neck. The vampire licks along the fresh love bite, eliciting a little whimper of pleasure from you. And then he smirks as his fingers find the already engorged bundle of nerves between your legs, causing you to instinctively buck toward him with a whine, “But I want to. I quite like the pretty little sounds you make for me, you know.” 

He continues his ministrations for a few moments, reveling in your desperate keens. Nothing else stroked Astarion’s ego quite like this. 

“Darling, I’d like to try something different tonight, if you don’t mind.” He purrs as his fingers change their rhythm from the languid circles over your clit to gentle, teasing strokes between your folds. The rogue’s hand dips just enough to tease your entrance with two digits before he retracts again, leaving you mewling in frustration.

You need more. He knows it. And he aimed to give you more tonight, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to toy with you for a moment or two.

“What is it, Astarion?” You ask breathlessly, as he pauses his movements entirely. You whine again and then turn your head to look at the rogue, where he is smirking down at you, clearly enjoying the desperation he’s elicited from his lover. You are caught between his cock and his hand, slowly rolling your hips back and forth, practically begging the silver-haired elf to fuck you with his fingers. 

“I want you to come on my cock tonight.” He responds, arching his eyebrow just slightly, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “If that’s what you want, my sweet.” 

Your eyes widen in shock, and you swear you feel yourself grow more slick at the mere suggestion. You lick your lips, attempting to moderate your own excitement, trying to avoid making him feel obligated in any way. Astarion’s fingers have resumed their teasing movements, and the newly found wetness causes the vampire to chuckle in delight. 

“Judging by the slickness of your perfect little cunt, that certainly is what you want. Am I correct, love?” He purrs into your ear, fangs grazing against your lobe as he rolls his growing erection toward your ass once again.

“Y-yes,” You gasp, and as soon as you do, Astarion rips your underwear from your body before tossing the ruined undergarment across the tent. 

“Then you will get what you want on one condition, darling.” He continues, and you feel the engorged head of his cock stroking between your folds from behind. The sensation makes you shiver in delight; you desire nothing more than to have him buried inside you.

“What is it?” You ask, instinctively rolling your hips back against him again, moaning when his length rubs against your clit.

Astarion grabs your hip firmly, digging his nails into the side of your ass and ceasing your movements entirely. You whine and then he’s practically laughing in your ear, you can feel how entertained he is by your predicament. He places a tender kiss on your neck before he purrs, “You aren’t allowed to move one bit, sweet girl, or else I will pull out and leave you with nothing.”

You groan in dismay at this stipulation, “Astarion! I don’t- I don’t know if I can hold still.” 

“Oh but my love, the choices are simple,” He continues, his voice playfully condescending as his other hand wanders up to lightly tease a nipple, ripping another little moan from you, “You can either be filled by my cock or by my fingers. So which will it be?”

You whine as the male elf uses one hand to stimulate your breast and the other to barely plunge into your sex again.

“Your cock!” You cry, unable to contain yourself any further, “I want your cock.”

Astarion chuckles, quite content with this response. He slides his erection between your folds again, using your arousal to lubricate his length, “And you’ll stay still, won’t you, little love?”

“Yes, I won’t move,” You agree, and this earns you a delighted groan from the vampire. He reveled in the power dynamics of your coupling, and your willingness to surrender control in the bedroom.

“Good girl,” He coos, and then he’s pressing himself into the entrance of your sex. You moan as the head of his rock-hard cock stretches your cunt; there is a bit of resistance at first; it’s been several weeks since more than two fingers have been inside you, after all.

He takes you inch by inch, slowly dragging himself along your velvet walls. Before long, Astarion’s length has filled you completely, and you’re basking in the sensation of being stretched by your lover.

His breath is ragged behind you as he struggles to remain in control, almost entirely overcome with the desire to simply have his way with you. But that’s not the game tonight, he reminds himself. 

In one swift motion he’s rolled you both so that you are straddled over him, your back pressed to his chest. He uses his knees to spread your legs wide, fully opening you up for his seasoned hands to explore. His long fingers drag over your stomach and then travel down between your legs, where they easily find that sensitive nub.

“How does it feel to be sitting atop my cock, darling?” Astarion asks as he slowly, teasingly strokes his slender fingers up and down on your drenched folds. You are seeping arousal at this point, coating him with his well-deserved reward. His cock throbs at the thought.

“Wonderful,” You respond, honestly but breathlessly as you struggle to keep yourself from rolling your hips at all. Your legs are positively shaking with the effort to exert such control, and the little tremors running along your spine are urging the vampire on.

Astarion guides your own hand up to your breasts, where he urges you to tease your own nipple. He palms the flesh of the other breast in one hand as he continues to drag his nimble fingers around your throbbing bud.

You are instinctively clenching around him now, your body desperate to milk every ounce of seed from the vampire. Astarion himself is shaking with the amount of restraint it’s taking him to not lift his hips and fuck up into your warmth. 

You cannot restrain yourself any longer, your hips buck and you’re instantly rewarded with the delicious sensation of Astarion’s length running against your walls. But then a sharp, stinging smack singes the side of your ass, and a shocked gasp escapes your lips.

“What did I say, darling? Be a good girl and hold still. Try that again and I will pull out.” The rogue warns while speeding up his efforts on your clit.

You sharply pinch your own nipple, trying desperately to keep yourself from moving any more. But gods, how badly you want to. You’re so close. Your walls are clenching tighter and tighter, and the sensation is causing Astarion to grunt in response. He’s trying just as desperately to hold back as you quiver around him, tempting him to do the exact opposite.

His hips buck just once before he regains control and stills himself, but gods the walls of your tight pussy wrapped around him felt divine. The sharp thrust made you moan loudly in delight, and your entire body was shivering from the self-control you were using to hold still. He felt you standing on the precipice of pleasure, so close to the edge. You just needed a little push to fall into a world of ecstasy, and that, he could provide.

“Let go, little love. Come for me,” He whispers hoarsely, and the command sends you tumbling over the edge. You feel the wave crashing over you, rippling through your sex and up to your spine. You clasp your hand over your mouth as you whine, signaling your release.

You are mid-orgasm when Astarion roughly grabs both sides of your hips and hisses, “Fuck it.” 

And then he’s thrusting upwards, repeatedly burying himself inside you, intent on fucking you through the second half of your orgasm. You cry out in pleasure as the vampire moans into the side of your neck, continuing to piston himself into you as he chases his own release.

Once again, his fingers find their way to your over-sensitive clit and he’s working at it frantically, in the practiced motion he knows to be your favorite. You keen and try to clamp your legs shut; the sensation is almost too much. But Astarion growls and forces your legs open with his knees as he quickly brings you to the edge of another orgasm.

Your lover is panting with exertion as he holds back his own release. Through gritted teeth he urges you on, using the hand not playing with your clit to grab your hip and slam you down to meet his thrusts.

“One more, darling. You can do one more, can’t you? Let go, I’ve got you.” He coaxes, his voice near breathless but filled with gravel.

“Oh, fuck!” Is all you can respond as the second orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first. You’re seeing stars as your pussy throbs around Astarion’s shaft, rewarding his efforts with a deliciously tight grip and another gush of your delectable juices. The high-pitched, uninhibited whine that escapes you while you’re drowning in ecstasy is music to the rogue’s ears.

As your greedy cunt clenches around him again during that second wave of pleasure, Astarion emits a strangled moan of his own.

He buries his face in your neck as he soon struggles to buck forward, shakily dragging his sensitive, swollen length in and out of your walls just a few more times before he buries himself balls-deep. Thick ropes of his spend shoot up into your warmth as he groans, consumed by his own euphoria behind you. His cock continues to pulse for a few moments longer, urged on by the relentless spasming of your sex around him.

Both of you are heaving and shaking slightly once he finally relaxes his legs. You’re still laying atop him as he slowly roams his hands over your body, idly stroking your curves in soft, soothing motions.

“I thought you said we couldn’t move,” You finally say, voice completely hoarse from the cries of ecstasy you uttered moments ago.

“I said you couldn’t move, darling. I didn’t say anything about me.” The vampire responds with a self-satisfied smirk as he playfully nips at your earlobe, “Are you truly complaining that I did all the work?”

“No,” You respond, finally pulling yourself off of the vampire, releasing the slick combination of your respective arousals as it drips between the two of you. “But at some point I’d like it to be me making all that effort to bring pleasure to you.” 

He pulls you down beside him with a little hum. You pull the blanket over the two of you. No other words are exchanged as you drift to sleep, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the day and this satisfying but unexpected evening. Astarion watches you sleep, and for the first time he allows himself to acknowledge that he might also like to let you have a bit of control in the bedroom… perhaps next time.

[theobsessivesideblog]

I’ve read this so many times and it’s so hot every time and I love it 🔥🔥🔥

[pascalispretty]

each man's mad desire

General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a conqueror. You invite him to conquer you.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: marcus fucks a nymph, predator/prey, knifeplay, blood, thigh riding, rough sex, sorta consensual-non-consent? Reader very explicitly wants him and invites him to hunt her down. Marcus has an unfashionably huge dick.

A/N: I swore I wasn't going to write for another character from an unreleased film, yet here we are. I loved studying Classics, so there are easter eggs within for those familiar with mythology. "Nymph" is more Greek than Roman, but it's also the better-known version of the word. Barcinus is a completely made-up cognomen for him (from the Latin name for Barcelona). Ichor is a Greek concept, but too delicious not to borrow here. Big dicks really were considered unattractive - it was a sign of barbarism to have a big penis. Title from Book IX of The Aeneid. (ao3)

The battle is won, the men are settled, and General Marcus Acacius is restless. He wears the efforts of the day in the blood and grime and sand coating his skin, the ache in his muscles. The city is retaken. The barbarians have been slaughtered or captured. He knows he should rest.

And yet, he wanders.

The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

“And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

Taglist:

Tagging some people who might be interested: @iamasaddie (per their request for Acacius filth) @avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse

[theobsessivesideblog]

Reading this was a religious experience. 🥵

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me | Series Index

graphic made for me by the gorgeous @writingsbychlo 💕

Summary: Set in Illyria when the Bat Boys are mere twenty-year-olds, Azriel has never explored intimacy and sex like his closest friends have. Reader is more than willing to help — not realising it will offset a series of events that will change life as they know it.

Series warnings: This series is strictly 18+, minors dni. There’s smut, violence, gore, trauma. Read with caution and take care 🫶🏻

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen (Finale)

Bonus Part (Fin x Reader)

The Practice On Me Playlist

Songs I had on repeat while writing this series, for anyone who’s interested!

Sit Down Beside Me by Patrick Watson

From The Start by Laufey

New Girl by FINNEAS

We Go Down Together by Dove Cameron & Khalid

February 3rd by Jorja Smith

She by Harry Styles

Angry Too by Lola Blanc

Afterthought by Joji & BENEE

Faded by Alan Walker

The Summoning by Sleep Token

Therefore I Am by Billie Eilish

Play With Fire by Sam Tinnesz & Yacht Money

Samurai Swords - Acoustic Version by Highasakite

My Love Mine All Mine by Mitski

THE LONELIEST by Måneskin

King by Florence + The Machine

The Practice On Me Face Claims

A look at how I imagined our younger ACOTAR characters looked through this series (and my original characters)!

Azriel:

Rhysand:

Cassian:

Kaeda:

Mor:

Roza:

Fin:

[theobsessivesideblog]

Holy shit???? How is this so good????

[theobsessivesideblog]

Hook Where it Hurts

Astarion finds himself Experiencing Emotions™ after a battle takes a turn for the worse.

Warnings: violence/injury, death, angst BUT happy ending I promise

—————————————————————

Your time in the Underdark had been relatively uneventful, all things considered. Sure there were Minotaurs, the occasional bulette, and exploding mushrooms, but there was something strangely beautiful about the alien landscape. The myconids were a friendly, if odd and slightly bloodthirsty bunch. Your conversation with Omeluum had proved enlightening, and trade with Blurg and Derryth had garnered you some useful items. Overall you couldn’t bring yourself to regret following Halsin’s advice to take the subterranean path to the Shadow-Cursed lands. 

You set up camp at the Myconid colony, heading out at first light (or at least what you assumed was first light without the actual sun to confirm) to begin your trek towards the lake Sovereign Spaw had pointed you toward. An hour into your walk a glow appeared in the distance, lighting up the gloom of the cavernous landscape. 

“I say, that can’t be… I do believe that may be a Sussur tree!” Gale exclaimed from behind you. “Powerful things, and rare, uniquely capable of completely nullifying magical forces, just fascinating!” he continued, eyes alight at the prospect of examining one up close. 

“Sussur… that sounds familiar,” Karlach pondered. 

“Ah! Right you are my fiery friend, there were instructions in the village about making a weapon with the bark! That would likely prove to be a powerful tool, we should certainly take a look.” 

You gazed towards the tree, comparing its location with the heading you had gotten from Spaw. In all likelihood you would end up passing nearby, may as well go on purpose. 

“Seems like it won’t be too much of a detour,” you announced, glancing around the group. “All in favor?”

“I’d never say no to a new kick-ass weapon,” Karlach grinned. 

“That’s two for, Astarion?” you asked, looking over towards the rogue.

“I doubt our resident magician will shut up about it until we pay a visit, so fine. Let’s go traipsing through the monster-infested dark to look at the magic tree,” Astarion said with a dramatic eye roll. 

“Anti-magic, technically, you see the—“ Gale’s chatter came to an abrupt halt as Astarion shot him a withering glance. “Right, yes, um. Shall we?” 

——————— 

You had to admit, the Sussur tree was breathtaking. Far larger than you had initially realized, clearly ancient and powerful. You glanced over to see your companions’ reactions, breath catching as your eyes met Astarion’s. His pale skin was nearly pearlescent in the ethereal glow, the blue light making his red eyes darker than usual. He stared back, lips pulling into a smirk, and a shiver of desire ran down your spine as he began prowling towards you. You’d been playing this game of cat and mouse for days, taking turns taunting and tempting each other and you were curious to see who would break first.

A movement behind Astarion’s shoulder broke you out of your reverie, eyes catching on a monstrous creature slowly beginning to descend toward your troupe from the raised roots of the tree. Your face paled and you saw Astarion’s brow furrow in your periphery as he registered that he had lost your attention, turning to see what had distracted you. He stiffened as he caught sight of the beast, silently reaching to retrieve an arrow while you hissed quietly towards Gale and Karlach in an attempt to get their attention. Karlach looked your way and you subtly gestured towards the creature as it crept closer to the group, trying to hold back the urge to laugh as she reached out and smacked Gale’s arm, interrupting his lecture on the properties of the blossoms.  

A few more wordless glances between the four of you had everyone subtly moving into position, preparing for what was sure to be a short battle. You glanced across the clearing, locking eyes with each of your companions before giving a tight nod as all of you attacked at once. The creature let out a shriek as it was barraged by both metal and magic, falling from its root bridge and hitting the ground below with a sickening crunch. 

As the adrenaline faded from your system and you walked forward to observe the corpse you were nearly disappointed by how easily the beast had fallen. Not that you ever wanted to get your ass kicked but you had certainly expected that a monster with as many teeth and claws as this one would’ve put up a bit more of a fight. Karlach had turned away with a dissatisfied pout on her lips as she sheathed her weapon and Astarion had already started to wander off to investigate the rest of the cave as you gently nudged the cooling body on the ground with the tip of your boot. It was grotesque up close, a bird-like skeletal face filled with vicious teeth and enormous, razor-sharp hooks protruding from the end of each arm in place of hands. Beside you Gale was surveying the corpse with a strangely joyous expression.

“What a fascinating beast! We got quite lucky, they’re exceptional hunters, certainly wouldn’t want to run into one of these unprepared! They’re called Hook Horrors!” he announced gleefully to no one in particular.

“Did someone say something about whores?” Astarion called from across the cavern. Karlach snorted loudly as she and Gale began making their way over towards him and you rolled your eyes as your lips curled into a smile.

“Yes, Star, Gale has deeply insulted me,” you called back sarcastically. “You may need to come defend my honor! In fact, I–”

You cut off abruptly as a shriek pierced through the air, echoing off the hard rock. You all whipped toward the sound, weapons coming back to the ready as another hook horror climbed out from behind a patch of roots close to your three companions. As you watched it emerge you distractedly thought that it would be nice to go back to fighting above ground again. The way sound bounced around the rocks always made it sound like there was something behind you, and some paranoid instinct had you sending a cursory glance back over your shoulder to calm your nerves. 

You froze in place, realizing your fears had been well founded as another hook horror silently emerged from around the corner of the cavern wall and leapt towards you. You barked out a startled curse and jumped back as it took a swing at you. The first horror may have fallen easily enough against the four of you, but your companions were locked in battle on the other side of the cavern and you were well aware that a one-on-one fight was one you wouldn’t win. 

You kept your eyes locked on the creature as you began backing your way across the cave, hoping you could get within range of your party before it lost patience and struck. Based on the sounds the other monster was emitting it wouldn’t be a threat for much longer. You tightened your hold on your weapon, preparing to strike as you crept back another step, heart skipping as the rock you had stepped on shifted underneath your boot. You glanced down for a split second, trying to find your footing, a sense of dread filling you as you saw the hook horror jump into motion in your peripheral vision. 

The hook drove into your side and you screamed. Pain the likes of which you’d never felt before tore through you as the hook horror yanked its arm across your abdomen, tearing through your stomach. You thought you heard someone shout, but they sounded a million miles away as you collapsed to your knees before the beast, your sight dimming around the edges. You vaguely registered a flash of blades and a wet thump as the hook horror’s head hit the ground before your vision was taken over by Astarion’s panicked visage. His hands gripped your face, feeling unnaturally warm against your cheeks as the world faded away.  

“No no no, you can’t die, get UP damn you!” he shouted, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from the jagged cut across your midsection even as a small voice in the back of his mind told him it was too late. His shaking hands were covered in your blood but he had never found it less appealing, appetite long gone as he stared at your unnaturally pale face. “Please, my sweet, don’t do this to me,” he pleaded, vision clouding as his eyes filled with tears. He saw a red blur on his left as Karlach kneeled down beside him and he instinctively curled around you protectively, arms gently slipping around your back as he clutched your unmoving form against his chest.

“Astarion, we need–”  

“Give me a healing potion. Now.” he ordered, voice dangerously low.

“It’s too late, Astarion. We need to get her body back–”

“Don’t say it like that,” he growled shakily. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself but choking on the scent of your blood in the air. “A resurrection scroll then,” he demanded, glaring in Gale’s direction.

“I… it won’t work. The tree–”

Astarion snarled out a curse and pressed his forehead against your frigid cheek, desperately trying to contain the sob attempting to claw its way out of him. 

“We need to get her to camp, Astarion,” Karlach repeated gently, a small line of steam rising from where a tear had just rolled down her cheek. “We need Shadowheart. I can carry–”

“No,” he murmured, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face with a trembling hand before adjusting one of his arms beneath your knees and standing with you cradled against him. “I’ve got her.” 

———————

They were farther from camp than Astarion had realized, though perhaps it only felt that way because he had spent the entire walk staring at your lifeless face. He felt numb by the time they arrived, hardly hearing Karlach shout for Shadowheart as they passed the first of the tents. In the back of his mind he was aware that their other companions had gathered around them frantically asking questions, but the words didn’t register and he continued forward without acknowledging any of them. He walked to his tent in a trance, gingerly setting you down on his bedroll and kneeling at your side as his shaking hands tried to arrange your limp body into a more comfortable configuration.

“What in the hells happened?” Shadowheart snapped as Karlach pulled her roughly into the tent. He should answer, should try to explain, but he was frozen kneeling by your side, unable to pull his attention away from your unblinking eyes.

“She- she was-” Karlach bit back a sob, trying to catch her breath. “We got caught off guard. She was alone. She shouldn’t have been alone,” Karlach choked out, dissolving into tears. Shadowheart hurried to your side and knelt across from Astarion, immediately beginning to unfasten the straps on your armor and peeling the bloodied metal away from your skin.

“We need to get her cleaned up so I can see what I'm doing. Astarion, can you fetch me some water and clean washcloths?” she asked, continuing to remove your ruined clothing. When he remained unmoving she looked up to where he sat, his gaze unwaveringly focused on the brutal cut across your torso. 

“Astarion,” she repeated softly, waiting as he slowly drug his gaze up to meet her eyes. “I swear to you I will do everything in my power to fix this, but I need your help.” She paused, waiting until Astarion gave a small nod of acknowledgement to rattle off the things she needed, her attention returning to your still form as Astarion rose and darted around his tent gathering what she had requested. He returned a heartbeat later, depositing the items at her side as she instructed him to wet a cloth and begin wiping away as much blood as he could. 

She began chanting a prayer as he worked, hovering her hands over your sternum while he continued to gently clean your skin. Your blood had been a gift once, a delight. Now he shuddered as he attempted to ring out the bloodied rag in his hand, barely fighting the urge to retch as it dripped from his hands into the reddened bowl of water at his side.

A light sparked in Shadowheart’s hands, warm and radiant, and Astarion stopped his work, dropping the stained cloth and gently reaching out with trembling fingers to take hold of your hand. The light in her palms grew as she focused, directing its power towards you. A glowing beam split from the whole and snaked downwards, weaving through the jagged edges of your wound and drawing them together while the remainder of the light floated upward, hovering over your heart. She continued chanting, her eyes drifting closed in concentration as the glowing orb started to lower, dimming as it sunk through your skin and into your chest. The room grew silent as Shadowheart completed the incantation and lowered her hands, looking you over carefully. 

“Did it… did it work?” Karlach whispered. “Is it supposed to take this long? Why isn’t she–”

Your chest rose as you gasped in air, the breath immediately turning to a cough at the uncomfortable stretch in your lungs. The air tasted of iron and magic and you frowned, trying to open your eyes to observe your surroundings but surprised to find your eyelids heavy and uncooperative. Cool fingers brushed against your face, smoothing away the furrow in your brow and you instinctively relaxed at the familiar touch. 

“All is well, darling,” you heard Astarion whisper, voice sounding oddly constricted. “Rest now.” 

You were still confused, still couldn't remember how you’d gotten here or what had happened. It felt as if something important had occurred, surely you shouldn’t sleep now. You heard the soft murmur of voices around you, a strained chuckle, a soft sniffle. You frowned again, struggling once more to open your eyes and earning an exasperated sigh from the vampire beside you. 

“Please, pet,” he breathed, lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Just sleep.” 

Your sense of unease fell away as Astarion began gently running his fingers through your hair. You felt him press another soft kiss against your forehead and relaxed into him, allowing yourself to drift off in his arms.

———————

The second Shadowheart had given the all clear Astarion had insisted everyone leave his tent. It was far too crowded and he wouldn’t have them waking you up when you were clearly in no condition to face their fussing. Even as he anchored himself in the sound of your steady heartbeat he still felt restless and off-balance, hands flitting over your sleeping form looking for something more to do. 

He felt ridiculous. You were here in front of him, healed and whole, and that should be the end of it. So why in the hells were his hands still trembling as he ensured your blankets were tucked around you? Why did his chest ache uncomfortably every time he caught a leftover whiff of your blood in the air? 

He huffed out a frustrated breath and sat on the ground beside you, staring at your sleeping face warily. This had never been part of his plan. He was never supposed to… care. Two centuries of distancing himself and building walls and somehow you had just waltzed right past his defenses and made yourself at home. He let out a defeated sigh and reached over, extracting your hand from the blankets to weave your fingers together with his. His gaze drifted to the steady rise and fall of your breathing and he found himself matching your pace, the tightly wound coil in his chest finally starting to loosen as you let out a soft snore. 

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he could deal with figuring out why that sound made him smile. Tomorrow he could obsess over how even just holding your hand made his whole body feel warmer. Tomorrow he could deal with the fact that in over 200 years of life he’d never before been as completely and utterly terrified as he had been today. For now, though, he would indulge. For tonight he would just let himself have this, whatever ‘this’ was. He closed his eyes and lifted your hand to his face, gently brushing his lips across your knuckles as he settled in to watch over you until morning. 

———————

The passage of time in the Underdark still confused you. You woke to the same darkness you had fallen asleep in, groggily wondering what time it was and how long you had been in bed. Your mouth was dry and your head was pounding. Had you been drinking? That would certainly explain why you couldn’t remember how you had gotten here. As unappealing as getting up sounded, you were parched and you couldn’t stay here forever. You hoisted yourself up and froze as pain suddenly lanced through you, your vision flickering and arms giving out as you whimpered and fell back toward your pillow only to be caught by a pair of cold, pale arms. 

“I wouldn’t recommend moving just yet, darling,” Astarion said, looking down at you with a worried frown on his face as he lowered you gently back to the bedroll. “Shadowheart did as much as she could last night but it took a lot out of her to bring you back. You’re not going anywhere until she’s gotten a chance to check on you again.” He leaned across you, determinedly avoiding meeting your eyes as he made sure your pillow was adequately fluffed. You saw a slight tremor run through him and heard a catch in his breath before he stood abruptly and walked across the tent, silently pouring you a glass of water from the pitcher in the corner.

“Bring me… back?” you questioned. Astarion stilled, jaw clenching as you took him in. His normally flawlessly tousled hair was tangled as if he had been running his hands through it and streaks of blood threaded through the white locks. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked even paler than normal, nearly translucent in the dim light. Your eyes flitted down to his wrinkled, untucked shirt and then around the tent, catching on the blood-soaked pile of clothes and armor to the side of the entrance and the red-stained towels laying by a bowl of water next to the bedroll. A dim memory flashed through your mind: a tree, an ambush, excruciating pain, and then… nothing. 

“Oh.” you whispered, exhaling shakily as you felt your chest constrict, breaths turning quick and shallow as the air seemed to thin. Astarion was by your side in an instant, one hand smoothing back your hair while the other cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“It’s alright, darling, just breathe. You’re safe now.” he murmured, continuing to stroke your hair as your breathing calmed. He let out a tremulous sigh and closed his eyes, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “It’s alright,” he repeated even more quietly, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself, pressing against you for a moment before inhaling sharply and pulling away.

“Shit, you’re in pain, aren’t you?” he said, looking you over with worried eyes and immediately moving to stand. “I’ll get Shadowheart, she said she’d come by when she woke but surely she’s had enough sleep by now and–” 

“Wait, Star, I… can you just stay here with me for a moment?” you asked in a small voice. Warmth spread through him at your request and he obliged immediately, lowering himself to sit at your side and gently taking your hand in his. You sat in companionable silence for a moment, studying his profile as he stared at your interlaced fingers. Up close the bags beneath his eyes were even more pronounced and you frowned, gently extricating your hand from his to touch his cheek. He leaned into your palm and placed a kiss against the inside of your wrist, eyes drifting closed as he basked in the warmth of your touch.

“Have you rested at all, Astarion?” you questioned. “You look exhausted.” 

He huffed a laugh and cracked open an eye to look at your face. 

“I’m not sure you want to get into comparing looks right now, darling. You’re even paler than me at the moment,” he chuckled, eyes closing once again as he leaned further into your touch, a teasing grin spread across his face. “I assure you, however you may think I look, you look ten times worse.” 

“Hm, that’s not too bad I suppose,” you smirked. “Ten times worse than you is still at least three times better than the average person.” 

Astartion barked out a surprised laugh and opened his eyes to look at you again, something in them softening as he saw your gentle smile. 

“Whoever would’ve thought math could be so romantic,” he murmured, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss against your lips. He raised a hand to brush a stray hair off your forehead and his smile faded, brow furrowing as his gaze met yours with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please don’t scare me like that again, my dear,” he breathed. “I’m- I don’t-” he sighed in frustration at the mess of emotions in his chest, hardly able to remember the last time his words had failed him so completely. 

“Don’t want to deal with this group of weirdos all by yourself?” you teased gently. He grinned back at you, gratitude in his eyes for not pushing him to collect his thoughts just yet. 

“Precisely that,” he chuckled, the tension leaving his shoulders. 

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” you said, smiling softly at him. “Also I wasn’t kidding before, you look like shit. You really should get some rest.” 

“Hm,” Astarion hummed mischievously, narrowing his eyes. “I would, but you see someone went and bled all over my bedroll. Adept though I may be at washing out blood stains it’s a rather thick fabric, it will take a while to dry back out. I may need to stay with… someone… for a day or two. Or three. Maybe more,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively as you huffed out a laugh. 

“You’re incorrigible,” you replied, grinning up at him and rolling your eyes. “I suppose it does seem that I’ve made rather a mess of your tent though…”

“You certainly have,” he murmured, shifting to hover over you, slowly kissing his way along your jaw.

“And it would only be fair to let you bunk with the cleanest person in camp…”

“Mmhmm…” he hummed, kissing closer and closer to your lips.

“And I’m sure Gale wouldn’t mind letting you crash with him–”

“Excuse me??” he crowed, pulling back indignantly as you burst out laughing below him. He scowled playfully and shook his head at you in feigned displeasure. “You wicked little thing,” he chuckled, leaning back down and finally pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever it is,” you smirked, pulling him back to you for another kiss, “I'm sure I'll like it.” 

[ladyfogg]

Perfect Fit

Fic Summary: Since the first time you let him bite you, Astarion knew seducing you would be easy. What he didn’t anticipate were the feelings that came with it.

Fic Rating: 18+

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Drow!Monk Reader

Word Count: 11.7k

Warnings: Biting, Blood Drinking (Vampire and all that), Male Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Oral (Female Receiving), Sex, Grinding, Cuddling

A/N: I’m really glad I took my time with this one because I absolutely love how it came out. Enjoy! I don’t know if I’ll write any other Astarion fics but we’ll see.

---

Just a taste, that is all he needs.

Boars and wildlife will not suffice, not if your little troop of weirdos keeps going at the same grueling pace. Since the moment he had been snatched up and that damn tadpole shoved into his eye it has been one battle after another.

The diet Cazador forced him onto had already weakened him. And Astarion knew that if he did not do something soon, if he couldn’t keep up with the others, you will turn your back on him.

After all, why keep him around if he isn’t useful?

No, he needs to stay in your good graces. More than that, he needs you to trust him, to care for him. It’s the only way he can ensure that when his former master comes knocking, because Astarion is not naïve enough to assume he is completely free, you will be there shielding him, to knock back.

Which you are obviously capable of doing. He’s seen you fight enough times to know you have a quick temper and an even quicker right hook.

You are the defacto leader, the one who always seems to do the talking even though you’re not the most charismatic of the bunch. Yet, when you open your mouth, the others listen, take your word as law even when they don’t agree.

Astarion finds himself falling in line along with them. Then again, he has two hundred years of conditioning to contend with. He wonders what excuse the others have.

Regardless, the plan remains the same. Seduce you, get you on his side, save his spectacular, frankly tight, ass. Simple. He’s played this part more times than he can count and can do it in his trance.

Of course, none of that matters if he starves to death. The gnawing hunger deep in his belly is distracting and has been for days. He’s used to ignoring it, even in the thick of combat. But he can’t, not tonight.

Tonight, it’s bad enough to get in the way of hunting. He can’t keep up with a lame doe he stumbles across. It bolts before he is even close enough to lunge. Not good. He returns to his tent frustrated and desperate.

Red eyes scan the still camp, predatory and sharp. He told you all he would keep watch because he needed time and space to think, which is partially true. However, that was when he hoped to catch dinner.

How in the Hells can he bloody think when he’s starving?

There’s a rustling near the fire, immediately drawing his attention. His gaze falls on you while you shift, your back to him as your body rolls towards the warmth of the campfire. A breeze glides through their encampment, bringing your tantalizing scent towards him, beckoning, teasing.

Astarion takes a deep inhale, eyes closed as he unwittingly gives into his instincts. Hunting pushes them away. But with no wildlife to sate him, his feet move on their own, dragging him closer to your prone body. When he opens his eyes, his vision blocks out everything that isn’t you.

The hunger is all that matters and right now, the hunter has finally found his prey.

His steps make no noise as practice and skill take over. He’s close enough to see the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the dim firelight framing you with its eerie glow, leading him like a beacon in the never-ending dark.

Astarion takes a knee, arms out for balance and eyes closed as he moves purely on instinct. He opens his mouth, fangs dripping with saliva at the promise of a meal, a real meal…

A second later he feels you move and his eyes snap open, only to find yours staring up at him. Cold realization slams into him like a heavy maul, making him blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Shit.”

Immediately, he backs away as you quickly rise to your feet, eyes narrowed in distrust. You don’t even have a chance to speak before he launches into an explanation, trying to keep his voice hushed to avoid waking the others.

“No, no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he insists. “I wasn’t going to hurt you I…” He pauses, taking a breath to ground himself. The bloodlust isn’t satiated, not by a long shot but it is tempered by a furious-looking monk. “I just needed…well…blood.”

It sounds lame even to his own ears. Not his best work but, then again, he isn’t at his best.

You swear, burying your face in your hands. “Fucking unbelievable!” you exclaim in a harsh whisper. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it! We even found the boar you snacked on. And you were so quick to brush it away.”

“It’s not what you think!”

Astarion’s voice goes up and you motion for him to be quiet. A quick glance confirms the others are still fast asleep.

The next thing he knows, you’re grabbing his sleeve and tugging him away from the fire, away from the others, which is not at all what he's anticipating. He doesn’t even have a chance to register you’re touching until your hand is already gone, leaving a phantom of its warmth.

“I’m not some monster,” he persuades. “I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds, whatever I can get. I’m…I’m just too slow right now. Too weak.” He pauses, the hunger taking hold once more. “If I just had a little blood, I could fight better. Please.”

There’s a sharp pain between his eyes, the familiar trigger of the tadpole lodged in his brain. He recognizes the sensation, knows it’s you reaching out, asking, and after a moment of hesitation, he lets you in.

Unlike your companions, you’ve embraced the new connection, used it to convince others to move out of your way or do as you say. Not within the group of course. He suspects you’re too noble for that.

Astarion hasn’t had much time to practice himself. No time like the present. He needs you to see, needs you to understand that what he says is true.

The trust he is trying to build is at stake, no pun intended. You need to see that this is an anomaly, an unfortunate side effect of the intense fighting you both had to endure the last few days.

So Astarion shows you, lets you see fleeting images of what he’s hunted in the woods. But this is all still new. He does not know how it works, does not anticipate the flood of other memories, personal ones he isn’t ready to share.

A dark street, a willing mark, a soft supple body for Cazador’s dark needs. They flicker one after another, a blur of faceless victims he’s lost count of. Yet, none of them with his fangs at their throat or their blood on his lips. It becomes too much too fast.

He gathers his strength and throws up those mental blocks, the ones he’s had for decades yet seem to be crumbling in an instant. With a mental shove, he pushes you out.

While Astarion's body reels from the onslaught, you remain stoic, arms crossed as you stare at him with that intense gaze of yours. The only indication anything is amiss is a head tilt.

How? How are you already so used to these damn tadpoles? You don’t even blink, and with the shadows of the night wrapped around the both of you, he can’t read your expression even with Darkvision. But he can assume and right now, he’s sure he’s fucked up. All he needed was you to trust him and because of this insistent hunger, he’s failed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

This is not the question he expects and he blinks, taken aback. You don’t sound angry, hells it would be easier if you were. Anger he’s used to, can handle with poise. But Astarion thinks he can work with this, whatever it is.

Because it’s not pity, it’s not empathy, it’s something he does not have a name for.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no, more likely you’ll run a stake through my ribs,” he explains. “No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

Of course you can’t. Anyone who ever put their trust in him came to bloody ends. Yet, he’s seen you drop a gnoll with nothing but your fists and an insane high kick, so he feels you may be sturdier than most.

You study him closely, and Astarion does everything to appear docile and properly chastised, hunching his body to make himself smaller. There’s a beat where neither of you blink or speak. However, he catches the subtle slump of your shoulders and a sigh escapes your lips.

“I believe you,” you say. “And I do trust you.”

Astarion slowly exhales his own sigh, this one of relief. “Thank you,” he says.

Then, because he can’t help himself, because his empty stomach twists, because you’re still close enough for him to inhale your scent, he pushes his luck.

“Do you think you could trust me just a little further?” he asks, a hopeful lilt to his voice as he bats his eyelashes at you. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

He fully expects your refusal and wouldn’t blame you in the slightest. As much as this hunger is driving him to madness, he is fully prepared to slink away with his tail tucked between his legs if it means he lives to seduce you another day.

Yet the next words out of your mouth throw him off his game.

“Fine, but not a drop more than you need.”

There’s no hiding the surprise on his face. He knows you see it yet you don’t gloat or react, only smile.

“Really? I—” He clears his throat and recovers, swagger in place as comfortable as a well-worn mask molded just for him. “Of course, not one drop more. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

He motions towards your bedroll with a bow. As you brush past and turn towards the fire, your smirk is wider, as if you can tell how much excitement is building within him. Then again, with the tadpole and your uncanny ability to read people, you probably do.

The others are still silent and sleeping as you lay back on your bedroll. Astarion’s chest heaves and he licks his lips as the prospect of blood, humanoid blood, becomes all he can focus on. He’s salivating again, red eyes drawn to the smooth expanse of your neck.

At first, all he can hear is the crackling of the fire. But when he leans in, the steady beating of your heart breaks through the noises of the night. Bloody Hells, he can hear the blood rushing through your veins. It hypnotizes him, draws him forward as you roll your head to the side.

White fangs pierce dark skin, sliding clean through to find a thick, pulsing vein. Underneath the rush, he almost misses the soft gasp push past your lips.

Almost.

But he doesn’t have time to process it because the first drops of blood touch his tongue and nothing else matters. Not mind flayers, not tadpoles, not Cazador, nothing but the sweet, red liquid that is sliding down his throat carrying your scent.

Everything else before pales in comparison.

There’s no fear. When he hunts he can taste the deep fear of his prey in their final moments. But this is different. You are different.

It’s such an onslaught of emotions he can’t process them right away. It’s secondhand, like trying to grab a rapidly fading echo in a dark cave.

Astarion doesn’t anticipate it and can’t recognize half of them at first. Sensation is what he does recognize. Pain is immediate, followed by warmth leading into heat in his cheeks and stomach. So much heat. He’s been cold for two hundred years, he’s forgotten what it’s like to have body heat, to be hot.

His body naturally curls around yours, one hand sliding under your head to cradle it close. The fingers of his other hand dig into the packed soil, gripping for something solid yet finding nothing.

Your body arches into his, breasts pressed to his chest and for the briefest moment, he imagines how better this would be if he could feel your bare skin to his.

Then another splatter of blood hits the back of his throat as your heart rate increases and the thought is lost.

Instinct wins out once more and Astarion groans, sucking at the wound with renewed fervor. This is better than he could have imagined. You’re better. All robust and tantalizingly smooth, finer than the finest wine he’s ever sampled. He licks at your skin, gathering as much of the precious liquid as he can. He knows it’s supposed to be a taste, but he needs more. Wants more…

A hand on his shoulder draws him out of his stupor and a firm shove has him breaking free with an orgasmic gasp. Life now drums through his veins, yours and his comingling into a surge of energy that has his dead heart thrumming harder than he ever remembers.

“Enough,” you say, your voice gruff and small, though still commanding. He thinks for a moment you might have actually cast Command on him, until his addled brain remembers you don’t use magic.

Astarion pulls himself together, comes back into his body in a way that’s far more pleasant than it has been in the past. He’s sure he’s made a mess but when he looks down, all he sees are two small puncture wounds with the barest hint of blood. Small specks of his spit glint in the firelight.

He resists the urge to kiss them away, instead stumbling back onto his haunches to give you space.

You slowly sit up and he catches you wincing. It’s the brief flash of pain that helps him reign himself further in. You said you trusted him, let him drink from you, he will not, could not, betray that trust, the gift you’ve given him.

“Of course,” he says, voice breathless as he tries to remember how to speak. “That was amazing.” He smiles wide, feels a droplet of blood slip away from the corner of his lips as he does. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel…” The faintest hint of emotions still lingers. “…happy.”

You both sit quietly for a moment, air thick with tension and a hint of copper. Your scent is even stronger now and Astarion thinks he could track you from miles away if need be.

“I look forward to seeing you fight.”

Right, the whole reason you did this. To help him be stronger, useful. It’s those thoughts that ground him once more, snap his head out of the clouds and onto the hard forest floor.

Astarion stands while you remain right where you are, watching every move he makes. He wonders if you are waiting for him to pounce, waiting for the monster he assured you does not exist. When he speaks again, it’s the light, easy tone he’s perfected, like sliding the mask back into place.

“Shouldn’t take long so many people need killing,” he says, flippantly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating but I need something more filling.”

Nothing will escape him now. He swears he can take down a bear should he be lucky enough to find one.

He turns to leave, yet something stops him from taking the next step. When he glances at you over his shoulder, for a moment, the mask slips and he allows you to see the genuine gratitude he feels.

“This is a gift, you know,” he tells you. “I won't forget it.”

Not staying for a response, he turns away and stalks toward the darkness of the waiting forest. When he’s sure you can’t see him, he swipes that drop off his chin with his thumb, sucking it into his mouth to enjoy the final taste of your essence.

He is content for this to be a one-time thing, a special circumstance he is lucky enough to experience. And though he already longs for more, he enjoys the heat while he can, letting it carry him through the night as he hunts his next prey.

So imagine his surprise when you approach his tent only two days later, wounds barely visible under your collar. Astarion is readying his weapons, preparing for yet another trek through the wilds.

You’re in your vestiges, your arms free say for the thin bracers protecting your wrists. Your stance is sure and confident, eyes alight with something he hasn’t seen in them yet.

“We’re ready to head out,” you say. “Got everything?”

“Prepared and ready for the inevitable descent into violence.”

“How are you feeling?”

For anyone else the question wouldn’t be so loaded. He gathers you’re probably wondering if he’s going to try to steal another bite at some point.

“Fit as a fiddle. Your donation was much appreciated and helpful,” he says, sliding his daggers into their scabbards. “The effects are mostly worn off but such is life. I’m not weak if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not. But, if you need to, you can feed on me tonight.”

Astarion can barely contain himself, thrilled at the prospect of another surge of power, and that his seduction skills are working, though not entirely as he expected. Still, it’s an opportunity he will not squander.

“My sweet, there’s nothing I’d like more,” he purrs, stepping in close. He catches the darkening of your cheeks and lets himself smile in triumph. “I’ll come to you tonight, when you’re snuggly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy. And this time,” he drops his voice for added effect, “I’ll make sure I’m quiet. We don’t want to disturb your rest.”

It's not lost on him that the night after his first taste you took to sleeping in a tent rather than under the stars. The added privacy had him wondering about its purpose.

Now he knows.

Taking another step closer, he drops his voice even lower, keeping the moment between you two. “Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up,” he promises. “Just enough to give me strength and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Your breath catches in your throat and he knows right then that he has you. Even as you smirk and roll your eyes, his pleased smile never falters.

“Great line,” you say, walking backward towards Karlach and Shadowheart, who are waiting for the two of you. “Has that ever worked for you?”

“Numerous times. And trust me, you haven’t heard half my lines.”

“Is that what you do in front of the mirror now that you can’t fawn over yourself?”

“Hurtful!” he gasps in mock outrage. “Also, need I remind you, you came to me just now.”

“And you came to me the other night.”

“Fair point,” he begrudgingly admits, slinging his bow onto his back. “Although, I did ask for just a taste. If you’re wanting another nibble, that says more about you than it does about me. I’m a vampire spawn. What’s your excuse?”

By you’ve turned your back on him and though he can’t see your face, the middle finger you aim his way lets him know he’s won the argument.

The anticipation of his next feeding carries him through the day.

It’s ever-present in the back of his mind, fueling his hunger and drive. He fights harder because he knows that come nightfall, he won’t have to hunt for his meal. You’ll be there in your bedroll, ready and willing.

Astarion can’t suppress the shudder of longing every time he thinks about it.

Waiting never felt so long.

You’re moving closer to the goblin camp with every step, picking off stragglers as you find them. Shadowheart asks the corpses for information and you’re able to narrow down the location of the druid right down to which building he's in.

When you make camp, you’re only half a day’s travel to your destination. Everyone is exhausted and moody, with little talk this time over the campfire. It doesn’t bother Astarion, who felt you all were becoming far too chummy for his liking.

He waits and watches from his tent, taking note as one by one, the others peel off to their respective spaces. You’re one of the last, your eyes straying across the camp in his direction, meeting the gaze that has been transfixed on you the entire time.

As if to tease, your scent finds your way to him on the wind, making his head spin. He gives you a wink and a smirk. You smile back and quirk an eyebrow before disappearing into your tent like the others.

Astarion bides his time, waits until everyone stops rustling and the collective silence of sleep washes over the camp.

Wyll is on watch tonight, though his back is to your tent. Astarion keeps to the shadows and easily dodges him, making no sound as he slips past.

You’re fast asleep, buried in your bedroll with a blanket loosely draped over you.

Astarion feels that familiar tug low in his belly, lets his feet guide him closer. He doesn’t need the fire to see you there, peaceful, almost angelic. You changed into a looser tunic which has slid down to reveal a shoulder.

And the faded markings he left on your throat the other night.

Astarion kneels and then crawls up behind you, slow and careful. He said he wouldn’t disturb your rest and he meant it. No need to wake you when you’ve given your consent.

Besides, as sneaky as he is, Astarion wonders if you’re that light of a sleeper, considering how easily you awoke the last time. He lays behind you, gently peeling the blanket away. Your tunic slips lower when he does and at this angle, he catches just the faintest glimpse of the top of a breast.

It makes him pause, give an appreciative glance, before your neck beckons him.

The hunger urges him forward, begging, pleading with him to drink. You’re so close and warm and vulnerable. He does his best to lean over without touching you, but you automatically tense in your sleep when you feel the coolness of his body draw near.

Leaning down, he lets his lips brush your ear as he whispers, “It’s just me, darling. Go back to sleep.”

You hum and relax once more, dropping your shoulder in the process. The angle is too good and he is too famished to wait any longer.

Astarion bites down, his fangs lining up exactly where they pierced before. His mouth fits against your throat like it was made for him.

A perfect fit.

There’s no need to rush and he is able to savor the experience. This time, a sense of calm washes over him, making his eyes droop closed as the now-familiar yet no less exquisite rush of your blood fills his mouth. Deep down there’s a sense of injustice for being denied this experience for so long.

However, he wonders if it would have been the same without the anticipation and thrill of the chase. Without you in the equation. After all, you’re a powerful person, unyielding in your convictions.

Yet, here you are, offering your blood to him. Giving him power.

He keeps his fangs buried for a moment longer, holds himself there until his mouth is brimming with the taste of you.

Only then does he retract them, sucking softly on the reopened wound to drink his fill. You’re fast asleep, which means that he has to stop himself this time. You’re not aware enough to do it for him.

When he wanted to earn your trust, he did not think you would give it to him so freely. What else will you give him? What else can he get away with? Questions for another night.

Thankfully, he can force himself to stop once that welcoming heat spreads through every part of him.

Every part.

Fucking Hells he is hard as a rock.

It catches Astarion by surprise and he immediately draws away. He finds himself panting, his lips still coated in red as he glances down at himself.

Is it the act of drinking blood or the blood itself? Feeding on animals certainly never drew this reaction.

His head is spinning from bloodlust and arousal, and he feels the need to leave your tent as soon as possible. You signed up to be his meal, not to get him off.

Not yet anyway. Shame, if you were awake he could make his move. He briefly considers rousing you with honeyed words and lustful promises but he decides against it in the end.

Maybe next time.

As he cleans up the mess he’s left on your throat, licking away the remaining drops of blood, he can’t help palming himself at the same time. He’s barely able to contain a hiss at the sensitivity.

Fuck, if this is just from feeding on you, what’s going to happen when he gets to have you another way?

Astarion reluctantly withdraws, readjusting your tunic before draping your blanket back in place. Your breathing never hitches and remains steady, even when he slips out into the night.

With fresh blood pumping through his veins, his body is strong and alive. He feels so fucking alive. He barely takes a few steps before the hardness in his trousers proves too distracting, forcing him to rest against a tree.

If he turns his head, he can still see your tent through the bushes and trees. It surprises him that he wants to go back. Then again, you are the most interesting prospect around and a part of you is within him now.

Soon, a part of him will be in you, he promises himself.

Astarion unties the laces of his trousers and pulls his cock out, finally allowing the hiss he held back earlier. It throbs persistently, begging for him to do something, anything for release. He gives himself an experimental squeeze, wondering if he has the mind for this right now. But it’s too good and he’s too worked up to deny himself.

His eyes never leave your tent as he strokes his cock. Slow at first, but that quickly proves not enough and he speeds up.

Astarion has had too many lovers to count but it has been some time since he’s had to take matters into his own hands. And yes, he plans on seducing you and may even find you attractive, but this is not in the plan.

It certainly didn’t happen the other night.

Moving purely on urges, Astarion lets his head fall back against the tree trunk, and his eyes close, picturing himself back in your tent.  

If only you’d been awake, he could have pressed against you, let you feel the length of him as he drank his fill.

Would you grind back? Would you gasp? He’s more than sure that he can get you to do both. When he finally gets you where he wants you, when he finally has you writhing and moaning his name, he's not going to let you cum until you beg for it, beg for him to fill you as he drinks from that delicious throat.

With a strangled moan, he cums onto the forest floor, his knees buckling under the sudden onslaught of sensation.

Putting his full weight against the tree for support, he takes a moment to catch his breath mind, and senses hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves and gust of wind. With his lust now stated, there is an overwhelming sense of fear and guilt.

What the Hells is with all this wanting and desire? He is not allowed to want. Seducing you isn’t about desire. Neither of those emotions should be there and yet they are.

Let’s just push those way back where they belong, he thinks as he tucks himself back into his trousers.

His head is clearer now, his focus as sharp as it was the previous night. Brushing the incident off, Astarion switches into hunting mode, his grin wide enough to verge on the side of madness as he bolts into the forest, with nothing but the thought of his next kill.

Your offer of blood becomes a regular occurrence.

Not every day but often enough for Astarion to notice a significant change in himself, his power. He is faster and stronger than he has ever been. There is still the situation of becoming immensely horny when he does feed on you, but he looks on the bright side and accepts it as an unexpected bonus.

On days when your party runs into a fight, he finds himself drained but not enough to impede his hunting.

A fact he brags about one night when he stumbles back to camp, brimming with excitement and pride.

“Guess what I just did!” he exclaims, plopping beside you on the ground by the fire that seems to have your attention.

It’s your night to keep watch which means he is out of luck for his midnight snack, as he’s taken to calling you. Much to your chagrin.

You chuckle and motion towards his mouth. “Judging by the blood I’m assuming you caught a nice dinner,” you say.

Astarion impatiently wipes it away. “Not just dinner, a bear! A whole bear!”

“Gods, you drank a whole bear?”

He nods proudly, grin wide and sloppy. “Now, it wasn’t as good a vintage as Drow,” he concedes with a wink your way. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I was able to kill it all by my lonesome and nary a curl out of place.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Kind of,” he slurs.

In truth, he is euphoric, untouchable. Between proper feedings and the tadpole, Astarion feels he is the strongest vampire spawn there may have ever been. Tonight, like the first night he bit you, there is no Cazador, mind flayer, or other threat. There’s only him and the blood of the black bear that he’s taken for himself.

And you, of course.

You smile in amusement, turning your attention to the fire.

Astarion leans back on his elbows, his body wonderfully loose and relaxed for the first time in decades. He takes the time to study your profile, his delirious mind focusing for the moment. He is acutely aware that it is only the two of you, a rarity considering the size of the camp.

Between the adrenaline of the hunt and the opportunity that comes with privacy, Astarion shifts closer, not enough to touch but enough for you to know he’s done so.

“You know, darling,” he drawls. “I don’t think I’ve told you how devastatingly beautiful you look by firelight.”

You don’t respond and at first, he wonders if you heard him. When it becomes apparent you haven’t, he clears his throat and tries again.

“The way the flames reflect in your eyes is hypnotizing,” he continues. “I can get lost in them, have been lost in them ever since we met.”

Still nothing. Astarion feels you’re miles away, which his pride will not stand for, not when he feels as good as he does and is throwing you all the signals.

He sits up and waves a hand in front of your face. “Helllooo? Devilishly handsome roguish vampire here giving you compliments. The least you can do is acknowledge me.”

You blink and tear your eyes away from the flames, giving him a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ignore you. I’m not very good company tonight, I’m afraid.”

Astarion shrugs and sits up, interest piqued. “That’s alright, darling. We don’t need to talk. There are plenty of other ways we can enjoy each other’s company.”

You roll your eyes as you look back at the fire with that amused smile you seem to reserve only for him. “Hey, if I could turn my brain off for the night, I’d take you up on that,” you admit.

Finally feeling like he’s getting somewhere, Astarion leans in closer. “You’re in luck because I happen to be a delectable distraction. All you have to do is say the word.” He pauses before adding. “I’m talking about sex of course. We should have sex.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of what you meant.”

Astarion grins, reaching out to walk his fingers up your forearm, playfully tugging at the sleeve of your tunic. “So what are we waiting for?” he purrs. “A midnight snack is all well and good, but I wouldn’t mind sampling what else you have to offer.”

As full as he is, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in another nibble. There’s something special about your blood, enticing. When he’s this close to you it becomes all he can think about and he has to stop himself from nuzzling your throat. At least until he knows he has you.

“I want to,” you tell him, finally meeting his gaze. “I really really want to.”

“Then what’s the problem? I am ready, willing, and certainly able.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.”

Astarion frowns, confused. This has always worked before, there’s no reason for it not to work now. He doesn’t get it. You’re clearly attracted to him and he’s doing everything but presenting himself on a silver platter. By now you should be throwing yourself at his feet.

And there’s no way he’s lost his touch because that would be like saying the sky is no longer blue.

You take a deep breath and when you start to speak again, it comes out in a rush, like you’ve been holding the words in for far too long and can’t any longer.

“There is so much at stake and so many people are depending on us, on me. It’s all I think about. I can’t focus on anything else. For days it’s been one crisis after another. On top of that, everyone keeps saying that we need to get rid of the tadpoles and that we should have turned already. We rescued Halsin but he can’t do what we hoped he would and I’m just…”

You let out a noise of frustration and Astarion is back to grinning because this he can work with. This he understands.

“Aren’t monks taught to still their minds?” he teases.

“I didn’t become a monk to still my mind. I became a monk because I like punching things. It’s honestly my favorite thing to do.” You take a deep breath before falling onto your back to stare up at the stars. “But now everyone keeps looking to me for answers and I just don’t have them. Nor do I want to be the one to figure all this shit out.”

Perfect, a new angle.

Astarion leans over you, forcing you to look him in the eye. “It’s just as I feared. You need me more than I thought.” He bends his head, delighted when you instinctively present your neck. He places the gentlest of kisses to bite mark, nuzzling into your soft skin like he’s been wanting to do since he sat down. “If you need your mind on something else, let it be me. Let me touch you, taste you. Let me bring you to such unbearable peaks that you forget everything that isn’t my mouth, fingers, or cock.”

You moan softly, shuddering at the warmth of his breath. “I don’t know if you can.”

Astarion draws back, a wide smile showing off his sharp canines. “Trust me, darling, I can.” He slides a hand up to cradle your head just like he did the first night he bit you. But it’s kisses he lavishes your throat with, with the occasional scrape of his teeth.

A gentle hand on his shoulder has him pulling away.

“You seem pretty confident about that,” you say, eyes searching his.

“Because it’s true.”

He knows what you’re searching for and does everything he can to make sure his gaze speaks for him. Lust and desire, mixed with a touch of hopefulness. Disarming and endearing, exactly who he needs to be for you.

“Here is what we’re going to do,” he continues, putting all his weight on one hand so he can use the other to take yours. “Tomorrow night, once everyone is asleep, I’ll slip into your tent, and I will make it so that pretty little head of yours can focus on something else. Something much more pleasurable.”

He punctuates each word with a kiss, first to your fingers, then your bruised knuckles, and finally to your inner wrist where he can feel your pulse racing. The sound of your rushing blood makes his own body thrum with desire. His hunger returns, but not enough to distract him.

But enough to make him twitch with anticipation.

At this angle, he knows you can feel it when his cock hardens. Your eyes widen and you bite your lip to stifle another moan when he teasingly grinds down against you.

“I…” You try to speak but need to take a second to catch your breath. “I would like that very much.”

“Good.”

Astarion leans down and captures your lips in a harsh kiss. It’s meant to be quick, a tease, a way to continue the seduction and leave you wanting more but it immediately becomes something else. You match his energy perfectly, your tongue slipping past his to explore. He isn’t expecting such a hungry response after the way you seemed so controlled, fully expecting it to take time for him to get you to this level.

Apparently, you’re closer to the edge than he thought. But it’s more than that. Kissing you makes him feel…something. He just doesn’t know what in the Hells that is. It makes it difficult to pull away, to stop, and make you wait.

So he indulges, deepens the kiss by leisurely licking the inside of your mouth once you actually let him. It’s good, really good. Enough to lose himself for the moment, to cup your cheek and hold you close.

His head is spinning and in his excitement, one of his fangs nicks your bottom lip.

A drop of your blood is enough to snap him out of it. Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to ruin everything. He’ll either fuck or drain you and right now he’s not sure which.

Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss, not before his tongue at your lip to steal another drop. “Until tomorrow night,” he promises.

He leaves you there, dazed and staring after him as he casually strolls back to his tent. Leaving you wanting more, just like he planned.

And definitely not because of any other reason.

Needless to say, trancing doesn’t come easy that night. Every time he closes his eyes, all he envisions is you in the firelight, looking up at him like he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Granted, he knows he is, but that’s beside the point.

If he’s honest with himself, there may be a small, tiny part of him that feels bad for deceiving you this way. Granted, he is attracted to you and the idea of having sex sounds incredibly appealing.

So what if there is another motive? You both will come out on top in the end, metaphorically speaking. Although, the mental image of you riding him is quite good. Body rocking, breasts bouncing, wet heat enveloping his lap…

Astarion needs a distraction himself at this rate.

The next day he maintains his distance for both your sakes. For one thing, he knows being apart from your object of desire only makes the chase that more thrilling. And for another, he is dealing with a storm of emotions he is not prepared for nor interested in.

On occasion when he can’t help but slide his gaze your way, you seem thoroughly focused every time. He doesn’t catch you looking longingly his way, not even once, and finds it frankly insulting. How can you be so engrossed in what you’re doing even though you know he will be in your bed later?

Unacceptable.

When you both find yourselves set upon by cultists, Astarion is relieved. He needs a good bloodbath to pull his shit together.

His daggers get quite the workout, slicing enemies left and right.

Lost in the thrill of the kill, he forgets about the weird feelings and the way his seduction of you seems to be more complicated than he thought it would be. He forgets about his hesitations or questions.

Nothing is weird and nothing is wrong.

A familiar scent breaks through the gore that stops him in his tracks. Your scent. Your blood.

You’re bleeding.

Like a hound, his head whips in your direction. He sees you across the battlefield, knocking a man to the ground. But one hand is pressed to your side, bright red visible even at this distance.

Shit, you’re further from him than he realizes and he has to scramble over a few boulders to be able to close the distance. His sharp eyes catch movement in the trees, and before he even has a chance to grab his bow, the hidden archer takes aim.

Everything happens so fast.

The arrow fires, Astarion eyes land on you, knows you don’t see it and as he raises his hand towards you, has your name on his lips—

Your hand snaps up, catching the arrow an inch before it hits your temple. With a glare, you look up at the archer, swing around, and throw the arrow right back at him.

Astarion watches the archer fall from the branches, landing in a heap on the ground.

Dead.

You grin in Astarion’s direction, face smattered with blood and he wants nothing more than to fuck you on top of that corpse. But then you stumble and concern takes over. If you fall in battle then he’s shit out of luck and he can’t let that happen.

“Whoa now, none of that!” he scolds, rushing to your side to catch you. “Where the Hells is that cleric when we need her?”

“Did you see me catch that arrow?” you slur, grinning. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

“Yes, yes, it was very hot, now hold still, you’re bleeding everywhere.”

“Even better, gives you a free meal.”

It’s Astarion’s turn to roll his eyes as he helps you lean against a tree for support. “I prefer the more intimate approach we’ve established.”

Once he’s sure you’re not going to collapse, he digs through his pack for a healing potion.

“Shame to let all this blood go to waste but to each his own,” you say.

He uncorks the potion with his teeth and holds the bottle up for you to drink. It’s not until it’s empty that he allows himself to calm down. You slowly remove your hand and the two of you watch the wound start to close. Not all the way, you’ll need Shadowheart for that, but enough to stop the bleeding.

Astarion spits the cork aside and throws the empty bottle. “There, almost good as new. Maybe don’t get stabbed again.”

“There go the rest of my plans for the day.”

“Lunatic.”

Something comes over him, making him grab the back of your head and yank you into a kiss, too wrapped up in his bullshit to overthink or consider his actions. With one arm around his waist, you kiss him back and it’s sloppy and messy and everything he needs it to be.

Nothing happened. You didn’t die and you’re still able to be seduced. Good.

When you draw back, gasping for breath, he grabs your wrist and brings your hand to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly sucks your fingers into his mouth, one by one, swirling his tongue around the digits to gather every drop of blood he can. You’re right. It seems silly to let it go to waste.

Your pupils dilate, your breath coming through your lips in a rush as you watch, transfixed.

He doesn’t need the tadpole to know what you’re thinking, or imagining. It’s a precursor to what he plans to do to you later. But with your thighs squeezing his head as he brings you over the edge.

Astarion releases your finger with a pop and a smirk. You lean in to steal another kiss when you’re stopped by the heavy thud of Karlach’s footsteps. You just manage to pull back when she bursts through the foliage.

“You guys alright?” she asks, also splattered with blood. “We just got jumped by some assholes.”

Astarion gestures to the bodies littered at your feet. “Welcome to the fucking club.”

“Where’s Shadowheart?” you ask.

“Right here,” Shadowheart speaks up, approaching from a different direction. “One tried to run away but I took care of it. Shit, are you bleeding?”

“Not anymore, thanks to me,” Astarion says.

When you wince and stumble towards her, Shadowheart catches you. Her hand glows with radiant light as she casts a healing spell.

“Easy there, soldier!” Karlach says. “You stay put. We’ll deal with these.” She gestures to the bodies, where Astarion is already digging through the pockets.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to let good gold go to waste, and definitely not because you two were interrupted. Not because being close and alone with you makes his head spin. Not because he doesn’t know why he kissed you like that. And certainly not because the brief taste of blood is threatening to send him into a frenzy.

By the time the bodies are searched, Shadowheart is done with her healing and you’re able to stand up straight.

“Let’s get back and tell the others,” you say. “With these guys gone, we should be good to keep our camp for one more night. But tomorrow we have to move on.”

Astarion is starting to feel peckish and welcomes the chance to be alone. “I’ll do a little scouting to check for stragglers,” he offers, tossing you the heavy bag of coin he collected. “You know, make sure there isn’t anything lurking before dark.”

“You sure? You really shouldn’t go alone,” you say.

He’s already headed in the opposite direction and turns to face you as he walks backward. “If they hear me, they deserve to catch me. You don’t need to worry, darling. I won’t be late for our date.”

Your cheeks darken and he watches Karlach break into a wide grin while Shadowheart raises her eyebrows. He’s already gone by the time they bombard you with questions.

That moment you two just shared plays over and over in his head. With the taste of your blood still on his tongue, he gives into baser instincts.

Tonight, he will fuck you, and you’ll be so enthralled by his talents, he’ll have you eating out of his hand in no time.

Astarion’s mission turns up no more cultists. And after a brief tussle with a boar, he’s recharged and ready to seduce the pants off you.

Literally.

Night has already begun to fall when he returns to camp. At first, he doesn’t see you anywhere, but then you emerge from the brush, in a clean tunic and trousers with your freshly washed clothes under your arm.

He sneaks up behind you as you lay them out on a nearby patch of grass to dry.

“If you waited we could have had a little dip together,” he purrs, only half teasing because bathing naked with you sounds enticing right now.

“That wasn’t funny,” you glare over your shoulder, although he doesn’t sense or see any real malice on your face. “They gave me shit the whole way back.”

“I’m fairly certain they knew something has been going on. You haven’t exactly been hiding the mark.”

You tug on your collar in a vain attempt to do just that. “Still.” You turn to face him and cross your arms, a neutral stance that conveniently highlights the muscles in your arms. Not that he notices.

“Darling,” he gasps, “are you ashamed of me?”

“Of course not. I just don’t like people knowing my shit.”

Astarion glances around and can see multiple pairs of eyes on you both. So rather than close the distance, he settles for eye-fucking you instead.

“Tonight, all you need to worry about is relaxing and letting me take care of you. Thoroughly. Properly. Until the only thought in that pretty little head of yours is my name.”

Even from this distance, he hears the rush of your blood and it makes him grin wider. You shake said pretty head at him, turning away under the pretense of fixing your clothes.

“So long as you bathe beforehand. Blood may be your thing, but it’s not mine.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

He’s got you flustered and can’t help laughing as you shoo him away. After a brief stop at his tent for fresh clothes and soap, he finds a secluded spot by the nearby lake and takes time to pamper himself.

This part of the seduction ritual he likes, finds comfort in. Washing away the grime and viscera from his skin and taking the time to wash his hair puts him in the proper mindset. While he can no longer see his reflection, you can and that’s all that matters. He knows his looks are unparalleled.

So he primps and preens, cleans himself thoroughly before stepping out to dry off. The full moon casts the world in an otherworldly glow and he stands for a spell, taking in the night. Less than a week ago he was scrambling for rats in the dark, trying to sate the ever gnawing hunger. Now he can stand in the sun, sample the delicious blood of a thinking creature.

What a difference a few days makes.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep inhale to steady himself, to focus. And by the time he exhales, his eyes are open and he’s ready.

Camp is still very much buzzing with activity when he returns, bare-chested with loose trousers. Your scent wafts his way, making him subconsciously turn in your direction. His eyes meet yours over the fire, and he throws you a wink. You smile and duck your head, something he never found endearing until that moment.

Just like all the other nights, he waits for the activity to die down, waits until almost everyone is asleep, before sneaking into your tent.

Except, this time you’re awake. Your back is to him as you sit, still and silent. At first, he wonders what you’re doing, until he recognizes the steady breathing that comes with your meditations.

Silently, he ties the tent closed before kneeling behind you. He sees your pointed ear twitch, knows you’re aware of his presence.

Astarion lays his hands on your shoulders and leans down to nuzzle your temple. Your body is tense. He can feel the knots even through your tunic. Carefully, he digs his thumbs into them, rubbing in circles which forces a soft moan out of you.

“You are far too tense, darling. I don’t think the meditations are working,” he says with a low chuckle, smirking at the way the skin of your neck raises with goosebumps.

You lean back against his chest, making it harder to keep massaging you. So he slides his hands down your arms to hold you instead.

Astarion isn’t one for hugging or cuddling, but this feels nice, having your weight on him like this. It only lasts a second. You lean forward once more, this time with your face in your hands. He lays a hand on your back, recognizing that you need a minute, and more than happy to give you such.

He feels slightly out of his element. Normally when he arrives for the seduction, it’s hasty and eager, with the mark throwing themselves at him. You aren’t doing that, you haven’t even turned around to face him.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you tell him, your voice muffled. “If you’re looking for something carefree and light, I’m sure you can find someone with less baggage.”

Astarion can’t help bursting into laughter. He pulls your arms down and leans around to look you in the eye. “Have we been traveling with the same companions?” he asks. “If you can find this mythical baggage-less person then I salute you because from where I’m sitting, we’re all a bunch of fucking weirdos.”

That breaks the tension in you. Laughing, you lean into him again and he savors the closeness, recognizing that it stirs that same unknown sensation within him. He kisses your neck not only to move things along but for another reason.

Yours is the first thinking-creature’s neck he’s ever sampled and the novelty is fairly potent. He’s left his mark on you, not once but several times. It’s enough to drive him to distraction. The scent of your skin causes his body to react, his mouth already salivating while his cock twitches with interest.

Astarion finds you relaxing while the time slips away, and it isn’t long before his hands are reaching for the laces of your tunic. He unties them with deliberate slowness, giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

In fact, your hands join his to help, and when they are finally undone, you draw away to lift the tunic over your head.

Now you’re both shirtless and when your warm skin touches his it’s like a pleasant balm to his cold flesh. He continues lavishing your throat while his hands cup your breasts, thrilled at the way your nipples pebble under his thumbs. He kneads and tweaks, pinching until just on the edge of pain before backing off.

“Astarion?” you ask, voice already breathless and husky with desire.

“Mmm, yes?”

“If we do this, I only have one request.”

He’s not surprised at this, even anticipated as such. There’s always a request or demand of him and he will dutifully oblige. Anything to keep this going, to seal the deal.

“And what’s that, darling?”

“Stay with me after? At least, just for the night.”

That…is it?

Astarion draws away, prompting you to turn to face him. Your eyes are hooded, lips wet from being swiped by your tongue. But there is a vulnerability he has never seen before that has him answering immediately.

“I will stay,” he promises, and means it. “For tonight, I am yours and you are mine. Nothing else outside this tent exists. It’s just us.” He gently cradles your face. “Just this.”

You lean in and he captures your lips.

The kiss is slow, deliberate, meant to reassure you that your humble request will be fulfilled. But as it continues, it switches, changes into something else entirely. One of his hands drops to your trousers, yanking at the laces with the same fevered energy that’s taken over your mouths. He is suddenly filled with the urge to touch, to make you shudder and moan not for his sake, but for yours.

Astarion sees in his mind’s eye every choice, every decision you have had to make. Always for others and never for yourself. Hells, do you do anything for your own well-being?

He hasn’t seen it. And if this night with him is it, if being with him is how you want to indulge, he’s going to make damn sure he makes it worth it.

When his hand slips below your waistline, his fingers slide through the mound of curls to the petal-soft flesh waiting for him. Feeling the wetness on his fingertips makes his eyebrow raise as he breaks from your kisses.

“Already, darling? I’m flattered.”

You huff, flustered. “It’s my neck,” you mumble, prompting him to latch his mouth there once more. “It’s really sensitive.”

You gasp when his fingertips stroke through your folds, spreading your arousal with practiced ease.

Astarion has a realization. “All these nights, when you knew I was going to be paying you a visit,” he says. “Did you by any chance feel aroused?”

“Every fucking time.”

He slides a finger into you, relishing the low moan and how eagerly your body pulls him in. That explains the intense hard-ons and need to get off immediately after feeding on you. He was unknowingly drinking your arousal, which he plans to do in a very different context tonight.

You’re warm and wet, and the sound of your rushing blood is making it so difficult not to seek his—your marks. The ones he feeds from every time, the ones that never seem to fully fade even with healing magic.

Sliding his finger out, he presses firm circles around your neglected nub while his free hand reaches for your breasts again. Your chest heaves and your hips begin to rise and fall along with his ministrations. When he pushes two fingers into you, your head falls back onto his shoulder.

“Astarion!” you gasp.

“That’s it, darling. Let go of everything else. Just think about me.”

In this intimate moment, he becomes acutely aware of two things: one, his name has never sounded sweeter, and two, this is going to be different for him.

Astarion doesn’t find himself slipping away like he’s done in the past. Prior, his body would go on following the script while his brain retreated elsewhere. It was a part he knew all too well and had perfected over the centuries. A moment of disgust at himself then powering through just to get it done.

Yet, it’s not happening. Tonight, he is very aware of where he is and who he is with. Somehow having you be the one to moan his name is keeping him grounded, in the moment.

And he doesn’t want to lose that.

His fingers speed up, alternating between rubbing your nub and burrowing deep into that addictive warmth he wants around his cock. You’re gasping and moaning, seemingly uncaring if anyone hears.

Let them hear, he thinks. Let them know I’m the one making our fearless leader cum.

Suddenly, this angle isn’t right. It won’t serve his needs.

Because now that he’s aware of them, aware that he needs your body, needs your little gasps and moans, he won’t stop until you’re both in a breathless, mindless heap of body and limbs.

Astarion tries to draw his hand out of your trousers but you scramble to keep it there, until he nips at your ear and says, “Shh, shh, it’s alright. We just need to get a little comfortable.” Only then do you let him pull away.

He maneuvers you onto your back and is able to fully take in the delicious image you make. Eyes glassy with desire, lips parted, breasts moving as you try to catch your breath. Without warning, he grabs your throat, not hard. Just enough to angle your head up so he can steal a few more kisses.

Then his attention falls to your trousers and he has them off your legs a second later. You’re not wearing underwear, never bothered to put them on after your bath. Hooking his hands under your knees, he spreads you wide, takes his first look at all of you, and promptly descends.

Astarion doesn’t try to put on a show or warm you up with a few practiced licks. You are more than ready for him and he finds himself starved in a completely different way.

A welcomed way.

His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks greedily, humming with satisfaction when your thighs clamp around his head. It keeps him exactly where you want him, not that he plans to leave any time soon.

This taste of you is so different from your blood yet equally addicting. Heady and sweet, invading his senses until nothing else exists but you. His tongue snakes long your seam, parts your swollen lips, and seeks the hole he teased earlier.

When he finds it, your hips shoot up and he tongue-fucks you, eyes drifting up to meet yours as he does.

You’re propped on your elbows, watching his every move. The vision you make is breathtaking and as he watches your head fall back and your arms buckle, he smirks because he is the one making you feel this way.

Astarion slides a finger into you, this time deeper than the other angle allowed. Your thighs are already quivering and the moment he crooks his finger in just the right way, your arms finally give out and you lay flat on your back.

Hands tentatively find their way into his curls but instead of pulling like he anticipates, they stroke and burrow, holding on for the sake of staying grounded, not for control.

A second finger joins the first and his mouth returns to your aching nub, sucking as greedily as he wants. You’re shaking and moaning, your hips starting to grind against his face the longer he goes on. With the tadpole, he can sense you’re still holding back, still not entirely lost yet. He tries to get you there, increases the pressure of his mouth, and rubs harder against the special place inside you he’s found.

With every twitch, he feels you let go a little more. And when you’re almost there, he switches tactics. For the second time, he reaches for your mind, tries to show you images. This time of yourself, of what he is seeing right then and there.

A beautiful, wanton, deity of a person whom he worships. At least for right now, in this moment. One whose legs fit perfectly over his shoulders and whose shining eyes have him transfixed.

But then what happens next fundamentally changes Astarion and turns his world upside down.

Because, now he isn’t seeing you. He is watching a pale elf with glowing red eyes whose mouth is devouring your slit. Whose cheeks are ruddy with fresh boar’s blood and whose white curls are wrapped around dark fingers.

Astarion is seeing himself for the first time in two hundred years.

And bloody hell he’s magnificent. Not just because he’s beautiful but because he can feel what you’re feeling when you look at him. He can sense the warmth, affection, lust, and fierce protection you’re experiencing here and now, with him.

He’s already achieved his goal. Now he can move on to more important things.

He draws an orgasm out of you only minutes later, not needing you to beg. Not when you’ve given him yet another precious gift.

What a breathtaking sight the two of you make. You, bowing your back into a beautiful arch, and him, sucking greedily at your clit while his fingers stroke deep inside you.

Astarion comes up for air only when your sweaty legs glide off his shoulders, leaving you spread and satisfied.

“How’s that mind of yours now?” he asks, licking your slick off his lips.

It takes a moment for you to answer. “Fuck, you weren’t kidding,” you gasp, a hand pressed to your forehead as you try to collect yourself.

Astarion smirks and pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully slipping his fingers out of you. He can feel your walls clench, automatically trying to keep him there. He’s tempted but has a better idea.

“I told you, I’m quite good.”

While you lay there, watching, waiting, he makes a show of unlacing his trousers. By now his cock is desperate for attention, straining against the fabric. Each move he makes is purposeful, each look calculated, letting you know exactly what he plans to do next.

He thinks of the previous nights when he crawled into your tent and slid up behind you. And once his trousers are gone and his cock is free, full and leaking at the tip, he nods his head.

“Turn on your side, darling.”

He strokes himself while you do, using your arousal to make the glide of his hand easier, better. He lets every lustful thought invade his senses, lets his eyes shamelessly rake over your body as he realizes this is a fantasy he will get to live out.

Astarion knows this night is about you, should be about you, but he can’t help but feel that it’s now also about him. About having something, even if it’s for a night, that gets to be his.

He spoons up behind you, tucking his cock snug under your backside. His hand comes around and slides between your legs once more, picking up right where he left off. You gasp at the sensitivity, your body tensing for only a second until you manage to relax again.

This time with the added bonus of you rocking against him.

Time loses all meaning. He can not be certain how long you both lay this way, grinding and moving together while his fingers make you cum for a second time. It takes longer but absolutely worth every moment. His mouth is permanently attached to your throat lavishing it in kisses and love bites, leaving even more marks. Not as deep as the mark. He'll only drink from you once he’s good and ready.

And when neither of you can take it anymore, when the friction of your skin isn’t enough and you’re positively soaked, he whispers into your ear.

“Lift your leg.”

You do and he takes hold of himself, coats himself in your slick again, then pushes into you with a smooth, quick, thrust.

A perfect fit.

Being inside you, having his cock enveloped by that fucking heat is better than he would have ever thought. After that, he can’t take his time, won’t until he’s emptied every last drop into you.

Your moans are constant, muffled as you bury your face into your thin pillow, your hand twisting the bedroll, reminding him of how he twisted the soil when he had his first taste of you.

Taste.

Gods does he want to taste you again, drink you as he continues pounding into your eager body. As if struck by the same thought, you reach back to slide your hand into his curls.

“Bite me,” you urge. “I need you too. I can’t…”

He hears the rest of the thought in his head.

I can’t cum again if you don’t.

Astarion bites down on the mark, having half a mind to press down on your swollen nub at the same time. You cry out this time. Loudly. Properly. Not his name yet even more beautiful, a cry of pure ecstasy.

Your blood seeps into his mouth just as a fresh wave of your slick coats his cock, and he is done for.

Thrusting wildly, still rubbing your sore clit, Astarion spills himself into you, lost in a frenzy of blood and lust. He’s aware enough to yank out his fangs but after that, it's a blur as he sucks at your throat while his cock spasms and fills you with his seed.

It's too much and coats his lap and your thighs while trickles of blood dribble down your neck. He’s aware of you pushing his hand away from the overstimulation. So he grabs your hip for leverage during his final, weak thrusts. Spent, you both cry out a final time and then grow still.

Eventually, you roll onto your stomach while Astarion collapses onto your back, crushing you against the bedroll.

You don’t seem to mind in the slightest, letting him lazily lick away any remnants of blood. Only then do you hum with satisfaction stretching underneath him as much as the position will allow.

“Fuck, Astarion.”

“That you did, love. That. You. Did.” Each word is punctuated by a kiss or a nibble.

“You were right,” you purr, sounding infinitely more relaxed than he’s ever heard. “I needed that.”

He places a final kiss to the mark before rolling onto his back. “Mmm, me too.” He tucks his hand under his head, staring up at the canvas of the tent with a lazy, satisfied grin. Like a cat who’s just found a sunbeam.

You roll to face him, draping yourself across his chest in a graceless heap. Your face is glowing with post-coital bliss, eyes still shining as they take him in. You reach up to wipe away a spot of blood from the corner of his lips, which he sucks off your thumb.

Astarion is aware you both should clean up but he can’t bring it in himself to care. Your scent hangs around him, not just your blood but your arousal and release. When mixed with his own, it stirs something primal inside, a sense of claim he’s not sure he has a right to feel.

But he’s far too satisfied to question it.

“That was amazing,” you slur. Already your eyes are drooping and your breathing evens out.

Astarion draws you close, feels around for a blanket he manages to drape over you both. “You’re amazing,” he responds, and is surprised he means it.

Even he is ready to trance, the normal rush of adrenaline after feeding is gone, channeled into the thrusting of his hips during those last precious seconds before utter bliss.

For once, no thoughts or machinations enter his mind. Unless it’s your soft body atop his, he has no interest, lazily stroking your back until you fall asleep.

And as he lets his trance carry him away, he has one final thought, an observation his waking mind will remember vividly the next morning when he finds you in the same position, curled around each other even in sleep.

Having you in his arms seems to be another perfect fit.

---

Taglist: @frankie-mercury @miniminx

[theobsessivesideblog]

Trust Issues

An anxious Astarion falls back into old patterns of behavior.

Warnings: vague mentions of Astarion's past but seriously the rest of it is just fluff, this boy deserves someone who treats him well

————————

He loves you. Of that much he’s certain now, despite the mental battle he waged to get to this point. And you love him. He believes it even though the voice in the back of his mind tells him that he could never be worthy of a creature like you, all goodness and light in direct contrast to his tortured darkness. 

But old habits die hard. A minor disagreement earlier in the day (truly it was nothing, a mere gentle dissuasion away from his more violent tendencies) has him wound tight, worry clawing at his throat as you both retire to your tent for the evening. Surely now you’ll realize, now you’ll see the truth of him and you’ll run, leaving him behind like the monster he is. 

He can feel his mindset shift, falling into old routines as he turns up the charm to seduce his way back into your good graces. He knows how to wield his body as a weapon, has used it countless times for his, and his master’s, benefit. If he makes you need him then you can’t leave him, and he intends to make you very needy tonight. 

“You were magnificent today” he whispers into your ear, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. 

You chuckle lightly and lean into him, closing your eyes as he begins gently kissing the sensitive hollow beneath your ear that has you arching further into his embrace. 

“You flatter me,” you hum. “I’m still not sure why everyone has decided to act like I know what I’m doing. I never planned on being a leader.”

“And yet you do it so flawlessly,” Astarion purrs, gently kissing his way to your shoulder.

You twist in his hold, your breath catching as you see the look in his eyes that he’s praying you interpret as hunger and not helpless desperation.

He takes advantage of your distraction to pull you against him, lips claiming yours in a feverish dance that takes your breath away as you wind your hands into his hair, clinging to him as if he’s something worth having. 

His hands shift suddenly, grabbing the backs of your thighs and lifting you as he lowers you both to your knees. His hands drift up, pulling your shirt from where it’s tucked into your pants and caressing his way across your stomach to your ribs, teasing the edge of your bra. 

“I…” you take a sharp inhale, pulling yourself away from his searching mouth. “Astarion, stop.”

He freezes immediately, eyes instantly searching for an injury, for anything he may have done wrong 

“Are you okay, my love? Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not, I just…” your fingers flit across his cheek, searching for answers to questions you’re afraid to ask. “You don’t seem like yourself. Are you alright?” He hesitates for a split second and your brow furrows, latching on to his lie before he can even tell it. “Tell me. Please?” 

Your request is so earnest, so loving, that he has to pause for a moment to regain a hold of his emotions. If Cazador could see him now… the thought snaps him back to the present. He’s been a fool. You would never treat him like that, use him like that. 

“… I’m sorry” he breathes. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I… I lost control today, and I was afraid that you… that you might not...”

“I told you it was nothing to worry about, love. You were just—”

“Just being myself,” he interjects, dropping his head. “Just being quick to judge, to assume the worst, to—”

“Stop that,” you frown, nudging his chin up to draw his eyes back to yours. “You know I couldn’t do this without you, any of it. What you thought of me when we met, that I was naive and overly trusting and gullible…” At that Astarion chuckles, you’ve really only proven his first impression right, though at least now he finds it endearing rather than frustrating. “You weren’t wrong. You don’t realize how much I rely on your judgment, how much I need your help to keep us all safe.”

His eyes close as he presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re too kind to me,” he whispers. “No one has ever… I don’t understand how you can just…” he sighs, shoulders sagging as the facade crumbles and his hands come to rest in yours, holding them as if he’s afraid he’ll get lost if he lets them go. “It was wrong of me to try to manipulate you like that,” he murmurs, releasing a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” You press a soft kiss to his cheek and duck your head, gently nuzzling your face into his neck. He feels you frown against him, a touch of cold alerting him to a teardrop falling onto his skin. “No, pet, please don’t cry, I—”

You lift your head suddenly, gaze piercing into him with an intensity he hadn’t expected.

“I need you to trust me, Astarion.” 

His brow furrows in confusion. 

“I do, my sweet,” he replies, letting out a wry chuckle before adding “despite the recent evidence to the contrary.”

Your gaze softens as you grin at him, brushing a stray curl off his forehead before bringing your hand to rest on his cheek.

“Then trust me to love you.Trust that you don’t need to earn that or convince me of anything more. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Astarion’s eyes drift closed as a weight he didn’t realize he was carrying slips off his shoulders. He leans forward and captures your lips with his, tender and unhurried as you relax against him. 

“Have I told you recently how much I adore you, darling?” he asks, tilting his head to slowly kiss his way to your jaw.

“Hmm…” Your eyes twinkle as you pull an exaggerated thinking face. “I’m sure you have but it’s been such a long day, I just can’t seem to remember…”

“Cheeky little pup,” he chuckles, gently nipping at your neck. You giggle as you pull him back to your mouth, smiling against his lips. 

“Maybe you should jog my memory?” 

“Oh, believe me,” he smirks, “I plan to.”

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Shrinking Violet (Rhysand Smut)

Hi! Happy Friday, my loves! I impulsively wrote this first thing this morning. Don’t exactly know what came over me but I thought I would share it 😏

Also, I’m using my updated General ACOTAR Tag List for the tags, so if you’re not on it and you wish to be, please click the link and comment so I can add you! ♥️

Warnings: Smut, of course! Enjoy!

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The violet-shaded dress had seemed like a good idea at the time. A time when you’d felt daring and mischievous and like you could do whatever the fuck you wanted. 

Now, with a tight-lipped servant tugging your corset strings as you stared yourself down in the mirror, your audacious nature was refusing to rear its head, scattered to the ashes by nerves. 

“I wish to have a gown the exact shade of Rhysand’s eyes.”

Rina, your good friend and the Hewn City’s most reputable seamstress, had looked up at you from the various sketches on her dress. She was snowed-under with orders with the upcoming event — Rhysand’s first visit as High Lord of the Night Court. It was nothing short of a damn coronation.

“Are you sure you should?” Rina had raised an eyebrow at you. The look she always got when you were up to something. “He’s High Lord, now. Things are different. Should you truly make a statement with your gown that most certainly won’t go unnoticed?”

“Should I not?” You’d spun around, palming the various fabrics that made up an entire wall at the back of the studio. “High Lord he may now be, but I know Rhysand more personally. I wish to have a violet gown that is an ode to those depthless eyes.”

Rina had shook her head, but said no more on the matter. You were paying — well, your father was — and you had a design in mind. That was that. She’d known you long enough to know that there was no talking you down from an elaborate idea.

Besides. Besides, besides, besides. You did know Rhysand more personally. 

More personally, in the form of him secretly fucking you in the darkest corners of the Hewn City, when he had just been the High Lord’s handsome son, learning the ways of the court. You were his filthy little secret, someone he would never display publicly on his arm. Would never think of you beyond the haze of lust that clouded him. Perhaps that was what the dress was secretly about. Capturing his attention.

Things had changed dramatically since he’d last had you pressed against a wall, a hand to your mouth to muffle your moans as he’d pounded into you. He was always ravenous for you behind closed doors and totally different in the open. A game — it was a game the two of you played.

But he was High Lord, now. You were excited to see what that looked like. 

Violet gown, indeed. You smoothed your hands over the tight bodice as the servant stepped away. As the daughter of a member of the Night Court council, you would be expected to look every bit the rich, expensive, pretty subject who would bat her eyes at the new High Lord and offer polite well-wishes for his future. 

While wearing a gown so tight it was like a second skin, the very daring shade of his eyes. 

Anything to keep those eyes on you.

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Rhysand had been trained for this, of course. Right down to the finest detail. Any outsider looking in would presume him to have been High Lord for far longer than a matter of months. There was something effortlessly arrogant about the way he lounged on his obsidian throne, one leg hooked over the arm, a chalice of wine in his hand that was constantly being topped up. 

He was the centre of attention, and he was loving every second of it. 

You’d never seen the instating of a new High Lord. Rhysand’s father had been on that throne for your entire life, until he’d gone and gotten himself killed. And now…now it was time for a fresh face. One with a feline smirk and a lilting voice behind it that sounded like music. 

You knew precisely what that voice sounded like when he was close to falling off the edge. 

You hadn’t yet spoken to him or caught his gaze. The evening’s proceedings had been fine-tuned to run smoothly; food and drink and music and dancing. Now, a long line of people queued up to the dais, forcing Rhysand to listen to the same sentence on a loop with every person who knelt before him. 

I welcome you, High Lord, and pledge my allegiance to you as your loyal subject. 

The words had become a monotonous drone. You wanted to spin around in your violet gown and make a show of yourself and catch the High Lord’s gaze. You wanted to be adventurous and fun, just like you and Rhys had always secretly been. 

Your father went before you, prattling off the same oath as those who’d gone before him. He and Rhys exchanged pleasantries, and Rhys’s voice seemed to snake past your father and round to you, caressing every bit of your skin that was on show. The sound was like silk. You wanted to tear your dress off and wrap it around your naked body. 

After what seemed like an eternity, your father was stepping aside and leaving you to wander up to the dais. Feline eyes met yours, the exact shade of your gown that felt suddenly too tight and too hot on your body. You gave a polite acknowledgement to the two Illyrians at the High Lord’s side — Azriel and Cassian — before you offered a flourishing bow.

“I welcome you, High Lord, and pledge my allegiance to you as your loyal subject.” You spoke, your voice slightly lowered. Just for him. 

Rhys’s eyes slowly studied every inch of you, starting at your hair, your painted face, the heavy jewellery that complimented the column of your neck and the lobes of your ears. And then they flicked down to the gown, studying the beaded detail. The way it sinfully clung to your body before flaring around you in layers of violet tulle. 

Heat flashed across those eyes, and you knew — he’d clocked exactly what you’d done.

“Good evening.” He drawled, his head falling on a tilt. His hungry gaze roved you once more. “And what have you come as?”

A subtle smirk tugged at your painted lips. “A shrinking violet.”

The High Lord tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. You wanted to drag it between your teeth, too. 

“There’s nothing shrinking about you, darling.” He purred. He took your hand in his, brushing his lips to the backs of your fingers. “Enjoy your night.”

A dismissal. A teasing one. It was all part of the game. His eyes fell to your gown again, and you spared him one last glance before flouncing away to dance. 

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You liked this game — yours and Rhysand’s.

Dark, shaded alcoves and long, winding corridors, perfect for a session of cat-and-mouse. Huge, unoccupied rooms, the walls of which volleyed your moans back and forth. You’d played the game a hundred times before, and you wanted to play it tonight. 

The party was unending, and so was the flowing wine. All part of the game. When Rhys had merely been the High Lord’s son, his apprentice, the two of you had always waited until everyone was gloriously intoxicated before you would share a heated glance and slip away — you first, and him following moments later. 

The night had reached that point. The frenzied music had become languid and sensuous, the bodies on the dance floor grinding against each other. Not one person in that throne room was sober. And so you set your drink aside. 

You strolled casually past the dais, shrugging out of the numerous dances people tried to pull you into. Rhys’s gaze seemed to find you immediately, and as you passed in front of him, you met his eyes and dipped your chin. The signal. The game was starting. 

But he was High Lord, now. Far more scrutinised and important. Perhaps he wouldn’t follow. Perhaps he was done with your antics—

Mere moments passed between you slipping into an empty corridor and the door opening behind you. A smirk played on your lips. You lifted the skirts of your gown. Kicked your heels off. And ran. 

Your feet slapped against the cold concrete floor as you sprinted away from Rhys. A dark, lilting chortle echoed behind you, and his pace picked up as ran after you. 

You were light as a feather, weightless as a cloud, shoving through doors and empty rooms, skidding along polished floors, climbing huge, ornate staircases. Rhys was always a few steps behind, and you knew he could easily catch up if he wanted to. But he savoured the chase as much as you did. 

You flew up another grand staircase, up and up to the very top of the gargantuan building. You knew precisely what you were doing, and so did Rhys. You took a left, veered down a long corridor. A dead-end. The door at the end led to an enclosed room.

“Where do you suppose you’ll go now, little violet?” Rhys called behind you, his breaths heavy. “I do believe I’ve caught you.”

Indeed, he had. You laughed wildly and opened your mouth to retort, but your already-huffing breaths were stolen from you as his body smacked into yours from behind, slamming you against the door. The wood groaned as he pressed his front to your back. The evidence of his arousal was already waiting for you. 

“Got you.” He hummed into your ear, his nose brushing your neck. “Now, what’s my prize?”

You bit down on your lip as he pushed his groin against you. “Your prize is whatever you wish it to be.”

“Excellent.”

He reached past you, opening the door to that unoccupied, echoing room. His hand splayed over the bodice of your dress, keeping your body flush to his as he walked you both inside. 

“I think I would have you against the wall.” His hand travelled down, fisting in the skirts of your gown. “Or perhaps on the writing bureau. Or the chaise lounge. Tell me, which would take your fancy?”

“Why not all of them?” You bit down on your bottom lip as his hand finally found a way under the fabric, skirting your thigh. 

“Naughty, wicked thing. Why not, indeed.”

You were suddenly being spun in his arms to face him, and there was barely a chance for your eyes to meet before he was claiming your lips with a scorching kiss and backing you towards the wall. Your back hit it with a light thud, and Rhys was boxing you in, settling his knee between your legs and very deliberately pressing it against the very centre of you. 

“You know,” he purred as he broke the kiss. “My father used to tell me to stay far away from you. He said that I should find a female fit to pop out heirs. That females like you like to play games.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingers brushed your neck. Crawled downwards. “Your father would be right about that.”

“Hmm.” He hummed. “But, you see, I like to play games, too. And the bastard is dead now. I am High Lord. Your High Lord. And I’m feeling mighty playful tonight.”

His knee pressed harder against your soaked underwear, and a soft moan slipped past your lips. 

“So play,” you said. 

Rhys struck. 

In a flash, he was sinking to his knees before you. Like you were his High Lady. He lifted the skirts of your gown, throwing them over his head. The sight of him disappearing beneath the fabric might have been amusing had his nose not nudged against your centre, causing you to jerk. 

“Now this,” he yanked your underwear down, blowing a breath against your slick folds, “this is a feast fit for a High Lord.”

His silver, sinful tongue licked a stripe right up you, and your head fell back against the wall, a loud moan breaking free of your throat. Rhys wasted no time in feasting on you. He licked and lapped, his teeth grazing your clit, and you imagined what he must look like beneath your skirts, his face flushed and soaked with your wetness. 

“I love your taste.” He groaned against you, sucking on your clit. “You have no fucking idea how much.”

Perhaps not. But you could hazard a pretty good guess just how much as he damn near devoured you, bringing you to the very brink of bliss. When he heard your moans and breaths hitching in your throat, felt your hips jutting forward, he sank two fingersinto you. 

“Gods,” You gasped, writhing against him, against the wall. Your mind fractured into a thousand tiny pieces as your release slammed into you. Your legs shook.

Rhys licked and pumped all through it, enjoying every moment, every gasp and groan. Only when your walls ceased their contracting around his fingers did he pull away. 

He emerged from beneath the fabric, his hair tousled, his eyes heated. His mouth swollen and glistening. One look at him, and you were fisting your hand around the front of his perfectly-tailored jacket, yanking him to his feet. 

You wanted to taste him just as he had tasted you, but he stopped you from lowering yourself to your knees. His hand grasped your clothed breast, and he kissed you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

You were bored of the dress, now. Pretty as it was, just like his eyes, it was too much of a barrier. You tried to reach behind you for the laces—

“No.” Rhys nipped your lip, staying your hand. “I want you to wear it while I fuck you.”

Your eyes flared. “As you wish.” You glanced down at his lips. “High Lord.”

A guttural groan escaped him, and the tether on his control snapped. The following moments were a confusing, heady circus of heavy kisses and panting into each others mouths, both your hands fighting to undo the laces and buttons of his trousers. As soon as they were loosened enough, he was shoving them to the floor. 

“I think about you, you know.” Rhys said, hissing between his teeth as you wrapped your hand around his length. “I come to the thought of you. How do you manage to make a mess out of me without even being there?”

“Because I wish it to be so.” You squeezed gently. “And so it is.”

“Wicked, wicked creature.”

You silenced him with a kiss as you pumped his cock, savouring the feel of it twitching in your palm, jerking at the very brush of your touch. Rhys emitted a growl, and he was batting your hand away, replacing it with his own.

“If I don’t get inside you,” he dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds, “I think I may bring this city down around us.”

His eyes held a promise to do exactly that, and as the head nudged at your entrance, he grabbed the back of your neck, sliding his lips over yours.

The tip had barely slipped in before thudding footsteps approached, and a knock was pounding on the door. Rhys growled beneath his breath. Ignored it. Pushed into you further. You gasped. 

“Rhys.” Cassian’s voice came from the other side. 

“Not now, Cassian.” Rhys thrust into you, right to the hilt, giving a very audible grunt. 

“You’ve been gone for too long.” The Illyrian general persisted. “People are starting to notice.”

“Not fucking now, Cassian.” 

He pulled out to the tip, his angry words breathed against your mouth. You swallowed them greedily as he thrust right back into you once more, a slight pinch of pain within the pleasure that wrangled a loud moan from your throat.

There was a pause on the other side of the door, a curse — Cassian muttering “Cauldron fucking boil me” — before his footsteps retreated once more.

“Look at you,” you nipped Rhys’s lip. “Keeping your loyal subjects waiting.”

“I am.” He shifted, slamming into you again. “For you.”

Your response because lost amongst the pleasure as Rhys fastened his hand at your hips and lifted you from the floor. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded deeply. “And hold on.”

You did just that, your legs locking around his waist, your arms around his neck. Rhys pressed his head against your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin there. 

And he fucked.

“Gods, you feel exquisite.” He groaned, slamming into you harder, faster. “I could spend the rest of my existence buried inside you.”

You moaned, your head falling back. You felt his tongue against the column of your neck. “That seems like a foolish way for a High Lord to spend his time.”

“Nothing about this is foolish.”

He was damn right about that. Words eddied away from your tongues, the room being filled with moans and grunts and gasps and screams. Rhys filled you so utterly, so completely, that you couldn’t imagine anyone else being able to do so. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He grit out, reaching down to circle his thumb against your clit. “I wish you could see yourself right now. Coming undone for me. Coming on my cock.”

“Fuck, Rhys.” You gasped. They were the only words you were able to get out before he sent you hurtling over the edge. 

The fall of your second climax was euphoric, addictive. You were hot and cold, asleep and awake, present and absent, lost somewhere in the ether. Your moans filled the room, perhaps the whole building, the entire city, as your walls clenched his cock hard, his thumb continuing the ministrations to your clit. 

Rhys’s thrusts picked up, the pace frenzied and desperate. You could feel him tightening inside you, hear his breaths and grunts hitching in his throat, the pleasure furrowing his brow. You purposefully clenched around him once more, and he lost it.

“Gods!” He roared, stifling the sound with a hungry kiss to your lips. His hips stilled abruptly, and he was spilling into you, every last drop filling you.

It seemed like ages that he spent moaning and groaning and whining, emitting needy little noises, drawing out a few more languid thrusts despite having emptied himself entirely into you. He was completely at your mercy. Undone by you.

He was your High Lord, and yet tonight, you had ruled him. 

He was still breathing heavily as he pulled out of you. His eyes locked with yours, and a strange, indiscernible expression crossed his face.

“Come back to Velaris with me.” He breathed. 

You snorted. This was all part of the game, the continued teasing. You liked that a lot. 

“Would you give me a crown?” You jibed.

Rhys’s eyes glittered. “Only if I could fuck you in it.”

You smirked, toying with the lapels of his jacket. “And what of your throne? Would you fuck me on there?”

“I would fuck you in every last corner of my city. Over and over until my people have committed our moans to memory.”

Such a poetic, silver-tongued male. Your smirk remained as you let go of him, but he was having none of it. He clutched you against him.

“Come back to Velaris with me.” He repeated. 

You smiled vaguely. “No.” 

“You could live however your heart desires. We could play there, too.”

Your laughter was light, airy. You pushed him off, squirming out of his grasp. “Such pretty words.”

His hand caught yours, and he pressed it to his chest. “Come back to Velaris with me.”

“No.” You said again. 

You smirked at him, and he smirked back. And as you leaned in, he slammed his eyes shut, bracing himself for your kiss. 

You didn’t deliver. You merely swiped your thumb over his lips, erasing the evidence of you ever having been there. 

“Until next time,” you hummed. “High Lord.”

You finally pushed around him, smoothing your dress as you passed, your bare feet padding on the floor. 

“This is inconvenient.” Rhys called as you braced your hand on the door handle. 

You glanced over your shoulder. “What’s that?”

“I am your High Lord. But hearing you call me such makes me desperate to bury myself deep inside you again.”

A soft trill of a laugh left you, and you turned your back on him, opening the door. “Don’t be greedy.”

You stepped out without looking back. That was how this wicked, glorious thing between you went. The best thing you could do to not make it hurt so much when he ignored you before his subjects. Rhys being High Lord hadn’t changed that. Nor had it taken away the mischievous, playful male with honeyed words that you knew him to be. But walking away like that, you had the power.

His laughter followed you down the hall, and you smirked one more.

High Lord, indeed. 

You both knew his control had been obliterated at the first sight of you in that violet dress. 

A gown the exact shade of Rhysand’s eyes.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

general acotar tags: @wandas-dream @his-sweet-nightmare @kennedy-brooke @chocolatecakelargeshake @daily-dose-of-sass @lpnikki @reiincarnatiion @linduzmunna @leeknows-wife @nightcourtwritings @ann-writes-universes @cosmic-whispers @simplefan-638 @lucyysthings @judig92 @shannonsaid @azriels-mate123 @a-frog-with-a-laptop @iangelofmusic @baybay123455 @poisonousgirlie @kuraikei @sweetandsourwrites @clarkie-carmody-blog @myheartsalwayswithyou @lavenderdreams22 @bluelovesleep @setmybodyfreeposts @augustinerose @shadowhunterfangirlforlife @brekkershadowsinger @sweetashoneyhoney @lilylallylooly @morrie-rose @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot @peachycandy10 @shadowqueen25 @favoritecrime1 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @theravenphoenix26 @lillithathecat @illyrian-dreamer @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @tonysttank @bangtanbecks @lu-dao-writes @azrielscrown @owllover123 @blamemef0rit @nottyourlover @anisa-lakay @thanksfortheridenes @writingforrhys @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @sadiebluewin @comfortpotato @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @acourtofchaosandmess @marina468

[theobsessivesideblog]

🔥🔥🔥

[writingcroissant]

As a Trophy | Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel's mate reveals a heart-breaking part of her past.

A/N: I'm back friends! And with an Azriel fic this time! I've never posted anything even remotely acotar related, so I don't know if this will interest any of you, but I'm hoping it'll find its people lol. Please be aware that it's almost 1 a.m. right now, which means I'm very tired and this is not very well proofread. Also, they do the nasty twice in a row, because I wanted them to, and there's literally no other reason.

Word count: 5671

Warnings: smut right at the beginning, all the angst (it's a heavy one, people), talk of past SA (please tread carefully!), talk of canon typical violence and torture, but also some good old fluff towards the end

-

Azriel watched in awe as her fingers curled into a tight fist and she twisted the sheets hard enough around her hand that he half expected the fabric to tear any second now. He loved when she got like this—eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed, jaw hanging open for the most melodic of sounds to freely brush past her lips. He'd die happily—right then, right there—if it meant he would get to revel in those sounds of hers for all eternity.

"That's it," he muttered, voice rough as he curled his own fingers into the pillow by her head, doing everything in his might to force down the rapidly rising pleasure burning its way through his every vein. It was always a fight when he was with her, always a challenge to hold off on his own release for long enough to make it good for her.

Azriel had had his fair share of romantic encounters, and he'd thought them all unique, all pleasurable in their own ways. That is, until he'd first lain with the one the Cauldron itself had deemed the one he was meant to love, to worship, to hold above everything he knew and was. All the ones that had come before had paled in comparison to her, paled into a mass of brief enjoyment he'd thought as good as it would get, and suddenly he'd found himself fighting to draw out her pleasure for as long as possible, when really, he was on the verge of forfeiting every last crumb of control at even the smallest of her touches.

It had been almost six months now. Six months since they had officially mated. One would think he'd get used to it, to her, at some point—that it would stop being so fucking good he couldn't think straight. But here he was, six months later, his every sense narrowed down to her, and his chest heaving as his hips ground into hers so hard he had to place a gentle hand on the top of her head to stop her from sliding further up the bed.

She wrapped her legs a little tighter around him, and he knew she was close. He could see it in the twitch of her right eyebrow, the tilt of her chin. He bent to catch her moans with his lips when it got physically painful to refrain from kissing her any longer, and when he licked into her mouth and found himself rewarded with a hand grazing the edge of his wing in the way she knew he liked, his thrusts got harder, faster, a little more desperate.

When she came, she gripped him tight enough to dig the tips of her nails into the skin of his shoulders, and he revelled in the flicker of pain. It was almost non-existent, and yet enough to finally tip him over the edge alongside her. He buried his face in her neck as he rode them both through their highs, and when she breathed his name right into the shell of his ear, he couldn't fight the deep groan that tore through his throat and broke with the last deep thrust.

It was only a short while later that he lay on his back and watched as her fingers traced the swirling lines of his tattoos. He could feel her glow on the other side of the thread connecting her soul to his own, and when he gave an affectionate tug, he watched her lips pull into a smile that had his heart stutter.

"I must say," she started with the voice that had come to narrate most of his dreams in the time since he'd first heard it. "That was some of your best work, shadowsinger."

He couldn't help the grin she somehow always managed to pull from him with minimum effort, and when he pinched her side, her surprised laugh shot straight into the depth of his chest.

"Do you have a Solstice gift for Cass yet?"

Azriel blinked at the sudden change of topic.

"Some of my best work, and it takes you exactly thirty seconds to mention another's name." Despite his words, he couldn't help the smile still resting on his face.

She watched him through lowered lashes, propping her chin on the back of her hand. "Do you want me to make it up to you?"

He ran a gentle palm down the side of her face, thumb brushing across her bottom lip. "What do you have in mind?"

She caught the tip of his thumb in between her teeth, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she pushed her body upright from where she lay cuddled to his side. The sheet fell away from her body, exposed skin enough to make Azriel's head swim all over again, and when she swung her leg across his hips, straddling him, he had to swallow multiple times.

His hands found her thighs when she began to slowly, teasingly glide against his body, hands running up his torso for her fingers to spread on his chest. Her weight on him was soothing, her eyes attentive, and when she pressed her hips to his a little harder, Azriel felt every bit of the heat he'd never get enough of. Within a few seconds, he had her pinned beneath him once again, wings flaring at the grin she gave him.

"For someone whose job is patience," she said, biting her lip when Azriel once again pierced the tender flesh between her legs. "You sure don't have a lot of it."

Azriel brushed his lips against hers in the most innocent of kisses, interlocking his fingers with those of her right hand. "Not when it comes to you, my love."

He sensed the flutter of her heart across the bond and felt his own heart swell in response.

"I love you," he muttered against her lips, breathing in her whimpered reactions to his slow, rhythmic thrusts. He knew she liked her second rounds slow, the third ones rough again. He knew she'd come much faster the fourth time, though five and six were usually harder to pull from her.

He'd gathered most of his information within the first few days of their post-mating frenzy, and he'd tucked it all into the corner of his brain that was reserved solely for her.

His hand found the side of her head, and he held his gaze glued to hers as he brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek. Time seemed to stutter to a stop as he felt her love for him set the bond aglow, his own threatening to overwhelm him.

"I never thought I'd feel like this." His words were but a breath against the silence of the room, forehead lowering to press against hers. "I would lay the world before your feet, my love."

He felt her tighten around him once again, her moans heavenly as he followed her into pure bliss, and when he kissed her, he felt her hands pull him closer by his hair.

He looked into her eyes when he spoke and saw in them reflected the emotions which he could barely put into words himself. "I spent my life wishing for a love such as we have," he muttered, watching her skin crinkle in the corners of her eyes as she grinned.

"Someone's sappy tonight," she breathed.

"Always," he smiled in return, kissing her deeply. "I have known only fear, and hate, and lies for the better part of my life. You're the one that showed me what it meant to be entirely free. To know everything there is to know about a person and offer every piece of me in return. No secrets. No lies. No masquerade."

Azriel didn't miss the way a shadow flickered across her face, the hands in his hair coming to a slow stop in their gentle caress.

"Is everything all right?" He offered a self-deprecating smile. "I'm laying it on thick tonight, I'm sorry."

"No, no," she rushed to say, smiling a smile a little too wide to be fully convincing. "That's not it, I promise."

He kissed her again and then slid off her to prop his head up on his elbow, watching her for a moment.

"I can practically see the gears turn in your head," he teased in a gentle voice, though it grew more serious as he continued. "Was it something I said?"

A twinge of fear rushed through his veins at the thought, though she was quick to drown it out.

"No," she said, her tone sure, unwavering. She sat up, and Azriel followed her every movement with his eyes. He could tell the ease had left her muscles, her back tense as she sat facing the foot of the bed.

Silence stretched as he waited for her to speak, uncertain of what could have caused this sudden change in her demeanour. He reached out a hand to run his palm up her back, but when she all but flinched, he felt his every muscle freeze. She had never flinched away from his hands. Azriel sat up. Something was seriously wrong.

"Y/N, you're scaring me," he muttered. "Did I do something to make you uncomfortable? Please speak to me."

She must've heard his rapidly rising panic, or perhaps she'd felt it through the bond, though when she finally turned, Azriel's worry only grew further. Sorrow was etched into her features, a despair he had seldom seen on her—if ever.

"I haven't... there's something you don't know, Azriel."

He watched her speak with his own throat caught in a vice. A thousand thoughts ran lapses in his mind, a thousand possible scenarios.

"What do you mean?" he heard himself ask, hand once again reaching out to touch her, as though his body sought her proximity on its own accord.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you."

-

She felt tears burn behind her eyes as she watched a hundred emotions flicker across Azriel's face. She knew it was long overdue to tell him the truth, knew she'd waited far too long, and yet she couldn't bear the thought of having to watch his face when she revealed a part of herself she'd done her best to hide away. But worse than that, she couldn't bear the thought of feeling him on the other side of the bond once she spoke the words. She wouldn't survive to feel his love for her shift once he found out. And so, she squeezed his hand in a silent apology before blocking him out—something she'd never done before.

She watched his worry shift into outright alert as he sat up a little straighter.

"I have a confession," she said before he had a chance to speak, still holding on to his hand. "And I need you to hear me out, because you deserve to know who I am." He hesitated, but nodded, wariness etched into his every feature.

She took a deep breath.

"As you know, my mother was High Fae, my father Illyrian." She watched his brows twitch closer together, confusion at the direction her story took, before nodding once again. "I have my mother's ears of course, and you know I don't have any Illyrian features." He nodded again, and she felt his eyes on her throat when she swallowed thickly.

It took every inch of willpower she had to turn her back on him, twisting where she sat to face the foot of the bed. Before his eyes lay the smooth, unmarred plates of her back—she'd made sure of that—and yet she knew in that moment, that it began to dawn on him what it was she wanted to show him. She felt it in the involuntary tightening of his grip on her hand, his gentle inhales coming to a stop as he held his breath.

Scraping together what little courage she could muster, she slowly lifted the glamour she'd held in place for years now, and her eyes fluttered shut as the grip on her hand turned ever tighter, his breathing resuming with a sharp intake of breath, a choked sound that had her heart cramp in her chest.

She could feel her heart beat up to her throat, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to feel Azriel's reassuring presence on the other end of that strong, glowing bond between them, but she didn't dare look at him. She knew his eyes were glued to the two thick, long scars tracing her skin from just above her shoulder blades right down to the centre of her back. Perfectly symmetrical and shining in angry red bulges of scar-tissue, she'd revealed to him the secret she'd kept hidden from everyone she knew in Velaris.

A sudden calm overcame her at the lifted glamour. No—this wasn't calm. It was numbness. It was the same numbness she felt whenever she thought back to the cause of her loss, though she'd gotten great at suppressing most of it.

Silence stretched on for a while, Azriel as still as death behind her. She didn't dare turn around to look at him when she continued to speak.

"It's somewhat of a long story, but the short version is this," she began, barely recognising her own voice as she fixed her eyes on the opposite wall. "I grew up in my father's war camp." She swallowed thickly. "He wasn't a very nice man, nor was he a fair one. He angered a lot of the warriors he was supposed to train and one day three of them showed up at our door to seek their revenge after he'd ridiculed them in front of the entire camp. They were angry, and I was unlucky enough to open the door."

She closed her eyes at the memory of their faces—the faces that haunted her even decades later. Her voice was hollow as she continued, her fingers growing numb in the grip Azriel maintained, though it undoubtedly helped to ground her.

"They dragged me into the forest by the camp, and they ... took their time. I don't know how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours. I won't go into detail, but ... well, when they were done, and I was half-dead, they pulled a knife and took my wings. As a trophy, they said." Silence stretched on, as she sorted through her memories. "I don't remember a whole lot after that. I think I passed out from the pain, but someone must've found me, because I woke up in the healer's hut."

She felt wetness gather on her cheeks—tears she hadn't even noticed break free from the corners of her eyes. She stared at the wall opposite her, unblinking.

"They healed me enough to walk, though for a long time my back hurt so bad I had to use a cane. My father," she hesitated. "My father has always hated that I inherited my mother's Fae ears. When I lost the one thing marking me as an Illyrian, too, he sent me away. He told me I didn't belong there anymore, that I wasn't a true Illyrian without my wings. I left a few nights after it happened, and I came to Velaris."

When she stopped talking, and silence remained all she heard, she reached out carefully across the bond, flinching back when she was met with nothing but ice. It took everything in her to turn around and face Azriel, and when she did, it took even more to not shy away. His shadows had gathered around him, his eyes unmoving, still fixed on where her back had been but a moment ago, and in that moment, he looked every bit the terrifying shadowsinger he was to the outside world.

She lifted a hand to his cheek, and as though awoken by the featherlight touch of her fingers, he shot up from his seat, letting go of the hand he had held all throughout her story. Her heart stuttered at the look in his eyes, though he didn't meet her gaze, pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt as he went.

"Az," she muttered, half-heartedly reaching out for his hand, though he was too fast in crossing the room with a few wide steps and heading straight for the balcony door.

"Azriel," she tried again, hoping for a pleading note in her tone, though she could barely shake the hollowness that still held her in a tight grip.

He was gone before she could muster the courage to follow, and something within her shrivelled at the thought of his anger. She should have told him earlier, should've told him before their mating ceremony. He would have deserved to know his mate wasn't whole, especially as he was Illyrian himself.

As she stared at the open balcony doors, curtains wafting in a gentle breeze, she couldn't help but wonder if her confession had sunk the one person keeping her afloat.

-

Cassian watched with a wide grin as Nesta hid her own smile behind the rim of her glass. It was a rare sight, but his heart swelled at the sight of her joy, and he knew Feyre, Mor, and perhaps even Rhys, felt the same.

"I can't believe you kneed him in his private parts," Feyre giggled, while Mor just swirled her drink around in her glass.

"He deserved it."

"I'm sure he did, dear cousin," Rhys drawled, failing to fight a smirk of his own. "Though I must say—"

As Rhys broke off and his gaze moved to something behind Cassian's back, Cass turned to see what his brother was looking at.

Y/N stood barefoot at the bottom of the stairs, only clad in a nightgown, and hands hanging loose by her sides. It took but a single glance to realise something was off, and at the look on her face, Cassian felt himself grow alert.

"Y/N," Rhys furrowed his brow, noting the blank stare in her eyes. "Is everything all right?"

With the first tear to roll down her cheek, the air suddenly changed, and Cassian stood as Feyre shot up to check on their friend.

"What happened?", Cassian heard himself ask. He noted Azriel's absence when he thought them together in their shared room, and dread weighed down his insides in expectation of the worst. "Where's Azriel?"

He held his breath as he awaited her answer, and felt his friends do the same. Nesta was rigid at his side, Rhys as alert as Cassian himself, all while Feyre kept her arms slung around their brother's mate.

"Y/N," Mor spoke in gentle tones, rising from her seat now, too. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"He's... gone."

From one moment to the next, the room grew so quiet that only the howling winds broke through the silence, as they caressed the house's exterior.

"What do you mean, he's gone?" Mor asked, a note of panic mixing in with her worry.

"He left. Through the balcony door."

Cass shared a glance with Rhys, and he knew from the look in his eyes, that he was attempting to reach Azriel through the use of his powers. A moment passed—a moment Feyre used to get Y/N to take a seat on the couch—before Rhys gave the smallest shake of his head, and spoke directly into Cassian's mind.

Barriers up.

Cassian's eyes shot back to Y/N, who, even seated, stared straight ahead as though lost deep in thought. He softened his tone as he spoke to her. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

He watched her eyes snap to his, before they moved and latched on to Rhys, and he knew from the way his eyes grew distant, that she was sharing what had gone down between her and Azriel shortly before he had left.

They all flinched when Rhys slammed down his glass, and the table shook where it stood.

Rhys stood now, too, and it had been a long while since Cassian had seen his brother in such a struggle to maintain his composure.

"Rhys?" Feyre asked, eyes darting back and forth between her mate and her friend. "What is going on?" 

Rhysand's eyes grew filled with indescribable sadness, and as he kept his gaze locked on Y/N, Cassian noticed her give a single tight nod. Before he knew it, he felt his vision grow cloudy with images shared by their High Lord, all accompanied by a few words spoken directly into his mind.

She allowed me to share.

Cassian recognised the bedroom immediately—dimly lit, and shared by two of his closest friends. He watched as she sat before Azriel, turning her back on him to reveal smooth skin. For a moment, he felt like an impostor in what obviously was a very intimate moment. But as she lifted a glamour he'd never known her to carry, Cassian felt nausea twist his stomach in a firm grip. An audible gasp ran through the air, and he knew Feyre, Mor, and Nesta must be bearing witness to the same images he saw, the same words he now heard through the muffled filter of Rhysand's mind.

...grew up in my father's war camp...

...they were angry...

...took their time...

...as a trophy, they said...

Cassian's nails dug painfully into the skin of his palms, and as the vision dissolved, he witnessed the varying shades of horror on each of his friends' faces. Feyre's cheeks were wet with tears, Mor had grown pale as the wall, and Nesta... Nesta looked every bit the mistress of death he'd always known her to be.

"He left right after I told him," Y/N said, her voice small, with words all but whispered into the silence, and he knew what she was thinking, knew from the look on her face where her mind had gone. "I don't know if he'll be back... but either way, I'm worried he'll do something reckless. I don't want him to get hurt." Unshed tears rose in her eyes, but her face remained as numb as it had been when she first appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "I know I should've told him before we officially mated, should've told all of you as well. You're... my family now. I'm sorry I've been dishonest."

As Cassian fixed his gaze on his brother's love, the woman who'd evidently gone through enough to bring even the strongest of all Illyrians to their knees, he didn't have to think twice about where Azriel had gone.

Rhys stepped forward, his face schooled back into the composed expression of a High Lord, though there was no denying the deep-seated sadness he still felt. "It was your story to tell when and how you saw fit. You do not owe anyone an apology." He held her gaze through his every word, and when she gave a weak nod, he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "I shall go and see if I can find him. Please do not worry. I'm sure he'll return unharmed."

He bowed deep before her, and then turned to stride towards the balcony to depart as Azriel had done. His wings appeared as he walked, and his gaze met Cassian in a silent question to follow.

Cassian turned to do so, though something held him back. He threw a glance at his weeping friend, and his heart ached for her—for all that she had endured.

He knew what it meant for an Illyrian to lose their wings—he'd gotten close enough himself to recognise the never-ending pain it must cause, especially when one sees themselves surrounded by Illyrians day and night.

He turned back to fully face Y/N, and as he did so, lowered himself to his knee before her. Seeking out one of her hands, he lifted her knuckles to his brow, before lowering them to his lips, and meeting her gaze once again.

"I am so sorry."

-

Inky blackness crept through every corner of the room, and despite her perfect view of the stars through the open balcony door—a view that had always calmed her into a dreamless sleep—she hadn't been able to find a moment of peace. Worry held her heart in an iron grip; worry that she'd waited too long to tell him, that she'd driven him away by her seeming lack of trust.

Only that it hadn't been a lack of trust that had caused her to withhold such a severe part of her past. It had been a wish for an untainted love—the wish to not only spare him of the knowledge, but to leave it behind entirely. To not have it impact the most important relationship of her life. She'd refused to grant those faces such power.

Azriel would look at her differently now. If he even was to come back, that is. Even if he didn't want to, he'd surely think her damaged. Incomplete. He'd mourn the joy it would have been to have a mate with wings of her own.

She couldn't help the pain in her chest as she thought of those wasted opportunities. She could've flown by his side, could've soared through the skies like she'd done countless times before, and witness the joy flying brought to his face, too.

Her breathing stopped as the unmistakable sound of the door interrupted her thoughts. She didn't move, didn't open her eyes. Why, she didn't know. Hadn't she waited desperately for him to return?

She lay perfectly still, and didn't dare reach across the bond, either. Perhaps he'd only come to pack some of his things. Perhaps he wanted to leave before she woke up. Perhaps it wasn't even Azriel, but Mor or Feyre checking in.

She failed to suppress a slight flinch as gentle fingers brushed across her cheek, and her heartbeat doubled in speed when she felt the uneven caress of the hands she'd recognise anywhere. She hadn't even heard him approach.

"I can hear your heartbeat, my love." His voice was but a whisper in the night, his breath kissing her skin, as he lowered himself to his knees beside the bed, hand never leaving her cheek. "I know you're awake."

When she finally opened her eyes, and saw his face illuminated by the dim faelight she'd kept on, she was met with the overwhelming love that always filled his gaze when he looked at her, and all of a sudden, she hated that she'd doubted him for even a second.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Azriel beat her to it, his tone soft in the silence.

"I shouldn't have left like that," he said, and his voice shook. "There are so many things I should have said. It breaks my heart that I left you here right after you lay all your trust in me, and I will regret it for the rest of my existence." He sought out her hand beneath the blanket, and kissed her palm, before placing it on his cheek. She was surprised to feel wetness there, a tear breaking free to roll down his cheek as he closed his eyes.

"You are so strong my love. Stronger than all of us. When I think of what they did—" His voice grew harsher, the last of his words spoken through gritted teeth.

"Don't," she breathed, gently brushing her thumb across his cheek. "Don't think about it. It's why I didn't tell you sooner, I—... I couldn't bear the thought of yet another weight on your shoulders."

His eyes flew open, gaze fixing on hers. "My shoulders?"

"Well, I—" she broke off, swallowed, and focussed on his lips to avoid his gaze. "I didn't want to burden you with the knowledge of a broken mate."

He took hold of the hand on his cheek.

"Look at me," he pleaded, voice gentle, thumb running across the back of her hand. When she lifted her gaze, she was met with enough emotion swimming in his eyes to fill her heart to the brim. "You are not, and will never be, broken. Nor a burden, for that matter." He stared at her for a moment, as though waiting for his words to sink in. "I have waited five hundred years for you, and I would gladly wait five hundred more if that was what it took to get to you. You are perfection. You are everything I've ever hoped for, and so much more. You are part of my soul, and I will not leave you alone in this. I will carry this with you. I will be your wings, my love. I will carry you wherever you want to go, and I will do so happily till the day I take my last breath. I will carry you to the end of our world if you wish it."

Her cheeks felt wet again, and her lips twisted into a watery smile. She didn't trust her voice right now, so instead of replying, she scooted over, motioning for Azriel to join her in bed. His fresh scent engulfed her as he pulled her to his chest and placed his chin on her head. He must've showered before he came here.

-

Only Y/N's deep breaths filled the silence around. It was a long while before she spoke again—so long, in fact, that Azriel had already thought her asleep. Her voice was quiet; barely more than a breath.

"Some mornings I wake up, and I don't remember ever having had wings of my own," she confided against his chest, and Azriel's heart gave an aching pull at the gut-wrenching sadness in her voice. "I start my day without the slightest bit of grief, and then I'm in the shower, or in the kitchen, or in the training ring, and it hits me. I've gotten so good at maintaining my glamour that sometimes I forget it's even there, and I have to lift it to remind myself that I didn't dream up those scars."

He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, and reduce this house—this entire city to rubble. He wanted to burn down everything in his path until he found something that could take away her pain, something to undo everything she had endured.

"The only time it does slip," she continued, and Azriel watched her closely once he noticed the switch in her tone. She seemed... embarrassed almost. "Is when we... when I... well, when I come. I can feel them then, pressing into the mattress."

Azriel lifted a brow, wondering how he'd never noticed, and when she saw his expression, and felt his confusion through the bond, she cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze once again. "Whenever you see my back," she explained. "I'm focussing every last bit of concentration on keeping my glamour from slipping. It's why I never... why I can't—"

Realisation dawned, and Azriel remembered those few nights he'd asked her to get on her knees—the nights he'd held her hips in his hands and drove into her from behind. She'd never been able to come from that angle; had claimed it didn't feel as good as it did when they were face-to-face, and he'd stopped suggesting.

He ran a hand down his face, shame flooding his veins, shame that he'd never noticed that there was more to it than a preferred angle, when all of a sudden, she took his hand and pulled it away, revealing a spark of softness in her eye, a smile twisting the corners of her lips.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped. "If I'd known—"

"I know," she smiled. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You were so understanding, Azriel. I should've just been honest with you from the start."

As Azriel pressed a long kiss to her forehead, the room grew quiet yet again, and he could see the battle in her eyes, as her thoughts seemed to take a different route. All of a sudden, she seemed hesitant—careful even.

It wasn't long before she opened her mouth to ask the question he'd been dreading to answer ever since he stepped into the room.

"You tracked them down, didn't you?"

His heart ached at the look in her eyes—her voice small, wounded. He gave a single nod, searching her gaze for a hint of disapproval, of disappointment. He didn't dare speak, his every muscle tense.

She gave a shaking exhale and a nod of herself. "I thought so." A heartbeat of silence passed, before— "Did you kill them?"

Azriel's hand twitched at that—at the thought of going back and slitting their throats. It had taken everything in him not to do it, but he'd wanted her to have the chance of doing it herself. He didn't think she would want to do it, didn't even think he wanted her to do it, but still. The choice was hers.

"Not yet," Azriel mumbled.

She nodded again, seemingly lost in thought.

"They're in my dungeon," Azriel added hesitantly. "Well, two of them are. The third one died in the battle with Hybern. The lucky bastard."

She searched his face. "What did you do to them?"

-

Read Part Two here: Scars and All

[theobsessivesideblog]

Look, I didn’t start my day expecting to pledge my heart Azriel but this pushed me over the edge

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 || dark!jonathan crane x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || since you're the only one of his coworkers at arkham who doesn't seem to be intimidated by his intelligence, jonathan decides it's time he finds out what does scare you... and how he can embody it. unfortunately for you, turning into your greatest nightmare doesn't prove very difficult for him.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 5.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || EXTREME AND EXPLICIT NONCON (18+ only and please proceed with caution), drugging and kidnapping, paralysis, traumatized reader, forced orgasms/overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, choking, slapping, unprotected sex/breeding, misogyny, jonathan is very much in character which means he is incredibly evil and has incel vibes (I know y'all are not about to get mad at me for writing a villain being a villain and not uwu babifying him...)

When you interrupted and corrected your colleague, Dr. Crane, about the correct combination of pharmaceuticals for a certain schizophrenic patient in the asylum who happened to have diabetes, you thought nothing of it.  After all, the whole point of staff meetings was to discuss and debate these things, and you weren’t about to let him damn-near poison a patient by giving him something that would interfere with his insulin.  You weren’t trying to be snarky about it, but you did sort of make a joke about how dangerous his suggestion was— and you didn’t notice the way Jonathan’s nostrils flared and jaw tightened when some others chuckled at what you said.

When you received an email from your therapist’s office informing you that there was evidence of a break-in in her building, but that the police were unable to officially determine if confidential client files were compromised, you thought nothing of it.  It was a big complex, these things happen, and you knew from being a clinician yourself how tricky the laws could be surrounding that stuff: she had to email you, legally, if there was any chance your file could’ve been accessed, and that didn’t mean you had any reason to fear your private therapy session notes had been read.  Besides, who would want to read about you and your boring life, diving into your mundane hopes and fears and daily stresses?

And when Crane came into the office with tea for you, you thought nothing of it.  Sure, you seemed surprised when he popped into your office with cups in hand— you asked him why he had two cups of tea, assuming they were both for himself, and he laughed.  Just that was out of character, he wasn’t much of a chucklehead or anything.  “Green tea, right?  With lime and honey?” he asked, setting one cup down for you.  You were still taken aback, but you had to admit defeat.

“Yeah,” you said, taking the cup as he sat down across the desk from you.  “Yeah, that’s my order— I didn’t know you drank tea.”

“Sometimes,” he informed you, hoping his poker face was holding up as he watched you take a sip.  He couldn’t help but stare at your lips wrapping around the little hole in the lid, the print of berry-red your lipstick left behind.  His heart was racing already, more than he expected.

When you finished the first sip, you smiled at him and let out a small, nervous laugh.  “Thank you,” you finally said.  So, yes, even though you clearly noticed this was slightly odd behavior, you thought nothing of drinking the tea.  That was one thing he hated about you: the thoughtlessness.  You didn’t seem to second-guess yourself much, if anything you were a little on the cocky side.  He found it so irritating— that confidence.  Sure, you were smart and you deserved to take yourself somewhat seriously, but the way you walked around this place— the way you ignored him so easily, or spoke over him if you wanted to, or ignored his suggestions when he gave them… you were a bitch, basically.  You clearly thought you were better than him— better than everybody else— for no reason at all.  Just because you were pretty and had a good job you thought you could get away with anything, surely; pretty girls always think that way.

He made casual conversation with you as you sipped the tea, asking questions he already knew the answer to, hoping to catch you in a lie.  For the most part, your stories matched up with what he’d learned from that file.  But, you left out the gory details— you left out the best parts, really.

You mentioned where you went to medical school and that you transferred mid-way through due to ‘stress’, but you didn’t elaborate on what really happened to you.  You mentioned having your own therapist— something you said passionately that every client-facing mental health professional should have— but left out what you were actually being treated for, not to mention the PTSD diagnosis.

He had to hide his smirk behind the paper cup every time you seemed to lose your train of thought— it wasn’t like you, so focused and determined all the time.  No, it was the drugs finally kicking in.  You went for bigger gulps of tea each time your eyes looked heavier, hoping the caffeine would work— but the trace caffeine in your green tea was nothing compared to what he’d added.

You tried to warn him that you were suddenly not feel up to par— that he needed to leave, and you might try to wake yourself up— but he just sat and waited.  He watched you try to get up, and lose your balance.  He watched you stumble, trip, and ultimately fall onto the floor limply.  He watched your eyes flutter shut and the final ounce of energy to fight it fade; he quietly took a final sip of his tea.

~

You woke up on the floor.  You could barely feel it beneath you, but you knew it was the floor— it was cold, and hard.  And you were looking up at the dark ceiling, at the fan spinning at the lowest speed; so you were definitely on the floor.

Jonathan was standing above you, not too far off, flipping through papers.  You couldn’t move— no matter how hard you fought to, you couldn’t.  You barely managed to turn your head, but it felt more like it rolled to the side on its own.  You tried to yell for Dr. Crane’s attention, for help, for him to explain what happened to you, but even your mouth couldn’t move.  The best you could do was breathe harder— actually, you were pretty sure your body was trying to hyperventilate, but you were too incapacitated to even have a proper panic attack.

He heard you, though; he looked away from the papers and grinned down at you.  “Comfortable down there?”

You started to put together a few things.  One, that the last thing you remembered was being in your office, and now you were in your apartment.  Two, that those papers were photoscans of chart notes— obviously you couldn’t make out the words from here, but the format gave away that it must have to do with a patient.

And three, that Crane was neither surprised that you were paralyzed on the floor, nor interested in helping you.

He half-rolled the papers in one hand and playfully hit the other hand’s palm with them.  “These have been quite interesting… revealing, to say the least,” he informed you, like it was a compliment— something you should be proud to hear.  “You’re quite the enigma, Doc!”

He sat down beside you on the floor, leaning on his hand first to find his balance with a little sigh; he seemed amused, actually, and your heart began to race.

As he started to read aloud from the page in front of him, you felt nauseous.  He was reading patient data, describing a client who was receiving individual counseling— or that’s what the CPT code indicated, at least.  As he listed the client’s demographic data— age, race, gender, height, weight— it became eerily obvious what he was doing.  You refused to believe it until he went on: “Client was recommended to Dr. Min Zhang for individual therapy concerning PTSD following sexual trauma.”

Your therapist.  This was a file he’d copied, which belonged to your therapist.  And it was obvious whose file it was.

As you tried with all your might to scream, Jonathan flipped a few pages ahead.

“Session fourteen, eleventh of June,” he continued.  “Client expressed frustration with an increased recurrence of nightmares and flashbacks to her assault.  Up until now, she has struggled to explain what triggers her anxiety without having to actually elaborate on the circumstances of the event.”

He stopped, but you weren’t exactly relieved.  In fact, you were horrified.  He had a little grin on his face when he looked at you, but you could finally see the rage in his eyes.  Suddenly, you realized how long it had been there.  You had sort of picked up on it before, the resentment he had towards you— and it didn’t take a Freudian expert to figure out that he was threatened by you, especially as a man.  He didn’t respond well to feeling upstaged and he clearly had an issue with women.  Maybe not that issue— he was good-looking and well-off, he didn’t need to have any issues with women if he didn’t want to— but an issue nonetheless.  

“Now,” he added, smiling wider than you’d ever seen him smile before, “client states she is ready to describe the incident in full detail.”

He set the papers aside for a second, leaning over you and almost looking… giddy, really.

“I won’t read you the rest, I’ve already pretty much memorized what goes on from there.  It was fascinating— seeing how what happened that night connected to the fears you still have today… the nightmares.  You said that you still feel sick at the smell of alcohol, you still don’t like to wear pinstripe skirts, and even just the wrong few words can make you feel like you’re right back there where it happened— on the floor of your apartment.”

All you could do was look up at him, and you felt your eyes get hot as they welled with tears.

“Not this apartment, obviously— the one by your old school,” Jonathan sighed, “but this will have to do.  And the smell of alcohol, well, I wouldn’t want to let anything cloud my experience— but I dabbed a little gin on my wrists, what do you think?”

He held his hand up by your face, caressing your cheek for a second, and you imagined yourself pulling away— turning your head and shrugging his touch off of you with a grimace.  But nothing happened, of course, and you were entirely helpless as the acidic stench of liquor became apparent.  You couldn’t give your typical outward reaction of a frown, but inside, you felt just the same as always: your stomach twisted, your heart pounded, your head swirled.

“Smell is such a… primal trigger of memory, isn’t it?” he mused, watching your face reverently.  “I can see it in your eyes, it’s affecting you even more than I expected.  You act so fearless at work— but I knew you must have been overcompensating.  God, you’re terrified— I would say you’re paralyzed, but, well… it would be too literal, I think.”

You knew that Crane studied fear and phobias, even trauma occasionally, as a personal interest within the field.  It was normal to have a favorite subtopic, and to conduct related research on it— but obviously, this was far from normal, this was absolutely deranged.  You knew that part of this was vengeance, in his own mind at least, but you didn't feel like you'd done anything actually wrong to him.  And the rest of it, well, it seemed like some twisted experiment, but if you were able to speak you would've tried to remind him that this 'research' wasn't going to get him published or advance his career— but of course, that wasn't what he wanted.  He just wanted to humiliate you.

“I was worried I didn’t have enough to work with, you know,” he added.  “I knew I couldn’t get you to where it happened, if I could even figure it out since you never filed that police report… and the skirt, well, I considered it.  It sounded pretty exciting to dress you up like the night it happened— what I would give to know everything you were wearing that night, but I don’t have a ton to work with.  Obviously, you don’t own any pinstripe skirts anymore, so I would’ve had to buy one… and I wasn’t quite ready for the looks I’d get shopping at Macy’s, so…”

Carefully, he reached up to take off his glasses, folding them and setting them down on your coffee table.

“You know how detail-oriented I am— I mean, I went to all this, didn’t I?” He continued, reaching down and brushing his fingers for a moment over your leg.  It was so instinctive to pull away that it took you a moment to realize you hadn’t… because of course, you couldn’t.  “But it’s impossible to recreate it all perfectly.  Clearly, I don’t need to— if only you could see it, Doc, you look… you look so weak.  Pathetic.”

Since the only thing you could do was look around, you tried to look away— to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the terror in your eyes.  He grabbed your face and turned it until you looked up at him.  

“Did you think you’d be able to face your greatest fear?  Perhaps with a bit more dignity?” he mused.  He looked different without the glasses on; and, ironically, you felt like he could see you even better now.

It was obvious that he enjoyed lording complete power over you, but a quick glance down to his suit trousers made it clear just how much he enjoyed it.  You quickly darted your gaze away, but it was too late; he started to climb on top of you, staring at your face uncomfortably close, and worked on opening his belt and fly.

“Fear rules us all, doesn’t it?  Everything you did, it was guided by your fear that it would— well, why paraphrase?  Let me find exactly how you put it…”

He picked up the papers again quickly, licking his thumb and flipping around until he found the right entry.

“Yes,” he said, “here it is: client states she lives in almost constant fear that it will happen again.”

So that's what this was: his disturbed take on exposure therapy.

As he tossed the copied charts away for the last time and reached up under your skirt, he leaned down and whispered in your ear— and you couldn’t even flinch from the harsh sounds of his words.  “It took you over fifty sessions to admit it,” he recalled, “to tell her the whole truth.  Not just what he did to you… what you did.”

With a small growl, he yanked your panties down your legs and rubbed your thighs with far too much aggression, such that you expected bruises from his hands— just like the ones you’d had before.

“You said he made you do it,” he continued, “you couldn’t help it, right?  But you said nothing’s ever felt like that— that you’d never had such a powerful orgasm.”

You would’ve vomited, except that that, too, requires your muscles to not be paralyzed.  Rolling your skirt up and spreading your legs, he positioned himself right between them, rubbing his cock's leaking head around your hole.

“Your greatest fear isn’t really that it’ll happen again, is it?” Jonathan taunted.  “You’re afraid someone’s going to find out how much you liked it.”

With that, he punched his hips forward and speared you on his cock.

It had been years since you'd had anything inside you, even your own fingers.  You couldn't even remember if being penetrated hurt like this during your assault, and you would've sworn before that you remembered every detail perfectly.  But this was so real, not a memory or a nightmare.  You couldn't cry out from the sting.

"God, it's tight," he groaned, "I bet you weren't this tight when it happened— you'd been whoring around, hadn't you?  Letting all kinds of guys use you… just ran into the wrong one and got your drink spiked.  But now…"

He hissed through his teeth, tightening his grip on your hip.  

"Now it's all mine, isn't it?"

Inside, you were screaming and kicking and pleading for mercy.  You imagined you would be angry and violent, beat him to death with your heel or something, but you wondered if you'd be forced to bargain with him— apologize for whatever you did to upset him, promise you wouldn't tell a soul about this as long as he left you alone.  But either way, it didn't matter… on the outside, you were useless, laying there and letting him use you.

"What made you come so much before?  Did he have a big cock, is that it?” he asked with a snarl.  “Did he know exactly how to touch you?  Or was it just that you’d been craving it, needed it really rough to get off properly?  Is that why you came while he raped you?”

It was a biological response, you told yourself like you had over and over, I couldn't help it, it wasn't my fault, it was a biological response— it wasn't my fault, I didn't like it, it was a biological response.

“I think I know what it is,” he mused, looking down at you with heavy eyes and almost purring as he watched your limp form bounce on the floor.  “I think you wanted to be put in your place.  You act so liberated, so empowered— but you’re a creature of instinct, like anything else.  You need someone to remind you how weak you are, I know, fuck, I know you do…”

He fucked you just a bit faster, grunting and tightening his fist on the floor by your head.

“You haven’t been able to have an orgasm at all, since then,” he stated— almost making it like a question, with the way he said it, but he obviously already knew it was true.  He sounded shockingly sympathetic— not even pitying, not condescending, for once.  “I’m sure for a while you didn’t even try, afraid it would remind you— but that’s the thing, you can’t finish unless you’re reminded.”

You almost surprised yourself when you heard a whine come from your throat; he smiled proudly.

"It's wearing off, I think," he noticed.  "I only gave you a small dose.  Can you move at all?  Can you beg me to stop?"

You opened your mouth to try to say everything you'd wanted to since you awoke, but all that came out was a moan.  You hated yourself for that, and he laughed happily.

"You don't want me to stop," he decided.  "Feels too good?"

I fucking hate you, you wanted to scream, you sick son of a bitch, I fucking hate you—

"You didn't say it outright, but he must have said something to you— during, maybe after," Jonathan theorized.  "You didn't say what it was, but you told your therapist about having a vivid flashback after being accosted by a delusional homeless man on the street.  He called you a bitch, seemingly for no reason… is that what your rapist said to you?  Did he say you were a stuck-up little bitch?"

As burning hot tears striped your temples, you curled your fingers over and over— maybe you could move your arms if you really tried…

"He was fucking right about you.  You think you're so much fucking better than everyone else," he growled.  "You think you're so fucking smart, and special.  But you're no fucking different, you're nothing—"

You whined and reached up, weakly trying to push him off of you, but all you could do was limply grasp at his shoulders.

"Nothing but a stupid—" he grunted the word as he slammed himself into you— "fucking—" he did it again— "bitch."

"No!" you finally heard yourself sob, clutching a weak fistful of his white shirt, but he grabbed your hands and shoved them back down to the floor.

“God,” he choked, holding your wrists tightly until you whined, “it’s so much better when you can fight— fuck, it’s so much better.  Keep struggling if you want, Doc, you’re still too weak for me…”

Your legs moved a little, but they felt heavy.  Sensation was only just beginning to return to them, like pins and needles, and it stung; you winced as you managed to squirm a bit beneath him.

"That's it," he praised, "this is probably just how you did it before.  Too drunk and too desperate for cock to really do much, but trying so hard to look like you hate it— I understand, you don't want anyone to know that you need this.  They'd never look at you the same again: the smart, accomplished psychiatrist who likes getting treated like fuckmeat.  What would they think of you if they knew?"

"No…" you said again, too weak and traumatized to say much else— but it wasn't what he said that made you say no, it was the pulse of pleasure inside your cunt.  He must have felt it, and if he didn't, he surely felt the next; yes, he did, because he smiled down at you excitedly.

"It's happening, isn't it?  You're gonna come."

He held on tight to one of your legs, gripping your thigh and staring uncomfortably into your eyes as he kept going— faster and rougher with each thrust.  You choked on your throat, trying to stop any part of this, but the pleasure was undeniable; it still hurt, yes, and you still felt so angry and sick and numb, but something familiar and desperate was tightening in your gut.  It’d been so long since anyone touched you… you’d forgotten how natural it could feel, even when it was so horrible.

"I read it in your file, but I still couldn't really believe it,” he laughed quietly, “I couldn't believe you came over and over while being raped— but here you are, wow, look at you… you’re so beautiful when you’re scared.”

A long, heavy sigh fell from your lips; your eyes got heavier, and your whole body seemed to relax— in a way totally different from the medication-induced paralysis.

He cooed at you, seeming oddly proud, and you were oddly compliant as he picked you up and pulled you into his lap.

Tears streamed across your cheeks as he held you close, one hand around your back while the other moved your hips against his.  “There you go— come for me, I wanna feel it— another one, baby, for me…”

It wasn’t much longer before another one came— from what you remembered, it was a lot like the first time, this terribly wonderful way your body protected itself from the trauma by immersing you in pleasure.  Of course, Jonathan helped you along by rubbing your clit with his thumb, excited to watch you surrender to ecstasy even when you begged him to just stop and leave you alone.

Of course, your protests were less and less believable as more of your strength and mobility returned— you could’ve tried harder to get away, but instead you found your hips rocking with his, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.  No, you didn’t want this— you never wanted this— but you found the way he spoke to you impossibly comforting even while it was still deeply upsetting.  “Tell me about the nightmares, darling,” he whispered— some impossible mix of pleading and ordering.

“A-almost every night,” you whimpered.  “I… I got used to it, but I used to… I used to wake up and think I was still…”

"They felt so real, hm?" he presumed, and you nodded.  “It’s real now… you don’t have to be afraid of the dreams anymore, it’s all real— I’m right here.”

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare or comfort you; he pet your hair, clinging to you tightly, kissing your face and neck along the lines of the tears soaking your skin.  

You felt his grin against your cheek when another wavering moan echoed in your chest, and he laid you back on the floor to hover over you again.  “Was that your third one, already?” he noticed.  “This is so much easier than I thought… you needed this so badly, you poor girl.”

A quick wave of panic settled over you when his hand wrapped around your neck.  “W-wait,” you pleaded instantly, as if you really feared he would just strangle you to death right then and there.  Your hands, still weak and tingly, reached up to his arm, and you felt his cock throb inside you— of course that was what he wanted, to see you react in fear again.  So many other emotions were at play right now, even some you didn’t know existed (like whatever the word would be for longing for the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, or feeling like the only person you can trust is the person hurting you the most), but fear was still going to rule it all as long as he had any say.

"How many times did you come before?" he demanded to know, nostrils flaring as he fucked you harder.  "Tell me how many times you came when he raped you."

"I— I don't—" you stammered.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I— I don't know!" you yelped, whimpers falling to silence as he tightened his grip on your neck. 

"You don't fucking know?" he snarled at you, watching you fight for air.  You clawed at his shirt, his wrist, tried to pry his fingers away, but he just sneered as he stared at your numbing face.  "You don't know how many times you creamed on your rapist's cock?  Bullshit."

"I—" you gasped when he let go of your throat, "I lost count…"

He went from livid to ecstatic in a second, laughing proudly and dipping down to kiss your neck passionately.  "Good girl," he mumbled against your skin, fucking you even faster.  "That's what you need to do for me now— come for me until you lose count."

“I— I can’t,” you choked, grabbing at his shoulders as he seemed to overwhelm you just by pressing his weight down on top of you.  “I’m sorry— you… you proved your point, I— I just need a break—”

Even though the drug he’d injected you with was wearing off, you realized you were just as limp and helpless as before… after all, some of the most powerful chemicals come inside the body.  You didn’t even fight it when he put his hand over your mouth, spitting out a quiet but hateful shut up and continuing with his quick and forceful thrusts into you.  

He kept you conscious and lucid by occasionally hitting or choking you, talking to you, once or twice even ordering you to kiss him.  Like you mean it, he’d said, slapping you as punishment for doing it wrong.  Truth be told, you hadn’t kissed anyone in so long that you’d really been trying your best the first time.  Sometimes he told you to beg him for more— or to beg him to get off of you— and yet he would usually punish you for speaking at all.  He was completely unpredictable, and you figured that was part of the plan: take away any shred of control you might try to get by making it impossible to follow his rules.  Keep you confused and crying, keep you fearful, keep you obedient.

But, he did seem to enjoy when you could only just choke out a broken please.  He laughed at you, pinching your sore clit in response until you sobbed and tried to jerk your hips away.  “‘Please’ what, honey?  You mean, ‘please keep fucking me, Doctor Crane, you’ll make me come again?’” he taunted.  “Something like that?”

“Please… please,” you swallowed around your whines, “please just… finish, and go…”

“Oh,” he purred, “you want me to come?”

You’d specifically not phrased it that way, but, yes, that was what you were asking for.  You weren’t sure what else he wanted from you now, it felt like he’d drained you of everything.

“You can just say that, baby— you wanna make me come?” he grinned, moving in closer for a kiss, but you turned your head away.  He grabbed your jaw again and stared at you with an angry glare.  “This isn’t about me.  This is what you wanted.  This is what you fucking wanted!”

As he screamed in your face, you sobbed and tried to look away again, but he hit you hard on the face and covered your mouth before the cry of agony could come out.  

“This is what you wanted, right?” he insisted again, forcing your head to nod with his clammy, iron-tight grip.  “Uh huh— and you wanna make me come, don’t you?  You understand now that’s all you’re good for.”

As sick as it was, you felt yourself fall into another orgasm when he said that; your eyes rolled back a bit, and for a moment you felt even hotter between your legs.

“I think, if you beg me to come, maybe I will,” he offered— bargaining with you, probably another way to trick you into clamoring for some control only to yank it away.  Unfortunately, you were in no position to turn down a deal.

“Please,” you blurted out the second he released your mouth from under his hand; when you blinked the tears from your eyes, you saw him clearly again and realized how completely different he looked from the arrogant-but-generally-unassuming man you knew from work.  His hair was fallen beside his face, and he was close enough that the ends were tickling your forehead.  His eyes were bloodshot, crazed, and dark.  His lips, always full and plush but usually in a tight frown or neutral look of condescending boredom, were curled around the teeth he bared at you.  He looked animalistic, for a man typically so measured.  Only he could do something so animalistic in a way that required such intellect, foresight, and contemplation— using his superhuman skills to treat you in a subhuman manner.  You realized that you were really seeing him for the first time— the person you’d known before was the mask.  This was something horribly freeing for him; and you were having a much easier time analyzing and thinking about him to distract from how sickly freeing this experience was becoming for you.  “Please, Jonathan—”

“Doctor Crane,” he corrected.  Apparently this wasn’t enough to put you on a first name basis…

“Doctor Crane,” you repeated, “please… come.  I want… I want you to come.”

“Hmm,” he considered, and you worried he’d decide he was unimpressed with your effort and hurt you again— but, he did maybe the only thing worse.  “Okay,” he agreed, “if it’s so important to you.”

Just when you shut your eyes tight and hoped you could just get through this— just hold on for a few more minutes at most and then this would be over and done with— he whispered in your ear that he needed you to keep your eyes open if he was going to finish.  

Though, when you obeyed, he purred at you and let his own eyes flutter shut for just a moment.  For once, he actually seemed affected by all this physically and not just psychosexually.  “I think I’ll come inside, like he did before,” Crane decided with a groan when he opened his eyes, biting his lip for a moment as he stared down at you.  “I didn’t see any birth control in your listed medications on chart… I guess we’ll find out if you have a fear of getting pregnant.”

"Jonathan— don't," you whimpered.  "Please, don't do that—"

"Shh," he soothed, petting the top of your head and laying his weight over you.  "Shh, it's alright.  I think you need to be filled with come… I think that might be the one thing that’ll get you to settle down, now just hold still.”

“I— please… please…” you began to beg again, but your words faded away as another wave of sensation washed over you— they started to blend together, like before, and you realized you were doing what he’d asked: you were losing count.

“Good girl,” he praised under his breath, “like that— fuck, I’m close.  Fuck!”

He held onto you tight— one hand on your thigh and the other on your neck as his thrusts sped to a desperately, impossibly fast pace.  You moaned— or cried, or yelled, or something— as he pushed just a little too deep and your toes curled in your heels.

“Uh huh,” he encouraged, “just one more while I come inside you— I think you can manage that, just one more good squeeze on my cock— oh, fuck, that’s it, yes, just like that…”

You stopped being able to understand what he was saying, but you heard the wavering groan that came a few moments later when his movements suddenly stopped.  He gasped and kept himself as far inside you as possible; you shuddered, blinking fresh tears out of your eyes, and felt paralyzed in an entirely new way as you laid under him, staring up at your ceiling, seeing how far the sun had set since it began— actually, it had started to rain, making it even more impossible to tell how much time had really passed.  Eventually, though, he took his head out from the crook of your neck and propped himself up enough to look down at you.  

Reaching to your coffee table, he fumbled his hand around until he found his glasses, and shakily put them back on.  “Well,” he grinned, still panting but seeming to be mostly back to himself (whoever that was).  “I never thought I’d meet someone who loves fear as much as I do.”

[theobsessivesideblog]

I absolutely Will Not be psychoanalyzing my reaction to this… nope… totally fine and good and healthy and normal (🥵🥵🥵)

[joelscruff]

one thing i'm missing masterlist *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

status: ongoing pairing: joel miller x f!reader summary: you and joel accidentally end up falling asleep together, and what follows is the beginning of a quiet and tender relationship neither of you saw coming. no use of y/n. rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) warnings (for the whole fic): age difference (reader is mid 20s, joel is mid 50s), fluff & smut, hurt/comfort, praise kink, dirty talk, hand jobs, oral (both m and f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, comeplay word count (so far): 21k ao3 link

PART 1 🌿 PART 2 🌿 PART 3 🌿 PART 4 🌿 PART 5 🌿 PART 6

fic tag

[theobsessivesideblog]

Was I in love with Joel Miller before? Yes. Am I even more in love with him now? Absolutely. So damn well written!

[loveshotzz]

bartender!eddie x fem!reader Eddie’s night.

🎵my man gives real love that’s why I call him killer, he’s not a ‘wham! bam! thank you ma’am!’ he’s a thriller.🎵

summary: After being stood up on a blind date, the cute bartender you’ve been ‘trying’ not to flirt with keeps you company.

word count: 12.6k

warnings: 90’s AU / 18 + no minors! /eddie is in his early 30’s, fingering, oral (f receiving), semi public smut (p in v), cream pie, dirty talk.

authors note: my love letter to the 90’s 💕after one month of brain storming and three weeks of writing here’s part one of Whatta Man! Eddie’s night. (This is a singular one shot. Steve’s night is part two, can you find the easter eggs for his night 😉)Thank you to my very talented friends who always brain storm with me and share ideas. This fun lil AU wouldn’t have happened with you. ily 💗 edit by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple

You didn’t want to go on this date. Not when your roommate set you up, and you certainly didn’t want to go when he picked The Foxy Lounge. But when Weather Man Mike predicted the first warm day after three months of bitter winter you’d take any excuse to wear your favorite dress. 

You’d been here before, always stumbling in after a night out with friends because they were the only 4am place in town. Those late nights turned to early mornings were more of a thing of the past now so when you got to the familiar chipped red door you didn’t recognize the bouncer standing outside. He has a head of honey colored hair that’s just long enough to run his fingers through. His toned frame sits pretty wrapped in a tight black tee and long legs covered in dark wash jeans tight enough for you to really have to focus on keeping  your eyes on his face. A freckle covered neck leads to a strong jaw and a chiseled nose. Leaning against the brick wall with his boots crossed at the ankles a toothpick twirls between his straight teeth.

The platform of your sneakers hitting the pavement as you come to a stop and the jingle of your power beads alerts him of your presence, hazel eyes going round like the moon in the sky. Straightening his posture he snatches the tooth pick out of his mouth, stuffing it in his back pocket. You swear you see a Tamagotchi tucked away as he clears his throat with a puff of his chest.

“I.D.?” 

Your lips twitch, the forced deep baritone in his voice isn’t fooling you, and you wonder if it fooled anyone when the signature beep of a Tomogatchi pet needing to be fed goes off in his back pocket. He coughs to try to cover the noise while you quickly pull what he needs out of your cross body. Holding it out for him to examine you look up with a glossed smile matching the one in the picture. Narrowing his eyes, you catch a glimmer of playfulness when he clicks on his flashlight. 

Examining it like it could be a fake, you bite back a giggle while he turns it around giving it one more once over before handing it back to you with a soft chuckle.

“Funny, we have the same birthday.” His voice comes out normal this time, soft and friendly just like you thought.

“Twins!”

A genuine smile lights up his face like the sign above your head, his boyish features coming out despite the stubble on his chin.

“Might as well call us the Olsen’s.” Throwing you a wink he pulls the gold handle to open the door for you. The sounds of Return of the Mack break through the hums of the street behind you. “Have fun tonight honey, be safe. If anyone bothers you, just come grab me okay? I’m steve.”

Your cheeks heat up at the endearment and you have to remind yourself that you’re here for a date. You catch a hint of his cologne when your shoulder brushes against his chest on your way in, the expensive scent making you dizzy when it hits your senses.

“I will, thanks Steve,”your words are shy when they come out, making his lips twitch in response. Nodding his head, you catch the tinge of pink on his skin before he closes the door with a small wave.

It's even louder inside with the drunk conversations battling for dominance against the music. Tugging nervously at the bottom of your dress you look around the bar for the vague description of this guy Craig your friend gave you. 

You scan the crowd a few times before your eyes catch the big brown ones of the bartender. The stool in front of him freeing itself at the same time your eyes connect, the corners of his plush lips pull up as he beckons you over with two heavily ringed fingers. The unruly dark auburn curls that hit just below his shoulders catch the low light behind the bar, the yellow glow softening up all his edges. 

Rocking back on your heels you pull the strap of your cross body closer, doing your best to collect yourself before you push through the crowd accepting his invitation. His smile widens, pulling up his stubble covered cheeks to reveal a set of perfect white teeth to you. The one you give him in return comes out a little shy as you plop down on the ripped vinyl that matches the red of the door.

Ink litters his arms disappearing under the frayed ends of his sleeves letting you know there was more under the tight fit of his worn faded black Metallica shirt. The two rips near the collar give you a glimpse of the chain wrapped around his neck. The scruff lining his jaw adds a few years from afar but from this close he looks your age. The silver hoop in his nose catches against the bright lighting under the bar like the rings adoring his fingers. Pulling out two empty shot glasses with a twirl he quickly fills them up with Jameson.

“This one’s on the house sweetheat, it’ll help make your date cuter.”  He winks with a sly grin, your stomach flutters with his full attention on you like this.

The glass is heavy in your grasp as you stare at the dark liquid with a faint grimace. His low chuckle catches your attention before the pop and hiss of the soda fills your ears. As if reading your mind he slides over a coke, letting you keep your pride by not having to ask for a chaser.

“How do you know I’m here for a date?” Raising a questioning brow, the sides of your lips twitch as you struggle to hold a straight face. “A girl can’t come to the bar alone on a Friday night?”

The chocolate in his eyes lights up at your playful banter, slinging a white towel over his shoulder he leans in, forearms pressing hard against the counter as he invades your space. The spice of his cologne and the burn of cigarette smoke joins with him and you find yourself sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Are you telling me you’re available then?” Dropping his voice low enough to feel between your legs, you wished more than anything you had a different answer to give him.

The heaviness of his gaze has your cheeks warming, the intensity of the eye contact forcing your gaze away for a second as you clear your throat. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear you muster enough courage to meet his eyes again. 

“N-no unfortunately, you were right.” Exaggerating a heavy sigh, his confident demeanor never wavers despite his confirmed suspicions.

“Unfortunately is right, huh?” Winking, he pushes back leaving only the lingering scent of his cologne raising his shot in an offering of cheers. “To what could have been, baby.” 

A giggle bubbles past your lips when his fingers brush against yours meeting in the middle with a clink. Downing his shot like a professional, he’s left to watch the way you struggle with yours. Amusement is evident on his face while he watches the way your throat stays unwilling to open. Holding the alcohol in your mouth longer than anyone would want, it finally gives in letting the bitter liquid go down with a bite. Pushing the can of coke towards you with his knuckles, his laugh booms loud from his chest as you search for reprieve in the sweetness with desperation.

Chugging with abandon, you forget your surroundings for a second before your eyes meet his over the rim of the can and it’s almost enough to have you snort the rest of it all over yourself. 

Coming up for air you grumble a half assed “shut up” doing your best to try and fight the smile begging to spread across your lips as you wipe them with the back of your hand.

“Not a whiskey girl I take it?” Punctuating the ‘t’ harder than normal, his teasing falls on deaf ears when you get distracted at the way his thick fingers wrap around the shot glasses.

“Not a shot girl in general, I’d rather not taste the alcohol if I can help it.” Shrugging, you trace invisible patterns on the sticky quartz of the bar top with french tipped nails silently reminding yourself for the second time tonight you’re here for a date.

“So how’d you two meet?” He raises his voice so it comes out sickly sweet while a shaker and a lemon appears in his hands. Setting them down on top of the worn jagermeister logo that covers the drink mat he starts rolling the fruit against his palm.

“We haven’t met yet actually, a friend set us up.” 

Eddie’s movements freeze for a second, eyebrows furrowing together in a look of confusion as if that was the craziest thing that anyone had ever told him. He grabs the bottle of simple syrup adding more to what looked like it was going to be a sweet drink before he answers.

“Someone like you shouldn’t need to be set up, sweetheart.” He looks up at you from under the hood of his lashes quickly picking up on the effect he has on you.

He twirls another empty glass onto the counter top before he smashes the lid of the shaker on, not giving you a chance to respond he starts shaking it louder than you know is necessary. The bats tattooed on his arm dance across the muscles with the flex of every flick of his wrist.

“Really? Laying it on thick, huh?” Raising your voice enough to know he could hear you, he taunts you by cupping his free hand over his ear to make a show of pretending he can’t, mouthing a ‘sorry’ with a smirk. The laugh he earns from when he finally relents is the prettiest sound he thinks he’s ever heard. 

“Well I hope this ‘friend’ has a good vetting process. No less than three interviews or no dice.” He pours your drink with panache, like he’s putting on a show for you, like you’re sure he does with all the other girls.

Grabbing a straw he plugs one end with his index finger before he dips it into the slightly lighter liquid. The heat between your legs becomes almost unbearable when his lips wrap around the end tasting his creation with a low groan, his pink tongue pokes out to collect the sweetness left behind.

“I think, I think you’re gonna like this one. It’s an Eddie Munson original, I’m calling it "Wasting Love.” The roll of your eyes makes him bark out another laugh. The signs of the smoke you smell on him are more noticeable in this one’s rumble.

“I wonder what could have inspired it?” Biting your lip to hide your smile, you knew you shouldn’t be flirting with him while you waited for Craig, but you can’t help yourself. Besides, he was already ten minutes late.

“I think you know what inspired it sweetheart, I can tell you’re not just some pretty face.” Dimples poking through his cheeks, he finally takes notice of the glares from the customers filling up the bar. Everyone’s patience starting to wear thin while they waited for whatever this was to be over. 

“I gotta stop ignoring all the other people in here real quick, but I’ll be back for your review.” He throws you another wink and it has you shifting in your seat as he starts to walk away.

“Wait! I never opened a tab!” Calling after him as you reach for your purse, he tuts loudly, turning around to face you, continuing his path walking backwards. 

“You shouldn’t be paying for a thing tonight, gorgeous.” He waves his hand dismissively before his back is to you again giving his undivided attention to the bearded man who looked ready to murder the carefree metal head if he didn’t get his Bud Light in the next five seconds.

Trying not to get too caught up in someone that wasn’t your date you timidly bring the straw to your lips. Humming appreciatively when the sweetness hits your tastebuds you’re pleasantly surprised at how much you actually like it. Feeling bold enough to take a bigger gulp, you look around for Craig again. So lost in the little bubble you had been in with Eddie you didn’t realize how much more the bar had filled up since you arrived. A new kind of rowdy energy in the air — the low murmurs of conversation get loud enough to drown out Semi- Charmed Kinda Life.

Glancing down at your pink swatch watch, your date was now twenty minutes late. Turning around to check and make sure the lavender cross body you told him to look for was visible, you crane your neck around looking one last time. It’s easy to shrug off the sinking feeling of rejection when you turn back around to watch Eddie in his natural habitat. 

He moves behind the bar like he’s been doing it his whole life, like everything was muscle memory.  As if he could feel you staring he catches your gaze throwing you a smirk before he tosses a bottle of tequila in the air catching it with ease. Pouring it into four lined up shot glasses, the group of girls in front of him celebrating what looked like a bachelorette party with all their multi-colored hats and boas squealed with drunk delight. Your eyes hit the back of your skull in a hard roll when one of them bats their eyelashes at him with a hand on his arm.

Sucking down the rest of your drink, the slurping once you hit the ice is loud enough to annoy the guy next to you who shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. Mouthing an apology you push your empty glass away looking around the bar one more time. The guilt of flirting with Eddie starts to disappear when you look at your watch again and start coming to terms you were actually being stood up. Searching for his doe eyes again, your heart sinks when you find him this time.

Dimples in his cheeks again, he’s practically beaming at her. Their body language telling you this isn’t their first time meeting and how animated he is when he talks to her is like he’s known her for years. Gesturing wildly with his hands while she nods enthusiastically, something he says has her throwing her head back with a laugh loud enough you can hear it over the music. You huff through your nose, the sting of rejection sneaking its way back in. The reminder that he was just doing his job and you were here for a date, one that never showed up, slaps you right in the face.

Averting your gaze to spare whatever confidence you have left, your eyes find the bouncer at the front door. Inside the bar now with a hard glare set on his handsome face. His arms sit folded across his broad chest while his jaw clenches at the same time as the muscles in his shoulders flex. Steve looks pissed.

Interest piqued, you follow his line of sight despite it going in the direction of the bar you were trying to avoid. Somehow not surprised when your eyes land on her again, you notice Eddie has already busied himself with someone else. With his back towards both of you he fills two pints with Blue Moon, the uncomfortable look on her face couldn’t be missed. The greasy blonde hair on the man that was clearly invading her personal space told you he’d been drinking all day. The grimace on her pretty face says she could smell it on his breath too.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you see him grab onto her arm while trying to whisper in her ear. You feel yourself ready to stand up and help when she pushes him away, with the way the veins in her neck were flexing whatever she was saying to him wasn't nice. Shoving her hand in his face she storms towards the front door where Steve is waiting, looking seconds away from killing the man who followed her path out of the bar with a leer.

The scowl on her face softens instantly when she’s met with Steve opening the door, the glare on his face being replaced with a deep flush when you catch a “Thanks, Stevie” fall appreciatively from her lips.

SMACK

Jumping at the sound of metal hitting wood, Eddie’s dimples show themselves only this time they are for you as he leans forward on his arms again, eyes flicking towards the spot next to you. He pulls himself even closer when he notices no one new occupying the stool, making you search for friction with the fat of your thighs. 

“Penny for your thoughts, beautiful?” Flashing you his perfect teeth for the second time tonight the bruise to your ego already starts to disappear.

“I drank it without gagging, didn’t I?” Crossing your arms on top of the bar it's your turn to lean into his space and you swear you hear his breath hitch at your new boldness.

Licking his lips, your eyes greedily follow the path of his tongue. His smile stretches across his face even more when he notices, making no effort to move- unwilling to back down from the silent standoff you’ve challenged him too.

“‘I’ll have you know I take that as a very high compliment coming from you.” His breath fans across your cheeks from this close, mint and whiskey hitting your nose when he huffs a laugh. “Where’s Prince Charming?”

“Turns out there was no Prince, just an ugly old toad.” Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you look up at him through half lidded eyes, “Good thing I didn’t kiss him, huh?”

A low rumble shakes in his chest as he dares to lean in even closer, the tips of your noses almost brushing while the bubble you’d lost yourselves in reappears.

“Yeah baby, you can’t give those out to just anybody, they gotta be for someone special.” His voice is low, dripping with the kind of want you’d never had directed at you before. His eyes take in every inch of your face from this close while you try to keep up with his smooth tongue.

“Got anyone in mind, Eddie?” Doing your best to match his tone, his brows pinch together at the way his name sounds coming out of your mouth taking one last look at your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“Yeah, I know a guy actually. He’s a bartender with a great head of hair.” Wiggling his eyebrows when you snort, the front door swings open, breaking you two apart as the girl from before commands the room like a record scratch, silencing the bar for the first time all night.

“Eddie! It’s bad, Steve needs you!” The sheer panic in her voice is enough for the jealous monster inside you to stay at bay as Eddie pushes back on his heels.

An irritated sigh escapes him while he mutters ‘not a-fucking-gain’ under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before his eyes find yours. You jump a little when he grabs your hands, the warmth of his palms enveloping yours while he gives you a pleading look.

“Don’t - I mean, please don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back, I need to go save my buddy’s ass again. But I promise I’ll be right back, this conversation is too important to leave unfinished.” He flashes you that million dollar smile like chaos isn’t ensuing outside and all you can do is nod, signaling that you’ll stay put.

Hopping over the bar his loose fitting combat boots squeak over the counter top, the black jeans that were hidden from your sight somehow fit him even better than his shirt. Your gaze is shamelessly hungry as it follows him until he’s out the door. The scuffle outside leaking through the music with a blur of bodies outside. 

Too focused on the glimpse of Eddie’s towering frame stepping between the two guys to break up the fight, you don’t notice the person who walks through the unattended door until it shuts behind him with a thud. Ready to glare at whoever it is your eyes widen when you meet the ones belonging to who you can only assume is Craig. The burnt auburn hair he sports and the way he zero’s in on your purse confirms your suspicions. This was Craig, you're incredibly late and not even remotely as attractive as the bartender, date.

“Shit, shit, shit.” No matter how quickly you averted your stare, you knew it was too late, he saw you. Panic sets in while your brain goes a mile a minute trying to think a way out of this.

Looking around the bar for some sort of escape, the thought of ducking into the bathroom sounds like a winner but then the image of Eddie coming back and seeing you gone seeps into the forefront of your mind making you quickly toss that idea out the window. Turning to the people on either side of you who are too lost in their own conversations to notice your dilemma, you try to decide which one you could interrupt the most naturally. 

The couple on your right looks like they’re on a date going really well and the one on your left seems like two friends catching up. The tap on your shoulder is enough for you to make a split second decision, clearing your throat you spare the newly blossoming romance next you from your desperate antics, choosing to interrupt the friends who are reconnecting with a loud fake laugh.

“That’s when she told me- um excuse me do I know you?” Gruff and confused, the man closest to you looks at you as if you’ve grown two heads. First your loud slurping and now this? This plan was never going to work from the get-go.

Another persistent tap on your shoulder has you grasping for straws. You open your mouth to try to sell whatever this was one last time. 

“Umm excuse me?”  Craig’s voice comes out loud enough to cut you off and for the poor guy next to you to give you the final cold shoulder. Unable to ignore him any longer, you force yourself to turn around and face him head on. Kind of. 

Channeling your inner Alicia Silverstone you try to give him the best Clueless look you can muster and he returns it with an even more confused expression, clearing his throat.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. I’m Craig, Ariana’s friend. I think I’m supposed to be meeting you?” Shoving his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, the maroon sweater he wears fits loosely over his thin frame, dirty black chucks on his feet, his look screams ‘I listen to Nirvana’.

“Umm, I think you have the wrong person? I wasn’t supposed to be meeting anyone here tonight.” It’s not believable in the slightest when the words leave your mouth, your less than confident delivery giving you away. The look on his face lets you know you’ve definitely been made

“Are you sure? I was told to look for the girl with a lavender purse.”  As if to prove his point he points to the exact one he’s talking about slung across your shoulder. He scoffs when you keep up with your charade, “I know I’m late but this is ridiculous.”

“A lot of girls have purple bags, Craig.” His name comes out dripping in venom, the need to get rid of him before Eddie’s return throwing any logic out the window. You needed to believe your own lie.

The sudden harshness has him raising his hands in defense, backing down a little under the daggers of your glare.

“Whoa, chill out, my bad. You just match the exact description I was given, that's all.”

Clenching your jaw in frustration because he just won’t give up, you try to hold your composure while your eyes flick towards the door in anticipation for his return.

“Well you’ve told me you were late twice already so she probably just left. Rude of you to keep her waiting honestly.” Narrowing your eyes at him, you know that he’s aware of exactly what you are doing but you don’t care anymore.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened, and not her being bitter I’m one measly hour late.” The way his words clip signal the rejection sinking in, a glare setting firm on his face.

It’s the stare down of the century before Eddie comes barging through the entrance with a loud huff and a clap of his hands. Cheeks red from yelling and hair slightly more wild than before. He checks to make sure you’re still exactly where he left you before he glances over to Craig for a split second not registering who he is. Hopping over the bar with another skid of his boots, he still manages to give you a lopsided grin when he gets to the other side. Hitting the top of the bar in a series of beats - he’s a ball of energy.

“Sorry to keep you waiting sweetheart, Steve’s lucky the girl he took a knuckle sandwich for has a first aid kit. Rick keeps saying he’s gonna get one but I have yet to see it. Want another cocktail?” Talking a mile a minute with the leftover adrenaline from the fight, he still doesn’t notice the way Craig watches the two of you until he catches how awkward you’re being. Eddie’s face hardens, the softness he was giving you disappearing. “Something I can help you with buddy?”

You don’t even have to look at Craig to know he’s puffing out his chest with a point of his chin addressing Eddie.

“Actually pal, maybe you can.” His tone makes Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, a tested smile spreading over his lips while he lets Craig continue. “I was supposed to meet someone here for a blind date, I was told to look for a girl with a lavender purse exactly like this one. You haven't seen another girl with this exact same bag have you?” 

Eddie’s wide eyes meet yours, amusement filling the specks of golden brown as he picks up on exactly what’s happening. The corners of his lips twitch before he nods his head licking his bottom lip holding your gaze long enough to make you squirm before bringing his attention back to Craig with a low whistle.

“Oh yeah, I remember that hottie, man. It’s a shame you were late, she took off with this dude she met waiting for you. She didn’t stand a chance, though, honestly. I know the guy, he’s too smooth for his own good. Pretty good looking too. Can’t be leaving your girl unattended around him. Probably wouldn’t have worked out between you two anyway.” Eddie catches the roll of your eyes at his self indulgent story as you cover your mouth with the palm of your hand to hide your face splitting grin.

“Why don’t you walk away with some dignity. What’s that saying? There’s always more fish in the sea or some shit.” Eddie adds more salt to the wound, finally breaking Craig enough to give up.

“Whatever you say man, this bar is fuckin’ lame anyway. Who wants to drink to Third Eye Blind.” Grumbling his insults as he slinks away, he takes one last look at you and Eddie before his final exit with a flip of his middle finger.

Eddie’s stare is hot on your face, while you bashfully avoid his gaze keeping your eyes lingering on the door. When you finally dare to meet his eyes the shit eating grin on his face makes you groan, the buzz of your drink pulling a giggle out of you. 

“Eddie, don’t —“

“Well, well, aren’t you just a little heartbreaker, huh?” His teasing only makes your cheeks grow hotter as you try to hide your face from his view.

“Don’t you need to go attend to all the customers you left?” Your words come out muffled from behind your hands as you slowly pull them down just enough to uncover the fake glare you were sending his way.

“I’ve got my favorite one right here.” Voice dropping low with a smirk, he was right, you didn’t stand a chance.

“I haven’t paid for a single thing, you refused my money if you remember.” Bringing your hands down to fully come out of hiding, he bites his bottom lip when he can take in your features again.

“It’s no good here, baby, I could actually get arrested if I take it and then how would I be able to take you out to get pancakes after my shift if I’m behind bars?” Bringing his hands together in mock shackles and a pout, the chain wrapped around his wrist catches your eyes for the first time.

“You’re takin’ me to get pancakes?” Flirting like a love sick teenager, you even start to kick your feet under the bar.

“It’s the least I can do since you’re my fill in bouncer for the rest of the night.” Smirking, he nods his head to the man at the opposite end of the bar flagging him down with a twenty dollar bill. His eyes sparkling with something new now that he had you.

“Me? A Bouncer? I’m not intimidating in the slightest!” Your cheeks hurt from how hard you smile at his retreating form, the game of ‘playing hard to get’ becoming a thing of the past now.

“Sorry, you owe me, heartbreaker.” He shrugs like it’s out of his control before flashing you the same lopsided grin leaving you a mess of nerves from getting to spend the night with him.

The hours till close go by faster than you anticipate with Eddie topping off your drink any time you ask, the buzz from the alcohol is just enough to handle the growing intensity of his flirting. Now that the only obstacle in the way of each other was time, he was relentless.

Enjoying the game of chicken the two of you had started unconsciously playing, you stop noticing the clock. Every six customers earns you five —sometimes ten minutes of his time and he makes sure to use every second of those breaks as an excuse to lean in close, whispering in your ear, holding your face close every time you talk. He was getting off on the way he could make you shift in your seat and hide your bottom lip between your teeth when he got close enough for his lips to brush against your ear. Your fingers find excuses to wrap around his wrist when he invades your space, playing with his chain, you keep him close making sure to tilt your head just enough for him to catch a glimpse down your neck into the low cut of your dress.

The small hand on the clock above the door hits the three and it’s not until his breaks start getting longer and your touches are able to get a little bolder that you notice the murmur of voices over the music disappears. The few stranglers left sipping their last drinks of the evening are paying the two of you no mind despite the way he’s tucking your hair out of his way to trace the shell of your ear with the tip of his nose.

The realization that you’re finally about to be alone with him brings your nerves to a head and the need to check yourself over in the bathroom mirror becomes urgent. The flick of his tongue along your earlobe distracts you for a second as your head nudges against his when it tickles making a giggle slip past your lips.

“I gotta go to the bathroom, Eddie.” You inhale the scent of pine lingering in his shampoo, giving him one last nudge with your nose before hopping off the stool. He gives you his best puppy eyes as you get up to leave, pushing out his bottom lip when you tug your dress down.

“Please, I’ll be like three minutes.” You roll your eyes at him but the smile that lights up your face tells him you’re eating it up.

“I’ll be counting every second you're gone, baby.” Holding his hands over his heart for dramatic effect the man at the end of the bar snorts loudly ruining the moment. He earns an annoyed glare from the bartender, “Better hurry up and finish that shit old man, it’s closing time.” 

You hear him grunt in response to Eddie’s rude reminder before disappearing into the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. Stickers and writing with permanent marker cover every inch of the dark crimson walls. The doors of the black stalls barely hang from their hinges, dents from many reckless drunk nights at The Foxy Lounge punch random spots into the metal. The bottom of your sneakers stick to the floor with every step to the mirror where more stickers and black scribbles line the surface including a girl named Leigh’s phone number with the note ‘for a good time call’ attached at the end leaving just enough room to see your face.

The space buns on top of your head are messy from Eddie nuzzling his beard into your hair all night. You try to salvage what was left of them by tightening the knots a little more before deciding it's a lost cause. He was probably just going to mess them up more anyway. The thought of Eddie’s hands being free to touch you in every way you’ve wanted all night has you taking a deep breath while you hold your own eyes in the mirror.

“It’s happening, you’re gonna have sex with him. You’re gonna fuck the super hot bartender who flirts like it’s his second language tonight and you’re gonna be confident about it okay? You hear me?” Pointing to yourself in the mirror, the determination in your stare is enough for your tipsy pep talk to work its magic.

Taking one last look at yourself with a nod of your head you pull open the bathroom door ready to take on the rest of the night. Only to stop in your tracks when you notice the stool that was occupied is now empty and every inch of Eddie is also in full view from where he stands in front of the jukebox. Your eyes are insatiable taking in his tall frame like this for the first time all night. 

You notice the giant chain that hangs from his belt loop this time, and there’s even more rips in his jeans than before giving you a peek at the pale skin hidden underneath. His shoulder blades move under the thin fabric of his shirt when he clicks his choice on the machine. Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer spills out from the speakers of the bar as he turns on his heels, the smirk that plays on his lips dares you to catch the hint with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Very subtle.” Crossing your arms as if to act immune to his charms, you know he sees right through your facade but he plays along anyway raising his big hands up in the air in mock surrender.

“It’s just one of my favorite songs, I don’t know what kinda ideas you got going on in that pretty little head of yours.” He takes a few more steps towards you slowly closing the gap, daring to be closer to you than he had been all night without a wooden bar separating you.

“Interesting, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Sixpence fan.” Raising your eyebrow, you have to look up at him when he finally takes the last few steps to stand in front of you. 

“Why? Cause I’m such a tough guy?” His grin grows wider when he looks down at you catching the roll of your eyes while you uncross your arms opening your body up to him with a laugh. 

“I can’t stand you.” Your swat is flirtatious with your palm hitting his chest. He’s quick to catch it, using your hand as leverage to pull you closer, biting back his groan when a breathy gasp slips past your lips when he tucks you into chest. First your giggle and now this? He just knew you were going to sound so pretty falling apart for him.

“I think Craig would call that bluff sweetheart.” He gives you a minute to let his words sink in, throwing his head back with a loud laugh when you huff at him embarrassed. “I’m teasing, I’m teasing. He needed to be dumped, a girl like you deserves someone that's gonna show up when they’re supposed to.”

The sweetness of his words has you melt against him, the playful pull from before surrendering to his touch and you swear there’s hearts in your eyes from the way he looks down at you after saying something like that. 

“Thanks for tonight Eddie,” your voice is small when it comes out laced with adoration, and it’s his turn to get bashful making your favorite dimples come out again.

“No problem sweetheart, honestly it’s my fuckin’ lucky night.” Pulling your knuckles to his lips, he places a gentle kiss to the skin stretched over them before letting your hand drop, noting the disappointment on your face that you’re quick to cover up. 

“Wanna get some fresh air while I smoke before I close this place down?” 

——

Eddie somehow looks even better under the twinkling stars and pink fluorescent lights of The Foxy Lounge sign. The low hum of the electricity filling your ears as you lean against the brick of the building. His eyes are brighter out here, catching them with your own when he looks at you over the end of his cigarette.

He winks when you meet his pointed gaze, the flame of his lighter casting shadows that dance across the strong lines of his jaw, the orange glow highlighting the stubble that covers it. Batting your lashes at him, you push your hips off the wall playfully while he keeps his eyes on you through his entire first drag, only breaking contact for the split second he needs to blow the smoke he inhaled away from you. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” His words come out like a warning before he takes another hit.

“How am I looking at you Eddie?” Biting your lip to hide your smile, you make sure to say his name extra sweet just how you figured out he likes. He shakes his head with a low chuckle blowing more smoke into the clear night sky. 

Despite only taking two drags, he flicks the barely smoked cigarette to the side before closing the distance with a few steps leaving him crowding you against the building. Your chest brushes against his with every shallow breath. Getting lost in the darkening amber inside his eyes, the calloused tips of his fingers catch against the soft skin of your chin. The pad of his thumb pulling the velvet of your bottom lip from between your teeth.

“Like you want me to kiss you.”

Ducking his head down he nudges your nose with his, the heat of his breath fanning against your open mouth. His eyes go from yours back down to your glossed lips silently begging for your permission.

“I think it was you that was hinting at kissing me earlier.” Pushing up on your tiptoes, you smile against him when your lips just barely touch. 

“Oh? You think that’s what I was doing hmm?” Asking the question he already knows the answer to, his tongue licks against your top lip as your hands find the material of his shirt, fisting as much of it as you can before yanking him down to collect his lips with an eager mouth, giving up winning whatever game this was. 

You swallow his moan when your tongues meet in the middle battling for dominance, teeth scraping, you taste the few puffs of tobacco still lingering on his taste buds as his muscle massages against yours. Sliding his knee between your thighs, he smiles smug into the kiss when your hips search for friction against the denim.

He breaks away from your mouth long enough to start trailing wet kisses down your jaw, the rough hair on his chin rubbing your skin raw as he starts nipping and sucking bruises along your neck. Biting hard enough at your pulse point to have to soothe it with his tongue after the mewls he pulls from you are enough to drive him insane.

Your fingers tangle into the curls at the nape of his neck, giving his roots a pull while you turn your head, opening more of yourself to him. Taking your silent invitation he nips at the dip of your collar bone before lifting his head to press his forehead to yours. 

“I gotta close up baby, but then…”rubbing his hands up your curves with a low groan he squeezes at the plush of your hips before finishing his sentence, “I think I promised you pancakes.”

Nodding your head because words are stuck at the tip of your tongue, he grabs your cheeks with a strong grip, smushing your lips together before stealing one last kiss.

——-

Eddie doesn’t give you the attention you’ve grown accustomed to all night when he starts the process of actually cleaning the bar. Your body still buzzes like a live wire from the drinks and the kiss outside. He’d been counting his tips with his back to you for the last ten minutes and you were growing impatient for more of him. You needed it. 

Counting the last bill he finally turns around and your thighs press together when you get to see his face again. Shifting in your seat when his eyes barely meet yours, he makes his way to the other end of the bar. Pushing yourself up to lean forward with puckered lips, he ignores your advances passing by without so much as a glance in your direction. Huffing when you plop back in your seat, he flips the knob starting to wash his hands in the mini sink with his back to you again. Your foot taps against the metal of the stool as you watch him grab the scratched up red bucket hanging below and a fresh rag quickly replacing his hands with it to fill up.

You wonder if he can feel your stare when he adds the soap, taking his time while he spins the rag in the steaming water, he starts ringing it out. Arms flexing and suds spilling over his knuckles, you were gonna lose your mind if you didn’t get your hands on him soon. 

He makes big swipes as he starts working his way towards you, keeping his eyes so focused on his task you’d think you were invisible if it wasn’t for the smirk that was getting impossible for him to hide. It only grows bigger when he stops in front of you, adding a low hum to his charade purposely wiping around the outline of your hands that were splayed out on the counter ready to push yourself up again. 

“Eddie - c’mon!”  

You’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t for the laugh that falls easy from his chest when he finally looks at you. His face softens and his eyes darken when he catches your angry pout, your fingers are quick to find his free ones making him tsk at you but he doesn’t pull away.

“My hands are wet baby.” He knew you didn’t care and the teeth showing in his wide grin told you he didn’t either.

Giving into your persistence like it hasn’t been a fight to keep his hands to himself this whole time, he leans forward brushing his nose with yours before nudging it against your cheek so your lips just barely touch. When you go to close the space he pulls back just enough to tease, a small whine escaping you at his games.

“What’s got you so needy, huh?” His words are whispered as he presses with the slightest pressure before pulling back again. “I didn’t kiss you good enough outside, you need more?”

“Please.” Your cheeks burn when you hear how your voice sounds, but his grip on your fingers tighten and a low moan breaks through his front at how desperate you sound just for a kiss.

“Gotta give my girl what she needs.” Your brain gets stuck on the words ‘my girl’ taking you a minute to realize he was finally giving you what you want.

It’s slower than outside, he’s taking his time with you this time. Untangling his fingers from yours, his hand comes up to wrap around the side of your neck. The water feels good on your skin as the pad of his thumb starts rubbing soft lines under your jaw while his tongue swipes at your bottom lip looking for more. You don’t give into his advances on purpose, keeping your mouth closed to get him back for all his teasing you feel his smile grow against your own.

Expecting him to stop and surrender, he only doubles down. Catching your top lip with his bottom, he pulls away just enough for you to open your eyes. God, you wished you kept them closed. The brightness from outside had turned them into nothing but black leaving no trace of the specks of brown from before. The knowledge that he was just as affected by all of this as you sends you reeling. Toes curling inside your sneakers.

“Whining over here for me to give you what you want, and here I am baby, and you’re playing hard to get.” Nipping at your bottom lip he meets your heavy lidded gaze again, “Gonna let me give you what you want?”

He barely lets you finish nodding before he’s on you, the hunger from outside coming back as he leans over the bar to deepen the kiss like you’d been begging him for. Opening your mouth for him without hesitation when he asks for permission again your tongues meet lazily, exploring each other like you didn’t get a chance to before. Pushing up again eager to get more of him he pulls back leaving you breathless with spit slick lips.

Despite the way his chest heaves trying to catch his breath, he does his best to play it cool, smirking when you have no shame chasing for more.

“I gotta finish closing up.” He gives you one more chaste kiss before he starts wiping the rest of the counter down. 

Jutting out your bottom lip into a pout, he laughs, throwing out a ‘you’ll survive five minutes baby.’

You leave him alone doing your best not to distract him, despite how much your fingers itch to have him close again. Grabbing the money from the register and the receipts for the night he disappears back into what you could only assume was Rick’s office. When he pops back out he looks a little more relaxed.

“Just gotta wipe the bottles down and then I’m getting the prettiest girl the best pancakes in town.” Clapping his hands together with a rub of his palms, he grabs another rag.

You were starting to hate pancakes. Not that you didn’t want them, you just wanted him more.

“Hey Eddie?” Trying to hide your ulterior motives in the sweetness of your voice, his eyes meet yours almost instantly and they narrow just as quick.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Setting the rag down he leans forward with his palms on the bar he gives you his undivided attention. An intimidation tactic. Unable to help yourself, your eyes trace up the ink covering his arms.

“Teach me how to make that drink?” Looking up at him from under your lashes, you see something flash across his face, fingertips digging into the countertop after the question leaves your mouth.

“Wasting Love?” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t call it that now, would you?” Laying it on thick, a slow smile spreads across his face. He saw what you were doing and he was going to fall into your trap willingly.

“Why don’t you come back here then, we’ll make our own.” His voice comes out low, his pupils taking over all the brown, pretty white teeth baring themselves at you.

His gaze is predatory when he watches you jump from the stool, the exaggerated sway of your hips keeps his eyes trained on the curve of your waist as you make your way into his space for the first time all night. Leaning against the back counter, his legs are spread wide leaving little to the imagination on how worked up you had him. His eyebrows raise when he sees the automatic press of your thighs at the sight. It wasn’t fair, you were trying to seduce him, not the other way around. He wasn’t even trying.

As if on cue the jukebox that had been left to play all night clicks, Ginuwine’s Pony pouring out of the speakers as he licks his lips unashamed at the way he’s drinking all of you in like this.

“Gonna teach me how to make something sweet, Eddie?” Trailing a finger along the bar while you close the distance, you drag out the ‘e’ at the end of his name just enough to get him to groan.

His hands grab your waist squeezing just hard enough to feel his strength before using it to pull you flush against him. The material of your dress doing nothing to hide how hard he is pressed into your ass. His lips trace the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath tickling your neck as you push back into him searching for more. The stubble on his face rubs rough against the soft skin of your cheek as he punctuates each word with a roll of his hips.

“The sweetest, baby.” 

You bite back your moan when his nose trails up your neck, his lips just barely grazing the warmth of your flesh before they settle back against your ear. You hold onto the wood of the bar in front of you when he hums low, feeling it deep in your core. His calloused fingers start a path up the bare skin of your thigh hiking up your dress when they catch the hem.

“Tell me,” your eyes close when his nose is pressed to your temple as he speaks, “Do you like cherries, baby?” His tongue catches your earlobe sucking it into his mouth, grazing it between his teeth when he lets it back out.

Your knees almost buckle at how good everything feels, the slow rock of his hips never stopping as he plucks at the lace trim of your underwear. 

“Y- yeah, I love cherries,” you whimper when his palms lay flat on the outside of your thighs, the cool metal of his rings biting into your skin when he squeezes at the fat working his way back up.

“Of course you do, pretty.” His thumbs hook the sides of your underwear, “You’re just so sweet all the time, huh?” Despite the need for friction, you spread your legs for him wondering if he can hear the way your lips pull apart sticky, arousal coating the inside of your thighs.

He chuckles soft in your ear praising you with a ‘so sweet’ before giving them a tug, letting the red lace fall to the floor. Keeping his hands on your hips, he presses himself against you hard enough to have the heels of your sneakers pick up off the ground. A low ‘fuck’ slipping out from under his breath when you whine a little.

“Red lace? Was Kurt gonna get lucky or was this just a ploy to get me all along, sweetheart?” Your cheeks burn at his question, his low chuckle tickling your ear when he hears you huff out an annoyed breath. “‘Cause if that’s the case all you would’ve had to do is walk through that door on any given night.”

He grinds himself against you one more time, but you can really feel him this time and it makes your legs shake.

“Are we gonna make this drink or do you wanna keep talking about Craig?”  The shake of your voice doesn’t go unnoticed despite trying to be sharp with him but the grip on your waist still tightens at the mention of the other man’s name

“Sure we can, if that’s really what you wanna do.” His words taunt you but with one hand holding you against him the other flips a clean cocktail glass onto the bar top with ease, like he wasn’t rock hard digging into your back.

Reaching around, his hand trails up the front of your thigh sending goosebumps across your heated skin. A shiver runs down your spine when he dares to dip between your legs inching his way towards where you want him most.

“We better not mix liquors so why don’t you be a good girl and grab the whiskey for me.” His lips brush against your ear with every word, his hand never faltering on their path even when his fingertips meet your slick folds. Feather light, he traces along your slit, not daring to break the barrier yet. Brain hazy with want you don’t even comprehend what bottle you reach for, blindly grabbing for whatever was in front of you.

“That is tequila, sweetheart. Tsk, tsk, tsk are you even listening to what I’m saying? Or are you too…” Before he finishes his sentence he pushes his index finger past your entrance, your warm walls wrapping tight around his digit, “…distracted?”

Your head lulls back against his chest, your eyes closing when he pushes two knuckles deeper. Your needy whimper makes him kick up again making you grind your ass against him in response. Licking your lips, you try to collect yourself only chasing for more of his finger once. 

“N-no, I can do it.”  Determined to prove him wrong, you focus just long enough to grab the Jameson bottle, “What’s next?”

He hums in approval while his smile grows against your skin. Deciding to indulge in your stubborn game still, he curves his finger enough just to make you gasp his name.

“Are we keeping this simple, or do you want something a little more—” Adding a second finger, you stretch easily for him now, dripping down his hand, “Complicated?” 

You shudder, a moan slipping past your lips while your grip on the bottle tightens so much you're scared it’ll shatter. Fuck, you gotta keep it …

“S- simple - oh.” His thumb finds your clit applying just enough pressure to have your mouth fall open and your brows to knit together, and just as quick as he’s there, he’s gone. 

Pulling himself free, he tries his best to ignore the way your pussy tries to suck him back in, your body begging him for more. You whimper at the loss, your eyes opening to remind you where you are.

“I’m gonna need both hands to do this, baby.” His fingers shine with your slick when he wiggles them for show, stepping back just enough for you to see the grin on his face but not enough to get out of your personal space. 

Grabbing his wrist, his eyes go dark when he realizes what you’re about to do. Gaze turning half lidded when your mouth opens, huffing out a deep breath when your tongue flattens against the pads of the two fingers that were just buried inside of you. Wrapping your lips around them, your arousal is tangy sweet hitting your taste buds.

Hollowing your cheeks as you suck them clean, you watch the confidence drain from his face, eyes rolling in the back of his head at the sight. The blunt ends of his nails dig through the soft material of your dress and he starts rutting into you with a little more force when you slide your tongue between each knuckle.

“Jesus christ,” his voice is strangled, words coming out through gritted teeth when you let him go with a loud pop.

“Now you can use both hands,” you say innocently, like you didn’t just suck them clean. You let his fingers tug at your bottom lip before dropping his wrist.

He fists a handful of your dress, a low growl rumbling from his chest getting a taste of his own medicine. Licking his lips, his eyes narrow at you before his teeth start to show, mischievous in the low light.

“Well if we want this drink cold, we need to fill this shaker with ice.” Just like the glass, he flips it on the counter one hand never leaving your waist despite his claim. 

Pressing his lips to your ear again, he makes sure to let his breath linger a little before he talks, enjoying the goosebumps that appear from such a simple touch.

“Fill it up for me, baby?” Your thighs clench at the deep rasp in his voice, both of his hands finding a home spread out on your thighs.

Nodding your head you slide open the silver metal door of the ice chest below you, bending over more than you needed to to scoop it up into the shaker. He groans loud when you press into him like this, his fingers making quick work to flip the back of your dress up. 

“Look at you, so fucking messy for me and I’ve barely touched you.” Grabbing a handful of your ass, he ruts into you, the rough denim hitting your clit in a way that has you moaning his name.

He laughs quietly at your neediness flipping your dress back down when you straighten out. Chests heaving in time with the other, neither one of you was ready to back down. Not yet.

“Might need to unzip those pants.” Looking over your shoulder at him you fake a pout, “Feeling a little strained back there handsome.”

Smugness dripping from the smile on your face, he raises his eyebrows at you in a challenge. 

“Since you wanted something simple sweetheart, we just need two more things.” One hand snakes its way back between your legs, squeezing at the inside of your thigh before he lets you go for the first time since you set foot behind the bar.

Craning your neck so you could follow him, you find him bent down grabbing lemon juice from the mini fridge under the shorter back counter. Shutting the door with his foot when he stands up, he throws a wink your way when he grabs the simple syrup.

Setting the bottles in front of you he steals a quick kiss that leaves you wanting more before he grabs the small tub of cherries from the fridge he forgot his first go around.

“Okay, so you’re gonna grab the Jameson, and I want you to pour it out to the count of three for me then cut it off.” He returns to his place behind you, his large hand swallowing yours when it shadows your movements.

Your pour is shaky when he counts low in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair calling you a good girl after each successful addition to the simple concoction.

“Alright, now you’re gonna shake it as hard as you can angel.” His hands squeeze your hips for encouragement.

Doing as he says he pulls you against him even harder when your arms start to go wild. Your chest bounces with each movement making you giggle and you almost don’t hear the hitch in his breath at the sight. 

He helps you by putting the strainer over the rim of the glass when you’re ready to pour. Mumbling soft words of praise while he nibbles at your ear lobe. The drink is much lighter than the one you had all night, the dark orange turning lemon as the white foam fizzed on top.

“I think I could take your job.” You smirk reaching for the cherries to top it all off. 

“You think you could take my job?” He snorts incredulous, watching you unwrap the plastic wrap from the small tub dropping three cherries into the already very sweet cocktail.

“Absolutely.” Grinning while ignoring his stare you reach for another cherry, “No doubt in my mind.” You grab the fruit between your teeth, finally meeting his eyes as you pull the stem, relishing in the burst of sugar and grenadine that erupts against your tongue.

“Tough luck princess, unless you know how to tie that cherry stem in a knot with your teeth, no bar in this town is gonna touch you.” Grabbing his own cherry, he dangles it in front of your frowning mouth for you to bite. Obliging him with it bumps your bottom lip you tug gently, taking the fruit before chewing slowly while he sucks the stem once before it disappears in his mouth.

“I’m calling your bluff now. No one knows how to actually do that.” Daring him to prove you wrong he mutters a ‘watch me’ between his working teeth.

You don’t lose focus on the way his hand on your waist starts to wander, the blunt ends of his nails scratching against the fat of your thigh while his tongue ties the stem like it’s easy. Jaw flexing with each twist of his tongue before he pushes it out to show you, a pleased look on his face when the small knot in the middle comes out perfectly placed. 

Swiping it off his tongue with the fingers that were inside you minutes ago, you wonder if he can still taste you when he sets it next to your drink satisfied by the way your jaw drops.

“How do you think I got this job? I’m more than just a cute face.” The touch of his hands grows bolder when they start working their way up your dress, a thickness in the air that wasn’t there before filling your lungs.

“That’s quite the skill set you have there Mr. Munson,” your giggle is breathless, your eyes going from his down to his lips as you try to play it off.  

“I can do more than that with my tongue sweetheart, if you wanna find out.” His nose nudges against yours, the smirk on his face making you sweat when his fingers trace up your wet folds again.

Surrendering instantly, you forget all about the drink the two of you made nodding without hesitation the desperation for him all night finally taking over.

“Yeah?” His voice breaks when his thick fingers push into your entrance again feeling just how worked up all his teasing had you.

“Please - Eddie,” the pad of his thumb finds your clit again making you beg, “Fuck.”

“Asking me so sweet, how could I say no to you?” Murmuring against your lips, he finally gives in and kisses you. Wet and sloppy he only does it long enough to take your breath away before dropping to his knees.

His big hands on your hips angle you to face forward, flipping your dress up over your ass again. The air of the bar is still hot against your folds, arousal dripping down your thighs, you’re fully exposed to him now. You hear him suck the skin of his teeth at the sight, a ringed hand coming down just hard enough on your right cheek to make it jiggle before both hands palm the fat.

“I can’t believe you were gonna let anybody else but me have this pussy. Should be a punishable offense.” Pulling your cheeks apart to expose more of you to his hungry eyes, he pushes at the small of your back signaling for you to bend over more for him.

He moans loud enough to make you jump when you listen to his command, even you can hear the sound of your lips pulling apart for him. 

“All this for me, baby, fuck, you spoil me.” He wastes no time burying his face between your folds, his talented tongue collecting your juices before finding your clit. The rough hair on his chin rubbing your sensitive skin raw as he shakes his head from side to side. 

Squeezing your ass to pull you closer to his face when you try to run away, he sucks your bundle of nerves harder when he gets you back to where he wants you, dipping his nose into your entrance every time.

He does the motions he would do when he ties the cherry stem into a knot against your clit, a strangled moan ripping from your throat when he does it again.

Your hands find purchase on the top of the bar, eyes closed tight while you see white behind your lids. Your nails dig into the wood when his tongue flattens, the lewd squelching of your arousal filling your ears when he pushes his face so deep between your legs you aren’t sure if he can even breathe. The moan that rumbles through his chest and vibrates to your core tells you he doesn’t care. Wrapping his lips tight around your clit he sucks even harder, not caring when your legs start to shake from overstimulation. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna - fuck!” His name comes out long and drawn out when you fall apart on his tongue. Relentless, his teasing never stops, his hands holding you up while your body starts to shake. Humming low in satisfaction against your cunt.

“I n- need, I need…” willing your eyes to open, your vision’s blurry from how hard he made you cum. Pulling away with a loud smack of his lips, he palms your ass cheeks before craning his neck to try and get a good look at you.

“What do you need, baby?” He nips at the curve of your right cheek before pressing his face to it, dazed from getting what he’s wanted all night completely content.

“I just, I just need you to fuck me,” you don’t recognize the choke in your voice when you whine for him. Whine for more.

“Jesus christ.” His words tickle against your skin when he groans, kneading the soft flesh of your ass one more time before standing up. 

His hands are on your hips before you can fully register the change in position, spinning you around and lifting you up he sets you on top of the counter behind the bar. The one where drinks aren’t served and the one that’s low enough for Eddie to slot himself perfectly between your legs. 

Eyes blown black while his beard and nose ring shine with your slick, his lips part - swollen and pink from pulling your first orgasm out of you. Bangs clinging to his forehead, his hair is a wild mess on top of his head from your hands. The confident air about him is gone, replaced with nothing but the need to have you. Snapping out of your daze, you’re quick to find the metal of his belt buckle.

His forehead presses to yours, while he watches the way your dainty fingers work the leather out through the loop. The white tips of your nails catch his eye when you undo the button of his jeans and his cock twitches at the thought of them pumping him for all he’s worth.

He hisses when you push the denim down his hips, his hard dick springing out to smack against his shirt that you immediately wish wasn’t there. Precum leaks from the angry looking pink tip while your hands fist the hem of the worn cotton, silently begging him to get rid of it. The big vein that follows the curve of his length makes your mouth water as he obliges your pleas, ripping his shirt off and throwing it somewhere you’d have to find later. 

You’re able to really take all of him in like this, his chest is heaving covered with just as many tattoos as the rest of him, the silver chain you’d peeped earlier hanging right in the dip between his pecs. Your eyes follow the dark patch of hair that leads to his cock, long with the kind of girth that you know is going to be a stretch, a strangled whine bubbles out of you at the sight while your thighs spread begging for him.

“God, I want you so bad,” you whine wrapping your legs around his waist, you pull him even closer giving into your animalistic instincts. 

“I know baby, me fuckin’ too.” He pumps his cock a few times groaning loud, squeezing hard at the base before pressing the head between your dripping lips. Mesmerized at how they wrap around his tip, his precum mixes messy with your arousal making lewd noises as he sweeps it through your folds.

Body shaking every time he hits your clit, you finally hook your ankles growing impatient when he teases your entrance.

“Fuck. Me.” You get out through gritted teeth, the lopsided grin he’d been giving you all night turns cocky when he pushes the tip in, your head lulls back at the invasion, the silk of your walls desperate to start sucking him deeper.

“Not so sweet now are you, huh?” Pushing himself all the way in, his rough thatch of pubic hair hits your clit when he bottoms out. His confidence falters for a second when a deep moan rips through his chest at the feeling. “So fuckin’ tight baby - shit.”

Your nails dig half crescent moons into his inked skin while you adjust to his size, his nose skimming against your cheek while he whispers how good you take him when your walls start to milk him, your body letting him know it was okay to finally move.

“Feel so good, Eddie, fuck - so good.” Your hips start a slow rock, feeling every ridge and curve of him. Your dress sits rucked up at your waist giving a perfect view of the way you take him, and it’s even better than what his imagination had come up with all night. 

He lets you use him for a minute, big hands resting on your waist — content with just watching the way you coat his cock with everything you have left over for him from the first time he made you cum. 

“That feels good, huh?” Cooing at the way your brows knit together and your mouth falls open, he picks up the pace, taking control. 

Pulling you all the way to the edge, his strokes get deeper, the tip of him hitting the spot that you know Craig would have never found. He pulls his cock out half way, relishing how your velvet walls try to keep him in place, he holds his composure before pushing back in, filling you to the brim. Addicted to the way it makes you gasp his name and arch your back, your body asks him for more when you’re too cock drunk to get the words out.

The straps of your dress start slipping down your shoulders with every thrust, your breasts bouncing just begging for his attention. His cock twitches inside you, it's almost too much. Greedy for more despite fighting the urge to cum, he tugs the front of your dress down to reveal a matching bra to the panties on the floor. Hips stuttering for a moment he growls at the reminder of your date before tugging the lace down, your nipple pebbling instantly for him before he takes it in the heat of his mouth. 

Pushing yourself closer, needing more, your hands find their way to bury themselves in his curls, holding him close. You needed him close. His tongue flicks at your sensitive bud and it makes you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Your hips finding a way to match his strokes, reigniting the flames deep in your gut. God, he was gonna make you cum again.

He grunts around your breast, spit dripping down your soft skin from his ministrations while the snap of his hips start to get harsher and you know he’s nearing his end. He lets your nipple go with a loud pop before his hand comes up to grip your chin, his lips finding yours in a frantic mess of teeth and battling tongues.

The wood creaks underneath you from the force of his thrusts and the bounce of your ass to meet them. Mouths tangled, you swallow each other's ragged breaths, both of you desperately searching for your end when his fingers find your clit. Rubbing circles with just enough pressure to have your body start to shake against his, he nips at your bottom lip grunting when he feels the way it makes you flutter around him.

“Come on baby, give me another one. Be my sweet girl again and tell me how good I make you cum.” His fingers slip against your clit, fingers wet from how worked up he had you but his words are enough to have your world stop for a second.

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Ed-“ Going blind behind your closed eyes he coaxes your second orgasm out of you with a silent scream falling onto his turned up lips. Proud of his work, his hips start picking up their pace inching closer to his own release he’d been fighting off since going down on you. 

“God, - fuck I’m close - where d-do you-?” Sweat drips down his forehead while he struggles to find his words, his impending orgasm making him short circuit.

“Inside, shit - please, I need it, Eddie.” Still needy and barely coming down, your legs around his waist tighten their hold, locking him in place while you use the last of your strength to help get him there. 

“Whatever you’re doing - holy shit , Jesus - I’m cumming, I’m cumming.” His hips press hard against yours when his cock twitches, spilling warm inside your greedy walls that don’t stop asking him for more. His face hides in your neck, the heat of his breath fanning against your sweat kissed skin while his body shakes with his release.

The roll of your hips never stops, just slowing enough to make him shiver after he starts softening, spent inside of you. You know there’s a mess starting to drip but neither one of you has the energy to move just yet. His lips start leaving small kisses along your neck, nose nudging against the space behind your ear and you can feel his smile against your cheek before he finally lifts his head up. The brown in his eyes return to a warm auburn like before when they meet yours.

“Rick is gonna fucking kill me if he ever finds out what happened on this counter tonight.” Rolling your eyes, you snort at his joke before shoving against his chest.

“You’re telling me you don’t fuck all your cute customers behind the bar, Eddie?” Batting your lashes at him, he squeezes your hips with a smirk. 

“Only, the really, really cute ones. I take them to get pancakes at IHOP around the corner, too.” Something shifts in his eyes and you think for a second you might see self doubt in them for the first time all night, “That is, if they still want to.”

“Well lucky for you, I only let bartender’s from The Foxy Lounge take me out.” Nudging your nose against his, your smile touches his lips.

“Sweetheart, you know I’m the only bartender here right?” Grinning like someone who just won the lottery, he quickly gets rid of the space between you, kissing you like it too.

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[theobsessivesideblog]

Hot DAMN, makin me fall in love with Eddie Munson all over again

[megxplryxb]

Tainted Love

Pairings: Steve x fem!reader

Disclaimer: Gif is not mine.

Warnings: friends to complicated to lovers, jealousy, angst, fluff, smut (a little bit of everything, really)

The smell of alcohol, cigarettes and guys that were wearing far too much aftershave, lingered in the air as you walked through the halls of Steve Harrington’s house. Floors already sticky with spilled beverages and the downstairs bathroom currently being occupied by people who sounded like they were definitely doing more than just making out.

You were late to the party, getting stuck with the evening shift at your new job at a bar downtown, having decided to leave Family Video a few weeks prior. The last thing you wanted to do tonight was party and the last place you really wanted to be was at Steve’s but it was Eddie’s birthday and you couldn’t let your friend down, making you promise not to bail on him when he met you for lunch earlier in the week. Your friends had all noticed the distance you’d put between yourself and them in recent weeks, Eddie questioning you about it more than the rest, not buying your bullshit about being busy all the time. He was right, it was bullshit but at the moment it was better for you not to be around.

Your heart was racing, stomach in knots, as you held on to the bannister making your way up stairs to a vacant bathroom to change in to your outfit for the night ahead, successfully managing to avoid your friends until you looked some bit presentable. Your body immediately tensing as you walked by Steve’s bedroom, flashbacks to the secret night of passion you had shared with him a little over a month ago after a heated argument about his decision to get back together with Nancy Wheeler having spent almost three years apart. You weren’t sure why you were so angry, maybe you should have just pretended to been happy for him but after Nancy broke his heart in the past, leaving you to pick up the pieces, it was hard not to feel a little pissed off.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Steve pleaded as you looked at him in utter disbelief. You'd driven straight to his house after work to confront him when Robin had told you that Steve and Nancy were giving their relationship another go now that she and Jonathan had officially broken up.

“Do you really want me to go there Steve? She broke your fucking heart and I don’t want to watch that happen again.” You defended, arms folded defiantly as he sat on the side of his bed, a hand through his hair, frustrated at your lack of enthusiasm.

“I think It’ll be different this time. We’re older now.” He muttered, not seeming all that certain of his own words.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” You asked as your friend shot you a hurtful look.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Steve raised an eye brow, standing up to face you while you held your ground.

“You’re not that stupid, Harrington, you know exactly what I mean. Don’t get pissy at me for saying you’re making a huge mistake when you’re not even sure getting back with her is a smart idea.” You stated. Steve's eye widened, an irritated look on his face.

“I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to...” And he didn't. Because you knew him better than anyone, sensing his hesitation a mile away.

“You just never liked Nance that’s what this is about.” Steve huffed, shaking his head, turning away from you as you grabbed his arm, pulling him back to face you.

“No I don’t like her, I’ve never liked her. I hate what she put you through and I hate her for treating you like shit and I think you deserve better than Nancy fucking Wheeler but this isn’t about how I feel, is it Steve? This is about you not being totally sure Nancy is what you really want, because if you were so damn sure that she was the one, you wouldn’t care about anyone else’s opinion!" You fought back, your tone a little more intense than you'd intended but Steve was close now, jaw clenched, frustration building inside of him at your stubbornness to accept his decision.

“I don't fucking care about anyone’s opinion!" He yelled as you rolled your eyes, scoffing slightly.

"Oh really? So why'd I have to hear about it from Robin instead of you?" You challenged.

"Because I knew you'd act this way! Christ, you're my best friend, I should be able to tell you anything!"

"Well I'm sorry for being the only one with enough balls to tell you you're being a fucking idiot, Steve! Go ahead, by all means, go back to playing the perfect happy couple you were three years ago but when it all goes to shit because I know it will, don't come knocking on my door because I'm not going through this with you again!" You cried.

"You're acting like such a fucking brat!" Steve stated as you pushed past him, not wanting to argue with him anymore.

"Bite me, Harrington." You spat, opening his bedroom door to leave, having it immediately shut by Steve again, finding yourself trapped between his strong arms.

"You're driving me fucking crazy!" He breathed, face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin.

"Then let me go!" You argued, trying to push his arms away from the door as you locked eyes with him. "Is that what you really want? Cause I don't think it is." He whispered, removing one hand from the door to lift your chin.

"Steve..." You whimpered pathetically, feeling a sudden ache between your legs as he licked his lips, smirking at the change in your demeanour. The feeling of anger between you being replaced by something far more intense.

"What do you want, huh? Tell me?" He begged, his own pants tightening, watching you bite on your bottom lip nervously.

"Please sweetheart, I need to hear it."

"I want you."

"What do want from me?" He whispered in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine as he gazed at you, lust filling his eyes that you'd never seen before. You paused for a brief moment, contemplating how to respond to your best friend, knowing the dangerous line you were about to cross. It's not as if you hadn't thought about Steve in a sexual way before, fuck, you'd be lying if you said you hadn't gotten yourself off thinking about him a couple of times before. He was fucking gorgeous after all and you were only human. You knew it was a bad idea, knew what the repercussions would be but it was hard to care with the way Steve was looking at you, pushing his body against yours as his erection pressed in to your stomach.

Fuck it.

"I want you to fuck me." You declared with such confidence and assertion that you swore you heard a growl escape Steve's throat before his lips crashed on to yours.

It was an embrace full of passion, anger, frustration and urgency as Steve pushed you against the door, grabbing your hands, placing them over your head as he devoured your lips and neck. Biting at your exposed skin, carelessly leaving marks as you moaned in both pain and pure bliss, tugging at Steve's hair, letting him know you wanted more.

"Holy shit." He muttered in to your neck.

The weight of his body against yours felt so right, your movements so in sync, as if you'd done this a million times before but this feeling was so new, so addictive already and he wasn’t even inside of you yet. Clothes being torn off backs, falling to the floor, buttons being undone, belts unbuckled, gasping for air in between wet kisses, afraid the other would disappear if you separated for too long. Once you were down to your bra and panties, you felt Steve's hands grab the meat of your ass, pulling you closer to to him, lifting you with ease, instructing you to wrap your legs around his back as he carried you to his bed. He pushed you in to the mattress, falling on top of you, tossing your underwear over his shoulder, kissing you again, leaning his forehead on yours as he settled himself between your legs. Reaching over to the drawer in his night stand, shuffling a little before finding the square plastic foil, ripping it open with his mouth, glancing at you for permission before he took the condom from the wrapper.

“Are- fuck, are you sure this is…are you sure you want to do this?” He asked his voice husky with desire as he looked down at you, watching your fingers sneak between the band of his boxers, pulling them down, to spring his cock free. You couldn’t help but slightly giggle at your friend, ever the perfect gentleman.

“Steve…please, just fuck me.” You begged, cupping his face gently as he happily nodded, sliding the condom on to his hard cock. Finally, entering you, his dick filling you up with such force that you dug your nails in to his back. It certainly wasn’t your first time having sex, but with how big Steve was, it definitely felt like it was.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He groaned, throwing his head back with the sheer pleasure he was receiving from being inside you.

The night was a mixture of raw sex and gentle love making. It was slow and romantic, it was fast and fiery and it wasn’t until you woke up naked in Steve’s arms the next morning, legs still tangled, that you remembered what had led you to end up in his bed in the first place.

Nancy Wheeler.

You felt a wave of guilt wash over you, looking at Steve who was still fast asleep, marks on his back and neck, condoms on his bedside table and your clothes scattered in every part of the room. You slid out of his grasp, although somewhat unwillingly, trying to find pieces of your clothing, praying you hadn’t left anything behind, quietly leaving Steve’s room once you were satisfied you had enough on to make your escape with whatever dignity you had left.

Once you got back to your car, realisation hit that not only had you fucked your best friend for the first time but you had fucked your best friend while he was in a relationship.

That was the last time you had been in Steve’s house. It was also the last time you had spoken to Steve, feeling too embarrassed to be around him after what happened between you and the fact that he remained with Nancy after you slept together, told you it hadn’t meant anything to him and that hurt more than you ever wanted it to. So, you found a new job, worked your notice and left without saying goodbye to him, swearing Robin to secrecy about your departure until you were gone.

Now here you were, weeks later, standing in front of a bathroom mirror, applying your make up and throwing your new dress on across from the room he had fucked you senseless in weeks prior because although you weren’t ready to see him, a little part of you wanted to show Steve Harrington exactly what he had been missing.

The walls were vibrating from the sound of loud music as you walked back down the stairs. The smell of weed instantly hitting you as you reached the bottom step, making you dizzy. It was Eddie’s birthday after all, most of his friends were total stoners, so it didn’t necessarily surprise you when the scent hit your nostrils. Your stomach filled with nervous butterflies as you approached the kitchen, hearing Robin and Eddie’s voices before you could see them, pushing your way through the crowd of people to get to the birthday boy.

“There’s my girl!” Eddie squealed with excitement, running towards you, picking you up with ease and tossing you over his shoulder, spinning you around. You were certain people could see straight up with your dress with the way he was handling you.

“Eddie, put me down!” You giggled as he conceded, hugging you tightly, handing you a drink.

“Sorry, I’m just so happy you made it. I, for sure thought you were gonna ditch me.” He teased.

“I’m a woman of my word, Munson. I told you I’d be here, besides someone has to be your wing woman now that Robin’s all loved up with Vickie.” You joked, making him laugh out loud.

“Honestly, I’m really glad you’re here.” He confessed, wrapping himself around you again. “Happy Birthday, you beautiful man.”

“Thank you pretty lady.” He said, kissing your cheek, arm still draped around your shoulder as Robin ran towards you, squeezing you tight. "Oh my god, you're finally hereeee!" She slurred, leaning her head on your shoulder.

"I sure am, you feeling ok Robs?" You asked, rubbing her head. "Think I'm a little bit drunk." She frowned as Eddie handed her a water.

"Just a little?" You chuckled as she stuck her tongue out, slurping down the water. "Where's Vickie?" You questioned as she rolled her eyes, huffing. "Babysitting her bratty little cousins."

"Aww, do you miss her?" You teased. "N-Not as much as I m-miss you in work, sucks since you left. Steve's been in s-such a shitty mood lately." She revealed as you shifted uncomfortably, not going unnoticed by Eddie.

"I miss you too." You confessed.

"HEY DINGUS LOOK WHO'S HERE!" Robin yelled, almost deafening you as Steve emerged from the living room with Nancy by his side, eyes widening, immediately locking with yours.

"Hey, stranger." He smiled, unsure whether to embrace you or not. Nancy, making his decision for him as she intertwined her fingers with his, keeping him in place, barely looking at you.

"Hey." You smiled back, taking a sip of your drink.

"How've you, uh been?" He asked, your fingers pulling your hair behind your ear. "Yeah, I've been good. You?"

"Yeah, me too-"

"Oh god I'm gonna puke!" Robin gawked, putting a hand over her mouth, running towards the bathroom. You'd never been more thankful for how lousy Robin was at handling her drink, giving you a reason to bail on the awkward conversation with Steve. "I better go, hold her hair." You said, turning on your heels, following your friend to the toilet.

An hour had passed and you'd finally managed to convince Robin to crash in one of the upstairs bedrooms, clearly having drank way too much. Once you had made sure she was comfortable, placing a bucket beside her, you made your way back down to join the party again.

"She ok?" Steve muttered, leaning against the living room door frame, as if he was waiting for you.

"Yeah, she's fine. Unconscious in your spare room, I hope that's alright?"

"Of course it is, like you even have to ask." He reassured, eyes never leaving yours as a silence fell between you again.

"Hey, do you think we could-" Steve began to speak, being interrupted by Nancy, who wrapped herself around him. Steve clearly annoyed by her presence as you walked away to get another drink. Your heart hurt seeing them together, finding it hard to breathe with the pain in your chest mixed with anger and guilt. Nancy was his girlfriend, not you. She’d done nothing wrong. It was you who had fucked her boyfriend, so why did it feel like he was betraying you?

"So you and Harrington huh? When did that happen?" Eddie whispered, sneaking up behind you, almost causing you to spill your drink.

"Fuck, Eddie. You scared the shit out of me." You said, lightly shoving him away as he laughed.

"Don't try change the subject, beautiful. Tell me whats going on?" He pleaded, no force in his voice, just concern.

"Are you high?" You quizzed as he shook his head. "Nope, not even a little. So don't try telling me I'm seeing things cause I cut could the tension between you two with a knife."

"I don't know what you're talking about." You said, refusing to meet his glance, instead downing your drink and grabbing another.

"No? Cause he's been looking at you like a love sick puppy since you walked in to this place, hasn't been able to keep his pretty brown eyes off of you." He grinned as you shook your head. "Yeah, sure." You scoffed sarcastically.

"So how long have you been sleepin' with him?" He quizzed as you shot him a look that said, shut up and be quiet.

"I'm not sleeping with him!" You asserted as he gave you an unconvinced look. Eddie wasn’t stupid and you were a shitty liar. You sighed heavily in defeat, knowing he didn't believe you. "Christ, ok, yes, I slept with him. But it only happened once- weeks ago and it meant nothing, it was a total mistake." You explained as Eddie placed a hand over his mouth, hanging on to your every word.

"Shit, so that's why you left the video store. Does anyone else know?" He questioned.

"Nope."

"Was he back with Wheeler when it happened?"

"Yep." You said, guilt hitting you again.

"You naughty girl! Was he good? How big was he?" He laughed as you pushed him away playfully.

"It's not funny Eddie, I feel like a fucking slut." You admitted, hands covering your face.

"Hey, why are you being so hard on yourself? We all know he doesn't love her, you're the girl he's supposed to be with. Everyone knows that." Eddie stated as you laughed hysterically.

"Yeah, right. Steve doesn't feel that way."

"Want me to prove it?" He smirked, an evil grin on his face.

"How?" You challenged.

"m'gonna kiss you obviously." He shrugged.

"You're joking right?"

"Hey, it's my birthday! You can't say no to me on my birthday! Actually, that sounds creepy, I would never force you to kiss me but come on, let me prove my point!" He pouted as you laughed at his puppy dog eyes, giving in to his request as he smirked excitedly, trying to think of the perfect opportunity.

A half an hour later, everyone gathered around the kitchen to sing "Happy Birthday" to Eddie as Gareth and Jeff presented him with a stack of "special brownies" candles stuck in the baked goods. Eddie wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as Steve watched you from the other side of the room.

"Get ready pretty lady, he's gonna freak the fuck out and don't forget to make it convincing." Eddie whispered, before blowing out his candles, turning in such a way that he could see Steve's reaction.

"Happy birthday you idiot." You muttered, as he cupped your face, lips pressing lightly against your own as you wrapped an arm around his neck. Whistles and cat calls echoing all around the room as Eddie slid his tongue in to your mouth. His eyes opening a little to see Steve gritting his teeth, staring straight at you, looking like he was about to blow a fuse. You broke the kiss as Eddie howled with excitement as his friends cheered him on, watching Steve down the last of his beer, a hurt expression on his face as he walked off leaving Nancy confused and alone. "Told ya." Eddie winked as you continued to celebrate with your friend, trying to keep your mind off of Steve.

A little while later, you decided to check in on Robin, noticing she hadn't reappeared at the party. Seeing she was still fast asleep, snoring her brains out in the same position you had left her in, you shut the door again, leaving her in peace.

"Screw you Steve!" Nancy shouted, emerging from Steve's room, visibly upset and angry as she stomped back downstairs, slamming the front door. You bit your lip, knowing you should have returned to the party but your legs were already walking towards his bedroom, knocking on his door as he sat on his bed, hands holding his head.

"Nance, I told you to- oh, sorry, I thought-"

"It's ok, it's just me." You interrupted, shutting the door behind you.

"Just you." He muttered. "Munson not with you?" He questioned, a little hint of bitterness in his voice.

"No, why would he be? I came up to check on Robin." You explained but you knew he wasn't even listening. "Steve, are you ok?" You asked as he shrugged.

"Well, m'pretty sure Nancy hates me, not that I blame her or anything and the girl I thought has been my best friend since we were little kids has been acting like a complete stranger around me for the better part of a month, so yeah m'doing fucking great." He said sarcastically as you lowered your head.

"Steve...I-"

"Did I really mean so little to you that you just left without saying goodbye?" He asked as you frowned.

"It wasn't like that." You assured.

"Which time, exactly? The time you quit the video store without telling me or the time we slept together and you bailed before I even woke up?" He questioned as your cheeks began to flush. You weren't sure if either of you was ever going to bring that up but Steve have just thrown it out on the table without warning.

"What do you want me to say?" You asked, seeing the pain in his eyes.

"I want you to tell me what's going on with you? I want you tell me why you're running away from me-" He said, standing up to meet your gaze.

"m'not running away from you."

"Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?" He breathed, cupping your face as you rested your hands on his arms.

"m'not yours to lose, Steve." You whispered, as his hands fell back to his sides.

"So, you're Munson's girl now?" Steve asked as you shrugged your shoulders. "That was just Eddie being an idiot. You should go after Nancy, she looked really upset?" You said changing the subject Steve letting out a sarcastic laugh, sitting back down on the bed again. "m'the last person she wants to see right now."

"What happened?" You said, taking a seat beside him.

"She asked some questions that she didn't really like the answers to." Steve sighed heavily.

"What kind of questions?" You swallowed as he shrugged.

"I guess, she noticed that I hadn't exactly been myself the last couple of weeks since you got a new job, then she said she saw the look on my face when Eddie kissed you earlier and then she asked me if I had feelings for you..."

"You obviously told her no, right?" You assumed as he shook his head.

"Not exactly."

"Why not?" You asked, your stomach in knots again.

"Cause it would've been a lie." He admitted as you locked eyes with him.

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

"Steve, you don't know what you're saying. I'm sure Nancy-" You stood up, being interrupted by your friend "This isn't about Nancy and you know it! This about me and you and how we feel about each other. It was over between me and Nancy the minute I kissed you!"

"But it wasn't over was it, Steve? Cause you stayed with her even after you fucked me!" You shouted, pushing him away from you.

"Because you fucking left me!" He yelled, grabbing you but not hurting you, pain in his eyes as you began to cry. "I was ready to tell Nancy it was over the night we slept together because I finally knew what I wanted! Then I wake up the next morning and you're not there, I go to work and you're fucking gone!"

"I was scared Steve!"

"Of what?"

"Of you, waking up and realising what happened between us was a mistake! I wasn't ready for you to pick her over me. I couldn't stand the thought of working with you, knowing that I would have to listen to you talk about her, see you with her- so, I slipped out of your bed and gave my notice to Keith because what I felt for you had gone way past friendship and it fucking terrified me!" You admitted, tears streaming down your face. Steve immediately moving to comfort you but again you shoved him back. "No! Don't touch me!" You cried, as Steve grabbed your arms, trying your best to fight out of his grip but he was too strong. Easily overpowering you, backing you in to the wall trying to calm you down.

"Baby, stop! Stop pushing me away, please." He begged, cupping your face, pleading with you to look at him.

"Why, Steve?"

"Because I'm falling in love with you, that's why!" He confessed as you froze.

"If you want to carry on pretending you don't feel the same about me then go ahead, go back downstairs and make out with Munson some more or you can finally be honest with yourself and stop running from me. Cause I know exactly what I want now and it's you. It's always been you and it's always going to be you and yeah it's scary, believe me I'm scared too but I'm here and I'm all in on this, on us. So, it's your choice, what's it gonna be?" Steve asked, walking towards his door, opening it for you to make your decision.

You chewed on your lip, slowly walking towards the door, Steve keeping his eyes on the ground, knowing the risk he had just taken by giving you an ultimatum. You held the door knob, standing in the doorway as Steve hung his head, waiting for you to walk out on him for the third time in several weeks. Your heart was pounding, lips tugged to one side as all the scenarios rushed through your mind at once. What if it didn’t work? What if it was a mistake? What if you lost him for good? There were so many questions you didn’t know the answers to but what you did know for certain was that you loved the boy in front of you with all of your heart and right now, that’s all that really mattered.

"You better not break my damn heart, Steve Harrington, because I'm so fucking in love with you." You whispered, not even managing to close the door before Steve had lifted you off of the ground, crashing his lips on to yours as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, never wanting to let him go.

"Man, I love it when a plan comes together!" Eddie squealed excitedly, peeking in to Steve's room, seeing you in a passionate embrace. "So who's the better kisser?" Eddie teased, running when he noticed the glare on Steve's face before you broke in to fits of laughter, closing the door to pick up where you had left off.

[clints-lucky-arrow-deactivated]

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x F!Reader.

After working a long day at the Hard Deck, a special visitor arrives just before close. The San Diego heat isn’t the only thing that soon gets you hot under the collar.

Explicit Sexual Content. Post-Beach Scene. Minimal TGM Spoilers.

Warnings Listed on Each Individual Piece.

🎵 SPOTIFY PLAYLIST 🎵

🛩️ PART OF THE F&F UNIVERSE 🪂

Keep reading

[theobsessivesideblog]

Hot damn. Kill me now. That is all.

[fairyysoup]

the empress (I)

MY MASTERLIST | PART TWO

this fic is inspired by the Empress card of the Major Arcana of the Tarot

pairing(s): helmut zemo x reader

summary: So You're Babysitting Your Ex's Pet Villain: How to Demoralize Yourself in 8 Easy Steps

words: 7,104

warnings: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), the smut is in the next part and this is just the buildup so the rating is in fact accurate, past!bucky/reader, reverse beauty and the beast vibes, zemo interacting with animals o'clock, zemo is also scared of snakes, yearning, femdom, dom!reader, sub!zemo, margaret atwood references, bucky barnes is a jealous ex and zemo is the smug knife cat meme, and if you ask me if this was partially inspired by clue (1985) i will tell you no but we all know the truth

additional notes: yes this is a smutty work that I indeed had to cut in half because apparently tumblr doesn't vibe with 12k+ word porn with plots. I am posting part two exactly as the same time as this, because this was posted on AO3 as a single chapter piece in its original format.

taglist blog: @rosemareblogs

“Hers is the wisdom of nature, which understands that all things move in cycles and ripen at the appropriate time.” -Juliet Sharman-Burke, The Mythic Tarot

.I.

“We’re still friends, right?”

You stare down at your phone on the kitchen counter, coffee poised in the air, your brow furrowed so tightly that it nearly hurts. Bucky Barnes’ contact name glares up at you, the time stamp for the phone call reading a solid ten seconds.

“Bucky, you’ve had your head between my thighs. ‘Friends’ is not the term I’d use.”

Bucky audibly clears his throat, and you hear someone shouting something in the background. “So is that a no?”

You sigh as your cat, Artemis, enters the room, mewling pathetically as she hops up onto the counter to investigate your coffee. You give her a nonplussed side eye as you take a sip before she’s able to. “Is there a point to this call, soldier?”

“I need your help.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Well, remember when you said if I ever needed a place to lay low, you had some swanky estate up in the mountains?”

Your eyes instinctively glide to the open kitchen window, where the yellow curtain sways with the gentle, damp breeze blowing in from the misty morning. Fog rolls in across the valley, backlit by the rising sun- a picturesque fairytale landscape known only to you.

It’s been years since you came to possess the estate, and you have yet to allow anyone other than the groundskeeper to see it. You’d told Bucky about it once, back when you first acquired it; when you were sure you were going to die, and the prospect of dying alone scared you so entirely that you’d dared to imagine Bucky Barnes sharing it with you.

But that was a long time ago. Back before the Blip.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t- I didn’t do anything.”

“Bucky.”

“What is it with people assuming it’s my fault?” Artemis meows loudly at the phone, and Bucky huffs a laugh. “Is that a cat?”

You lift the phone and step away, leaning on the counter just beside the stovetop. “So what’s definitely not your fault?”

Bucky sighs, and the crackle of movement resounds through the speaker. “I may have an acquaintance that needs a place to stay hidden from public view for a while.”

“Breadcrumbs aren’t going to wash with me, Buck.”

“Okay, fine. I… encouraged Zemo to break out of prison and now he’s on the run. I still need his help but I don’t know when I’ll need it, and I don’t trust anyone else to keep a leash on him.”

You can feel your expression wither and droop almost immediately. It’s too fucking early in the morning for this. “Zemo.”

“... Yes.”

“You helped… Zemo.” You’ve never met the man personally or even seen him in real life, but you knew practically everything there was to know about him.

“I know it sounds bad-”

“You helped the man who literally mind controlled you into attacking the Avengers, who killed King T’Chaka, who bombed the U.N…”

“Yes, I know, I get it!” There’s a loud whirring in the background, like the rushing of jet engines. “I don’t like it either, but he’s useful. If I return him to prison there’s no way I’ll be able to get him out again. He’s just... tricky.”

Your jaw sets with an uncomfortable click. “If you think I’d touch him with a ten foot pole-”

“Empress.”

The word sends a chill through you, like ice water poured down your bare back. “I don’t do that super hero shit anymore. You of all people should know that.”

“I’m not asking you to. But you’re more equipped to handle Zemo than just about anyone I know.”

You pound your fist against the counter beside you, because you know deep down that his flattery is working, despite how much you’re reviled by it.

“God damn it- please.”

That makes you smirk. You can hear the desperation in his voice, and you have to wonder if you’re the only option he’s got. “You always did sound so sweet when you begged.”

You hear him scoff. “You gonna help me?”

“When?”

His relieved exhale sounds a little bit too jovial for your liking. “We can be on the way to you immediately, if you send coordinates.”

You lift the phone, opening your messages as a disenchanted look passes over your face. “I hope to god you don’t make me regret this, Barnes.”

“You’re a peach, doll.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“See you soon.”

.II.

It takes 12 hours for Bucky to text you that he and Zemo are on the ground and headed your way.

By the time the doorbell rings, you’ve been seated on the chaise lounge in the entryway for so long that Artemis has fallen asleep on your lap. Her dozing form perks up just before the bell tolls, and she leaps from your legs before you can even straighten yourself out.

The battle to the door is something like a dance; Artemis skirts around your legs as you try to step in front of her before you open the door, where you can see the silhouettes of two people standing just beyond the antique stained glass window. Eventually you curse and scoop her up in one arm just before you throw open the door, and her claw swipes at you in displeasure.

“Dammit, Missy.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you.” You whip your head around to make uncomfortably direct eye contact with Bucky Barnes. His steel blue eyes stare solidly back at you as he smirks at your deer-in-the-headlights expression, muttering your name with a chuckle like he can’t believe he’s saying it after so long. “You said your house was big, but I wasn’t expecting a castle.”

“Tudor revival. How quaint.”

Bucky jams his elbow back into Baron Helmut Zemo’s ribs. Zemo grunts, looking as though he may double over, but he steels himself with a slow hiss through the teeth as his eyes drift with measured disgust to Bucky’s profile. Bucky is still looking at you, as your eyes flicker between the two men standing both awkwardly and ominously in turn on your doorstep.

You hum after a moment, stepping back and away from the door to allow them to enter. “Welcome to my humble home."

Bucky steps tentatively through the doorway, stooping a bit as though he’s trespassing despite the invitation. The Baron, however, stalks through the portico like he’s done so a million times before and shuts the door swiftly behind him, eyeing the squirming animal in your arms.

As soon as you hear the latch click, you open your arms and let Artemis drop to the ground. The cat situates herself and trods off, meowing louder than necessary.

“I apologize for my cat. Artemis likes to scream all day,” you explain as you return your gaze to Bucky, and then to Zemo, where your eyes linger just a little too long on the man’s piercing stare. “She’s in heat.”

“That’s… all right.” Bucky coughs, fascinated with something on the toe of his shoe. “You’re pretty hard to find out here.”

“That’s what you wanted, right?” You don’t wait for a reply before you turn to trail after Artemis down the hallway. You pause halfway down, when you realize the two men haven’t moved. “You gonna stand there in the entryway all day?”

The two men do a little back and forth, bumping against each other to determine who walks first before Bucky roughly shoves Zemo forward by the shoulder of his fur lined coat. You watch the exchange with a touch of incredulity before turning into the kitchen.

“I think you’ll find the house to be quite suitable to your needs,” you rattle on with clinical disinterest that requires almost too much effort to sound convincing. You bristle at the two men’s silent presence over your shoulder as you begin to set a fresh coffee pot on to brew. “We don’t get visitors here. On any given day, it’s just me and the groundskeeper.”

“You mean the mafioso who nearly pulled a gun on us at the gate?” Bucky’s voice holds a hint of humor.

“Valentino means well, he just isn’t used to strangers,” you reply with a cool look over your shoulder at the Baron. “Nor am I, for that matter.”

Zemo, for his part, gives you a curt nod in return, affecting politeness. “Apologies. My name is Helmut Ze-”

“She knows who you are,” Bucky deadpans. The icy glare the two share between them holds something more than just the animosity between old enemies turned grudging allies. You think you might be mistaking it, but the tension resembles something akin to rivalry.

You wonder what Zemo is capable of that’s making the Winter Soldier feel the need to peacock.

A croaking sounds just beyond the open window, breaking you from your analysis of the two men. You step toward the Baron, reaching around him for the refrigerator handle, and he halts in his place. It appears to take him visible effort not to move away, peering down at you with careful stoicism even as you crouch level with his belt, and turn your head slightly towards him while reaching into the back of the fridge. Over your right shoulder, you hear the leather of Bucky’s glove creak in his tightened fist as you draw back holding a tupperware filled with greying meat.

“What the fuck is that?” Bucky startles, bumping into the island as a large black mass eclipses the window before it settles down on the sill in the form of a bird.

“This is Dodie. How are you, darling?” you say as you crack open the tupperware of rotting meat and shove it toward the tittering raven before the odour can assault you. The bird takes to the offering with obvious enthusiasm.

“You named a wild raven ‘Dodie?’” The name is drawn out in the Baron’s delicate accent, sounding somehow more elegant than you could ever dream to make it.

“Yeah, short for Dodecahedron.” The bird squawks as you set the tub down on the sill beside it, and you immediately shove your hand under the hot tap. “I should probably warn you, my house is host to a number of animals, both wild and domestic.”

Bucky snorts. “When did you become Doctor Dolittle?”

“When I realized that I would be alone in this enormous mansion with an ex-mafia bodyguard as my single confidante.” You dry your hand casually on a tea towel, and the petty side of you hopes that Bucky’s face reads the regret his silence speaks.

“Empress-”

“Zemo.” You cut Bucky off and spin around, your eyes desperately honing in on the Baron’s shrewd face before they can stray to Bucky. “Where are my manners? I think I should give you a tour of my home. You’ll be here for an indefinite amount of time, after all.”

“Indeed.” The Baron’s gaze rakes slowly over you, and despite the chill that comes from his scrutiny, it still feels more comfortable than the torture of finally meeting Bucky’s eye.

Because Bucky’s eyes are cold, and when he speaks, his voice is void of emotion. “It was good to see you again.”

“Was it?” You keep your expression carefully unreadable, mirroring his. In the back of your mind, the intonation of the conversation reminds you of the last goodbye you shared with him.

Bucky smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Don’t worry. I know my way out.” As he approaches the kitchen door, he stops and turns back to point a gloved hand at the Baron. “You remember what I told you, right?”

“I will not soon forget it, James.” Zemo’s tight smile is sardonic, and gives you a small sense of dread despite not knowing the context of it.

You think you hear Bucky growl as he makes his exit.

.III.

Although you are normally a gentle and humorous person socially, your time as an agent of SHIELD taught you to use abruptness and frigidity to your advantage in order to maintain the upper hand of any given situation. Steve Rogers, bless him, used to describe you as ‘moody’ with the way you could turn your gentility on and off like a switch.

It has never been more difficult to keep a handle on your affectionate nature than it is now.

You stare across the library at the Baron, who has been content to trail behind you through the many rooms of your expansive mansion. He doesn’t seem to be feigning interest; in fact, he gives the occasional comment about the architecture, noticing small features most would overlook. It reminds you just how perceptive he is, which then reminds you who he is. And you remind yourself that you must not forget it.

Zemo admires the craftsmanship of the bookshelves on the far wall, while you stand with your back to the antique floor-to-ceiling windows. “Original panelling,” he observes with a hint of a smile, his head tilted upwards. “1921, it appears.”

You watch him blankly, or at least with what you hope is an expressionless face; on the contrary, you’re enrapt by the sight of his adam’s apple bobbing below his sharp jaw. You’d told Bucky flat out that you wouldn’t touch this man for anything, and now you’re swallowing back your realization that the Baron is, actually, a painfully handsome man. This information would have been appreciated before you’d allowed him into your home.

Your rationality tells you to look away. Your ego tells you that objectification is not idolization, and no harm comes from admiring a beautiful creature, even if it’s dangerous.

“Yes, it is. The house was built from 1920 to 1922.” You cross your arms, trying to appear dismissive. “I inherited it from my grandfather some years ago.”

Zemo turns to look at you, and his eyebrows quite obviously shoot up, despite his attempt to quickly sober himself. His lips quirk up at the edges just before he says, “You appear to have a bird on your head.”

You click your tongue. The budgerigar has been chewing on your eyebrow for about as long as Zemo has been studying the interior design of the room. “You don’t say.”

He turns his eyes to the rather large cage in the corner, which holds two more of the colorful birds, and tilts his head curiously when he sees the door to it hanging open. “You do not keep them caged?”

“You think this isn’t a cage?” You lift your finger to the bird on your head, and it hops on happily. You kiss it squarely on the breast before letting it flutter back onto your shoulder. “The birds don’t leave this room. They wouldn’t even if I left the door open. I believe they’re frightened of what’s outside of it.”

Zemo’s gaze cuts like a knife across the expanse of the room. “Is that why you refuse to leave, as well?”

You cast him a caustic glare, and decide not to dignify his question with an answer. “I will ask that you keep the door to this room and a few others closed. Artemis does tend to torment the other animals, especially now that she’s adolescent.”

“Of course.” His honeyed eyes linger on the sight of the budgerigar reaching its head to gnaw on the corner of your mouth. “You have… an affinity for animals, but not people.”

“I never said I don’t have an affinity for people.” You try not to break your composure as the bird begins to crawl across the neckline of your shirt, the weight of it tugging down slightly on the fabric. “I said I’m not used to strangers.”

He hums, nodding as his eyes travel from yours to the bird squirming across your chest. “And, what are their names?” When you frown, he gestures to the cage. “The birds.”

“Widget, Fidget, and Gidget.”

He coughs down at his feet, the back of his hand flying to his mouth to stifle it. When he looks back to you, he’s visibly holding in the laughter he just poorly tried to cover up. “Noble names, indeed.” He walks over to the cage, and a smile sneaks across his face for half a second.

“Hello there,” he nods to the two birds in the cage, speaking lowly, as though they are the most deadly assassins he’s ever met. “I am Baron Zemo. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sure we will be seeing much of each other in the near future.”

You suck harshly on your tongue when the bird on your chest, Widget, flutters over to land on the Baron’s head with a decidedly happy chirp, and begins to groom his hair. Zemo turns to face you with a pleased look on his face.

“It seems we are no longer strangers.”

You allow yourself a sarcastic huff of laughter to compensate for how the sight of the budgerigar messing up his pristinely styled hair in the name of affection stirs something beneath your ribs, which has admittedly been dormant for far too long.

“You still have to do that to my python, though. And my german shepherd. And my ferret. And my monkeys. We have a lot more to get through before we reach the guest wing.” You walk past him, and the sudden movement causes Widget to flutter into the cage for the time being. When you reach the library door, you turn back to see him watching you with a wry smirk. “Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?”

.IV.

He’s scared of snakes.

You don’t know why the idea is funny to you, but something about the Baron, who can be aptly described as a serpent, being frightened of snakes just screams irony.

You showed him into the garden room with carefully concealed excitement, because the conservatory is your absolute favorite area of the mansion and, as someone so obviously educated on architecture, you figured he may have something to say about the engineering of the room.

Not that you care about anything he has to say about your house.

That being said, you didn’t expect him to take two steps into the room, and then turn tail and nearly run out without a second look. He stands five paces into the drawing room, through which you had to walk to reach the garden room, with his back to you blair witch-style.

“Should I even ask?” You bite your lip to hold in an obnoxious snort as he slowly shakes his head.

“That is the biggest snake I’ve ever seen in my life,” he admits so quietly you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it.

You pretend that you didn’t. By the time he turns around to face you again, you’ve already allowed the four foot reticulated python he’s speaking of to drop from its perch on the hanging tomato plant and slither its way along your shoulders. Zemo walks to the entrance of the garden room and leans casually against the doorframe with a blasé expression, but you can see the terror in his eyes.

“Can’t take the heat?” You ask with a coy smirk on your face. The Baron shrugs, visibly stretching his neck within the confines of his purple sweater. He refuses to move any further into the room, which is fine with you. The more distance he keeps, the better.

But you enjoy making a convicted murderer squirm.

“This is Nerissa, my darling baby girl,” you say as you lift your hand to cup the python’s smooth underbelly to help her pass along your arm onto a shelf of culinary herbs.

“You speak of it as though it’s a child.”

“She is my child, so to speak.” You stroke your hand lovingly along the end of the snake’s tail as it glides smoothly across your skin. “Why don’t you come introduce yourself?”

“I don’t feel that’s necessary.”

“Fucking liar, you made such a point of doing it to the birds.” You turn to look at him, and though his face has taken on a ghostly pallor, you can see a dangerous look of intrigue cross it.

He clears his throat, shifts his weight on his feet, but doesn’t move from where he rests his shoulder against the doorframe. “Hello, Nerissa. I’m Helmut.”

“Oh, not Baron Zemo this time?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, a taunting giggle leaving your lips.

“I don’t think my title will matter to her when she eats me, in the grand scheme of things.”

You snort and step back once Nerissa’s tail has securely passed onto the shelf. “You’re, what, five foot ten? She swallows her food whole. She’d sooner choke on you than fully enjoy you.”

The Baron seems to regard that statement with great interest for a moment before sly amusement washes over his features.

And then you realize the insinuation of what you just said.

You’re no stranger to making double entendres in order to take a person off-guard, but this was entirely accidental, an ill-timed Freudian slip. You try not to falter, running your tongue along your lips and cocking your head to the side like you’re waiting for a reply.

“May I ask you something?” Zemo’s voice is soft and dismissive. His arms rest crossed over his chest, seemingly void of tension, but his finger taps lightly against his sleeve.

“If you think you can handle the answer.” Oh yes, your SHIELD skills are coming in handy today. Because you sound so sure of yourself, so confident, all the while your pulse is pounding in your temples.

You do not like this man’s presence. Nor what it is doing to you.

“James referred to you as ‘Empress’ earlier,” he says slowly, sizing you up similarly to how he did when Bucky said it to you. When he’s satisfied that he hasn't elicited any sort of reaction, his eyes meet yours again. “What exactly does that mean to you?”

You give him a reserved smile. Just from his question alone, and the demeanor with which he asked it, you can tell that Bucky told the Baron practically nothing of your background. You aren’t sure whether you should commend him for it or not.

But then you remember something else that Bucky said.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” you begin, and watch the smile on Zemo’s face fall, “if you tell me what Bucky apparently wants you to remember.”

The Baron remains silent, and you’re certain that he’s not actually considering your bargain, he’s merely acting as though he is. Then he straightens himself up in the doorway with a polite bow of his head.

“You said you keep monkeys?”

You take a breath through your nose, and move toward the door. So, he’d rather be strangers. That’s a relief.

“I hope you’re not afraid of those, too.”

.V.

It takes six days for your composure at the Baron’s presence to wear thin.

On the first night, you’d laid out the ground rules as you walked him finally to the guest wing. “The animals generally wake with the sun, so I try to as well, but I’m prone to oversleeping. When it comes to kitchen leftovers, meat is reserved for Dodie, and the rest are tossed into the backyard for the other scavengers. Valentino will drive into town to get you anything that you need, but for the meantime I’ve provided you with a few basic changes of clothes.” You waved your hand at the open door to the rather large guest room, where a dark wood four-poster bed loomed out of the darkness.

“And mealtimes?”

You startled, turning to him with bewilderment. “Whenever you want to eat. Do as you like. You have free reign over the house.”

He gave you a polite smile that was otherwise emotionless. “Not unlike one of your pets, yes?”

Ah. Therein lies the catch. He’s your prisoner, not your guest, and you would do well not to forget it.

“Good night, Baron.” With a curt nod, you left him alone in the guest wing.

And he proceeded to fall into the routine of the house as though he’d been living with you for an eternity.

It started with little things. You’d wake up to an entirely clean kitchen and a fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate. You found that the budgerigars were never running low on water or food, when usually they would be. You occasionally heard a noisy meow from Artemis in the direction of the Billiards room, but you scantily saw her.

Then, things began to get more specific. On the third day, you woke not to a pot of coffee, but a steaming mug sitting on the counter, prepared just the way you preferred it. It was as though someone had been in the kitchen seconds before you entered, and heard you descending the stairs just before they slipped away unseen. That same occurrence repeated itself in the study, the parlor, the upper floor sitting room, and the dining room. The scent of his cologne tended to hang in the air, especially in the library, signifying that he’d just been there, but seemed to dissipate like a ghost.

You didn’t see much of him, but you felt his presence all through the house, seeping into the woodwork, curling around you like a vice. Suffocating you.

For your part, you’d been staying in and around the garden room, because it seemed like that was the one place in the entire house that wasn’t swimming with his energy. At one point you saw him pass through the drawing room from the kitchen, and through the open conservatory doors you could see him dramatically turn his head away, as though he couldn’t bear to perceive the room he knew housed a snake. You snickered, and turned your nose back to the book of poetry you were reading aloud to Nerissa, who slithered serenely along the top of your high backed wicker armchair.

Zemo doesn’t entirely avoid the drawing room, though. You discover this on the sixth night, when you plod down the stairs, heading for the kitchen to inhale some late night shredded mozzarella in your silk nightgown like a civilized person. It seems that he doesn’t mind the conservatory when the door is closed, because you walk into the drawing room to find him completely unconscious, sprawled across the antique couch with Artemis snoozing in a bundle on his chest.

His right hand rests on her back, as though he’d drifted off while petting her.

His other hand has fallen to the carpet, finger tucked between the pages of the poetry book you’d been reading to Nerissa when he passed by yesterday.

Your mouth runs dry at the sight. You don’t know why you suddenly become so frightened to make a sound, like you don’t want to disturb the tender moment you’d walked in on. Your deft footfalls against the paisley rug barely make a whisper as you clutch your nightgown close to your chest, somewhere in the back of your mind registering that you aren’t wearing anything beneath it, and you might actually die if he jolts awake to get an unwarranted look at your goods.

The Baron’s breathing is in sync with the cat’s. You pause, watching the rise and fall of his chest echoed in Missy’s little torso, curled up against the light grey fabric of his blouse. Slowly, you reach down to slide the maroon colored poetry book from where Zemo’s hand limply holds it, sliding your index finger between the pages beside his.

The book is Morning in the Burned House by Margaret Atwood. It’s an old copy that’s been worn from too many months being toted around in the bottom of a backpack, dogeared and annotated to oblivion. You’d tossed it onto the coffee table after you finished reading it to Nerissa, and from there you guess that Zemo came to investigate the book he’d heard you reciting.

You flip it open, but you don’t really have to check to know which poem he had been reading. It’s the last one in the book, the titular piece, in which the narrator mourns the loss of their family and their lack of intimacy in the wake of it.

Faded pink highlighter marks the first stanza. “In the burned house I am eating breakfast./ You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,/ yet here I am.” You don’t remember highlighting it, but it sounds so much like the sad girl literature you’d buried yourself in during the Blip that you probably did at some point.

Then your eyes fall to the third stanza, where fresh pen marks underline the words in bold, as though they were just put there. And you know from the fact that you read the poem yesterday that they absolutely were.

“Where have they gone to, brother and sister,/ mother and father? Off along the shore,/ perhaps.”

Your toenail taps against something hard on the carpet, and you glance down to see the felt tip pen in question, its cap still tucked tightly onto the back end of it. Zemo hasn't finished annotating.

You pick up the pen and cap it before the ink dries out, and tuck it into the pages before setting the book onto the edge of the coffee table. You frown, though, considering how relevant the poem is to the both of you. You, with your reclusive lifestyle. Him, mourning his family.

Your eyes flicker back to Zemo’s sleeping form, his head turned barely toward the backrest of the couch, his hair just dishevelled enough to cause a few strands to fall across his brow. In sleep he seems so at peace, without the stiffness he keeps about him at all times like some kind of rigid mask he puts on in waking life.

You stop your outstretched hand just short of brushing the strand of hair away from his forehead.

Then you nearly run back to your room after filching the bag of shredded cheese from the refrigerator, like a misbehaving child trying not to get caught.

.VI.

You’re not much of a drinker. Occasionally you’ll treat yourself, but on the whole you keep the liquor cabinet in the drawing room shut. Tonight is not one of those nights, though, because all afternoon you had to watch Zemo playing fetch with Bruno, your elderly german shepherd.

Bruno never even plays fetch with you.

But oh, how he was so energetic with the Baron, as if the arthritis in his ancient hind legs didn’t even exist. Zemo has a ridiculously strong throwing arm, as it turns out, and you found yourself watching the immaculate arcs of the bone as he tossed it through the air, all the while imagining how strong his arms could prove to be in other circumstances.

So here you are, curled up in your wicker chair in the garden room, nursing your third brandy and praying to god that the alcohol kicks in soon, because you don’t think you’ll get to sleep unless it does.

The antique lamp beside you casts a golden hue across the vibrant green forestry throughout the room, reflecting off the darkened glass. You’d taken the liberty of putting a record on the old player in the corner to fill the silence. Bizet’s Carmen was the only disc you could find that wasn’t covered with dust, though.

Nerissa has been contentedly cuddling with you almost the entire time you’ve been seated, slithering across your lap and over your shoulders, at one point nuzzling herself beneath the flap of your loose fitting satin robe and worming her way down the sleeve of it like it’s a McDonald’s Playplace.

Despite the snake’s condolences and the tune of Habanera, you’re still seeing visions of Zemo’s back flexing beneath a blue v-neck sweater, the hem of it riding up as he stoops to praise your dog for bringing the bone back to him. You take a sip of brandy, and you wonder if Bucky didn’t foist the Baron off on you on purpose, just to torture you and your touch-starved impulses.

You don’t even realize that you’ve completely zoned out until the Baron speaks.

“Well, you look lovely this evening.”

You lift your eyes from the floor, and nearly spill your drink at the sight of his face. Three deep gashes arc across his cheekbone, blood spilling down the side of his face and along the line of his jaw, dripping down onto his sweater.

Zemo, for his part, stares levelly at you like he can’t even feel it.

“Are you- your face is bleeding,” you splutter out, setting the brandy down on the side table with your glass of water.

“Really?” He quirks an eyebrow at you. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“What happened?” You go to stand, but Nerissa holds you in place as she glides slowly across your lap and wraps herself around the arm of the chair.

Zemo stands awkwardly in the doorway, arms limply hanging by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Regrettably, I made the mistake of leaving the door to the library open.” When you open your mouth to chide him, he supplements, “I could hear you playing Carmen. It’s... a favorite of mine.”

Your expression crumbles, because you don’t really want to berate him while his face is bleeding all over his shirt. Your hand falls to the tissue box on the side table, and you beckon him toward you. “Come here.”

Zemo doesn’t move. His eyes fall to the python that’s nuzzling its way up the line of your chest.

“Helmut, my cat just mauled your face. What more can a snake possibly do to you?”

His eyes snap back to yours, dark and brimming with carefully withheld anxiety. Then, hesitantly, he steps into the garden room for the first time and approaches your outstretched hand.

He stands before you just within arms reach, but when he realizes that you’re not going to simply hand him the tissue box, he reluctantly takes a knee. He watches the snake nudging at your neck, his mouth moving with the nervous swallow that he makes at the sight of it.

You take his chin between your fingers to tilt his head up to look at you instead. When his honey brown eyes meet yours, his pupils are blown so wide that they’re almost black.

You dip a tissue into your untouched glass of water, and begin to wipe the blood from his chin. “Are the birds all right?”

“Yes.”

“And Missy?”

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse, but he hasn’t moved his eyes from yours. “She put up a fierce fight. You would be proud.”

You hum, running the damp tissue up the side of his cheek toward the gashes. “On the contrary, I think it’s a shame she maimed such a pretty face.”

And there it is. The alcohol has worked its way to your mouth. The Baron’s eyelashes flutter, evidently surprised that you would pay him a compliment. But, of course, Zemo is incredibly perceptive. You know he can smell the brandy on your breath, can see the legs of alcohol running from the high water mark on the side of your glass. He says nothing in return.

“You seem to have gotten close with many of the animals already.” You have the presence of mind to use your loose tongue to your advantage and keep him talking, so that he doesn’t focus on the reptile that’s slowly inching its way toward his hand on the arm of the chair.

“You have an impressive menagerie. They are all very social creatures.” He doesn’t wince as you press the tissue against his open wound. “You were right.”

“About?”

“It is better to have animals around in isolation. They distract the mind from the monotony.”

His eyes begin to follow your hand as you move to grab a new tissue, but you grab his chin again, a bit rougher this time, and order, “Look at me.”

He clenches his jaw, causing a few beads of blood to pool at the surface of the scratches. “May I ask a question?”

“You may.” You dip the corner of the fresh tissue into your glass of brandy in lieu of antiseptic. As you raise the tissue to his cheek, you warn him, “This will sting a bit.”

He jumps when the alcohol touches his wound, his hands surging forward to grip onto both of your knees.

The touch is meaningless, a grasp for stability through the shock of pain, but the warm grip of his fingers against your bare skin burns along your nerves, your own need culminating at the apex of your thighs. You swallow hard when he makes no move to release your legs, nor to look away from where you keep his face gazing steadily into yours.

“Why do you refuse to leave this place?”

“I can’t leave,” you reply simply, honestly. “I’m wanted by the government for helping Steve and Bucky evade capture after-”

You falter, your gaze flickering to where you press the alcohol soaked tissue against the Baron’s cheekbone.

“After I bombed the U.N.” He says it so matter-of-factly, you’re sure he’s had this similar conversation time and time again. He squeezes your thighs gently, his own way of urging you to meet his eye. When you do, he nods at you. “Go on.”

You reconsider it only for a moment before the brandy and your own need to just tell someone gets the best of you. “I used to work with Steve. Not super closely, but in the same circles. I was an agent for SHIELD, and when that went under, I became something of a mercenary for hire.”

Your thumb strokes along the curve of his chin just before your hand fully cups his jaw to tilt his head up a bit further, because Nerissa is now slithering along the arm of the chair toward his elbow.

When you’re satisfied that his eyes are trained solely on you, you tell him, “They called me ‘Empress.’”

“It was your alias.” He says it as a statement, likely to show you that he’s following you.

You nod your assent. “I would train new field agents. I had a way of… commanding people.” You lift the tissue away from Zemo’s wound to find that it’s no longer actively bleeding.

You don’t release his chin, though, because Nerissa has found her way onto his shoulder. He knows it; his pulse pounds beneath your fingers. His eyes drift in the direction of the snake, but you snap, “I told you to look at me.”

You steal the breath from the Baron’s chest when you tighten your fingers on his jaw.

His eyes are wide when they return to yours, and he croaks, “Please continue.”

So, you do. “When they needed a place to hide, Steve called me. I took Bucky in for a little while before they went to Siberia, and… well. You know the rest.” You tilt your head to the side, effecting a shrug. “I learned that my grandfather left me this estate, and when I went into exile, I came here. I’ve been here ever since. No more fighting, no more super heroes.”

“Is that why you dislike when James calls you by that name?”

“Not entirely.” You can feel the flush creep across your cheeks at the prospect of telling the Baron your personal history, but you know even before opening your mouth that fighting it is a losing battle. “Bucky and I were… together for that time, when I took him in. He knows that I only allow the people I’m closest to the privilege of calling me ‘Empress.’ Now that we aren’t so close, I imagine he just does it to mock me.”

You feel Zemo swallow against the palm of your hand. “James was a lucky man.”

You give him a small smile, but you’re sure it doesn’t meet your eyes. “He could have been, if he’d taken my offer to come here with me. He chose Siberia instead.”

The Baron’s pupils are still eclipsing his irises, but there’s an eerie heat in them, simmering just below the surface. “That was foolish of him.”

“Maybe not. He’s a good man, but he isn’t meant for love. Good men usually aren’t.”

Zemo’s eyes flutter again, and you swear that his hands move up your thighs a miniscule amount. “What makes you say that?”

“They’re too selfless. Their loved ones usually get the short end of the stick in favor of the masses.”

“And who do you think is meant for love?”

You smile, but it’s not because of Zemo’s question. It’s because, during the course of your conversation, Nerissa has slithered her way along the span of his shoulders. When you release his jaw, you pretend the weak noise he makes in the back of his throat doesn’t send a rush of pulsing heat between your legs.

“Look at you,” you breathe, letting your hand fall to stroke the python on his shoulders. “You did so well. That’s what happens when you listen.”

This time, you don’t question that his hands slide further up your thighs, because they’ve now breached the hem of your robe.

He whispers your name, and it sounds like a prayer on his lips. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

You may be a filthy hypocrite when you say you want him despite your prejudice, but you’re not a liar, and the room is spinning.

“Smart boy,” you remark, and hear his sharp inhale with a touch of pride. “Too much.”

He ducks his head to let you lift Nerissa from his shoulders, and he waits there a moment longer than necessary, staring down at your lap like he’s looking for the answers to life’s mysteries in the parting of your thighs. Before he stands, he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles, but the look in his eyes as they gaze up at you through his lashes is less than.

At the door, he pauses as though he means to say something else, but appears to rethink it at the last moment. Instead, he leaves you with a soft, “Good night, dragă.”

You remain, downing the last dregs of your brandy while your breath stutters in your lungs.

[theobsessivesideblog]

Empress is the baddest bitch there is and I can’t get over how great the dynamic with Zemo is. I’m melting.

[theshireisburning-so-mordoritis]

Philophobia

Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: 18+, heavy angst, minor mention of injury, smut, fingering, handjobs, p in v sex, unprotected sex.

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR*

EPILOGUE (coming soon)

[theobsessivesideblog]

I feel like I’ve been repeatedly stabbed in the chest but in a good way, ya know? Torturous (affectionate)

[foreverindreamlandd]

Okay, what if it's Steve's turn to save babysitter reader and she ends up in his arms and they start leaning in, like so close to kissing for the first time but the gang ruins it being all oooooo so they kinda laugh it off but then he kisses her later in the car when he drops her off or something.

Babysitters Club (2)

PART 1

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC: 2.7k

Summary: You and the other dumbasses went through Watergate, and all Steve can think about is keeping you safe.

Warnings: Canon level violence, monsters, Vecna shit, mentions of a panic attack, mentions of nightmares. Takes place during and after episode 7 of season 4 (posted before the final two eps have dropped)

~~~~~

In the end, though, things had still managed to go to shit.

While you were celebrating your small victory of rescuing Steve,a new weird tentacle vine thing crept up the boat unnoticed.

And suddenly, Robin was flying back and into the water.

“ROBIN!” you and Steve screamed in unison, scrambling to stand to see if you could find her in the water.

She was gone, all that remained were some air bubbles rising to the surface.

“What do we do?” Nancy asked frantically.

Sirens blared behind you, and you turned to see cop cars pulling up, then to your right you saw four flashlights scurry off further into the woods.

You and Steve shared one look, then started to move, grabbing flashlights and weapons.

Then, you dove.

The rest went by in a weird, nightmarish blur. At one moment, you were swimming. The next, you were falling, and you landed in a desert of vines, giant monstrous bats attacking left and right, and then you were running, passing through a broken, disfigured version of Hawkins.

“Is that…is that my house?” you asked Robin as you headed down the dark street.

She grimaced. “Try not to pay too much attention to everything.”

You made it to Nancy’s house, and managed through hauntingly beautiful gold dust to connect with the kids and Eddie.

Everyone was acting way too calm, like this was all totally normal for them. The near-death moment for Steve in Lover’s Lake had already been a lot to process. To be attacked by literal monsters, be in some hellish alternate dimension, with no real plan on getting back.

It was too much.

And suddenly you couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, hey,” Steve whispered after picking up on your labored breaths, pulling you into the corner as Nancy and Robin continued communicating with the other side. “You’re okay.”

Your body was shaking, vision going dark and you knew you were well on your way to having a full-blown panic attack. “I-I can’t…this is…”

He started rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Look at me. Y/n, look at me.”

His voice, strong and sure, brought your attention to him rather than the pounding in your ears, and your eyes slowly made their way to his.

His gaze was piercing, stabilizing, comforting.

Protective.

“We’re going to get out of here, okay?” he said, squeezing your shoulders. “We’ve fought these things before and we always win. I’m going to keep you safe and make sure that none of them touch you. I promise.”

Tears fell down your cheeks and you nodded, trying your best to smile and failing.

Without hesitation, he closed the distance and wrapped his arms around you, resting your head against his bare chest.

His heart was racing as quickly as you knew yours was, and it was then that you knew he was as afraid as you were.

But he was here, and though it truly felt like the end of the world, when he said everything was okay, you believed him.

So you hugged him back, and as you felt the beat of his heart slow, you knew yours was doing the same.

“Besides,” he eventually murmured, “Someone has to make sure those little shitheads stay safe.”

You giggled, pulling back to meet his eyes once more with a genuine smile this time.

“Gotta make sure the pay grade doesn’t get compromised,” you said with fake seriousness.

He feigned annoyance. “I really gotta figure out how to get paid for making sure these kids don’t get killed by monsters.”

More laughter, enough to muster up the strength to wipe away your tears and continue forward. 

“Hey guys,” Robin said and you turned to her. “We know what we have to do.”

~~~~~

The four of you stared up at the ceiling of the trailer, staring into the eyes of Dustin, Lucas, Erica, Max, and Eddie as they stared at the ceiling of Eddie’s trailer in a different dimension.

“This is so…” you started.

“Trippy,” Steve finished.

The plan was eerily simple. The group on the other side went to work tying up towels, sheets, shirts, anything they could find to create a rope for you to climb up and then fall down onto a mattress they laid underneath the gate.

Robin went first, the three of you helping her up, and then once she was through she crashed onto the padding.

All of you breathed out a laugh of wonder, completely blown away by the ridiculousness of it all.

Nancy went next, as smoothly as Robin.

“Your turn,” Steve said, handing you the makeshift rope.

You opened your mouth to argue that he could go next and he just lifted up a hand to silence you. “Not up for discussion. I promised I’d keep you safe so I’m going to make sure you stay safe, alright?”

You frowned, looking around the room of floating spores. “But what if I climb through and the gate closes? Or something attacks you while you’re climbing and another vine thingy holds onto your ankle-”

“God, are you always this anxious?” he asked with an amused smile, hands going to his hips, a gesture you were quickly growing fond of.

Your eyes narrowed, but you couldn’t help but smile back as you crossed your arms in defiance. “I call it being prepared for anything.”

Steve just shook his head. “Y/n, please. The longer we’re in here the more likely it will be for danger to come knockin’. Now can you please get your ass up there so I can put a shirt on and maybe find a bandaid or two?” He gestured to his side at the gash left by one of the monster bats - Demobats as Steve started to call them. 

Dread coursed through your body and you grimaced. 

Then, finally, you grabbed the rope. 

“Promise you’ll be right behind?”

He nodded. “So fast I might even crash on top of you on the mattress.”

The cocky bastard winked at you and you snorted, rolling your eyes.

“Doesn’t sound so ba-”

Suddenly, everything went dark.

~~~~~~

Steve knew the moment your hand dropped from the rope in a weird, lifeless way that something was wrong.

“Y/n?” he asked, trying to hide the concern from his voice.

“What’s taking you guys so long! Get your asses down here!” Dustin screamed, but he sounded far away to Steve now that his ears were only focused on hearing your voice.

“Y/n, enough playing around let’s get you up the rope-” he gently touched your shoulder and tried to spin you around.

Only you didn’t move. It was as if you were glued to the floor.

He jumped in front of you. “Oh God,” he cried out, hands instinctively moving to cup your face.

Gone were those lovely, striking irises he was so captivated by. They were glossed over with a white film. 

It was happening again. 

“Shit shit shit.” For a few moments, all he could do was panic, attempting to shake you awake even though he knew it wouldn’t work. “Come on, Y/n, please,” he begged.

Focus Steve, he thought, trying to gather his thoughts. You guys saved Max, you can save her.

He looked up at the group and shouted, “What’s her favorite song?”

Their brows furrowed, not understanding. “What…” one of them - Steve wasn’t paying attention who - said.

“I NEED HER GODDAMN FAVORITE SONG NOW.”

“Oh shit,” Dustin said, looking at Eddie with wide eyes, who looked at Robin with even wider eyes. The two of them ran into Eddie’s room.

Steve’s thumbs stroked the smooth skin over your cheek. “Please don’t do this to me, Y/n. You gotta come back to me. I promised to keep you safe.” His voice grew more choked, more desperate as tears welled in his eyes, completely overwhelmed with the devastating realization of how important you were to him.

“Listen,” he said, choking out a laugh, “You dying is definitely going to ruin any chance of me ever getting paid for babysitting. Can’t ruin my perfect record of keeping the shitheads alive, can you?”

“WE GOT IT!” Eddie yelled, throwing the walkman up until it fell into Steve’s hands.

Hands shaking, he gently put the headphones over your ears.

When he looked at the tape, he exhaled out a wet chuckle. 

“Tears for Fears,” he said, looking back at you. “It’s a good song-” his voice broke and he selfishly allowed himself one precious moment to place an arm around the back of your head and press his lips to your forehead.

Then, he pressed play.

~~~~~

You were in the backyard of your old house, running from the monster behind.

Vecna. This had to be him. Max hadn’t missed a single detail when describing him to you.

And you were his next victim. 

“Y/n,” Vecna called tauntingly, his voice echoing all around you. “Do not fight the inevitable. It is time for you to pay for all the harm you’ve caused…”

You weren’t sure how long you had been running for. It felt like seconds, it felt like days. Your limbs grew heavy, and when you turned you saw that he was gaining on you as he reached out to grab you-

A faint, familiar melody emerged into the air.

It was a guitar intro you identified from the first note alone.

Then, a hazy circle opened up ahead of you.

It was a portal.

And on the other side was Steve. Eyes wide and filled with pain, staring at something so intensely, as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He was so far away, and you were so tired. There was no way you could make it in time.

“Come back to me, Y/n. Please,” Steve said, his voice sounding as if he were underwater.

That’s when you realized.

He was looking at you.

You took a step, then another as the music grew louder and louder. 

Welcome to your life

There’s no turning back

You started to run.

~~~~~~

And then, you were falling.

Steve opened up his arms and caught you, holding your body to his as tightly as he could as you gasped for air.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he kept saying, and you couldn’t tell if he was saying it for your sake or his.

A few beats later, once you caught your breath, you finally noticed how close you were to him.

“Hi,” you said, blinking a few times.

Steve chuckled, relief flooding through him. “Hey.”

“You saved me.”

He moved to brush a piece of hair from your face, his fingers resting along your neck as his thumb brushed along your cheek.

“I promised I would,” he whispered, and his eyes flashed down to your lips. The sound of your breath hitching in response made his head fuzzy.

Steve leaned in-

“IS SHE OKAY?” Dustin yelled, causing the two of you to jump back and look up to the group.

Erica punched his arm and he yelped. “Duh she’s okay,” she mumbled to him. “And they were about to have a moment, idiot!”

The two of you turned your gazes back to each other and burst out laughing.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” you said, standing up and grabbing the rope.

“Right behind ya,” Steve responded, smile plastered on his face.

~~~~ 

TWO WEEKS LATER

“I don’t care what you say, Henderson,” Robin said, balancing a stack of movies in her arms. “I’m not seeing Spaceballs with you.”

Though he was arguing with his best friend, Steve couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment. The normalcy of bickering over seeing a new movie rather than swinging paddles at monster bats.

“Come on Buckley. It’s going to be hilarious! Besides, I have months before it comes out to wear you down until you finally say yes-”

Bells jingled behind him to signify the entrance of a new customer. 

Based on the look on Robin’s face, it was an unexpected but familiar face.

Steve turned, and when he saw you at the door he temporarily lost control of his body and his elbow bumped into the computer at the register.

“Shit,” he hissed, rubbing the now sore spot. When he looked back up, your right eyebrow was raised in amusement.

“Harrington, is there ever a moment when you aren’t getting hurt?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, unable to suppress a grin caused just by being in your presence. “I heal quickly.”

Silence.

“Um, I think there are some returns in the back that need processing,” Robin said, running away to leave the two of you alone.

More silence.

“So,” Steve started, running his fingers through his hair. “How you been?”

You nodded. “Good. I mean, I get a few more nightmares than I used to…but I’m fine.”

He sighed, nodding in understanding. “The nightmares will go away. Eventually.”

“Yeah?”

A shrug. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

You laughed, and Steve’s smile widened. 

And then it was back to silence.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked.

Your eyes swept across the video store as you took a few steps forward. “Couple things, actually. I’m watching Erica tonight and she made the mistake of telling me she’s never seen Star Wars. That little nerd is gonna love it.”

Steve smiled, jumping to action as he emerged from behind the register toward the sci-fi section. He turned and wiggled two fingers to signal for you to follow.

You complied, biting your bottom lip.

He scanned the shelves until mumbling a low aha!, grabbing the VHS and handing it to you with a smug smile.

“Perfect, thank youuu,” you said, grabbing it from him.

“For Hawkin’s beloved babysitter? Anything.”

You giggled, rolling your eyes before reaching into your bag. “Actually, Harrington, that was my second reason for coming here…”

Steve’s brows furrowed in confusion as you pulled out a laminated card and held it out to him.

He took it, staring at the yearbook photo of him printed on blue cardstock and the words next to it.

STEVE HARRINGTON: 

CERTIFIED BABYSITTER

“It means virtually nothing,” you said as he continued staring. “But show that to parents and I can assure you they’ll drop some serious money.”

He shook his head in disbelief, then looked up with an awestruck expression that brought heat to your face.

“I can’t believe you put so much effort…..into a stupid inside joke.”

You grinned. “As if I would ever half-ass anything.”

Steve laughed, running his fingers over the card before taking out his wallet and safely storing it inside. “I love it. Thank you.”

“Thank you for saving my life two weeks ago. Again.” You nervously tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Well, to be fair, you also saved my life. So I guess we’re officially even.”

“For now,” you responded. “With the way you’re so willing to put yourself in harm’s way-” you pointed at his elbow “-someone’s gotta be there to keep you safe.”

Boldness took over as Steve took a small step closer to you, brows raised. “And who’s going to keep you safe?”

You scoffed. “I can keep myself safe.”

“Don’t doubt that at all,” he said, stepping closer, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“But if someone, like, wanted to give me a break at being so strong and awesome and independent all the time..”

“Well,” Steve started with another step toward you, “I am a certified babysitter now. Do you think that makes me qualified?”

Your lips opened slightly, as if you were getting ready to speak, but Steve was so close that his breath touched your skin and suddenly any word you ever knew was gone from your mind.

All you could do was nod.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asked quietly.

You nodded again, lost in the nearly black hue of his eyes.

“Was Erica right that night? Were we having a moment?”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, causing the corners of Steve’s eyes to crinkle.

“As if that girl could ever be wrong about anything-”

With that, Steve closed the now minimal distance between you as his lips pressed against yours.

~~~~

Thank you for reading! :)

Main Masterlist

[theobsessivesideblog]

Yesyesyesyes I love them they’re perfect