mystra-midnight - Tumblr blog

[mystra-midnight]

babe!! ;___;

Thank you so so much for taking the time to read and reblog!! I’m so so happy you liked it!! ❤️❤️

Too Drunk to Fuck

summary: he'd never been the type of man to wait. if he had an itch, it needed to be scratched. jax doubted anyone would even notice if he pounded your cunt until you were screaming and creaming on his cock.

warnings: 18+ only. thigh riding. pet names; (princess, baby). brief name calling; (slut). public setting. female orgasm. it's not a samcro party without alcohol and getting high. also if there isn't someone getting fucked on a pool table.

words: 1k

notes: welcome to week one of kinktober! i'm not the best at sticking the day-to-day tasks so i'm following along with lazy ghoul's weekly promptsif you want to see more thigh riding with jax, or something else entirely, send me an ask!

"C'mere."

This was the only warning you had before Jax's strong fingers curled around your wrist and tugged you away from the crow eater you were in the middle of a conversation with. You gave him no resistance, as you've always enjoyed the way he manhandled you and how bossy he got when he was in a mood. You allowed him to tow you along behind him, giggling and stumbling in your high heels, before he turned to face you, his mouth immediately crashing against yours.

Jax kissed exactly how he fucked: roughly, with teeth and tongue, and hot breaths.

You moaned into his mouth as he perched atop a stool at the unoccupied end of the bar, his hands on your hips pulling you forward until you were straddling him. He had half a mind to fuck you right then and there—to shove his jeans down to his knees, hike up your pretty dress, and sink deep into your cunt with one sure stroke.

He'd never been the type of man to wait. If he had an itch, it needed to be scratched. Jax doubted anyone would even notice if he pounded your cunt until you were screaming and creaming on his cock. If they did, he doubted anyone would actually care. Most of them were plastered or higher than a kite, or both; Bobby Elvis was on the pool table going down with some pretty blue-eyed thing, while Tig was leaning back in one of the armchairs, a hand in the hair of some blonde-haired woman, who was sucking his cock like she simultaneously loved and hated it.

Not a single one of them would care, but even though the two of you had only been mutually exclusive for a few months, Jax knew you; he knew that you weren't into public sex. The club life was still new; it was as exciting as it was frightening, and you weren't ready to be vulnerable in front of all these people.

"Jax," your voice was impossibly soft as he tugged on your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his wondering mouth. If the rough drag of his lips against your skin hadn't distracted you from your utter desperation, you would have flushed with embarrassment. He followed a droplet of sweat down the column of your throat before finding the pulse point beating wildly at the junction of your shoulder.

His fingers tightened around your hips, the tips of them kneading the doughy flesh until it felt like you were bruised. Your own hips moved in response, grinding against him with anticipation and impatience. Jax had a room out the back; you knew that. You'd spent the night once or twice. With your arms wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders, you bucked against him, your clothed cunt catching on the crotch of his jeans, the zipper sending a zing of pleasure through your core.

You chased that feeling desperately, despite the soft groans coming from the leather-bound man. His hand curling around your throat brought you back into the moment, your eyes snapping over to stare into his own pretty blue ones. You noticed they were dark with desire, his pupils blowing wide while you continued to move against him, chasing friction of any kind, whining softly at him. "Jesus," he muttered before kissing you again, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing your moans. "Gimme a second to get my shit together."

Both of you were drunk and not yet sober enough for a romp between the sheets, but you still needed each other. His hands slid to your waist, shifting you so that you were straddling one leg instead of his waist. "Like this," he said softly, his hands returning to your hips to pull you back and forth across his thigh. "Just until I can take care of you, babe."

Your breath hitched as the rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your clothed cunt. Your panties were already soaked, but he didn't mind. Jax liked that he could excite you with a few quick kisses and dirty words; he liked the wet spots you'd leave on his jeans. You buried your face against his neck to muffle the sounds of the whimpers and moans he was pulling from you. Your hands burrowed into the thicket of tresses at the back of his neck, drawing him in deeper, and you were lost in him—the smell of his sweat-slicked skin, the taste of tobacco on his tongue, the feel of his finger bruising into your skin—utterly and hopelessly lost.

He gave you a few minutes to enjoy yourself. The feeling of him manhandling your body was exquisite; it never ceased to amaze you that something so simple, such as thigh riding, could send you sky-rocketing so suddenly. Jax pressed a kiss against the side of your head as you continued to roll your hips back and forth along his thigh. "Open your eyes, princess. I want to watch when you're cumming for me."

You whined in response. You wanted to carve your way beneath his skin and never leave the shelter of his body, but one of his hands snaked beneath your dress. He toyed with the band of your panties, his blunt nails plucking at the stitching before he pulled on them roughly, making the opposite side dig into your doughy flesh. With a chuckle, he let it snap back into place, causing your body jolt in his arms.

"There she is," he cooed mockingly when you finally raised your head. Your eyes were blurred and glossy as you rutted against him, your pace sloppy and frantic. His hands were everywhere and nowhere, all at once. "Y'look so pretty like this baby, like a desperate slut." His words were accentuated when he lifted his knee, changing the angle at which you rubbed against him.

Your teeth gnashed wildly at your lower lip to stifle the sound that ripped up from your chest. Jax slid his hand into your panties and grabbed a fistful of your ass, the tips of his fingers going a little bit south to find the wetness between your thighs, so that he could make your ride at a gruelling pace. A searing heat was starting to simmer in the pit of your stomach, making your blood boil until you were sweating and burning from the inside out.

Your mouth found his when you couldn't keep quiet. He felt the vibrations and your moans, and he swallowed each of the pretty noises you made. "Jax, s'close. Please, please, baby." You babbled against his lips, your fingers tightening around his hair and pulling roughly, making him growl. He bounced his knee once, the rough fabric catching against your clit through the barrier of clothing. Your cunt clenched around nothing, and you suddenly felt so horribly empty.

Jax kissed you hard; his tongue bullied its way past your lips while the tension in your stomach became too much and snapped. It was immediate and intense, leaving you shaking in his arms. A fire-storm trail-blazed through your body, igniting the blood in your veins. Static settled behind your ears, blocking out the world as you rode each shock-wave of euphoria as though it were your last. Your orgasm was intense and loud, leaving you moaning against his mouth, his name a symphony falling repeatedly from your lips as he kept your hips moving, drawing out the moment for as long as possible.

At long last, the tension escaped from your body, and you sagged against him, your vision finally clearing as he kissed you softly and lazily, waiting for you to come down from the clouds. When you realise what just happened, where it just happened, you hide your face against his neck again, although this time your tongue swiped wetly against his skin. Jax hummed when you nibbled at a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. He pressed his mouth against your hair to hide the smirk that found his lips. The smell of your shampoo invaded his lungs as you shifted against him, the cold air hitting the wet patch your orgasm had left on his jeans.

"Ready for me to take care of you properly, princess?"

[mystra-midnight]

ahhhh apprently I missed this reblog?!? Thank you so so much for reading and reblogging my love!! ❤️❤️❤️

Too Drunk to Fuck

summary: he'd never been the type of man to wait. if he had an itch, it needed to be scratched. jax doubted anyone would even notice if he pounded your cunt until you were screaming and creaming on his cock.

warnings: 18+ only. thigh riding. pet names; (princess, baby). brief name calling; (slut). public setting. female orgasm. it's not a samcro party without alcohol and getting high. also if there isn't someone getting fucked on a pool table.

words: 1k

notes: welcome to week one of kinktober! i'm not the best at sticking the day-to-day tasks so i'm following along with lazy ghoul's weekly promptsif you want to see more thigh riding with jax, or something else entirely, send me an ask!

"C'mere."

This was the only warning you had before Jax's strong fingers curled around your wrist and tugged you away from the crow eater you were in the middle of a conversation with. You gave him no resistance, as you've always enjoyed the way he manhandled you and how bossy he got when he was in a mood. You allowed him to tow you along behind him, giggling and stumbling in your high heels, before he turned to face you, his mouth immediately crashing against yours.

Jax kissed exactly how he fucked: roughly, with teeth and tongue, and hot breaths.

You moaned into his mouth as he perched atop a stool at the unoccupied end of the bar, his hands on your hips pulling you forward until you were straddling him. He had half a mind to fuck you right then and there—to shove his jeans down to his knees, hike up your pretty dress, and sink deep into your cunt with one sure stroke.

He'd never been the type of man to wait. If he had an itch, it needed to be scratched. Jax doubted anyone would even notice if he pounded your cunt until you were screaming and creaming on his cock. If they did, he doubted anyone would actually care. Most of them were plastered or higher than a kite, or both; Bobby Elvis was on the pool table going down with some pretty blue-eyed thing, while Tig was leaning back in one of the armchairs, a hand in the hair of some blonde-haired woman, who was sucking his cock like she simultaneously loved and hated it.

Not a single one of them would care, but even though the two of you had only been mutually exclusive for a few months, Jax knew you; he knew that you weren't into public sex. The club life was still new; it was as exciting as it was frightening, and you weren't ready to be vulnerable in front of all these people.

"Jax," your voice was impossibly soft as he tugged on your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his wondering mouth. If the rough drag of his lips against your skin hadn't distracted you from your utter desperation, you would have flushed with embarrassment. He followed a droplet of sweat down the column of your throat before finding the pulse point beating wildly at the junction of your shoulder.

His fingers tightened around your hips, the tips of them kneading the doughy flesh until it felt like you were bruised. Your own hips moved in response, grinding against him with anticipation and impatience. Jax had a room out the back; you knew that. You'd spent the night once or twice. With your arms wrapped tightly around his broad shoulders, you bucked against him, your clothed cunt catching on the crotch of his jeans, the zipper sending a zing of pleasure through your core.

You chased that feeling desperately, despite the soft groans coming from the leather-bound man. His hand curling around your throat brought you back into the moment, your eyes snapping over to stare into his own pretty blue ones. You noticed they were dark with desire, his pupils blowing wide while you continued to move against him, chasing friction of any kind, whining softly at him. "Jesus," he muttered before kissing you again, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing your moans. "Gimme a second to get my shit together."

Both of you were drunk and not yet sober enough for a romp between the sheets, but you still needed each other. His hands slid to your waist, shifting you so that you were straddling one leg instead of his waist. "Like this," he said softly, his hands returning to your hips to pull you back and forth across his thigh. "Just until I can take care of you, babe."

Your breath hitched as the rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your clothed cunt. Your panties were already soaked, but he didn't mind. Jax liked that he could excite you with a few quick kisses and dirty words; he liked the wet spots you'd leave on his jeans. You buried your face against his neck to muffle the sounds of the whimpers and moans he was pulling from you. Your hands burrowed into the thicket of tresses at the back of his neck, drawing him in deeper, and you were lost in him—the smell of his sweat-slicked skin, the taste of tobacco on his tongue, the feel of his finger bruising into your skin—utterly and hopelessly lost.

He gave you a few minutes to enjoy yourself. The feeling of him manhandling your body was exquisite; it never ceased to amaze you that something so simple, such as thigh riding, could send you sky-rocketing so suddenly. Jax pressed a kiss against the side of your head as you continued to roll your hips back and forth along his thigh. "Open your eyes, princess. I want to watch when you're cumming for me."

You whined in response. You wanted to carve your way beneath his skin and never leave the shelter of his body, but one of his hands snaked beneath your dress. He toyed with the band of your panties, his blunt nails plucking at the stitching before he pulled on them roughly, making the opposite side dig into your doughy flesh. With a chuckle, he let it snap back into place, causing your body jolt in his arms.

"There she is," he cooed mockingly when you finally raised your head. Your eyes were blurred and glossy as you rutted against him, your pace sloppy and frantic. His hands were everywhere and nowhere, all at once. "Y'look so pretty like this baby, like a desperate slut." His words were accentuated when he lifted his knee, changing the angle at which you rubbed against him.

Your teeth gnashed wildly at your lower lip to stifle the sound that ripped up from your chest. Jax slid his hand into your panties and grabbed a fistful of your ass, the tips of his fingers going a little bit south to find the wetness between your thighs, so that he could make your ride at a gruelling pace. A searing heat was starting to simmer in the pit of your stomach, making your blood boil until you were sweating and burning from the inside out.

Your mouth found his when you couldn't keep quiet. He felt the vibrations and your moans, and he swallowed each of the pretty noises you made. "Jax, s'close. Please, please, baby." You babbled against his lips, your fingers tightening around his hair and pulling roughly, making him growl. He bounced his knee once, the rough fabric catching against your clit through the barrier of clothing. Your cunt clenched around nothing, and you suddenly felt so horribly empty.

Jax kissed you hard; his tongue bullied its way past your lips while the tension in your stomach became too much and snapped. It was immediate and intense, leaving you shaking in his arms. A fire-storm trail-blazed through your body, igniting the blood in your veins. Static settled behind your ears, blocking out the world as you rode each shock-wave of euphoria as though it were your last. Your orgasm was intense and loud, leaving you moaning against his mouth, his name a symphony falling repeatedly from your lips as he kept your hips moving, drawing out the moment for as long as possible.

At long last, the tension escaped from your body, and you sagged against him, your vision finally clearing as he kissed you softly and lazily, waiting for you to come down from the clouds. When you realise what just happened, where it just happened, you hide your face against his neck again, although this time your tongue swiped wetly against his skin. Jax hummed when you nibbled at a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. He pressed his mouth against your hair to hide the smirk that found his lips. The smell of your shampoo invaded his lungs as you shifted against him, the cold air hitting the wet patch your orgasm had left on his jeans.

"Ready for me to take care of you properly, princess?"

[mystra-midnight]

Possession

summary: even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. he would have seen in the depths of her fiery eyes.

tags: 18+ only. emotional anguish. brief mentions of rape. brief mentions of abuse. astarion being a respectable horndog. he's also got it bad for his girl: because he needs real love dammit

w/c: 1.2k

a/n: i finally started playing bg3 after waiting and waiting for it to be released and then never having the time. astarion is always my number one. here is a little moment with him and vitani, my bg3 character. but truly it could be any tiefling character or reader.

Panic. 

That was what she had felt the first time she'd awoken to find Astarion staring down at her with those perfectly pointed fangs. It had pooled in the pit of her stomach and festered, burning as she swallowed around the feeling. Vitani had tried to push it down, tried to ignore the way it twisted through her organs like a snake, poisoning her from the inside out, starting where he couldn't see the damage.

Except he knew. Well, no, he suspected.

How could he have known the truth? He was but a stranger then, a predator looking for a meal. Astarion couldn't have possibly known the torment of her past when she refused to breathe life into it by speaking words aloud. He couldn't have known that the scars on her body were from something other than fighting. He couldn't have known that her body had not always belonged to her.

But he'd seen the mirror of his emotions in her demon eyes and had suspected the dark truth. When he'd looked down at her, watching the way she scrunched her eyes shut and refused to watch as he came closer, when he'd looked at how her claws burrowed into the dirt to ground herself, when he'd felt the tension coiled through her blood and watched how she refused to move or breathe, he suspected where her anxiety stemmed from.

At the beginning of his undead life, he acted much the same. But hunger won, and he'd fed. 

She should have told him then, taking the time to explain the feelings his feeding invoked. She should have told him that it brought a long-buried past to the surface of her mind and turned memories into reality. Teeth and tongue, claw and fang— she felt them on her skin again. The bite of the whip as it lashed skin from bone. The taste of a dozen men’s essence.

The memories of those nights were unrelenting, making her feel so small, so helpless. Having him shadowed over her reminded her of how she’d been property to be taken and used. And yet, Vitani had trusted him for reasons she didn’t fully understand even now. And Astarion had almost betrayed that trust— he’d almost lost himself in blood-lust.

And now here they were, in the same situation again.

Except this time, he knew.

Even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. He would have seen in the depths of her fiery eyes.

Vitani felt impossibly small, lost in the memories bubbling to the surface of her mind as she lay beneath him. There was a rising panic threatening to choke her. A secret part of her wanted to fight and hide her feelings: to keep him at arm's length.

Breath struggled to feed her starving lungs as she took in the sight of him— beautiful and haunting, untouched by the hands of time. He smelled like bergamot and rosemary, and his lips tasted like brandy when he kissed her. Astarion always seemed to invade her senses, somehow smothering and drowning her while breathing life into her lungs.

Her fingertips touched his cool skin and traced along the points of his ears, eliciting the undead's pleased and quiet growl. But even that sound couldn't soothe her as it usually did. Her skin felt burned beneath the weight of his desires, yet she shivered beneath his ice-cold touch. 

"Sweet flower." His voice was soft, each syllable breathy, as light as air. His lips followed a familiar path along the slope of her neck, where the tips of his fangs caught at her racing pulse. Her body jolted beneath him, pleasure and trepidation painting the whimper that tumbled past her traitorous lips.

Her claws found purchase in his pale skin, but he felt them tremble. Her hips canted, seeking friction, and he caught them in his palms to pin her in place.

"Vitani." His voice was louder this time, though no less captivating.

This time, fiery orbs drew open to find his vermillion stare. His eyes had deepened to blood red and glistened beneath the moonlight. Vitani stared at him, brows drawn together ever so slightly. For a moment, he was tempted to soothe the wrinkles away with the swipe of his thumb, but he was as still as night.

"Astarion?" Her voice shook, quaked beneath the force of her emotions, arousal and lust, hesitation and fear. His expression was soft yet serious as he gazed into her eyes, refusing to let her look away and count the stars, as she so often did to avoid talking about her emotions.

He had learned how she behaved— how she thought and fought. Vitani had a tenacity that rivalled their hellion companion and a magical finesse that made the Wizard of Waterdeep envious. He had also learned what upset, frightened, and excited her.

And through each minute spent in her company, he had ached for this moment. Astarion longed to feel her velvet heat wrapped around his length, for her to give herself to him as he gave himself to her. He wanted to hear her scream his name, to watch her write beneath him, to swallow the breathless moans from her lips. Astarion longed for her, craved her, and coveted her.

But he could not hurt her. 

"I can feel you shaking," he said softly, leaning down to ghost his nose along hers. "We do not need to. A kiss is more than enough for now. We can stop." Even his appetites, the carnal lust that ruled his roost, could not stay satiated on the taste of her lips alone.

Their placement was not unlike the first time: her on her back, him between her thighs. But it was so very different. Clothes had been forfeited in the heat of the moment, now lying haphazardly on the forest floor. She could feel the weight of his erection pressed against her core, the chill that met her heat. And this time, she wanted him more than she could remember wanting anyone, more than she'd wanted her freedom for so many years.

This time, he was not a predator, and she was not prey.

"No," she answered in a whisper.

He was partway through peeling himself from her, the separation of their skin agonizing in his mind, when her thighs tightened around his slim waist, trapping him there. "I don't want you to stop."

The Pale Elf lofted a finely sculpted brow as his undead heart thumped. She canted her hips again, letting his erection press through her slick folds, letting him feel her arousal. With seeking hands, she pulled him down and found his lips with her own. She smelled like nightshade and lavender and tasted like vanilla. And his head swam.

And in that moment, Vitani knew that her body was still not her own. But she was not afraid because it belonged to Astarion— the pale elf who had lived two centuries, who had been possessed, used, and manipulated. Who had been hurt, and who had been broken. They were kindred spirits— opposite sides of the same coin. If ever there was one person who understood the wild racing of her heart and the torment of her thoughts, it was him.

"I'm yours, Astarion."

And as though words had not been enough to prove her devotion, Vitani offered him her throat.

[mystra-midnight]

Possession

summary: even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. he would have seen it in the depths of her fiery eyes.

tags: 18+ only. emotional anguish. brief mentions of rape. brief mentions of abuse. astarion being a respectable horndog. he's also got it bad for his girl: because he needs real love dammit

w/c: 1.2k

a/n: i finally started playing bg3 after waiting and waiting for it to be released and then never having the time. astarion is always my number one. here is a little moment with him and vitani, my bg3 character. but truly it could be any tiefling character or reader.

Panic. 

That was what she had felt the first time she'd awoken to find Astarion staring down at her with those perfectly pointed fangs. It had pooled in the pit of her stomach and festered, burning as she swallowed around the feeling. Vitani had tried to push it down, tried to ignore the way it twisted through her organs like a snake, poisoning her from the inside out, starting where he couldn't see the damage.

Except he knew. Well, no, he suspected.

How could he have known the truth? He was but a stranger then, a predator looking for a meal. Astarion couldn't have possibly known the torment of her past when she refused to breathe life into it by speaking words aloud. He couldn't have known that the scars on her body were from something other than fighting. He couldn't have known that her body had not always belonged to her.

But he'd seen the mirror of his emotions in her demon eyes and had suspected the dark truth. When he'd looked down at her, watching the way she scrunched her eyes shut and refused to watch as he came closer, when he'd looked at how her claws burrowed into the dirt to ground herself, when he'd felt the tension coiled through her blood and watched how she refused to move or breathe, he suspected where her anxiety stemmed from.

At the beginning of his undead life, he acted much the same. But hunger won, and he'd fed. 

She should have told him then, taking the time to explain the feelings his feeding invoked. She should have told him that it brought a long-buried past to the surface of her mind and turned memories into reality. Teeth and tongue, claw and fang— she felt them on her skin again. The bite of the whip as it lashed skin from bone. The taste of a dozen men’s essence.

The memories of those nights were unrelenting, making her feel so small, so helpless. Having him shadowed over her reminded her of how she’d been property to be taken and used. And yet, Vitani had trusted him for reasons she didn’t fully understand even now. And Astarion had almost betrayed that trust— he’d almost lost himself in blood-lust.

And now here they were, in the same situation again.

Except this time, he knew.

Even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. He would have seen it in the depths of her fiery eyes.

Vitani felt impossibly small, lost in the memories bubbling to the surface of her mind as she lay beneath him. There was a rising panic threatening to choke her. A secret part of her wanted to fight and hide her feelings: to keep him at arm's length.

Breath struggled to feed her starving lungs as she took in the sight of him— beautiful and haunting, untouched by the hands of time. He smelled like bergamot and rosemary, and his lips tasted like brandy when he kissed her. Astarion always seemed to invade her senses, somehow smothering and drowning her while breathing life into her lungs.

Her fingertips touched his cool skin and traced along the points of his ears, eliciting the undead's pleased and quiet growl. But even that sound couldn't soothe her as it usually did. Her skin felt burned beneath the weight of his desires, yet she shivered beneath his ice-cold touch. 

"Sweet flower." His voice was soft, each syllable breathy, as light as air. His lips followed a familiar path along the slope of her neck, where the tips of his fangs caught at her racing pulse. Her body jolted beneath him, pleasure and trepidation painting the whimper that tumbled past her traitorous lips.

Her claws found purchase in his pale skin, but he felt them tremble. Her hips canted, seeking friction, and he caught them in his palms to pin her in place.

"Vitani." His voice was louder this time, though no less captivating.

This time, fiery orbs drew open to find his vermillion stare. His eyes had deepened to blood red and glistened beneath the moonlight. Vitani stared at him, brows drawn together ever so slightly. For a moment, he was tempted to soothe the wrinkles away with the swipe of his thumb, but he was as still as night.

"Astarion?" Her voice shook, quaked beneath the force of her emotions, arousal and lust, hesitation and fear. His expression was soft yet serious as he gazed into her eyes, refusing to let her look away and count the stars, as she so often did to avoid talking about her emotions.

He had learned how she behaved— how she thought and fought. Vitani had a tenacity that rivalled their hellion companion and a magical finesse that made the Wizard of Waterdeep envious. He had also learned what upset, frightened, and excited her.

And through each minute spent in her company, he had ached for this moment. Astarion longed to feel her velvet heat wrapped around his length, for her to give herself to him as he gave himself to her. He wanted to hear her scream his name, to watch her write beneath him, to swallow the breathless moans from her lips. Astarion longed for her, craved her, and coveted her.

But he could not hurt her. 

"I can feel you shaking," he said softly, leaning down to ghost his nose along hers. "We do not need to. A kiss is more than enough for now. We can stop." Even his appetites, the carnal lust that ruled his roost, could not stay satiated on the taste of her lips alone.

Their placement was not unlike the first time: her on her back, him between her thighs. But it was so very different. Clothes had been forfeited in the heat of the moment, now lying haphazardly on the forest floor. She could feel the weight of his erection pressed against her core, the chill that met her heat. And this time, she wanted him more than she could remember wanting anyone, more than she'd wanted her freedom for so many years.

This time, he was not a predator, and she was not prey.

"No," she answered in a whisper.

He was partway through peeling himself from her, the separation of their skin agonizing in his mind, when her thighs tightened around his slim waist, trapping him there. "I don't want you to stop."

The Pale Elf lofted a finely sculpted brow as his undead heart thumped. She canted her hips again, letting his erection press through her slick folds, letting him feel her arousal. With seeking hands, she pulled him down and found his lips with her own. She smelled like nightshade and lavender and tasted like vanilla. And his head swam.

And in that moment, Vitani knew that her body was still not her own. But she was not afraid because it belonged to Astarion— the pale elf who had lived two centuries, who had been possessed, used, and manipulated. Who had been hurt, and who had been broken. They were kindred spirits— opposite sides of the same coin. If ever there was one person who understood the wild racing of her heart and the torment of her thoughts, it was him.

"I'm yours, Astarion."

And as though words had not been enough to prove her devotion, Vitani offered him her throat.

[mystra-midnight]

i’m weak. this has me weak. everything about it is perfect and I need this vamp in my life so badly.

clumsy | astarion a.

genre(s): romance, erotica (kinda sorta) warnings: blood drinking, dry humping, steaminess, terms of endearment (petal, sweetling), language summary: you get hurt. astarion helps the best way he knows how. spoiler: it's with his mouth. now playing: shirt - sza notes: based off the results for this poll. hope you all enjoy! thank you so much for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

It’s an accident.

Happens when your attention is siphoned by Shadowheart bidding you a “goodnight” over the firelight as she moves to retire to her tent.

You look up from your sword, the whetstone warm and textured in your hand, grinding across your blade in your lap as you offer her a smile.

You’re usually so attentive. So careful. Yet, tonight, you grossly misjudged your ability to multitask.

Shclink!

The cut is inevitable. Tears a hiss from betwixt your lips, and the whetstone plops to the ground along with the weighted thump of your weapon. You’re on your feet, nursing the angry, red line marring your palm. It buds with crimson, a pretty contrast to your skin.

“Hells!” cries Shadowheart, scrambling to your aid. She gently peels your hand away from your chest. Winces at the blood lazily spurring from your cut. A clean slice. Her voice holds concern when she looks up at you. “You’ll live. Would you like me to take care of it?”

Your lips quirk despite the pained knit of your brows. You draw your hand back, cradling it in your other. “Nah. Wouldn’t want you to waste your magic on something so small.”

“You’re sure?”

The tearing of your shirt fills the stilled space between you. Shadowheart blinks as you haphazardly wrap the scrap around your wound, mustering a reassuring smile. “I got it. I’ve had worse. You get some rest.”

Shadowheart smiles something unconvinced. Squeezes your shoulder. “You’ll come find me if you can’t staunch the bleeding?”

You nod, wary of the exhaustion hanging below her eyes. She examines you a moment longer before stepping around you and away from the warmth of the fire.

You watch Shadowheart retreat behind the flap of her tent. Left with the idle crackle of the campfire. Your hand throbs, your blood coloring the fabric you dressed it with.

You suck your teeth. Bend to retrieve your sword, cautiously setting it on the log you once occupied. You feel the hot trickle of your blood coasting down your fingertips. Hear it drip against the soil, the sound amplified in the stillness swallowing you.

You’ll need more than a bit of cloth to manage this.

Your gaze flits to your pack. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, contemplating downing a potion to mend your hand. Then, you spot Gale’s tent. You could trouble him for some help. But, again, you see no need to waste your companion’s magic on something so contrite. You won't die, after all. It’s just blood.

Just…

Blood.

Your mind suddenly sparkles with an idea. A mischievous one, but an idea, nonetheless.

You wipe your hands on your breeches, starting towards a familiar setup. And somehow, devilry sets your face alight along with the coppery glow of the moon.

You find him silhouetted by the moonlight. Curls of white mulling over the deckled pages of a book, seated on a stool at the mouth of his tent.

You’re not trying to be discreet. Feet crunch soundly through the dry grass, alerting the vampire to your presence. Though, you’re sure he could hear you from eons away.

Astarion doesn’t look up as he acknowledges you, concentration nestled amongst his features whilst he turns a page. “Well, hello, sweetling. Fancy a cud—dle?”

The book, once cradled in his palm, clatters to the ground.

His expression is bemused as you slide onto his lap, your legs dangling on either side of his waist. Your arms sluggishly encircle his neck, and your chests brush together, coaxing a surprised sound from his throat.

Astarion intuitively wraps your hips in the circle of his arms to keep you both from toppling over. Angles his neck to stare up at you. His mouth hangs open with an unasked question.

Your voice is light. Twinged with something seductive. Manipulative. “Astarion,” you sing-song.

“Petal?”

“I need you,” you state plainly.

His brows quirk. Quads tense beneath you. “You—what?”

You bite back a laugh. It isn’t often you catch Astarion so off guard. Typically, he’s the one dismantling your resolve with his forwardness.

“As much as I enjoy beating around the bush with you,” Astarion’s nose twitches as he samples the air with it. Vermilion eyes land on you, shining with the slightest bit of apprehension. “You’re bleeding.”

“Keen observation.” You shift upon his lap, thrusting your bloody hand into his face until he goes cross-eyed. “Mind cleaning it up?” It’s more of a demand than it is a request. Damn your innocent face.

Astarion’s mouth twitches. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Hunger wades below the depths of his irises whilst he glances between you and the blood seeping so enticingly through your impromptu bandage.

“Not going to tell me what’s happened?”

You shake your head, that devilish smile still twisting up your lips. “No time. I’m dying, Astarion. Save me. Saaave meee.” You drape your hand over your forehead and lean back to turn up the drama.

He scoffs at your theatrics, feigning aloofness despite his muscles twitching beneath you. “Fine.��� Mumbles about being the cleanup crew as he unravels the cloth from your palm. Attentive and meticulous.

You flinch at the sticky pull of the dressing. The sting is immediately replaced by curiosity surfing along the shoreline of desire as Astarion appraises your wound.

He holds your hand between his. Looks at you with parted lips, saliva puddling in his cheeks. He licks his incisors. His gaze holds a question. Offers an out as it chases the viscous fluid dribbling down your wrist.

Is this truly alright?

You nod, your breath held in your sternum.

Astarion studies you a moment longer before he delicately shackles your wrist in his hand, and his mouth pans in. His lashes shutter, and he groans something hoarse and feral as he presses his lips to the veins of your wrist. You flinch as if scorched by burning coal. How something as simple as a kiss could feel so sinful is beyond you.

You haven’t much time to linger on it because his tongue is sweltering and moving. Languid and obscene as it laps at the trail of crimson marring your skin. Astarion exhales appreciatively, his gaze sifting through his hunger to capture yours. He peppers your wrist with kisses, lips glistening a pretty red amid the moonlight.

You throb. Through hooded eyes, you watch your lover, your mouth parting with shallow breaths. A shudder filters through your bones, his lustful stare unyielding and purposeful.  

He licks a torrid stripe up to your palm with a flattened tongue. Your fingers twitch with the need to touch. Thighs quiver. His wet mouth closes around your laceration with a raspy sound. Fangs graze the worn lines of your hand, and he sucks, drawing a bitten-off groan from your throat.

He feasts like he kisses. Stripping down your barriers, leaving you lightheaded and wanton. Powerful. Overwhelming. You must be swaying, for Astarion wraps an arm around your waist to keep you with him. And a devious hand finds the globe of your ass and squeezes.

Your unoccupied hand curls around the base of his skull. Fingers comb through soft curls, and you press yourself closer to the rigid pane of his body. Your stomach spumes with heat. Somehow, your lover gorging himself on you turns you to mush.

Astarion moans. He fucking moans amid his sticky suckling, and you feel the sound stir something between your legs. He feels it, too, and he springs to life beneath the thick layers of his clothing, twitching against you.

Mindlessly, you bear your pelvis down on his. Sluggish like the drag of a tide, and Astarion hums his praise. He feels good. So wonderful, your body instinctively writhes against his.   

A few more skillful twists of your hips, and Astarion breaks away from your hand all too soon, heaving a breath as if resurfacing from water, his lips crooked with a smirk.

His mouth shines with your blood. Your ichor. And he greedily licks it up, not leaving a single morsel behind. The notion siphons your breath, and you feel like the most exalted thing. Hardly notice your skin gradually mending itself thanks to your lover’s attentiveness.

Once the lustful haze abates, Astarion’s chest rumbles with a chuckle as he draws you ever closer, sealing your body to his. “Tell me, petal. Surely, you didn’t come all this way just to provide me a midnight snack.”

His mouth drags along the slope of your neck, sending little warning shocks throughout your lower extremities. His throat crackles with a groan at the quickening of your pulse, teeth pinpricking your flesh.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” you husk, craning your head back to allow him more access. Still playing innocent as if you didn’t charm him into this wicked dance. “But whatever it is, I like where it’s going.”

Astarion chuckles, lips sealing around your throat and sucking.

Your responding gasp is wet and wanton.

And you find yourself thanking the Gods for your carelessness.

[mystra-midnight]

NARRATOR: "There, in dim firelight, you see him for what he really is; a vampire. A slave to sanguine hunger."

[mystra-midnight]

thank you so much for reblogging my love 😍

Holy Roar

summary: eddie watched your face—the way your mouth twisted and tears dripped from the corners of your eyes because of the over stimulation. he listened to your wild breaths and felt how your body begged for mercy while your soul screamed for more, more, more.

tags: 18+ only. unprotected sex; p in v. praise kink. pet names; good girl, sweet girl, baby. overstimulation. mentions of squirting if you squint. teeth-rotting fluff. eddie being a simp for his girl. soft!eddie but also hints of mean/dom!eddie.

w/c: 2.3k

a/n: eddie might not be religious but he's pretty sure heaven is between your thighs. requested by anon, thank you so much. <3 i needed a reason to be sappy and sweet today after all the drama going on. also, for the record. this was meant to be a drabble but evidently i have no self control.

Eddie Munson wasn't religious, but he did believe in heaven.

He'd swear up and down that he'd seen heaven, and no one had been able to convince him otherwise. The truth was, when he was buried in the tight warmth of your pussy with your arms wrapped around him, he could hear the sound of angels singing. It was a beautiful melody, a crescendo that rang in his ears and brought him to tears.

When he was with you, wrapped in the velvet embrace of your walls, his face hidden against the slope of your neck, the world would melt away. Nothing else mattered in those moments. He wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t a freak; he was just Eddie, and you were just you, and when he moved in you, the holy dark moved too.

And when you came, trembling and twitching beneath him, with pretty moans and whimpers pouring from your kiss-bitten lips, it was like he was born again. When he watched your features twist with rapture, he saw the world through brand new eyes—eyes that were filled with the vision of only you, an angel come to life beneath him, your holy light shining so brightly that he wasn’t sure you were real.

He often had to remind himself that you were.

Sometimes Eddie had to pinch himself just to convince himself that you weren't a beautiful, haunting illusion about to slip through his fingers. It was why he touched you with greedy hands at every opportunity. He touched you because he could, gripping the fat of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the pudge of your stomach, your tits, your cheeks, and your hands.

He was never cruel. Firm, yes; mocking, sometimes, but he could never hurt you. Eddie would hold you with strong hands that never stilled unless he was pounding into you, forcing unholy moans from your pretty mouth.

And unless he was kissing you, his tongue in your mouth, twirling and dancing with yours, he couldn’t stay silent. Eddie loved to whisper sweet nothings in between searing kisses. He would growl in your ear while carving his way to your guts. He would babble mindlessly as he chased his orgasm, fucking you through one, then a second, and then a third.

Some nights he was wild and untamed, whereas others he was kind and gentle.

No matter what, it was always a religious experience.

And tonight was no different.

Eddie had you on your back with your hands pinned above your head; he was holding both of your wrists in one of his larger hands. Your legs were around his waist, and the heels of your feet were pressing into his backside to draw him deeper as he rolled his hips and found that sweet spot that made you sing. Tears ebbed at your lash line, and he chased each one that fell with an eager tongue.

It was a cool evening in Hawkins, Indiana. Sometime past ten, a light rain had settled over the town. Eddie could hear the pitter-patter of droplets as they hit the roof of the caravan, the slide as they cascaded down the awnings, and the splatter as they hit the ground. The window was open, and a cool breeze was playing with the curtains, leaving his sweat-slicked skin goosepimpled.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured. His voice was rough and heavy with lust. “Can’t believe you’re mine,” he continued, mumbling the words against the slope of your neck, where he scrapped his teeth over your racing pulse. You arched beneath him when he dragged a ringed hand down your body, cruising from your throat to your chest, where he paused to brush a thumb over your peddled nipple before tugging on it a little meanly.

He listened to the way your breath hitched and the needy moan that tumbled past your lips when he moved his hand lower to the apex of your thighs. Eddie Munson was a simple man who loved you in this state—cock-drunk and floating in the clouds.

He loved to watch you come undone for him. He loved the way your back would arch, the way your muscles would tighten and flex, how you pulled him in and pushed him away when the pleasure mounted, and the way you couldn’t seem to get enough air while riding each orgasm. He couldn’t get enough of you; he was addicted to you.

“Bet you’re sensitive, baby.” Eddie said, gliding his pointer and ring finger on either side of your clit, which was still buzzing from the last orgasm he’d pulled from the depths of your soul. He felt you twitch beneath him, heard the sharp intake of breath, and heard the muffled whine that escaped your pretty mouth. “But look at you—still s’fucking wet. You’ve soaked the sheets, girl. But you're gonna cum again, aren’t you? Good, I need to hear those pretty sounds.”

He posed it as a question, but he wasn’t asking. Eddie took advantage of your delirious state, licking a long, wet strip up the column of your throat and moaned deeply as he savoured the sweat-slicked taste of your skin. Eddie didn't care that you were sweaty, that you were dishevelled, or that you were making a mess of his sheets. He cared that you were here and that you were beneath him.

He watched your face as he rolled his hips, his cock piercing through your velvet walls and his balls slapping against your ass as he drove deeper. Your lips parted in a perfect 'o', and you squirmed, straining to close your legs only to find his slim waist holding them open as a familiar heat sparked to life between your hips.

“I can’t.”

He said the words with you, as he already knew that you would say them. Eddie Munson was a menace that ruled your life, and you were a marionette on a string, so sweet and eager to please him. He could play you like a fiddle. He knew what words built you up and which ones sent you tumbling down again. As though to prove this, he circled his fingers around your clit, slick with arousal, left, then right, then spread them again, trapping your clit between his fingers with just a hint of pressure.

You keened loudly, throwing your head back and exposing your throat—an invitation that he quickly accepted. Eddie smeared hot, wet kisses along your skin, listening to the whimpers and whines that spilt from your lips as he rubbed your nub, enjoying the way you tugged at your wrists and writhed beneath him. “S’too much, Eddie. Eddie, please, please.”

You sounded so pretty when you begged; your voice was breathless and ethereal as you begged for something you couldn't decide on. Mercy or more—you didn't know.

But he did.

"You can," he replied. Eddie buried his face against your neck, his hot breath balmy against your skin, as he nuzzled his nose below the curve of your jaw before sucking a dark mark into your skin. "Just one more, I promise, baby, then I'll let you rest." It was the devil's lie, one that came easily from his tongue.

Eddie Munson was an addict, and you were his drug of choice. In truth, he knew that he would be going to hell, so he was going to enjoy heaven while he could. He kissed you without warning. Hard, slowly, thoroughly, just because he could. It made you moan and made your toes curl.

“Need you to cum again—fuck—just one more, that’s all I want."

“Mhmm, okay,” you whimpered, high-pitched and breathless, as he moved his fingers in tight circles around your nub, switching direction once, then twice. And then he moved. Eddie sat back on his haunches, threw your legs over his shoulders, and pulled you closer so that he could drive deeper, until you felt him in your lungs.

Your obedience and willingness made him smile. Eddie licked your calf, his teeth scraping teasingly at your ankle. Your pussy clenched hotly around his aching length. "You're such a good girl, aren’t you? S’fucking pretty, s’fucking sweet. Fuck, I love you,” he rambled, lost in the moment. The taste of you swimming in his mouth and the sight of you flooding his eyes were too much for him to bear.

You were beautiful; an angel trapped it in a rhapsody of pleasure—all his. Eddie pulled out slowly, your velvet heat clutching at his cock. He watched with wide and wondrous eyes as your hole clenched and winked at him, but it was the combination of pre-cum and slick dripping from you—the way it slid down the crack of your ass and joined the mess you'd made of the sheets—that broke his resolve.

The groan that clawed up the back of his throat was something feral and all-consuming, calling to something buried inside of you. Your answering whine was desperate. Eddie grabbed your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, so that he could watch the blissed expression in your eyes as he filled you again, hard and to the brim. "Look at you, girl, so cum-drunk that you're leaking on my cock. My pretty, perfect girl."

Time began to slow down. Heat slithered like a snake through your veins, slow to start as it set your body aflame, and then faster, striking with venom and fangs until your eyes rolled so far back that Eddie was sure you'd see your own brain. You were in a trance, and it was no one but Eddie’s fault.

You couldn’t answer him, even if you had wanted to. Each time he fucked into you, his cock spearing through your walls and reaching the depths of your being, the air was forced from your lungs, leaving you breathless and floating higher in the sky. He left a trail of wet kisses along your ankle, lapping at each bite with an eager tongue while he found your mound with the opposite hand, thumb swiping left and right, then, round and round, your clit.

The piston of his hips didn’t slow when you pushed against his abdomen, nails scratching the surface of his skin as though you wanted to burrow beneath it and live there. Eddie watched your face—the way your mouth twisted and tears dripped from the corners of your eyes because of the over stimulation. He listened to your wild breaths and felt how your body begged for mercy while your soul screamed for more, more, more.

“Too much, Eddie,” you gasped, all breathless and sweet. Eddie smiled down at you, a beautiful lopsided grin that had the snake in your veins pulling tighter. It was so tight now that you thought you might die—that your bones would break and your heart would give. But the look in your eyes—that sly come-hither stare—told him you needed that release almost as much as you needed to breathe.

"You're going to be a good girl and cum for me, yeah? You're squeezing my dick so tight, baby, you're going to fucking break it.” Eddie chortled. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped from his nose, and landed on your chest as he bent to brush his mouth against yours. Your legs fell from his shoulders, knees coming to rest in the crook's of his arms as he shadowed over you like a perfect machiavellian devil.

His lips smashed against yours in a kiss made entirely of tongue, teeth, and saliva. It was messy, sloppy, and desperate, leaving a string of saliva connecting your lips when you finally parted. Eddie was lost, chasing his own release that was hurtling towards him like a semi with its brakes cut.

And then it happened, all at once and without warning.

One moment you grabbed at him, clawing at his back and pulling on his hair, and then you were breathless, your limbs locked and your head thrown back. It was like the sky split open and a bolt of lightning speared through you, connecting with that sweet spot Eddie was abusing, only to arch throughout your body. You came screaming his name, and it was the sound of heaven, and he rejoiced.

"You're so good to me, sweet girl," Eddie said. His lips left a trail of blistering kisses from your chin, down your jaw, and to your neck, where he hid his face against your sweat-slicked skin. His breath was wild and balmy as he panted against your skin. His muscles twisted and knotted as the force of his impending orgasm grew. "I'm going—fuck—I'm going to marry you. I'm going to put a ring on your finger and buy you a fucking house."

And he meant it. If there was one thing on God's green earth that Eddie Munson was completely and irrevocably certain about, it was you. He was going to make you his wife. He was going to give you his name. He was going to give you his kids.

He felt you grab him again, your nails reclaiming their position on his shoulders as the world started to fade into background ambience. A haze overcame his vision, glowing orange from the fire raging within him. And then the tension in his body broke, ricocheting through him with the force of a hurricane.

Eddie speared through your walls one last time before settling deep within you, so deep that you could feel him pressing against the back of your throat. His weight above you was like a weighted blanket that is smothering but comfortable. It kept you grounded while you ride the coattails of your orgasm. Eddie came with a guttural groan, his abdominal muscles flexing as he filled you with thick ropes of his seed.

Seconds slid into minutes before he withdrew and collapsed to the bed at your side. The sheets were a mess at the foot of the bed, and the sound of the rain was louder now. The room smelled like sweat, sex, and fresh rain. You were both quiet as you floated through the clouds, content to lay side-by-side and let the silence bloom. There was nothing either of you had to say—the moment was already perfect because, while Eddie Munson wasn't religious, he did believe in heaven.

And with you, he felt born again.

tags: @hideoutside

[mystra-midnight]

calling anyone that might be interested in this <3

i'm looking for someone to be a test reader; what does this mean? well, you will get the read part one before anyone else and a special shout out and thanks. plus all my love and attention.

do you think it read well? were you confused by anything? do you have suggestions? do you have any comments to make? you don't need to write a novel about what you like and don't like, just a comment here and there.

please keep in mind that i work predominantly on google docs.

if you think you're interested in helping out, come slide into my DMs.

pairing: rockstar ! eddie x innocent ! reader

tags: au. 18+ only. fem reader. loss of virginity. corruption kink. oral; (fem & male receiving). dirty talk. fingering. penetrative sex. semi-public sex. break-up/make-up sex. marking; (hickeys, bites, scratches). hints of sub/dom.

w/c: to be advised.

summary: in the midst of a sold-out concert, two worlds ended up colliding. one belonging to eddie munson, with his wild hair, leather jackets, and guitar skills that could make anyone blush. the other was yours, filled with pretty dresses, pastel colours and smiles that could shine in a rain storm. you might have seen him in magazines and on tv, but you never thought about him like this until steve harrington and robin buckley dragged you along to that concert. now you can't get him out of your mind; you're not sure whether to be grateful or resentful.

part i

part ii

part iii

part iv

part v

(dividers credit @saradika) (support & mdni banner credit @cafekitsune) (header credit @mystra-midnight)

[mystra-midnight]

next on the agenda... part one of call me little sunshine...

[mystra-midnight]

Dark Paradise

summary: geralt was all-consuming, invading every one of your senses; somehow, he'd snaked his way beneath your skin and between your ribs before burrowing into your heart. he lived there now, and you couldn't breathe without him.

warnings: 18+ only. breeding kink. overstimulation. mentions of multiple orgasm. name calling; slut. dom!geralt.

words: 1k.

notes: no one will ever convince me that geralt is a soft man. he is all strength, and arrogance, and hard muscles. and he will dominate his woman. admittedly this is shorter then i wanted it to be, and maybe not my best work, but i do hope you enjoy.

If ever there was something to be grateful for, it was this: being able to fuck his woman raw without the fear of an unwanted pregnancy. Having you naked beneath him was everything Geralt wanted—to watch your velvet walls stretch around his cock's girth, to feel your body tremble as he rocked his hips against your ass, to watch your cum mixed with his be forced from your tight hole with each brutal thrust.

You knew, completely and irrevocably, that there was no chance of falling pregnant with Geralt of Rivia. The trials had made him sterile, though you boiled fennel and drank it regularly to be certain. Your mother taught you from the eve of your first bleed to protect yourself against others, to trust no one but yourself, and that having a child with the wrong man could lead your life to ruin.

But tonight he had come to your cottage on the outskirts of the village in a foul and angry mood, with snarling tongue and gnashing fangs. He refused to tell you what had happened as he forced you down to your knees. All he'd wanted was your naked body beneath him.

"Geralt." Your voice quivered and rose to a crescendo when he speared through the satin clutch of your cunt and hit the sweet spot that sent your eyes spinning. Geralt of Rivia was not a small man—not in any sense of the word. He was tall and impossibly strong. His eyes were intense, and his hair was the colour of starlight. With broad shoulders and a myriad of scars along his body, he was every woman's fantasy.

And he refused to treat you with fragility. To him, you were not a damsel in distress. So he fucked like he fought, with teeth and tongue, and in every position. "I-I can't. S'too much."

Your thighs trembled under the lingering force of the three orgasms Geralt had pulled from the depths of your soul—on his fingers, tongue, and cock. Another one would surely kill you; you would float away from your body and away from him, never to return. But the idea of him filling you again was heavenly and impossible to deny—not when he dominated you so beautifully.

"You can," he grunted, his voice a rough growl. Geralt followed a bead of sweat that dripped down your spine with the tip of his tongue, leaving your sweat-slick skin goosepimpled. His hand followed the same path until he gripped the nape of your neck and pressed you into the mattress, keeping you cemented in place as he filled into you again. “You can, because I’m not stopping.”

Geralt knew that you wouldn't reply—at least not verbally. The impact of his hips against your ass was brutal, forcing the air from your mouth in pretty moans. The clutch of your cunt was more than enough of an answer. He smeared his lips along your shoulder as he shadowed over you like a terrible, haunting visage. The angle made it seem as though he was in your guts, rearranging your organs.

"That's a good girl," he cooed against your skin, his tone positively mocking. "Now, you stay right there while I fuck a baby into you. That's what my slut wants, isn't it? To be swollen with my child?"

He turned feral and ferocious in a flash, ruthlessly rutting into you. He drove you to the brink of yet another orgasm as you clawed at the sheets. Between whoreish moans, your walls tightened around him, leaving you gasping for air. A familiar warmth moved through your aching limbs and raced through your blood while a thunderstorm roared behind your ears.

"Geralt. Geralt, please, I can't. I can't—oh, fuck. There, r-right there." You babbled mindlessly. You felt lost in the sensation of his hands grabbing here, there, and everywhere. You felt lost in the sting of his teeth and tongue and how he tasted your skin. You felt lost in the pressure of his fingers and how he left bruise-shaped prints everywhere he touched.

"Right here?" He demanded. His fingers dug into the curve of your hips as he pulled you back to meet his pelvis, the sound of wet skin connecting echoing loudly in the small cottage. You squirmed and keened when he hit that sweet spot. "Is this what my slut needed—to feel me this deep?"

You didn’t hear him over the thunderstorm, which had grown into a deafening roar that blocked out the world. And as your vision went white, the pressure snapped, and a bolt of lightning sparked a wildfire in your blood. You felt like you were burning alive; the air in your lungs was superheated, and nothing could cool it. You came hard, screaming his name as he held you in place.

Geralt held you tightly, fingerprint bruises decorating your skin while galaxies burst to life inside your veins. The warmth of your cunt was divine, a heavenly caress as he rutted into you, chasing his own release as he threw his head back. "There you go," he grunted. He slapped your ass just hard enough to get your attention. "You're such a good slut. Does it feel good cumming for me while I breed you?"

You still couldn't answer him; each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, leaving your mouth open as you gasped, squealed, and wriggled in his grasp. Geralt didn't seem to mind. With a final thrust, he buried himself. His hand in your hair held you in place and tinged your scalp with a pleasurable sort of pain as the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving your clit throbbing in time with your heartbeats.

It was a welcomed feeling when his release painted your walls—a feeling that made your brain foggy. And despite the haze clouding your thoughts, you knew in that moment you would give yourself to this man. Not only your heart, but your body as well. You knew that if there was a way, you would give him what he wanted, and you would let him breed you.

[mystra-midnight]

hand to god I stand by all of this. nothing makes me happier then likes and reboots on my older fics. and if you do it, you will get love and more hugs then you’ll know what to do with. 😍

Dear readers.

This is your friendly reminder to every once in a while search the bottom of writers masterlists for older fics.

So many treasures lie dormant and buried under the heap of stories posted every day. Treasures that have been made with love and time and effort and proverbial blood that have been posted at a bad time or when the writers audience was still smaller.

There is no expiration date on fics, it's not weird to go back to things that were posted over a year ago or longer and leave some love and appreciation.

It can feel draining and frustrating to writers to witness their stories, which have taken days, weeks or months to construct and write be dead in the water after less than a week. The pressure to deliver something new all the time while something one is so proud of lies dormant and forgotten can burn people out and make them feel inadequate about their writing.

I guarantee you, you're missing out on something that would blow your mind because it has been lost on the timeline where nobody is looking.

Go and read an old fic the next time you crave something to read. And reblog that hot shit.

[mystra-midnight]

✮⋆˙☾.⋆✮ 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑

ash || 30 || she/her || pansexual || australia

taurus ☼ || aquarius ☾ || aquarius ↑

avid roleplay writer in various forums. d&d enthusiast. nightsister of dathomir. amateur graphics maker.

✮⋆˙☾.⋆✮ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

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✮⋆˙☾.⋆✮ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

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✮⋆˙☾.⋆✮ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

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[mystra-midnight]

you as so so sweet thank you so much for following and reblogging!! 😍🥰❤️

Leash

summary: in which eddie gives you a gift

warnings: mostly fluff. nothing explicit is described in great detail. mostly sfw.

words: 1k

notes: inspired by this post by @inklore and also by the party dialogue between ironbull and vivienne in dragon age: inquisition.

You're sitting on the bed in his trailer, feet tucked under yourself, as you look in the little compact mirror you'd fished out of your purse. The light of the van was dim, washing the room in an orangey-yellow glow, but it hadn't hindered your vision as you examined your reflection.

There was a lingering bruise on the side of your neck, just below your ear. It was fresh, only a day or so old. Eddie had sucked, licked, and nibbled your neck while you came on his cock so hard that your bones turned to jelly. Even now, your stomach did a funny little spin at the thought of it. Butterflies winged wildly through your veins as moisture pooled at the apex of your thighs.

And he hadn't touched you since.

You tried not to worry about it, but you always did. Sometimes you worried that Eddie would wake up one day and realise how incompatible the two of you were with your polar-opposite lifestyles and upbringings. You'd been born into the upper class—the latest phone and brand new car for your seventeenth birthday kind of upper class.

Eddie had been born into the lower class—the work for a living, calloused hands, and struggling to make ends meet lower class. He fought through his life, in school and out of it, for the things he had.

That was what made this so special.

He'd bought you a present; he actually bought it for you, he hadn't not stolen it, and he bought it with real money. Although that money wasn't exactly legally obtained, he even had the receipt to prove it.

You stroked your fingers along the choker that was now settled around your throat. It was made of leather, double-lined, and double-layered. The first layer was at least an inch and a half, maybe two, thick and lined with soft padding so that it didn't chaff. It overlapped over your trachea. The second layer was smaller but overlapped at the same point with a buckle, keeping it snug and secure around your neck. And there in the centre, dangling at the hollow of your throat, was a round steel ring.

You dragged your lower lip between your teeth as you caught his eye. Eddie was standing in front of you with those big brown eyes that made your heart do summersaults in your chest. You swallowed, feeling the choker tighten briefly from the motion.

Your nails caught at the choker as you let your hand fall into your lap, along with the other one and that now-closed compact mirror. He was looking at you like a lost puppy, like you'd hung the stars in the sky. You smiled up at him, your sweet metalhead.

"Do you like it?"

"It looks like a collar," you said softly, fingers rising once again to stroke at the stiff material. You almost regretted the words the moment they slipped past your lips, afraid they might upset him or insult the gift he’d given you.

It had only been a few months since the first time you’d been in detention together. That was the day Mr. Henderson slipped out to speak with the principal for a few moments. You’re not sure exactly how it happened; one moment you’d both been silent, then you’d been slipping him money and he’d been slipping you an overstuffed bag, and then he’d been slipping you tongue, and you’d been moaning.

You’d separated before Mr. Henderson returned and were back in your respective seats. You’d rubbed your thighs together to stifle the damp heat between them, and you had ducked your head to hide the kiss-swollen lips.

The rest was history.

"It’s a choker, sweetheart," Eddie explained, stepping close to you so that your knees brushed against his. He captured your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your face up to look at him.

You squirmed in your seat on the bed beneath the intensity of his stare. "I know, it just looks like one," you said, your voice failing you as he slid his fingers across the curve of your jaw and then down your neck. Eddie rubbed his thumb over the dark bruise he'd sucked into your neck softly and tenderly, then found the ring of your choker.

The bed dipped with his weight as he placed a knee on the outside of your thigh. He hooked his finger through the loop as he placed the other knee on the bed, straddling your lap.

He tugged gently on the ring, pulling you against his chest. Your hands settled on his hips, nails scraping against the denim, and then pushed up beneath his shirt. "Eddie," you said his name in a whisper, a little breathlessly, inwardly cringing at how desperate you sounded. He forced you to look at him, holding your gaze with his own dark hues when you tried to look away in embarrassment.

And try as you might not too fall, you fell into the depths of them as though you were falling from the sky, tumbling through stars and galaxies until there was only him and you.

And his lips caught you before you could hit the ground. Eddie kissed you soundly, without urgency, as though he had all the time in the world for you. He cupped your cheek with his other hand, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, keeping your face turned up to him in his elevated position.

When he drew back, your eyes were glossy, and your lash line was shining with tears. He gave the ring of the choker a rough tug, making you swallow. "You don't need to worry, sweetheart. I have no intention of trying to leash anyone." He joked, though even after only a few months, you knew that was something his kinky brain would probably enjoy: you on your knees, a leash in his hand to bridge you together.

You blinked up at him with a blissed smile. "I never worry, Eddie." You encircled his wrist with your own trembling fingers, not letting him remove his finger from the ring. You gave him a rough pull, dragging him down atop you as you lay sprawled on the bed, feet now dangling off the edge.

He reached out with a hand, ring-clad fingers spread wide on the bed, to support himself and keep most of his weight from settling on you. "A leash can be pulled from either end."

[mystra-midnight]

thank you so much for reblogging!! ❤️😭❤️

Holy Roar

summary: eddie watched your face—the way your mouth twisted and tears dripped from the corners of your eyes because of the over stimulation. he listened to your wild breaths and felt how your body begged for mercy while your soul screamed for more, more, more.

tags: 18+ only. unprotected sex; p in v. praise kink. pet names; good girl, sweet girl, baby. overstimulation. mentions of squirting if you squint. teeth-rotting fluff. eddie being a simp for his girl. soft!eddie but also hints of mean/dom!eddie.

w/c: 2.3k

a/n: eddie might not be religious but he's pretty sure heaven is between your thighs. requested by anon, thank you so much. <3 i needed a reason to be sappy and sweet today after all the drama going on. also, for the record. this was meant to be a drabble but evidently i have no self control.

Eddie Munson wasn't religious, but he did believe in heaven.

He'd swear up and down that he'd seen heaven, and no one had been able to convince him otherwise. The truth was, when he was buried in the tight warmth of your pussy with your arms wrapped around him, he could hear the sound of angels singing. It was a beautiful melody, a crescendo that rang in his ears and brought him to tears.

When he was with you, wrapped in the velvet embrace of your walls, his face hidden against the slope of your neck, the world would melt away. Nothing else mattered in those moments. He wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t a freak; he was just Eddie, and you were just you, and when he moved in you, the holy dark moved too.

And when you came, trembling and twitching beneath him, with pretty moans and whimpers pouring from your kiss-bitten lips, it was like he was born again. When he watched your features twist with rapture, he saw the world through brand new eyes—eyes that were filled with the vision of only you, an angel come to life beneath him, your holy light shining so brightly that he wasn’t sure you were real.

He often had to remind himself that you were.

Sometimes Eddie had to pinch himself just to convince himself that you weren't a beautiful, haunting illusion about to slip through his fingers. It was why he touched you with greedy hands at every opportunity. He touched you because he could, gripping the fat of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the pudge of your stomach, your tits, your cheeks, and your hands.

He was never cruel. Firm, yes; mocking, sometimes, but he could never hurt you. Eddie would hold you with strong hands that never stilled unless he was pounding into you, forcing unholy moans from your pretty mouth.

And unless he was kissing you, his tongue in your mouth, twirling and dancing with yours, he couldn’t stay silent. Eddie loved to whisper sweet nothings in between searing kisses. He would growl in your ear while carving his way to your guts. He would babble mindlessly as he chased his orgasm, fucking you through one, then a second, and then a third.

Some nights he was wild and untamed, whereas others he was kind and gentle.

No matter what, it was always a religious experience.

And tonight was no different.

Eddie had you on your back with your hands pinned above your head; he was holding both of your wrists in one of his larger hands. Your legs were around his waist, and the heels of your feet were pressing into his backside to draw him deeper as he rolled his hips and found that sweet spot that made you sing. Tears ebbed at your lash line, and he chased each one that fell with an eager tongue.

It was a cool evening in Hawkins, Indiana. Sometime past ten, a light rain had settled over the town. Eddie could hear the pitter-patter of droplets as they hit the roof of the caravan, the slide as they cascaded down the awnings, and the splatter as they hit the ground. The window was open, and a cool breeze was playing with the curtains, leaving his sweat-slicked skin goosepimpled.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured. His voice was rough and heavy with lust. “Can’t believe you’re mine,” he continued, mumbling the words against the slope of your neck, where he scrapped his teeth over your racing pulse. You arched beneath him when he dragged a ringed hand down your body, cruising from your throat to your chest, where he paused to brush a thumb over your peddled nipple before tugging on it a little meanly.

He listened to the way your breath hitched and the needy moan that tumbled past your lips when he moved his hand lower to the apex of your thighs. Eddie Munson was a simple man who loved you in this state—cock-drunk and floating in the clouds.

He loved to watch you come undone for him. He loved the way your back would arch, the way your muscles would tighten and flex, how you pulled him in and pushed him away when the pleasure mounted, and the way you couldn’t seem to get enough air while riding each orgasm. He couldn’t get enough of you; he was addicted to you.

“Bet you’re sensitive, baby.” Eddie said, gliding his pointer and ring finger on either side of your clit, which was still buzzing from the last orgasm he’d pulled from the depths of your soul. He felt you twitch beneath him, heard the sharp intake of breath, and heard the muffled whine that escaped your pretty mouth. “But look at you—still s’fucking wet. You’ve soaked the sheets, girl. But you're gonna cum again, aren’t you? Good, I need to hear those pretty sounds.”

He posed it as a question, but he wasn’t asking. Eddie took advantage of your delirious state, licking a long, wet strip up the column of your throat and moaned deeply as he savoured the sweat-slicked taste of your skin. Eddie didn't care that you were sweaty, that you were dishevelled, or that you were making a mess of his sheets. He cared that you were here and that you were beneath him.

He watched your face as he rolled his hips, his cock piercing through your velvet walls and his balls slapping against your ass as he drove deeper. Your lips parted in a perfect 'o', and you squirmed, straining to close your legs only to find his slim waist holding them open as a familiar heat sparked to life between your hips.

“I can’t.”

He said the words with you, as he already knew that you would say them. Eddie Munson was a menace that ruled your life, and you were a marionette on a string, so sweet and eager to please him. He could play you like a fiddle. He knew what words built you up and which ones sent you tumbling down again. As though to prove this, he circled his fingers around your clit, slick with arousal, left, then right, then spread them again, trapping your clit between his fingers with just a hint of pressure.

You keened loudly, throwing your head back and exposing your throat—an invitation that he quickly accepted. Eddie smeared hot, wet kisses along your skin, listening to the whimpers and whines that spilt from your lips as he rubbed your nub, enjoying the way you tugged at your wrists and writhed beneath him. “S’too much, Eddie. Eddie, please, please.”

You sounded so pretty when you begged; your voice was breathless and ethereal as you begged for something you couldn't decide on. Mercy or more—you didn't know.

But he did.

"You can," he replied. Eddie buried his face against your neck, his hot breath balmy against your skin, as he nuzzled his nose below the curve of your jaw before sucking a dark mark into your skin. "Just one more, I promise, baby, then I'll let you rest." It was the devil's lie, one that came easily from his tongue.

Eddie Munson was an addict, and you were his drug of choice. In truth, he knew that he would be going to hell, so he was going to enjoy heaven while he could. He kissed you without warning. Hard, slowly, thoroughly, just because he could. It made you moan and made your toes curl.

“Need you to cum again—fuck—just one more, that’s all I want."

“Mhmm, okay,” you whimpered, high-pitched and breathless, as he moved his fingers in tight circles around your nub, switching direction once, then twice. And then he moved. Eddie sat back on his haunches, threw your legs over his shoulders, and pulled you closer so that he could drive deeper, until you felt him in your lungs.

Your obedience and willingness made him smile. Eddie licked your calf, his teeth scraping teasingly at your ankle. Your pussy clenched hotly around his aching length. "You're such a good girl, aren’t you? S’fucking pretty, s’fucking sweet. Fuck, I love you,” he rambled, lost in the moment. The taste of you swimming in his mouth and the sight of you flooding his eyes were too much for him to bear.

You were beautiful; an angel trapped it in a rhapsody of pleasure—all his. Eddie pulled out slowly, your velvet heat clutching at his cock. He watched with wide and wondrous eyes as your hole clenched and winked at him, but it was the combination of pre-cum and slick dripping from you—the way it slid down the crack of your ass and joined the mess you'd made of the sheets—that broke his resolve.

The groan that clawed up the back of his throat was something feral and all-consuming, calling to something buried inside of you. Your answering whine was desperate. Eddie grabbed your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, so that he could watch the blissed expression in your eyes as he filled you again, hard and to the brim. "Look at you, girl, so cum-drunk that you're leaking on my cock. My pretty, perfect girl."

Time began to slow down. Heat slithered like a snake through your veins, slow to start as it set your body aflame, and then faster, striking with venom and fangs until your eyes rolled so far back that Eddie was sure you'd see your own brain. You were in a trance, and it was no one but Eddie’s fault.

You couldn’t answer him, even if you had wanted to. Each time he fucked into you, his cock spearing through your walls and reaching the depths of your being, the air was forced from your lungs, leaving you breathless and floating higher in the sky. He left a trail of wet kisses along your ankle, lapping at each bite with an eager tongue while he found your mound with the opposite hand, thumb swiping left and right, then, round and round, your clit.

The piston of his hips didn’t slow when you pushed against his abdomen, nails scratching the surface of his skin as though you wanted to burrow beneath it and live there. Eddie watched your face—the way your mouth twisted and tears dripped from the corners of your eyes because of the over stimulation. He listened to your wild breaths and felt how your body begged for mercy while your soul screamed for more, more, more.

“Too much, Eddie,” you gasped, all breathless and sweet. Eddie smiled down at you, a beautiful lopsided grin that had the snake in your veins pulling tighter. It was so tight now that you thought you might die—that your bones would break and your heart would give. But the look in your eyes—that sly come-hither stare—told him you needed that release almost as much as you needed to breathe.

"You're going to be a good girl and cum for me, yeah? You're squeezing my dick so tight, baby, you're going to fucking break it.” Eddie chortled. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped from his nose, and landed on your chest as he bent to brush his mouth against yours. Your legs fell from his shoulders, knees coming to rest in the crook's of his arms as he shadowed over you like a perfect machiavellian devil.

His lips smashed against yours in a kiss made entirely of tongue, teeth, and saliva. It was messy, sloppy, and desperate, leaving a string of saliva connecting your lips when you finally parted. Eddie was lost, chasing his own release that was hurtling towards him like a semi with its brakes cut.

And then it happened, all at once and without warning.

One moment you grabbed at him, clawing at his back and pulling on his hair, and then you were breathless, your limbs locked and your head thrown back. It was like the sky split open and a bolt of lightning speared through you, connecting with that sweet spot Eddie was abusing, only to arch throughout your body. You came screaming his name, and it was the sound of heaven, and he rejoiced.

"You're so good to me, sweet girl," Eddie said. His lips left a trail of blistering kisses from your chin, down your jaw, and to your neck, where he hid his face against your sweat-slicked skin. His breath was wild and balmy as he panted against your skin. His muscles twisted and knotted as the force of his impending orgasm grew. "I'm going—fuck—I'm going to marry you. I'm going to put a ring on your finger and buy you a fucking house."

And he meant it. If there was one thing on God's green earth that Eddie Munson was completely and irrevocably certain about, it was you. He was going to make you his wife. He was going to give you his name. He was going to give you his kids.

He felt you grab him again, your nails reclaiming their position on his shoulders as the world started to fade into background ambience. A haze overcame his vision, glowing orange from the fire raging within him. And then the tension in his body broke, ricocheting through him with the force of a hurricane.

Eddie speared through your walls one last time before settling deep within you, so deep that you could feel him pressing against the back of your throat. His weight above you was like a weighted blanket that is smothering but comfortable. It kept you grounded while you ride the coattails of your orgasm. Eddie came with a guttural groan, his abdominal muscles flexing as he filled you with thick ropes of his seed.

Seconds slid into minutes before he withdrew and collapsed to the bed at your side. The sheets were a mess at the foot of the bed, and the sound of the rain was louder now. The room smelled like sweat, sex, and fresh rain. You were both quiet as you floated through the clouds, content to lay side-by-side and let the silence bloom. There was nothing either of you had to say—the moment was already perfect because, while Eddie Munson wasn't religious, he did believe in heaven.

And with you, he felt born again.

tags: @hideoutside

[mystra-midnight]

YES HE DOES JFC

it’s 100% canon and no one will convince me otherwise; eddie is a lover, he doesn’t care what you look like as long as you’re his.

Eddie Munson loves big girls.

He loves soft bellies to lay his head on at night. He loves big squishy thighs that squeeze his head when he’s going down on you. He loves chubby cheeks that he can squeeze with his hands and make your lips pout and pinch when you’re just being oh so cute. He loves big boobs (saggy or not) and big asses that jiggle when you run (or he fucks you). He loves broad shoulders that he rests his head on. He loves big arms that can wrap around his waist in a big, warm, soft hug. He loves the extra skin he can grab onto when he’s pounding into you. He loves the feeling of your weight on top of him whether you’re riding him or just cuddling. He loves how you can keep him warm with your extra body heat. He loves to use you as his personal pillow.

EDDIE MUNSON LOVES BIG GIRLS.

[mystra-midnight]

✮⋆˙☾.⋆✮ 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄

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[mystra-midnight]

isn’t he just all kinds of perfect 😍🙃

thank you for reblogging my love! ❤️

Two Tickets to Paradise

summary: you'd fought and given up, then started fighting again. the lighthouse, which had started as a paradise, was turning into hell, and it was breaking you—slowly tearing away your sanity.

warnings: 18+ only. on the darker side. mentions of alcohol consumption. rough sex. dacryphilia. hints of emotional distress. hints of angst and/or mental anguish.

words: here.

notes: honestly wrote this so surprisingly quickly. murphy's always been one of my favs from the show - the arrogance, the vulnerability, the character development? jesus it just does thinks for me. (i don't think i'd ever say no if you send in thots and imagines for him)

The moment the lighthouse door slammed shut, you should have panicked, but you hadn't been able to find it in yourself to be afraid or even upset. After surviving a trek through a seemingly endless desert, then a boat ride across a seemingly endless ocean, a serpent attack, and a night out in the cold with an injured and angry delinquent, the lighthouse was a welcomed surprise—a perfect paradise.

Not even John—fucking—Murphy, with his toxic tongue and perfect eyes, could ruin your good mood. The two of you had never been particularly close, but you got along well enough that the shared space wasn't uncomfortable. For the first few days, you gave each other space, choosing to sit on opposite sides of the room and occupy yourselves.

Occasionally, the two of you would watch and rewatch the videotape that explained what caused the apocalypse on Earth. On the tenth day, you both drank yourselves stupid and spent hours sharing secrets, thoughts, and theories. You discovered you both had a mutual distrust of the adults who'd arrived on Earth and taken over as though they hadn't sent one hundred kids to their deaths until eventually passing out.

That became your routine for the next forty-five days. Or maybe it was fifty-four. You didn't know.

You tried to keep count, but the days had started to run together, turning into a blur of drunken moments that hurt to think about. You had screamed and cried. You had clawed at the doors until your nails bled. You'd fought and given up, then started fighting again. The lighthouse, which had started as a paradise, was turning into hell, and it was breaking you—slowly tearing away your sanity.

Murphy was in a similar predicament. Some days he screamed and raged around the room, breaking what he could. Other days, he sat completely still and stared ahead as though he no longer inhabited his own body. Eventually, you turned to each other for comfort and escape. That was how you'd found yourself bent over the arm of the sofa, his cock buried deep in your slick walls.

Murphy was wild and untamed, lost in a frenzy of emotions. His hand was fisted in your hair, pulling hard as he pounded you. The sound of his pelvis hitting your ass was obscene and loud, as were the moans and gasps forced from your lips. He was rough—rougher than you liked, but you still couldn't find it in yourself to care.

The pain and pleasure blended so beautifully together that it left you speechless and dazzled, only able to moan each time he pushed into the satin clutch of your cunt. Before this moment, you'd felt hopeless, utterly so, and at the end of your rope, your sanity had been stretched so thin and buried so deep in your being that you never thought you'd find it again.

Murphy found it.

And now the pain was starting to feel so good. It made you forget about the emptiness that had been eating away at you—the hopelessness, the desperation. You needed him. You needed him to stop your thoughts from racing and to fuck everything from your mind until all that remained was him, his cock, and the pleasure searing in your veins.

He happily obliged as he needed the distraction as much as you did.

Both of you needed to feel something—anything—instead of that all-consuming disparity. Luckily, the familiar warmth of orgasm was starting to course through your veins, leaving your skin sweat-slicked and your voice ragged as Murphy adjusted his angle, somehow driving his cock deeper into your sweet cunt, the tip of his cock hitting that spot that sent you suddenly careening.

“Murphy!” You sounded panicked, like you were breaking, and perhaps you were. He did it again, feeling your walls tighten around him. He was dripping with your slick; the wiry hair at the base of his shaft matted; your own equally as messy from where he pulled and yanked it. He was in a frenzy, chasing the climax snaking through his veins, relishing in the feeling of it coiling tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach until he could hardly breathe, until all he felt was flames licking at his skin.

He was going to break you—maybe kill you—but you didn’t care because the same feelings were consuming you. It was glorious and all-consuming. You started to shake. Your thighs trembled so violently that only the arm of the couch kept you from collapsing.

He didn't notice—or maybe he did and he didn't care; either way, it didn't matter; you didn't mind.

He could use you; you'd let him. He could break you; you'd thank him.

But the moment his cock slipped from your slick walls, you couldn't forgive him. Tears stung in your eyes as you sobbed, the sound welling up from your chest only to be drowned under the sounds of his grunts and groans. Murphy snapped his hips forward, seemingly spurred onward by the tears that rolled down your cheeks in rivers, his pelvis meeting the reddened skin of your ass with a sinful slap, slap, slap.

The moment you needed and wanted with every beat of your heart faded away, your orgasm sleeping through your fingers like waters as you felt thick, ivory rops of come hit your lower back. Murphy tugged hard at your hair, sending pain blossoming through your scalp as he shadowed over you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You wanted to be angry. You wanted to fight and rage, as you'd done many times already. But the feel of his other hand moving between your legs, his fingers gathering your slick and bringing it to your own lips to taste, melted such thoughts from your brain.

"Not yet," he hissed, pushing two fingers into your mouth, the taste of your own arousal spreading over your tongue. "Not until you're begging."