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nhmkhnh · 22 days ago

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PAIRINGS: VI X FEM!READER

PREFACE: she ran every calculation, analyzed every outcome— but still couldn’t predict how fucking wrecked you’d make her feel.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: haha i'm back, but nah i remake that loser!vi draft into this thang, yeah.

TAGS: nsfw content · nerd!vi · loser!vi · pervert!vi · possessive!vi · subtext turned explicit · sexual tension · lap sitting · wet dreams · public horniness · accidental touching · strap-on use · vi has zero chill · dirty thoughts and dumber reactions · from moans to mayhem · reader teasing turns vi feral · first time breaking point · horny academic breakdown · dom!vi activation · glasses stay ON · vi says “fuck it” and fucks you.

vi always volunteers to help you review for finals—not because she’s a genius, but because she wants an excuse to sit close. she's that type of nerd who prints out a whole custom cheat sheet in color-coded tabs, highlights things that "might come up," and lowkey loses her train of thought every time your hand brushes hers while reaching for a pencil.

you don’t even notice what she’s doing half the time—but vi? vi is dying quietly.

she’s perched on the edge of her bed, glasses slipping down her nose, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over her fingers as she tries to explain the difference between two formulas. but you lean over to look at her notes, and your shirt slips just an inch. just enough to show your collarbone.

her mouth goes dry.

her voice cracks halfway through a sentence.

“…so if you, um… you d-derive it here…” she coughs and violently turns her face away, pretending to look for her water bottle. “shit. uh. sorry. lost my place.”

you giggle. "you're so red right now."

vi literally cannot breathe. she’s gripping her pen like it’s a lifeline and trying not to imagine things she should not be imagining while you sit there looking like that in her room.

if only you knew the shit she writes in her private notebook later. like how she described your laugh as "effortless dopamine" and rated the way you chew gum a 9.5 on the vi-can’t-focus scale.

oh, and every time you call her smart?

she walks into a wall within the next 15 minutes. without fail.

okay no, listen—vi's not a total creep (or so she tells herself). she’s just… a victim. a victim of your instagram story from last summer, when you were lounging poolside in that sinfully tight two-piece, sipping iced tea with your sunglasses slid low on your nose.

she screenshotted it. without hesitation. then panicked and threw her phone across the room like it burned her fingers.

then… she picked it up. opened it again. zoomed in. cropped out the background. stared for like, a solid minute.

and renamed the file “notes3.pdf” to hide it in her study folder.

vi knows it’s wrong. she knows it’s bad. but gods, it’s 2am and she’s lying in bed, sweaty and flushed and biting the edge of her pillow because that picture of you won’t leave her head. she’s got one hand shoved under the waistband of her sleep shorts, muffling her whimpers with her hoodie sleeve like you’ll hear her through the walls.

the image is so burned into her brain she doesn’t even need to open the folder anymore. all she has to do is close her eyes and pretend your thighs are around her head, your voice breathy and teasing: "what would your little nerd friends say if they saw you like this, huh?"

and every time she comes? she whispers your name into the dark like a secret. like a prayer. then immediately opens a new tab to delete the image. (but she never does.)

she swears she didn’t mean to do it.

you left it behind one day—just a little pink tube, tossed at the bottom of her bag after study group. you’d even said, “you can keep it, i’ve got like five.” but vi didn’t throw it out. she didn’t return it. she just… looked at it. a lot. thumbed the cap. rolled it up to see the worn-down curve of the balm where your lips had pressed.

then she opened it.

took a deep breath.

it smelled like strawberry and sin.

the first time she tried it, she was alone in her room, curled up in her hoodie, laptop on her thighs—but she couldn’t stop staring at the tube. like it dared her. so she twisted it up and dragged it across her lips, slow. pretending it was you doing it. pretending you were leaning down, whispering, “hold still, baby, let me take care of you…”

she got so worked up from just that thought, she had to shove her laptop off her legs and grind into her pillow like a desperate, useless virgin who’d never been touched before. and let’s be honest—she kinda hasn’t.

now it’s routine. every night. lights off. chapstick on. fingers in. you in her head.

sometimes she gets bold—leans back in her desk chair, spreads her legs, one hand down her sweats and the other gripping the damn chapstick like she’ll die if she drops it. whimpering out “fuck—fuck, please, please—“ to no one but the air.

when she comes, her thighs shake. and the chapstick’s still there. resting on her chest like a trophy. like it owns her.

and it kind of does.

vi thought she was being quiet. thought the pillow stuffed against her mouth and the gentle whirr of her desk fan would cover it. she was wrong.

it was just another night—2:43am, hoodie halfway stripped, the room dim and warm, the air tasting like sweat and shame. she was on her back, legs bent, one hand down her sleep shorts, the other gripping the edge of her blanket like it could keep her from falling apart.

you’d texted her earlier: “sleep tight, nerd 💛” and that was it. that was all it took.

now every time her fingers slip against her clit, her brain plays out imaginary scenes of you calling her that—“nerd”—but in a voice all breathy and mean and teasing. like you’re on top of her, straddling her, watching her fall apart.

and this time?

this time she just… lost control.

she was so close, she didn’t even realize her voice was rising— didn’t even catch it when her lips parted and she moaned, "f-fuck—… please—don’t stop—"

then a cough. a loud-ass, unmistakable cough from the other side of the room.

her whole body locked up. wide-eyed. palm still buried between her legs.

roommate: “…you good, dude?”

vi: "…yep. just—bad dream."

the silence that followed was biblical.

she didn’t move for ten minutes. just laid there, hand still wet, face on fire, heart slamming so hard against her ribs she thought she might throw up.

next morning? roommate didn’t say a word. but vi swears she caught them smirking when you came over later, all sunshine and oblivious charm, giving vi a hug while she stood stiff and red and sweating.

it started off innocent—summer heat, library ac busted, both of you sweating through your shirts after walking across campus. you stopped by a corner shop, bought two cones, handed one to vi without a second thought.

she didn’t even lick hers.

because the second she turned to look at you, you were already dragging your tongue up the side of yours, slow and absent-minded, eyes somewhere off in the distance, lips parted slightly like you didn’t even notice what you were doing.

vi did.

she noticed everything.

your lips wrapping around the tip. the way the ice cream melted and slid down your wrist. how you licked it off with one long stroke, then sucked your finger clean like it was nothing.

her cone melted in her fist. she didn’t take a single bite.

she just stood there in stunned, boner-deep silence, heat flooding her body in places that had nothing to do with the weather. her thighs clenched. her ears burned. her heart was punching holes in her ribs.

all she could think— that could be me. fuck, that should be me.

she walked into a street pole two minutes later. didn’t even notice until you gasped and ran over. she blamed the sun. you bought her a new cone.

later that night, she stared at her ceiling with a hand between her legs, moaning your name into the darkness while whispering, “just like that. just like that—f-fuck, yeah, eat me like you ate that cone—”

it happened while you two were packing for a weekend trip—just a casual little beach getaway with friends, nothing serious. vi was helping you toss stuff into your duffel bag while pretending not to stare every time you bent over in your shorts.

and then— you flung a whole handful of clothes her way and said, "can you fold those for me real quick? thanks, babe!"

her brain short-circuited at “babe” alone, but then her hands sank into the pile— and wrapped around something soft, thin, lacy.

it took her half a second to realize what she was holding. another half second to look down and see— your panties. your favorite black lace pair.

vi didn’t move. didn’t breathe. just stared.

they were still warm.

she went rigid, every single muscle in her loser nerd body locking up like a corrupted file. her ears turned red. her lips parted. and before she could stop it— a tiny whimper escaped.

just—“ah.” soft. pitiful. broken. like she’d just been stabbed by horny.

and then?

she bolted.

mumbled something like “gotta pee real quick!” and sprinted to the bathroom like her life depended on it. the door slammed. the lock clicked.

and she collapsed against the sink, clutching your underwear in both hands like it was a sacred object, forehead pressed to the mirror, whispering— “you’re so fucked up, violet. so fucking sick. but gods, they smell like her. fuck—”

she didn’t even make it to the toilet. dropped to her knees right there on the bathroom rug, panties clutched in one hand, the other between her legs, hoodie sleeves rolled up and teeth biting down on the fabric to keep quiet.

came fast. came hard. tried to wash her face like nothing happened. came out five minutes later looking destroyed.

you: “you okay?”

vi: “yep. super good. hydrated. thriving.”

you: “…why are your ears red?”

vi: “sunburn. shut up.”

the lecture was boring. the lights were dim. the professor was talking about something vi didn’t care about—maybe economic theory, maybe planetary motion. who knows.

because in front of her? you were chewing your pen.

and not like a normal person. no. you had your lips wrapped around the end of it—slowly. you’d suck for a second, then bite gently. then drag your teeth down the plastic shaft like it owed you money.

vi’s entire consciousness evacuated her body.

she blinked. once. twice. and then just… froze. pen halfway in her mouth, tongue poking the inside of her cheek— you looked like a whole fucking wet dream and didn’t even know it.

vi’s thighs clenched under the desk. her grip on her notes turned deathly. her glasses started fogging up and she swiped them off, pressing her face into her sleeve, “fuckfuckfuck—” under her breath, shaking like a damn leaf.

every time you twirled the pen or bit it harder, she swore she could feel it. in her stomach. in her chest. between her legs.

and then you stretched.

arms over your head. shirt riding up. vi saw a sliver of bare back and nearly came on the spot.

she had to excuse herself.

muttered something about needing to print slides, rushed out of the lecture hall and into the first empty bathroom, slammed the stall door, and buried two fingers into her soaked panties with the desperate grace of someone not okay.

panting, head back, she came whispering your name and the word “pen” like it was a sin she couldn’t stop committing.

she went back to class 20 minutes later with shaky legs and didn’t remember a single word of the lesson.

vi was halfway through a ranked match—keyboard clacking, headphones on, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. she didn’t even notice you approach until you laughed and said:

"ugh, i’m tired. let me sit here for a sec."

and before she could ask what “here” meant—

you sat. right on her lap. facing the screen. wiggling to get comfy.

vi flatlined.

like, physically short-circuited. her hands froze. her headset slid crooked on her head. every neuron in her brain screamed what the fuck while her body screamed don’t move or you’ll die.

because you weren’t just sitting. you were squirming. and you had no fucking clue you were grinding down onto her lap like a tease with zero self-awareness.

her thighs tensed. her breath stuttered. and her dick— (her strap, tucked under sweats because she was feeling a lil fruity that day) shifted. pressed. throbbed.

right beneath you.

her voice cracked.

“uh—fuck—b-babe, wh-what are you—”

you shushed her. “you’re playing, right? don’t mind me.”

and you leaned back. all the way into her chest. let your arms rest on hers. melted into her like you didn’t just turn her into a human vibrator.

she didn’t even finish the match.

dropped the mouse. let out this pathetic little moan in your ear— and grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging in.

“i—i can’t fucking take this,” she whispered.

you froze. and felt it. the outline of the strap. rock hard under you. the way she was breathing—so heavy, so fucking desperate.

her voice rasped, low and ruined: “you’re gonna sit here and be good, yeah? or i’m fucking this into you. right now. on this chair. don’t care if the door’s open.”

the skies opened without warning. vi was already seated when you burst in—out of breath, soaked to the skin, laughing.

“fuck,” you huffed, brushing hair out of your face. “i didn’t bring an umbrella.”

and that’s when she saw it.

the white shirt. soaked. transparent. clinging to your chest like a second skin. every. damn. curve. the lace of your bra outlined in full definition. drops of water trailing down your collarbones. your thighs shining with rain and sweat.

and vi?

vi died.

her eyes went wide. her mouth dropped open. she blinked so hard her glasses fogged up just from body heat. her throat went dry. her brain emptied like a deleted word doc.

you waved at her.

she waved back. missed. hit the edge of her chair.

you sat beside her. legs crossed. shirt still soaked. and every time you shifted in your seat, the fabric pulled across your chest just enough to make her pulse spike.

she couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t stop imagining things.

how your skin would feel under her hands. how that soaked shirt would peel off with a sticky sound. how her tongue would follow every drop down your stomach until—

"vi."

she jumped. looked up. the professor was calling on her.

vi stammered. “i—i didn’t—um—sorry, could you repeat the—yeah. just—sorry. my brain’s—um—rain.” everyone laughed. you leaned over and whispered: “you okay, nerd?”

her legs clenched so tight under the desk she might’ve bruised herself. and then, after class, she disappeared into the bathroom for a solid twenty minutes.

no one asked.

no one needed to.

the sigh she let out behind that locked stall door said it all: “holy fuck, i’m gonna die for this girl.”

it started slow.

just a dream. warm, hazy, too good to be real.

you were on top of her, hips grinding into hers, thighs caging her in, hair messy, lips parted. you were panting. desperate. fucking gorgeous.

and you were saying her name. over and over. "vi. vi. god, vi—right there, right there—don’t stop—"

her hands were on your ass. your nails were clawing down her chest. her strap was buried deep in you and your walls were so tight and you were so wet and— fuck. she couldn’t hold it.

in the dream, she grabbed your hips, slammed up into you, and came with a broken, ragged moan.

and in real life?

she came too.

in her fucking sleep.

body shuddering. thighs trembling. sweat slick on her forehead. hand still in her panties. your name slipping from her lips in a soft, gasping whisper: "fuck—"

and her roommate heard it. of course they did.

“…vi? dude, you good?”

vi jolted upright like she’d been electrocuted. soaked through. blanket kicked off. hair a mess. pussy still pulsing.

she couldn’t even lie. just sat there like a broken sim with her hand still halfway in her sweats.

"…yeah," she croaked. "i'm great."

BONUS: BREAKING POINT

you were sitting on her lap again. like nothing. like you didn’t know what you were doing.

your ass—warm and soft—pressed snug against her thighs. you giggled, wiggled, threw your arms around her shoulders, and leaned in like this was just another game. "hey, cutie nerd."

vi gripped your thighs. tight.

her jaw tensed. her glasses slid just a little down her nose. you were facing away, oblivious, the hem of your skirt brushing her knees, your scent everywhere—like sunscreen and body lotion and danger. vi had been keeping it together. she’d tried. gods, had she tried. all those months of being your sweet little nerd—tutoring you, stammering when you bent over, blushing when you called her pretty.

but today?

today you fucking whispered:

"does sitting on you turn you on, vi?"

right into her ear.

click. that was the sound of something inside her snapping. a line that had been stretched way too thin—too many nights of your casual teasing, too many dreams soaked through with your name on her tongue.

she stood up. lifted you. just—grabbed your waist like it was nothing and hauled you into her arms, like you didn’t weigh a thing.

“vi—?”

you barely got the word out before she dropped you onto her bed. sheets soft beneath your back, knees still apart, skirt pushed up.

vi was on top of you in a second. breathing hard. glasses still on. eyes wild. voice low and dangerous.

“you wanna tease me, baby?” her hands were on either side of your head now. “call me a nerd? sit on my lap like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

you blinked up at her. wide-eyed. silent.

that look broke her too.

she grabbed your wrists. pinned them to the mattress. her breath came out sharp, heated. her thigh slotted between yours and pushed—firm, slow, right up into your center.

you gasped.

she grinned.

“then fucking take it.”

her mouth slammed into yours. nothing sweet. all teeth and heat and desperation. her tongue curled against yours, hands squeezing your wrists so hard you whined into the kiss. and vi— vi moaned like she’d been starving for this.

like she needed you to breathe.

“gods,” she muttered, lips against your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat. “you don’t know what you do to me. you think i’m stupid, don’t you? think i didn’t notice when you bent over in that skirt on purpose? you think i didn’t see that lacy shit you wore yesterday?”

she bit your neck. not enough to mark. but enough to make you gasp.

“you really want me to snap, huh?” she growled the words as her hand slid up your thigh. fingers dragging your panties down, slow and messy. “you want your pervy little nerd to go feral on you?”

you didn’t even get the chance to answer. her fingers dipped between your folds—just once, slick and lazy—and she groaned.

“fucking soaked,” she breathed. “you sat on me like this? fuck—”

she pulled back. stripped her hoodie and shirt in one movement, still panting. you saw the strap—thick, already strapped in tight beneath her sweats—and your whole body arched.

vi saw the way you looked at it.

“yeah?” she murmured. “want it?” she climbed back over you, grinding the strap against your bare cunt. “beg.”

you whimpered. “please…”

“please what, baby?” her hand was back on your neck now, not choking—just firm. just reminding you who was on top. “say it. say you want me to fuck you.”

you swallowed. “i want you to fuck me, vi—please, i need it, i’ve been teasing you because i—fuck, i want this—”

she didn’t wait. didn’t give you another chance to speak.

she grabbed your thigh. hooked it over her arm. lined up the strap and slammed in.

you screamed.

in the best way.

it was deep. unforgiving. her hips snapped forward, again, again, her hand covering your mouth to muffle the way you were falling apart.

she leaned down, forehead against yours, fucking you harder than you ever imagined this awkward, stammering nerd could.

“you’re so tight,” she groaned. “so fucking good—fuck—why didn’t i do this sooner? you wanted this. you needed this.”

you nodded desperately under her. legs shaking.

she pulled out halfway—then slammed in again, harder. you cried out, body clenching, back arching.

vi snapped her hips again. “was this what you wanted, huh? your little nerd to break and ruin you?”

you whimpered into her palm.

“then don’t you dare fucking tap out, pretty girl.” her rhythm got faster. rougher. “i’m not done with you yet.”

your orgasm hit so fast it shattered you.

she didn’t even slow down.

kept fucking you through it—eyes locked on your face, watching the way you fell apart under her, shaking and sobbing and trying to breathe.

when you moaned her name—broken, pleading—vi moaned back. whispered, “i love it when you say it like that…”

then she kissed you. deep. slow.

and started fucking you all over again.

#vi x reader #violet x reader #vi arcane #arcane #smut

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absurdthirst · 7 months ago

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Fruits of Passion {Marcus Acacius x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.6k

Warnings: SEX POLLEN!!!! War, dubious consent, talk of whores, sexual repression, masturbation, oral sex (male and female receiving), rough sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms

Comments: Sent to wage war on your kingdom, Marcus seeks to minimize bloodshed as do you as your realm's queen. So you feed him fructus voluptatis, which he finds has a very strange affect on him and his army.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Marcus Acacius MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Marcus sighs as he strides down the marble hallway, his sandals slapping and making a noise that echoes. He has been summoned to the emperors and he is reluctant to hear about their latest whim. He nods at the guards on duty and enters the ostentatious room. "Ah General. Welcome. Welcome." Geta coos while Caracalla smirks at a woman who is redressing. Both men are handed a cup of wine by the woman before she leaves. "She is available if you wish to indulge." Caracalla smirks and Marcus rocks his jaw, "I am fully satiated, thank you Caesar." He bows his head slightly and Geta wraps his robe around him and takes the cup of wine from Caracalla's hand. "We want you to conquer more land for Rome...in our name." He says after he has a sip. Marcus frowns a little, "but I just returned." The men look at each other and laugh, "and you shall return again. With more land." Caracalla says, tilting his chin. Marcus knows there is no argument. He must leave. "I shall gather my men." He bows his head and Geta grins, "may Mars bring you home victorious."

****

You stand on your balcony, staring out across the land that your ancestors fought for, that your grandfather and father fought hard for. Heavy is the head that wears the crown and you know that intimately. Their riders kick up dust and you can see the cloud coming closer to your kingdom. "They will be here before sunset. No doubt they will set up camp and rest before they attack. Let us prepare to fight." You turn to your general who nods and bows his head. Once again, you must fight Rome for your home.

The sounds of war are nothing new to Marcus, as wearisome as the sound may be. The whistling of arrows as they slice through the air or the sounds of men screaming as they lay broken on the fields to rot and fall silent. And yet - he has never encountered an army with as much skill and determination as the one he leads. Not an inch of ground has been taken, not succeeded by the ruler of the lands he wishes to conquer on orders from his emperors. Tactics that he had never imagined before used to repel his advances and he is sustaining more losses than he had calculated.

You watch from your balcony as your men fight for their independence. They are trained well, trained by their fathers and their fathers who knew these days would come. "I want to be out there with them." You tell your advisor, Cyrus, who stood alongside your late father. "You are well trained but these men would not hesitate to take you, to brutalize you and use your body as an example to all that refuse Rome. You are where you are supposed to be. Leading from afar so the men have a home to return you, a queen to return to who will offer them glory and reward." You nod, biting your lip as you prepare for losses and to console the wives of those whose husbands fell under your sword.

The siege has lasted for weeks, Marcus sighs wearily as he stares up at the fortified city. He has to commend the generals of this army, they have trained their men well. While he believes this is foolish, he must succeed for his emperor’s. “Raise the flag.” He commands. “I wish to talk to their generals.”

You are surprised when Cyrus enters your chambers and declares that the Romans have asked for a truce. You stand up and adjust your robes, "they shall have their truce but I wish to meet their general. Have an adult discussion." You command and Cyrus nods, bowing his head as he leaves your chambers.

Once Marcus learns that the generals are willing to meet to discuss terms, he takes the time to bathe, wanting to give the appearance of a leader who has nothing to worry about. Dressing in the impressive armor, shiny and oiled, he strides out of his tent to meet the party.

Cyrus is among the men meeting the Roman general and his men. They journey into no man's land and both groups stand opposite each other. "Shall we take this as your surrender?" Cyrus calls out and his men laugh while the Roman's clench their jaws, frustrated by the length of this conquest. They should've been returning home to their warm beds by now. "We are not surrendering." Marcus replies, his voice strong as he steps forward from the lineup. "I want to meet your infamous queen. The one whose name echoes across the Empire." He declares and Cyrus steps forward, "she wants to meet you. Only you." He adds after a pause.

Marcus glances at the general and the men flanked at his sides. He can feel his own men bristle at the suggestion but he holds up his hand. “Very well.” He decides, reaching for the belt that holds his sword. “I will come meet your queen unarmed.” He tells them, “but if I am taken captive or killed, my men will destroy this city by fire.” He warns.

You watch as the food is laid out, meats and cheeses alongside fruits. Copious amounts of wine...it's a feast for your enemy. You know the General will be suspicious of your generosity but that is how your father taught you politics. "He is here, my Queen." Your guard announces and you nod, "send him in." You order and the doors open to reveal the Roman General escorted by Cyrus. You stand straighter and prepare to face the man representing the enemy. "Welcome, General." You greet him coolly, holding your hand out to him.

Surprised by the apparent feast, he takes your hand and bows over it slightly. Unsure of what to call you in these circumstances since he would not call you his queen. “I have heard tales of your courage and beauty, but I find them to be under-exaggerated.” He says, looking up and wondering how you have not already been conquered with a face as beautiful as yours.

You tell him your name, "I do not care for titles" you say as you offer him a smile, lowering your hand from his and you nod to Cyrus, letting him know you will be fine. "And I have heard many stories of the great General Acacius of Rome. You have conquered many lands. but mine will not be one of them. Come, I am certain you are hungry after your battles with my men. I fear my mother would turn in her grave if I was not a good host." You gesture to the table as Cyrus closes the doors, leaving you alone with Marcus.

Marcus appreciates your plain speaking after dealing with the subterfuge and double entendres of Roman society. Especially in the emperors’ palace. “Marcus.” He tells you, giving you his first name. “Unfortunately, we will take this land because my emperors wish to claim it for their glory.” He sighs. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement so that not too many of your people need to die.”

You sit down and stare at him from across the table. "I would like to counteroffer. You leave now and Rome will not lose more of her soldiers. No doubt your Emperors wish to expand their lands across the sea, I do not understand what my lands have to offer other than territory." You don't mention the natural resources your lands have, it's a well kept secret among your people and why you are so defensive. "I think the easiest solution is you return to your emperors, inform them that my lands are not for the taking, but bring good news that the losses were fewer than anticipated so you have more men for your next conquest." You smile, picking up the pitcher of wine to pour him a cup before you pour your own, setting the pitcher down then you pick up your cup to take a sip.

Marcus watches as you take a sip, wary of a poison that you would offer him. Furrowing his brow when you swallow and smirk at him. “Unfortunately, my emperors would not accept that.” He admits. “They would just send another army, three times the size of the one with me.” He takes his own sip of wine and has to admit that it’s delicious. He sets the cup down and waits to see if it will have any ill effects on him, settling back in the comfortable chair. “You could always surrender now, I would be willing to negotiate fair terms for your people.” He pauses. “And you, as Queen.”

You tilt your head, watching him as you take another sip of wine. “I have told my men to offer food to your troops. I know you have traveled far from Rome and I am certain your supplies are dwindling. You did not anticipate my people to hold out so long. I’m sorry to disappoint, but we will not surrender. I will not surrender.” You declare, “but let us not discuss battles when I am certain you are hungry. Please, eat.” You gesture to the table.

He doesn't know what kind of game you are playing but he watches as you start to pick and choose items randomly from the table to eat. Obviously proving that the food is safe. "Why would you feed my men?" He demands. "It will just allow us to linger here longer. Fight harder."

“Our culture.” You explain, “it would be remiss to not feed a guest, no matter how unwelcome they may be. My ancestors fed their enemies. It is tradition.” You explain, “and I will follow tradition.” You reach for some bread, wanting to show him that you aren’t poisoning him. “This is our local fruit. A delicacy here.” You declare as you pick a piece up and pop it in your mouths humming in content.

He is curious about the fruit, never seeing such a thing before. It looks like it is juicy and sweet, making him hesitate for only a moment before he reaches for the fruit. "Local, you say?" He asks, inspecting it closely and admiring the vivid pink coloring of the fruit's skin before he pops it in his mouth. The emperors would want to try any local resources that they do not have in Rome.

You watch him chew on the fruit, picking up your cup of wine. “Tell me, General, how is your camp? Are you comfortable? Are you served well? Serviced by whores?” You ask nonchalantly, tilting your head and licking your lips as you reach for another piece of fruit.

He nearly chokes on his tongue by the way you ask about his sex life. Managing to swallow the sweet fruit, he reaches for the wine again to wash it down so he doesn't cough. "No." He admits, with a shake of his head. "I do not use the women that frequent the camps." He never has since he had gained rank and privilege.

You hum, letting your eyes trail along his form, covered by intricate armor that has you admiring his strong form. “I imagine they are very upset by that slight. Do you partake in your fellow soldier?” You ask, curious about the General and his tendencies.

His brow arches up at your boldness and he takes another sip of the wine and sets it down before plucking another piece of the fruit from the tray. "No." He chuckles. "I satisfy my own needs when they become urgent." He tilts his head. "Are you always so concerned with the sexual appetites of your enemy?"

You chuckle, leaning forward in your chair, “to know a man’s sexual appetite is to know how he fights on a battlefield. It is easy to ascertain your weakness and you’ve just told me yours, General.” You smirk, licking your lips as you pluck a grape from the tray and place it in your mouth.

He snorts, unsure of what kind of thought process that is, and he shrugs. "So what did I just tell you?" He asks curiously, wondering what you could possibly get from not fucking camp whores.

“That you’re pent up. You haven’t fucked a woman since you have been on the road for many months. You’ve been camped outside my lands for weeks. You must be aching. Yearning for a release, to bury your cock in a woman and find some mind numbing bliss in her. You’re mentally foggy. Frustration can do that. A man with empty balls has a clear mind. He’s not preoccupied with the need to relax, he’s not distracted. That’s your weakness and distracted soldiers make mistakes. You’ll make a mistake.” You finish and cross your arms together to push your breasts up.

He knows the blatant attempt to make him look at your breasts and he smirks as he does just that. He has control, even if his cock twitches under his armor at the soft swell of flesh on display. “Who says my balls are full?” He decides if you speak as crudely as a soldier, he should not temper his own words for the sake of propriety. “My hand can provide a release when needed and I do not have to deal with a whore thinking that because a general ruts between her thighs that she runs the camp.”

You chuckle, leaning back in your seat, and you reach for your cup of wine once more. He’s smart and handsome. If he weren’t the enemy, you’d definitely have him between your thighs for the foreseeable. “You may think the men run the camp but those women work harder, fight harder, than any soldier. They fight to survive in a world that has their death warrants signed. So your hand suffices and you come here now, ready to accept my surrender and then what? You’ll return to your uxor?” You raise your eyebrows, “are you loyal to your wife and that is why you are satisfied with your hand?”

You are impressive and smart. Beautiful and brave. It’s a fascinating combination and if he did not have to conquer your lands, he would be interested in seducing you. “I am not married.” He reveals. “No uxor waiting at home, no lover.” He shrugs. “I will go home and see what next campaigns the emperors would send me on.” It's almost a dreary existence, but he has no choice right now.

You scoff, “they have everything they could ever wish for. Riches beyond imagination. Gold, wine, medicines. Yet it’s never enough. They are greedy and they will be the downfall of the Empire.” You declare with a scoff, “you are not like most Romans. Many would’ve come in here with a concealed weapon to try and kill me. I've had others try. All have failed.” You warn the General and you pick up another piece of fruit, “have another piece. It’s our greatest asset.” You order as you bite into the fruit.

Marcus helps himself to the tasty fruit, reminding him of a sweet cherry, but it’s slightly tart. Delicious and juicy, it makes his mouth water when he eats another. “What is this fruit called?” He asks. “I will have to bring a wagon full back to my emperors.”

You smirk, plucking another piece for yourself, "it's called fructus voluptatis and I am certain it would be wasted on your emperors. They would not appreciate its lingering sweetness." You shake your head, having heard rumors about the indulgent Roman Emperors. "Tell me, Marcus, why do you fight for them?"

Marcus knows that it would be foolish to admit the truth to you, it could get back to emperors, but he is tired of fighting useless causes. Tired of sending men to die. “Because I serve Rome and her people.” He sighs, picking up another piece of the fruit and eating it eagerly. “They are the will of Rome, so I serve them.” He does not say that if he refuses he would be killed, but he’s certain you know that. “If I am leading the army, perhaps I can send a few more sons and husbands back to their families.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes slightly, “you are not what I expected, General.” You declare and he chuckles, wiping his lower lip with his thumb, “and what did you expect?” You hum, trailing your fingers along the tabletop, “a beastly, pompous, prick who would do anything to destroy my people and take our land. You are…definitely not beastly. You are here with me when most men would’ve picked up that knife and held it to my neck already.”

Marcus watches your fingers, the image of them trailing over his chest and wrapping around his cock springing to life in his mind and making him shudder. His half hard cock twitching and he coughs slightly and shifts in his seat. “I have no wish to harm you or any of your people.” He admits. “I am a violent man by trade, but not by nature.”

You hum, trailing your finger along the rim of your cup, your eyes looking at him from under your lashes, “I can tell that you are not blood thirsty. You do not take pleasure in your kill so I ask once again what’s your pleasure? Your hand? Do you not want more?”

Marcus feels your question humming through his veins, lighting up desires and needs that he has spent a long time burying under duty and a strict sense of propriety. The emperors may indulge themselves in whatever and whomever they please, but Marcus wishes to treat the people under his direction with respect. He snorts. “Of course I want more.” He grunts, cock twitching again and thickening to the point where it’s tenting the tunic in his lap. Head already weeping with need like he’s been drawing out his pleasure like he sometimes does. It seems to take the edge off for longer. “But I don’t want a woman to crawl into my bed because she feels she has to, or to gain some favor by being my whore.” He admits. “I would have found a woman to enjoy my time with while I was in Rome, but the emperors were too eager to claim your land for their own.” His tongue is surprisingly loose and he frowns as he reaches for another little fruit. They are addictive.

“You’re a handsome man, General. I imagine most women would only be too eager to fall into your bed, give you pleasure like sucking your cock, letting you use their bodies for your frustrations. Without payment of coin. Simply because they want to.” You smile, licking your lips as he chews on the fruit

He shifts again as he swallows, wondering if you think that seducing him will send him on his way without your lands. Shivering again and shaking his head slightly as he reaches for his wine to wash away the way his mouth suddenly waters slightly. He had watched you lick your lips and wants to taste the fruit from them. "I have had my share of lovers." He admits, his voice raspy. "I believe they were all satisfied."

You notice his eyes darken and he fidgets in his seat. You smirk and watch him struggle, the effects of the fruit hitting him. “I’m certain they were. You seem like a capable lover. Nothing worse than a selfish leader. It doesn’t bode well to success. You, General, would be a force to be reckoned with in bed…as well as the battlefield.”

He feels his face flush at your compliment, something that never happens to him. He doesn't fluster easily, but his entire body seems to warm through. "Then you know you should surrender to me." He grunts, imagining you submitting to him in bed rather than surrendering your lands. "I will treat you fairly."

You scoff, shaking your head, “I will never surrender. I would sooner die alongside my people than allow Rome to take my land.” You say as you trail your fingers along your collarbone. “Are you feeling okay, General? You look flushed.” You comment, pouting slightly.

Marcus clears his throat, swallowing again at the excess saliva filling his mouth. "Fine." He rasps out, nodding as if that would make it believable and he downs the rest of his wine quickly before setting the cup down. His eyes slide along your skin with your fingers, watching the innocent move with a hunger to trace that same path with his lips.

You giggle, noticing how affected he is, and you reach for the clip that keeps your robes together. You smirk, seeing his eyes widen as your breasts are exposed to his eyes. “It’s so hot in here. Are you heated, General?” You ask, picking up your fan to try and cool yourself down. “Forgive me for my nudity, I am a little dizzy.”

Marcus chokes out your name, ripping his eyes from your tits even though he wants to touch them. His hands curl into fists so that he doesn’t reach for you. “Is that- do your people just strip down when the heat overcomes you?” He asks tightly, his entire body on fire now and he is starting to sweat.

You continue to fan yourself, leaning back in your seat, “when we are overwhelmed. Of course.” You shrug like it’s nothing and your tits jiggle with the move. “It’s best to have some cool air on your body instead of sitting in silence and suffering.” You coo, “you look overheated.”

He is. He’s so fucking hot right now, so fucking hard. He wants to strip down so he can sink into your cunt and fuck you until you are screaming his name for your entire realm to hear. “Thirsty.” He reaches for the pitcher of wine to pour himself so more, trying to keep his eyes off your breasts.

You smirk, leaning closer and you set your fan down before you cross your arms to rest them on the table. “Drink as much as you want, General. We have plenty.” You see how his chest heaves, the sweat on his brow, “you need more, don’t you?” You guess, knowing how the fruit can take effect.

“Yes.” He croaks out, pouring a large goblet full of wine and starting to down it like a man dying of thirst. “More.” He gasps when he drains the cup and still his body is on fire. His cock is throbbing and he shudders as he shifts in his seat as the fabric of his tunic brushes over the sensitive skin.

You watch how he shudders, “you can touch yourself. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.” You wink and cup your breast, “I’m overheated too.” You murmur, moaning softly as you pinch your nipple.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” He groans quietly, swallowing as you palm your tit and moan yourself. “What did you poison me with?” He accuses, glaring at you and clenching his hand into a fist.

You giggle, “it’s not poison. It’s the fruit. It has…lusty effects. You are hard, no?” You ask and he nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You need release. You will not be comfortable until you touch yourself, General.” You slide your hand up until you’re palming both tits. “You need to cum. That’s the only way to stop this feeling.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes and hisses softly as he tries to control himself. “You- you planned this?” He asks breathlessly. “You ate the fruit as well.”

“I did, but I have a tolerance to it. We eat this regularly.” You are a little heated but not overwhelmed like he is. “You need to touch yourself. You will not feel better until you do. You’ve eaten a lot. You will die if you do not touch yourself. Your heart will only take so much.” You reveal with a smirk and chuckle when his eyes widen.

This has to be some kind of trick. To make him embarrass himself. He shakes his head. “If I die, your kingdom will be razed to the ground.” He reminds you. “You would not put your people in danger.”

You smirk as you stand, letting your robes fully drop from your body, and you step out of the pile gathered at your feet, “your army was given a generous sample of fruit. I’m certain they will be fucking each other senseless by now while my men remove their weapons from under their noses.” You giggle, swaying your hips as you make your way over to the bed behind the silks, eager to touch yourself after having the fruit. You’re still affected somewhat by its power.

“Gods be damned.” You have effectively crippled his army. He knows that if they are half as afflicted by this fruit as he is, they will be balls deep in each other and every available whore in the camp. A veritable orgy. Marcus can barely see you behind the silk and he grips the edge of the chair before he stands, giving into his need to see what you are doing. To see your body again.

You moan as you lay down on the bed, stretching out, and your hands slide along your body, unashamed of your form, and you look up when you see Marcus slide past your silks. "Like what you see, General?" You tease, squeezing your breast.

His breath is ragged, panted out as he struggles for control. “How- how long will this last?” He groans, cock twitching and bobbing heavily under his tunic. He still doesn’t touch himself, but he watches you.

"Depends. If you refuse to pleasure yourself, it will be a slow death. If you find pleasure, it will leave your system in hours." You hum, pinching your nipple and you are soaking wet as you trail your eyes down to the tent in his tunic.

Marcus grapples with the issue at hand. He could not believe you, but why would you lie? You are lying naked on a bed, touching yourself. He groans as you press your thighs together and then spread them to let him see your curls wet with arousal. “Fuck.” He swallows harshly as reaches for the ties of his armor.

You watch him as he starts to strip his armor. He's so broad and it's not just the armor that fills him out. He's strong and although his stomach is softer than younger soldiers, he has your folds dripping wet as you watch him expose his body inch by inch. "Touch you. I want to watch you touch yourself." You demand, adding a moan when your fingers slide through your folds.

He raises his chin defiantly, but he knows that he needs to touch himself. His cock is dripping onto the floor and he hisses as he watches you revel in the pleasure of your own touch. Spitting into his hand and reaching down to wrap his hand around his cock with a relieved groan at just that simple touch.

You watch him with lust filled eyes. You never intended to touch yourself, you wanted to watch him fall apart before you, but he has intrigued you. You slide your fingers up to rub your clit, "you are magnificent, General."

He just holds his cock in his hand, squeezing it to relieve the pressure. “You are perfect.” He counters. “Wars would be waged over your beauty, your hand being battled for to the death.”

You hum, pleased by his reaction, and you pull your hand away from your cunt, shifting onto your knees to get a little closer to him. "would you fight for me, General?" You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes.” He breathes the admission out without a second’s thought. Groaning as his cock twitching in his and he rocks his hips forward just a fraction of an inch, jerking himself into his grip. He wants to bury his tongue in your cunt while he strokes his cock to see if you taste like the fruit you has tricked him into eating.

Pleased with his answer, you grin as you slide your hand down your body until you’re rubbing your clit again. You moan and watch him as he fists his cock, “stroke yourself. I want to watch you take your pleasure.”

It's like he cannot deny you. Marcus throws his head back and hisses quietly as his hand starts to move. Slowly and achingly sliding up and down the length of his cock as he stands with his feet braced apart. Right now your soldiers could come in and strike him down, but he doesn't care. The pleasure from the slow, tight stroke is too much.

You watch him, smirking in satisfaction at the way his jaw drops. He looks so blissed out and you haven’t even gotten started. “That’s it, General. Touch yourself. You look so good like this.” You hum, continuing to rub your clit as you kneel on the bed. “Does it feel good?” You coo, shuffling a little closer.

“So good.” His nostrils flare as he pants out breath, losing control over himself as the need consumes him. His eyes are fixed on your bare body and his hips lurch forward into his grip, as if propelled closer to you, but he barely manages to stop from stepping forward. He will not have you accuse him of attacking you. “This- it hurts.” He groans, a spurt of liquid dribbling from the tip of his cock. “And feels so good.”

“I know. I know.” You nod, pouting slightly in sympathy. “It will get better. You need to spill your seed. Can I - I want to touch you.” You declare, shifting a little closer, “can I touch you, General?” You ask, continuing to rub your clit.

Marcus gnashes his teeth together, but it can’t repress the whine that comes out of the back of his throat. He should say no, he would say no if it were for the burning need that is clawing under his skin, humming through his entire body. “I- I am your- your guest.” He pants out. “You can do anything you want.”

You grin, loving his answer, and you shuffle closer, kneeling on the bed after pulling your fingers away from your clit. “You’re so gorgeous.” You murmur. You want him, want to taste him. You lean forward to take the head of his cock into your mouth when he squeezes his cock.

He chokes out your name, unable to believe that a queen has his cock in her mouth. That you are touching him in such a way. His stomach heaves and he’s embarrassed by the next spurt of pre-cum that leaks out, flooding your mouth, although he’s not even close to orgasming yet.

You moan around him, shifting your weight onto one hand to cover his hand with yours, squeezing him at the base as you take him a little deeper into your mouth. The salty taste of pre-cum has you humming around him and you watch his neck clench as he twitches in your grip.

He should pull his hips back. He should redress and go warn his men about eating the fruit, although he knows they most likely already have. The soldiers are always eager for any fresh fruits they can get their hands on, so it would have been readily accepted. He moans and lets go of his cock, reaching for your cheek and his hand is gentle as he caresses it.

You moan around his cock, taking him even deeper, and you love the way his broad chest heaves. Your other hand caresses a scar on his thigh and you watch him as you hollow your cheeks, sucking on his thick length.

It’s been a long time since he’s received this kind of pleasure. He hisses when your tongue presses against the sensitive head. His fingers curling around your jaw and applying the slightest pressure to it to lift your eyes up to him.

You moan around him, loving the dark look on his face as he watches you suck on his cock. Your hand trails along your stomach and down to your pussy, cupping yourself before you start to rub your clit while you bob your head.

Marcus grips the back of your head, growling incoherently. Enjoying the way you touch yourself without apology. If you weren’t sucking his cock, he’s sure this room would be filled with your moan. “Gods.” He hisses, his body sweating and throbbing with need.

You hum around his cock, loving how he twitches in your mouth. You’re dripping wet as you slide your fingers through your folds, and you close your eyes when he rocks his hips, pushing his cock a little deeper.

His body is so tightly wound, so primed, that the next time your throat closes around his shaft, Marcus is cumming. With a shout of pure relief, he starts to spill down your throat in hot ropes.

You swallow him down, humming around his length, and it’s too much that his cum starts to slide down your chin. When he finally stops twitching, you pull off of him with a gasp, trying to catch your breath and you know you look messy with his cum dripping off your chin.

You look gorgeous covered in his seed. Thoroughly debauched and still his hard cock aches for more. His fingers slide through his cum to grip your chin. “Let me fuck you.” He demands roughly. If you say no, he will have to stroke his cock again, the fever still spiking his blood.

You grin, shifting to lay down on the bed. You slide your hand along your chin to gather his cum so you can lick it from your palm. “Come and fuck me, General. Take me how you want.” You demand, spreading your legs to show him how wet you are.

Your cunt is dripping, glistening in the light of the day and the torches on the wall. Even though his cock is twitching to be buried deep, he lunges forward on the bed, kneeling between your thighs and he dives into your folds face first, his fist around his cock and his moans being breathed into your sex.

You cry out, moaning as his tongue slides through your folds. You didn’t expect him to do that and his mouth is wet and hot as he laps at you. “Fuck, General, you are eager.” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his damp hair.

He is eager. It’s been so long since the taste of a woman has been on his tongue that he is ravenous. He doesn’t pull away to answer, simply groaning into your folds as he doubles down on his efforts to make you cry out again.

You moan breathlessly, arching your back slightly as you lift your leg onto his broad, strong shoulder. You’ve had many lovers and no one has been this ravenous when lapping at your cunt. “General. I need - oh gods.” You moan when he sucks on your clit.

He’s not been so long without a woman that he doesn’t remember what drives them crazy. The little nub of flesh that puffs out from between your lips is so sensitive to his attention. He groans when your fingers tug at his hair and makes his scalp burn. His hand around his cock starts to pump his length as he sucks.

You hear him pumping his cock as he sucks on your bundle of nerves, making you throw your head back and fall apart. Your moan turns into a cry as he pushes you over the edge and your thighs tighten around his head.

You are falling apart, squeezing his head between your thighs and soaking his face with your release. Making Marcus groan as he moves down to lap it up eagerly, wanting to see if you taste as sweet as the fruit you tricked him with.

He works you through it and you whimper, tugging on his hair as he laps at you until it’s too much. The fruit has affected you too and you’re desperate for him but you won’t let that show. You drag his face away from your cunt and he groans, shifting onto his knees, your slick shining on his face. He’s pumping his cock as he shuffles closer and you shake your head, reaching down to cup your cunt. “I want you to beg for it.” You smirk, wanting to see him struggle.

He clenches his jaw, his lips firmly pressed together in annoyance that you would deny him now. You had caused him to be in this state by feeding him that fruit and he hates how he wants to beg. It’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t do it.

You chuckle, keeping your hand in its place. “I can take care of myself, General. I have many times after eating the fruit. Can you? Your jaw is clenched. Your brow is shiny with sweat. Your cock looks like it’s throbbing, dripping with need. You can touch me. Fuck me. Take what you want. All you need to do is beg.” You coo, shifting your leg to slide your foot along his thigh.

He bites his lip, nearly breaking the skin. “Let me fuck you.” He groans, continuing to stroke his cock. “You want me. You want my cock. I see it in your eyes.”

You giggle, sliding your foot across to press against his cock. He groans and twitches under your touch and you press harder. “Not enough to give in so easily. Beg more. I want to hear you whine.” You demand, wanting to hear him.

Marcus hisses in anger but his body betrays him. Hips rocking up to grind against your foot. “You wish to humiliate me?” He growls. “Show your power over me?” He knows that’s what you want, but he is rapidly forgetting why he cares. “Fuck me then.” He compromises. “Ride my cock for your pleasure.” He groans. “Use me.”

Smirking, you slide your foot from his body and shift to kneel. “Lay down.” You order and he growls but follows your demand, laying down beside you. You shift to straddle him, batting his hand away to grip his cock. “You’re impressive, General.” You hum as you lift up and position him at your entrance, keeping your eyes on him as you start to sink down onto his length.

Your cunt is hot and tight around him. Making him groan and his hands bruise your hips with their hard grip. He grits his teeth, the urge to flip you over and hammer into your soft body barely resistible. “Gods.” He hisses out.

You pant as he stretches you out. It’s been a long time since you’ve taken a man this thick. “Move.” He demands through gritted teeth, and you chuckle, reaching for the hands on your hips. He reluctantly lets you release his grip and you lift his arms over his head, pushing his wrists into the bed as you start to rock on top of him.

He’s vulnerable like this, you can stick a knife in his ribs before he could react. Right now, he’s not worried about that, occupied by the way your cunt squeezes around his cock as you roll your hips. A queen is fucking him, using him for your pleasure, and he’s groaning while watching your tits bounce in his face so he lunges up to wrap his lips around a nipple.

You moan when he sucks on your nipple, your walls clenching around him, and you close your eyes. He could easily overpower you, he’s strong, but you have him entranced by your cunt. “Oh gods, General. You - you fill me so well.” You compliment him breathlessly as you rock down on his cock.

He hums in agreement, biting down on your nipple and sucking again when you moan in pleasure. You are wanton and sensual, swiveling your hips and grinding down on him as you chase your pleasure. “Touch yourself.” He grunts against your breast. “Cum on my cock.”

You pant, letting go of his wrists and you balance yourself on your palm as you reach down with your free hand to rub your clit. His deep voice has you shaking above him as you use his body for your pleasure. “Fuck. I- I am going to -" You cut yourself off as you fall apart on his cock, clenching down around him.

Marcus groans, his body tensing and he uses the moment to flip you into your back. Growling your name as he plants his knees as starts to fuck you. Needing to feel it again and again, even as your cunt spasms around him. “Fuck.” He hisses. “Cum again.”

Your cry echoes as he fucks you hard. He looks dangerous above you, his eyes black as he pushes into you like a man possessed. Your hands scramble to cling to him, knowing that all you can do is hold on.

You cling to him rather than pushing him away, spurring him on. His hips snapping forward sharply and making your entire body jolt as he drives into you. Groaning in pleasure at the way you yield to him, submitting to his need. He’s close, the fever in his system driving him to thrust harder and harder.

“You can fill me up. I have a tea to make sure I don’t - not with child.” You promise, wrapping your legs around him to push your heels into his ass. “Fuck. You feel so good.” You moan, your whole body bouncing with his thrusts.

Your words tip him over the edge, body going taunt and the vein on the side of his neck bulges as he buries his cock deep. Throbbing as he paints your walls with thick ropes if his sticky seed while he moans your name.

You watch him as he falls apart, filling you up, and you whimper, “you are a force to be reckoned with, General.” You love how hot his seed is as it paints your walls and his cock pulses inside you.

His eyes, closed as he rides out his high, open and focus on you as soon as the last spurt of his seed has been spent. He’s still achingly hard and his need for you burns under his skin. “Not done.” He growls, starting to move again as he lunges towards your lips for a kiss.

Moaning into the kiss, you cup his stubbled cheek and eagerly tangle your tongue with his as he takes control. You rock your hips up, needing more and he gives it to you. Rocking into you a little faster and your pussy squelches around his length as he pushes his seed out.

“You have to need to cum again.” He grunts, pulling away to kiss along your jaw. “Want to hear you cry out again.” He huffs out a reluctant chuckle. “Brave and bold, afflicting yourself with the same need.”

You nod, “yes. Yes. I need it. Give it to me.” You demand, clenching around him and he almost bends you in half to get deeper, achieving his aim as he hits something incredible inside of you. “Fuck. Oh yes. Fuck. Do that again.” You cry out your demand.

Grunting and smirking, Marcus repeats the action again and again, loving how you moan and squeal for him. He feels that you are close to falling apart again, body drawing up and starting to tighten. “Cum.” He orders.

You understand now how so many men would follow him into battle, his voice and his authority is intoxicating. You moan, unable to deny him as you clamp down on his cock, soaking him as you fall apart beneath him.

Marcus growls, loving how you soak his cock as he rocks into you. Fucking you through the orgasm that is making you shake underneath him. “Gods.” He hisses, continuing to hammer into your squelching cunt.

“Fu-uuu-ck.” You moan breaks and continues with each thrust to push you through your pleasure and your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. “Oh my - fill me up, General. Please. Want - I want it.” You demand, needing to see him fall apart above you again.

His teeth snap together harshly, lips curled up as he ruts into you. “Fuck!” He hisses, knowing that he’s close but he continues to fuck you with abandon. His hands are hard on your body as he finally stiffens with a shout that is equal to a war cry, throbbing and spilling inside you again.

You know he’s going to leave bruises but you love it. You moan, caressing his chest as he looms over you, “that’s it. That’s it.” You coo, watching him as he ruts through his ecstasy.

Marcus is panting as he finally stops moving, collapsing on top of you and pinning you to the bed as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, fuck.” He breathes out, finally feeling like he can breathe without wanting to fuck.

You hum, smiling against his chest, and you hear his heart pounding. You lower your legs from his hips, feeling your pulse race as you try to catch your breath. “It was a pleasure fighting against you, General Acacius.”

He snorts, shaking his head when he finally lifts his head and looks down at you. Knowing that you have bested him and he is honor bound to admit defeat. “My army will withdraw in two days time.” He tells you. “They will need a day to recover from their…activities.”

You chuckle, caressing his cheek and you lean in to kiss his lips softly. “As I said, it’s been a pleasure, General.” You murmur and kiss his chin. He sighs and pulls out of you, letting you spread out on the silk sheets and smile in bliss. The burning sensation in your belly satiated and your people protected. You’ve done what you set out to do.

****

True to his word, the Roman army starts to pull back, packing wagons and animals with supplies and the army, still a little sore from the orgy from days before, begins the long march back to Rome. Marcus states at the walled city, wondering where you might be right now, frowning slightly. Retreat and defeat are foreign concepts, but he was a man of honor. He would take his punishment from the emperors when he returned to the capital.

****

You sigh as you set your scroll down, looking out at the expanse of your lands. Prosperous and free since you sent the Roman army packing. Your people are thriving, they love their Queen and you have protected them from invasion. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when your advisor enters, head bowed. “There is a General here to see you.” You frown, “where is he? Take me to him.” You demand and your advisor escorts you to where he is waiting. You know who it is. You often wondered if he’d ever return and you expect he has his army waiting instructions. You enter the room with your head high, “General Acacius. What an unexpected surprise.” You hold your hand out towards him, your stomach twisting with arousal at the broad shouldered soldier standing before you.

It has been four years since he left these lands. Four years of jabs and comments from the emperors. Feigned disappointment and foul treatment of him by the spoiled brats until the people of Rome had turned on them. Disposing them and installing new leadership. Leaving Marcus with a decision to make. “My lady, your highness.” This time he uses your honorific and bows his head. “However, I lied to your advisor.” He admits. “I am no longer General Acacius of Rome.”

You frown, “then who am I speaking with?” You ask, shaking your head when your guards stiffen. “I am simply Marcus Acacius.” You nod in understanding, certain that he’s lost everything because of your deception. “I’m sorry.” You sigh, “I don’t doubt that you’ve had a difficult time from your Emperors.”

“The emperors have been overthrown.” He informs you. “The current emperor has no interest in your lands, your highness. Peace has been offered and I have brought you a promise of that.” He reaches into his tunic and slowly pulls out the scroll when the guards reach for their weapons.

You hold your hand up to get them to stand down before you take the scroll. You unravel it and scan the words, your eyes widening, “they have assured me that our lands are no longer wanted. We will be left alone.” You are shocked and pleased, looking at Marcus, his brown eyes soft as he watches you. You hand the scroll to your advisor just as footsteps echo down the hall. “Mama! Mama!” You hear your son as he runs towards you, arms open as his nanny runs behind him, trying to keep up with him. “Hello my love.” You coo, picking him up, and you cuddle him close.

Marcus watches as a child, a boy of no more than three, hugs you and presses into your body and kisses your cheek. “I missed you, mama.” He pouts, frowning fiercely at you and it makes Marcus’s heart pound in his chest. He knows, without a doubt, this is his child. He had planted his seed in your womb when you had drugged him.

You can tell he knows the truth and you hold your son close. “I really did take a tea. It was never my intention to become with child. With your child.” You promise him, “and I am sorry for any deception. I had to protect my people. You can go. No one will harm you.” You promise, “and I thank you for the news you have brought.”

Marcus might have attacked your realm on orders from his emperors, but he had no ill will towards you or your people. Watching his son look at him curiously and finding that the boy has his eyes and the edges of his ears curl like Marcus’s does makes his choice easy. “I have nothing in Rome to return to.” He tells you. “No wife, no family, no army.” He might add that to make you feel a little guilty. “I had also come to provide you with another guarantee that Rome would never attack you.” He tells you. “I wish to serve you. Help guard your people.” His eyes are on his son but they shift to you. “You have been my only defeat in war - in life.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You never imagined that he’d return alone. Perhaps he’d return with an army to defeat the woman who bested him but he wants to serve you instead. “I- wow. This is - quite a shock. But you are welcome here.” You promise, “you shall have a room in the palace. You will be honored as the father to the next king. You have my word that no one will treat you poorly. I wish to have you here.” You add, knowing that you’ve thought about him every day since the day he left with his army in tow.

Marcus never expected you to agree, to want him close. He nods. “I will serve you faithfully.” He vows, wanting to reach out and touch you. You have been on his mind since he had left, remembering your wit, and your body with a desire to see you again. The senate had known of his unhappiness in Rome and had released him from his commitments to her, knowing he would come back. He had left a piece of himself here, more true than he had realized.

You offer him a smile, “Marcus, this is your father.” You introduce your son for the first time. “He went away but he’s back now.” You explain simply, “and he wants to meet you.” You shift the little boy in your arms whose eyes widen, “papa?” He asks and turns to look at Marcus. He wiggles in your grip and holds his arms out towards his father.

Marcus’s eyes widen, surprised that you had named your son after him. He has not held many children in his life, but he is immediately reaching to take the boy. Amazed at how trusting he is as little arms wind around his neck. “Marcus.” He murmurs, looking the boy over in wonder and holding him close. “That is my name as well.” He tells him. “How old are you, son?”

Your son ducks his head, suddenly shy, until he looks at you and you nod, smiling at him. “Thwee.” He answers, still speaking with a slight lisp as he tries to get his pronunciation of words. “Marcus is your name too?” He asks and Marcus nods, “it is.” You rub your son’s back, “this is your papa.” You remind him and Marcus looks at the older man, “papa.” He grins and cuddles him.

Marcus swallows harshly, choking up slightly at the easy acceptance from his son. “Son.” He hums softly, rubbing the little boy’s back as he glances back at you. “Do you like to play with wooden swords?” He asks, knowing that he had watched young children play like that. “I do.” He pulls back and gives a wide grin that Marcus can’t help but copy. “We will have to play together. I play with wooden swords too.”

Your smile widens when your son nods, “yes, papa.” You rub his back for another moment before you squeeze Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m sure you are tired after your travels. Please, take a room and we will bring you food and you can go to the baths to clean up.” You tell Marcus, who nods, “thank you, your highness.” You tut and shake your head, telling him to call you by your name. Your servants rush around after your words to prepare everything for Marcus.

Soon, Marcus is groaning as he relaxes in a hot bath of fresh water, clean and feeling refreshed. Amazed that he hasn’t been turned away and even more amazed that he has a son. The wine next to the bath has been half drunk, but he hadn’t eaten any of the food that was sitting on the tray. He would rather talk to you first.

You look up when there’s a knock at your door, calling out for them to enter, and you sigh when you see Marcus walk into your quarters. “General.” You tease, standing up as he walks towards you in a tunic, looking fresh after his long journey. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask, stepping towards him.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Marcus shifts slightly, eyes roaming over you as you look up from something you were reading. “I - Marcus-“ he falters slightly. “Will I have a role in the boy’s life? Help train him, or would you prefer that not happen?”

You nod, “you’ll be his father if you wish to be. I have no desire to keep him from you or not let him know his father. We are not Rome, we are not Roman. We do not cast aside our people because of marriage or birth. Our son will be the next ruler of these lands and I wish for him to be skilled in fighting, in tactics. Together, I believe we can raise a fine King for my people.” You offer Marcus a smile, “and I want you to be there for every moment. I’m sorry you’ve missed so much. I truly did not intend to become with child after our coupling and I took the tea but our son…he’s stubborn. I did not know where to send word about his birth. I didn’t want the news to get into the wrong hands.” You explain, hoping he understands.

Marcus nods, understanding even if it was disappointing. “Have you taken an uxor?” He asks softly. “I must confess that I have thought about that day, about you, every day since I left in defeat.” He knows you could laugh, or send him away, but he needs to be honest with you, you have been honest with him.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I have not taken an uxor since the man I imagined being my uxor left with his army to return to Rome.” You confess, caressing his cheek. “I know we barely know each other. How could I possibly love a man I don’t know? Yet I do. I know you must be angry with me for my deception but I want you if you will have me.”

“It was war.” He reminds you. “Deception is called for, and expected. It also kept more bloodshed from happening.” He covers your hand with his own. “Are you sure you would like a former Roman general as your lover? Surely men must vie for your hand.”

You scoff, sliding your free hand to his chest, “the men of my lands might vie for my hand but too many of them are eager for power. They wish to become king, take power from a ‘feeble woman’. You are here to serve, not to conquer me. You would not just be my lover, you’d be my companion, my confidant, my advisor.” You promise, “I want someone to support me as I lead our people. I want a partner.”

Marcus thinks on your words before he nods. “I have no allegiance to Rome any more.” He promises you. “My allegiance will be to you, my queen, and my son, my future King.” He steps closer to you. “Perhaps I can help train your army, but I will perform any role you wish me to have.”

You grin, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, “you might be able to teach my men a thing or two about battling the Romans.” You smirk and lean in to press a soft kiss to his chin. Marcus grabs your waist and tilts your head to press his lips to yours. You moan into his mouth, loving the way he pulls you close and you realize the electricity between you wasn’t just the fruit.

Marcus groans quietly and deepens the kiss, you closer to him and feeling his body starting to react to your nearness. It’s not because of the fruit, it’s because of you.

You whimper when his hands slide down to squeeze your ass, his tongue pushing into your mouth and you moan, letting him walk you backwards until you’re pressing against the wall. “I need you Marc.” You plead when his mouth presses against your jaw, “now. Fuck me.”

He hums, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw. “Yes, your highness.” He teases. “I am but your humble servant. This time it’s not because of the fruit that I need to fuck you though.”

It's like a fire is ignited as you fumble to tug his tunic up, wrapping your fingers around his hardening cock to pump him while he bunches your dress up your body to gather at your waist. "Definitely not the fruit." You murmur when he kisses your neck, panting into your skin when you squeeze him, "all because of you, General. My General. My - my love."

Marcus moans your name, accepting now that the fever he feels right now is just because of his feelings for you. His fingers slip under your dress and he finds you already wet. “Have you been thinking about this since I arrived?” He teases as he starts to slowly rub your clit.

You nod, “yes.” Your response is breathless and you whimper his name as he teases you while you pump his cock. “I imagined you taking me while I was sitting at my table, reading my scrolls. Imagined you bending me over and claiming me again and again.”

Marcus growls as he bites down on the juncture of your shoulder. “I imagined fucking you while I was riding my horse on the way to Rome. Seated on my cock while the horse moves. In my bed while I was in Rome.”

“Yes. Yes. I’m yours.” You promise, “please just - I need you inside me.” You whine and he nods, reluctantly pulling his fingers from your clit and he bats your hand away so he can lift your thigh and position himself at your entrance. “Please.” You whimper which transitions into a moan when he starts to push into you.

It’s rough, sex against a wall is far less than a queen deserves, but you seem to love it. Kissing along his neck and moaning into his skin as he fills you up. “Fuck.” He pants, pressing you harshly into the wall. “You are so fucking tight around my cock. Never would have known you had our son.”

You gasp when he pushes into you, his fingers finding your other thigh to lift it so your weight is fully pressed into the wall. "You're so big, amor. So strong. My lover." You moan, wrapping your legs around him as he squeezes your flesh.

He chuckles and starts to move inside you. “A lifetime of battle and blood.” He pants, loving the way you are squeezing his cock. You are so responsive to him.

You caress his chest, kissing his jaw, “and you have a new cause to fight for. I want - I want our son to be as strong as you. I want him to be a great leader like his father.” You murmur, sliding your hands along his shoulders, admiring how broad he is

Marcus groans, moving slowly, showcasing his strength as he rocks into you while keeping you pressed against the wall. “You will teach him politics, I will teach him to fight.”

“He will be a force to be reckoned with.” You gasp when he adjusts you and the angle has him pushing against something delicious inside you. “Fuck, this feels just as good as the first time.”

He can only groan in agreement, kissing you again as he tries to continue to hit that angle again. Loving how your walls clench around him and milk his cock. The magic of the pleasure between you hadn’t been a fluke or because of the fruit. He’s just as desperate for you to cum for him now.

You whimper as he pushes you higher up the wall with each thrust and you slide back down as he pulls back. "You are going to - I'm - oh. Oh. OH!" Your cry echoes across the vast room and you clamp down on his cock, crying out his name as you fall apart for him.

He growls in pleasure when you soak him, your juices dripping down his cock and onto his thighs. “That’s it,” he grunts harshly. “Cum for me. Shake apart for me.”

His cock continues pushing into you and you can't do anything but cling to him, watching as he clenches his jaw. You want to feel him again, no matter the consequences, you need to feel him fill you up. "Cum for me, General. My General." You coo, leaning in to kiss and nip at his jaw.

Closing his eyes, he buries himself deep. Groaning your name in a whimper as he floods your womb with his seed. Coming home to you physically and spiritually. He had come to conquer your lands on behalf of Rome but had been defeated, leaving behind his heart when he left. Only to find that he has a place here, with you and the son you created together. All of this was brought about by the fruits of passion.

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x f!reader #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius imagine #marcus acacius smut #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii

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lanafofana · 8 months ago

Text

Temptation

Pairing: Raphael x Tav(f)

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: She won't sign another contract but she’s not opposed to a different kind of deal

Rating: Explicit [🔞MINORS DNI]

Warning: Porn! Filthy depraved devil porn! A little bit of hate sex (PnV with a little PVP), ( she throws hands twice)(but he's into it). Cunnilingus, because it wouldn't be a Lana fic if a tongue wasn't getting shoved in someone's [redacted]. A little bit of toxic relationship dynamics at play (devil gonna devil). SMUT SMUT SMUT

No beta, we die like pumpkin pie (listen, it's been a long night)

💖✨Kudos to @dr-demi-bee for the prompt✨💖

AO3 Link here for all who celebrate the time honored tradition of validating authors via kudos etc etc etc

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Raphael doesn't look surprised to see her anymore. Merely gives her a look when she finds him on the balcony of his Archive and snaps his fingers to conjure her a drink that appears in her hand before returning his attention back to the fiend giving him some kind of report in the guttural language of the infernal.

She slips away, perusing his collection of tomes from some kingdom long dead and sipping at her wine. It's too sweet, cherry rich and decadent but the alcohol burns pleasantly warm in her belly. Later, sprawled across a lavish settee, an open book in her lap, Tav is trying to untangle a web of mental snares that have put her in a melancholy mood of late when Raphael finds her.

He doesn't say anything for a long time but she can feel his gaze taking her in with more precision now that he can afford his full attention to the task. The predator, sizing up the prey. Her skin prickles.

She's returned to his house with more frequency of late and though he’s never brought it up she’s struck with the sudden anxiety that she is overstaying her welcome. Draining her glass of wine she swishes the liquid around her mouth while watching the crystal goblet refill in a blink. He's never asked why she’s decided to help herself to his company or tries to dissuade her attention when she comes calling. There's a mystery there she’s too afraid to pursue. She sighs and takes another drink.

Footsteps, steady and deliberately slow, approach. The predator, stalking their prey. Turning a page in the book she isn't reading Tav pretends his proximity doesn't send a bolt of heat and fear fizzling along her spine. In her peripheral he stops, a looming metaphor for the direction her choices are driving her to. A finger, warm and familiar, presses against the soft vulnerable space just past the jut of her chin and tilts her face to meet his.

“Have you come to bargain?” His dark eyes drink in her face, giving nothing away.

He already knows the answer to that question but she answers it anyway, deriving a weird sort of comfort from the repetitive nature of this exchange they've replayed so many times they might as well have memorized a script.

“No.”

His eyes narrow and she doesn't hear the snap but her wine glass and book both vanish. Standing involves significantly more motor skills than she presently possesses so, with a smirk, the devil offers her a courteous hand and hauls her up. Her breasts graze against the broad expanse of his chest before she gains her bearings and straightens. He doesn't let go of her hand.

“What then do you seek from the House of Hope?” His voice is mocking but his eyes are hungry. Tav knows the steps to this dance by heart but she’s hungry too. Famished.

Grasping the collar of his opulent coat she tugs him into her orbit, sliding a hand into his hair and pressing her lips to his. He tastes like hellfire and forbidden fruit.

The edges of her vision white out for a moment when he displaces them to his quarters, his infernal magic buzzes against her tongue pleasantly. Pressing close with nothing but fabric between them she shifts, a calculated movement to stoke the fire of his desire.

“Crawling and secret she constructs her own web, a trap for her prey, fallen into instead.” Raphael wedges his knees between her legs and, hands tight on her hips, bows her back to wrest control from her. Dizzy with drink and anxiety and lust Tav grinds against his thigh, seeking the friction that will at last unwind her mind.

“Needs work,” she critiques unnecessarily, breathless and smirking. He nips her bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh taunt in chastisement but it makes her lashes flutter, her clit throbbing against his thigh.

Huffing a laugh at his petulance she pulls away. Pulling her clothes loose and discarding them under his dark gaze while backing towards the bed. The backs of her knees hitting the edge of the mattress, she beckons and –after a moment– he follows, unbuttoning his doublet slowly.

“Go on then,” she teases, heedless of the black warning in his face, “Seduce me with your limerick.”

“A mouthwatering fruit, this human heart.” He sheds his jacket, the shirt too, preening under her appreciative stare. “Devastating, damned, and doomed from the start.”

She swallows, mouth dry as he approaches and comes to a stop close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“Dazzling, delicious but,” he looks at her critically for a moment, “Not very rare, this cracking soul is fetid with,” Raphael leans in, to take in her scent deeply. Closing his eyes he murmurs lasciviously, breath hot against her ear, “Despair.”

She throbs with need.

Wrapping a hand around her throat he pauses only long enough to take her pulse, sneering at the staccato beat, before sliding his hand down her chest, to her breast. With both hands he gropes her roughly, squeezing and tugging at her nipples till they pucker, rosy and stiff. The expression on his face hasn't changed much, cold and disdainful but his eyes. She shivers under the blistering heat of them.

“Take what you came here for, creature.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before her hands are on him pulling him close with a rough hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side, putting her teeth to his throat.

She bites him savagely, electric at the needy whine he tries to stifle unsuccessfully. She laves her tongue against the red teeth marks soothingly, hands on his shoulders. His hands have migrated too, palming the swell of her ass. When she runs the edge of her teeth down the column of his throat and licks the dip of his collar bone he smacks an asscheek, the crack sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet room.

In retaliation she sinks her teeth into his shoulder so hard he repeats the action on her other asscheek. She cries out, her inner walls slamming down on nothing.

“Tell me, my dear,” his voice, rough and deep, is commanding. Tav clenches her thighs together in response.

Nothing and no one comes for free in the House of Hope. Each visit to his bed, a transaction between her hunger for his body and his hunger for her pain. Their unspoken devil’s pact. She knows exactly what he wants and her stomach flips in trepidation.

Hands full of her ass he is not gentle when he pulls her against him, grinding her against the hard length of him through his trousers. She whimpers, drawing her nails across his shoulders and scoring livid marks into his skin. “Tell me,” he repeats, a furious snarl, as he shoves her to the bed.

“Then ask, you fucking monster,” she hisses, hitting the mattress with a soft ‘oof’ as the wind is briefly knocked from her lungs.

He follows her descent, aiming to cage her body with his but a spike of adrenaline has her scrambling out from under him. Awkwardly she heaves her way to the head of the bed but he’s faster – stronger– and he snatches her ankle in a fierce grip, dragging her back within range.

Wrapping himself around her, thick cock against her ass, bruising fingers holding her captive against his chest he chuckles. The sound chills her in the same way it sends another trickle of wet desire between her legs.

Close to her ear he breathes his full query at last. “What is the root of your despair?” Her stomach sinks down to her toes, the red flush of her desire doused cold.

What was your last wickedly depraved thought, he's asked her before. When did the thrill of bloodlust last blind you completely to sense; do you hate anyone more than you've hated yourself? She may have never signed another contract with him but somehow he’s found a way to drain her soul, piecemeal, all the same.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against her skin, parting her thighs to drag a finger along her slick wet slit.

The reason for the wine becomes clear to her in that moment. She’s never had inhibitions where sex is concerned. Has never considered it a trial to use her body and let it be used for its skill with a blade, on either side of the sheets.

But put enough wine down her throat and inevitably the secret hurts that haunt her begin to spill out from between her lips.

The devil growls at her hesitation, flipping her over and pinching a nipple between his teeth slightly too hard. Demanding her attention and supplication in all things.

“I–,” she gasps and leaves half moon indentations on his skin when he sticks his tongue in her belly button, swirling his tongue there lazily. “I’m sad, all the time,” she confesses in a rush like it will hurt less to say it fast. Her heart pounds. “I hide from my friends, from everyone, and suffer alone. I’ve always been alone, I’m pretty sure I'll always be alone because it’s–” her breath hitches on a strangled sob when he just barely presses his thumb to her clit and leaves it there, teasing. Torturing. She doesn't want him to ever stop. “I’m too much to be around. Too much unhappiness in one person to inflict on anyone else.”

“Self pity,” Raphael groans with relish and she bristles because of course he's right. “Never looked so lovely than on the utterly pathetic,” the words burn, as they're intended to. “Look at you, mourning yourself to the point of self destruction.”

Blood rushes to the surface of her skin, blooming red and hot across her throat and cheeks. Within her bosom she aches. Raphael hums with pleasure, as drunk on her internal agony as he is on her body.

Feeling flayed open she wails, hands scrabbling for purchase on his skin and in the rumpled bedding, when he sinks a finger fast –and hard–and deep in her dripping, aching cunt. She bites her lip and breathes through the discomfort of letting him see her. The despair and self pity on full display for his perusal. He feasts on her pain like a man deprived of fresh air, reveling in the cocktail of humiliation, fear, and miserably pathetic sorrow.

“Entrust me with your soul and you'll never be alone again, for as long as your pitiful soul flickers,” he vows, working a second digit in with the first. She’s so wet her lips squelch lewdly around his scissoring fingers to punctuate his words.

He means it too. It's far from the first –or the last– time he has promised an eternity to her. Her soul nestled within his grasp forever, damnation tempered with endless companionship. A demon’s version of love. Eternal ownership. The ache in her chest sharpens to a knife’s edge. Thrusting her hips against his hand, her breathing changes, getting deeper and faster as her orgasm inches tantalizingly closer.

Her legs are open but her heart's been closed so long the hinges squeak and grind in complaint at being disturbed. Maybe that's why his canny words rend instead of pierce, like they're claws mauling instead of hands gently stroking. Devils don't know kindness but there's a world of gentleness in the way he peels open her ribcage to curl up in her chest cavity with his insidious intent.

“Kiss me,” she begs. Begs, hoping it will be enough to stem the tide of his incendiary words. Words spoken with the intent to hurt, to disturb, to split the cobbled pieces of her being back into shattered fragments he can hold in his hands. To mold her, shaping her to his will. Without ceremony he crushes her with his mouth, his body, and his desire.

Raphael moves against her, heavy and too big, a threat and a promise that tastes like cherry wine and feels like coming home. The kiss, a miscalculation on her part, steals his voice but replaces wounding words with bruising force. Shoving his tongue into her mouth he seeks only to consume and she moans around the wet intrusion, curling a hand tightly into the hair at the nape of his neck until he hisses against her teeth.

She lets him continue only for so long before the hand she has locked in his hair tugs viscously and she gets a glimpse of his pupils blown wide before his eyes flutter closed. The Archduke Supreme would never admit to his proclivities in bed but he’s not the only one studying his prey during their encounters.

She maneuvers until he's beneath her, breath stuttering in his chest as his ardor intensifies with her forceful take over. The meticulous Archduke Supreme, Lord of the Nine Entire, Devil of False Hope, Cania’s Conquerer might have eaten her whole for the audacity of asking for control in the bedroom but when she takes it…

He groans, squirming and wanton, when she peels herself away from his lips to sink the fingers of one hand around his throat while the fingers of her other hand tug on the laces of his breeches.

“Tav,” he growls, the reverberation of his vocal chords against her hand shooting directly to the heat that burns in her core.

She pulls her hand from around his throat to pull back and strike him across the face. His hips surge up against her desperately. “Silence,” she warns, nimble fingers slipping his throbbing cock from its confines.

The fat head is wet, a glistening mess of his own precum. The smell makes her mouth water. Wrapping her hand around the shaft she pulls at him experimentally, running the calloused pad of her thumb across the leaking slit on top and along the thick vein beneath his glans until he whimpers. The sound makes her smile, the power of her unique position sending a rush of wet slick through the lips of her vulva, dripping down the inside of her thighs.

Moving the hand she just had wrapped around his erection to her own throbbing need she drinks in his expression while he watches her fuck herself on two fingers. She leans back to give him a better view while she circles her own clit, biting her lip and shifting her hips in time with the movements until she’s close, almost too close.

The devil never looks more beautiful than when he’s languishing untouched, desperate and needy and simmering with helpless fury.

“Open that pretty maw, creature,” she sneers, an echo of his earlier epithet.

Obediently his lips part and she leans forward, shoving her fingers into his mouth, pressing against the molten heat of his tongue.

“Suck.”

Tav's eyes flutter, nearly rolling to the back of her skull as the Duke follows her instruction, locking his lips around her slick coated fingers and sucking hard enough to tear her soul through her fingertips. She moans, positioning herself above his pelvis and undulating her hips to rub his delicious head through her slippery folds.

Inside his mouth his tongue swirls across the pads of her fingers and he echoed her moans; pleasing, pretty, broken little sounds that have her sinking onto his cock halfway in her excitement. He bucks, too sharp teeth grazing erotically against her fingers and she withdraws them to backhand him; whip fast and snapping his lust drunk face to the side. He gasps and she revels in the feeling of him jumping against the walls of her sex.

Pulling herself upright she arches her back, giving him a pretty view as she plays with her own breasts, running the tips of her fingers along the goose pimpled flesh of her abdomen.

“Like what you see, devil?” She taunts, sinking a little more around his girth. “Tell me, Archduke,” she smiles cruelly. “Tell me how much you want to fuck this sweet mortal cunt.” She twists her nipples and sinks a little lower on his cock, watching the expressions flit across his face faster than he probably even registers them. She smiles, all teeth. “Beg.”

“Please!” He doesn't even hesitate, voice gone tight. “Please, let me feel you sink that perfect tight cunt onto my cock.” He releases the most delicious open mouthed whine when she does, enveloping him completely. “Please!” He blurts, hands fisting in the bedding, muscles quivering with the restraint to keep from fucking into her.

The stretch is nothing short of divine. Her hips yearn to move, to rock against him, grinding his hips into the bed but she pauses, balancing on the precipice.

“Please, what?” She demands, relishing in the widening of his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open.

“Please,” his eyes close briefly and he swallows thickly, “Archduchess Supreme, My Lady Eternal.”

“Good boy,” she murmurs, warmth suffusing her entirely when he keens at the praise.

Planting her hands on his chest she wastes no more time, fucking herself on his thick cock; fast and hard and rough. Between her fingers she pinches his nipples, leaning forward to swallow his cries as she rides him to the brink. Between her thighs he cants his hips, mindlessly matching her thrust for thrust as his orgasm barrels within reach.

She slips a hand between their bodies, pinching her swollen clit and cries out his name and a litany of swearing as she crests her final peak. Her mind whites out, the walls of her cunt bearing down on his cock so tightly he spills into her with an inarticulate groan.

Their bliss reached, their movements stutter clumsily to a stop, chests heaving and breathless pants peppering the air with the soft sounds of post coital exhaustion.

Tav disengages from Raphael's body slowly, flushing at the rush of slippery fluid that leaks out of her. The devil looks at the mess between her legs, unabashed, a pleased smirk hovering in the corners of his mouth.

Running a finger through their combined spend, shivering on the cusp of overstimulation, she holds his gaze as she reaches up to paint his lips with it.

He doesn't even blink, licking the shine of his own seed from his lips and making a pleased noise, deep in his chest, that echoes in the throb of her empty cunt. Leaning into him, chest to chest, Tav chases the taste of them on his tongue with a redolent kiss, slow and tender. His hands drift along her sweat slick skin, raising goose bumps with each delicate graze of his nails.

Wrapping his arms around her Raphael flips them, startling a sound from her that he chases with teeth and an amused chuckle. Before she registers what he's doing the devil is wedged between her legs, pushing one of her legs wide, fingers sunk tightly into the plush thickness of her thigh while the fingers of his other hand part the puffy lips of her sex.

He stares, transfixed, for only a moment before he bends his head, slotting his lips against her wet, sticky heat. The predator devours the prey. The gluttonous wet sounds of him licking and suckling at her sex sends her brain rocketing away on a tidal wave of sensation. She grasps the back of his head in shock and a haze of overwhelming arousal.

“Raphael!” She cries out when he locks his lips around her clit and sucks. “Nnnggg– ahhh!!”

“Say my name again,” he growls, immediately spearing her with his tongue and twisting to lap at every drop of her slick heat. “Say it!”

“Ra– Raphael! Oh– nnngggahhh!!” If she is his Archduchess then he is her god and she cries out to him, exultantly. “Raphael! Yes! Yes! RAPH–”

He hums his pleasure and the vibration has her sinking both hands into his hair, pressing him closer– harder–

She flexes her hips, rocking against the sensation of his mouth taking her apart, heart slamming against her ribs as her mind spirals faster and faster and–

“RAPHAEL!” Tav’s mind flies apart as she screams her release, back bowed, thighs clenched tight around the Archduke’s ears.

She comes back into her body to the feeling of her fingers being disentangled from their iron grip on his hair. She releases him immediately, flexing her digits and collapsing against the bed as a wave of exhaustion slides over her.

“You,” she pants breathlessly, boneless and still buzzing for the high of her orgasm. “That was–

“Delicious,” he finishes for her with a sinful smile that does nothing to soothe the thunderous beating of her heart.

This time it is the devil who stretches himself over her body, skin against sweaty skin, and presses the taste of her arousal and his spend between their lips in a filthy kiss. When he pulls away Tav’s dazed expression pulls another smile to his face, this one different from the one he usually shows her. Her stomach clenches but in the next moment her face is split in a jaw cracking yawn and when she looks again he looks the same as he always does.

“Sleep, my dear,” he says in a tone that conveys he neither cares if she does or does not. With a snap of his finger he is dressed and polished once more. He drags his eyes down the length of her naked body with an appreciative leer. Another snap and he's gone in a flash of hellfire.

Tav forces her body to move though her limbs feel made of jelly. She crawls between the sheets, the luxurious material cold against her heated skin. Sweat on her scalp and elsewhere on her body sends a shiver down her spine. Cocooned, safe, and spent, she sleeps.

That's All Folks!

#kinktober #raphael x tav #female tav #raphael smut #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction

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yunholic-jongholic · 2 months ago

Text

His to Take, Mine to Keep [Part 2] | C.JH x Reader

SUMMARY | Jongho is the newest recruit in the cartel—a quiet, calculated intern with eyes on climbing the ranks. He’s focused, disciplined, and determined to survive the brutal world he's stepped into. But all of that begins to unravel when he crosses paths with the one woman he should never touch: the boss’s wife. You. Beautiful, mysterious, and more trapped than anyone realizes. What starts as stolen glances and cautious conversation spirals into something far more dangerous—desire, secrecy, and a love that could cost them both everything.

PAIRINGS | Mafia Intern!Jongho x Mafia Boss Wife!Reader

RATING | NSFW, 18+, MDNI!!!

CONTENT WARNINGS | NSFW, Mafia AU, Explicit Content, Mentions of Blood/Injuries, Mentions of Killing/Murder, Cheating, Smut, Angst, Teasing, Oral Sex (Reader Receiving), Fingering, Unprotected Sex (Don't do it), Mentions of Marking/Bruises/Bites, Orgasms, Creampie, Feeling Unwanted/Used, Breakdowns, (We might be missing some...)

WORD COUNT | 6.1k

AUTHORS NOTE | Chapter 2! This has some ending angst, but also SMUT. I am proud to be suffering with y'all hehe :)

TAG LIST | @mingisleftnipple @kyunlov @jjongsho @frzzenfrxg

•

Jongho entered the office, posture straight, eyes unreadable.

You were already there—perched in your husband’s lap like a picture from a frame. Your fingers were tangled gently in his hair, his head tilted back in indulgent relaxation. It looked natural. Easy. But Jongho could feel the performance in it from the doorway.

Both of you glanced up as he stepped in.

“Darling,” your husband said smoothly, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “Why don’t you make us two drinks?”

You nodded, soft and obedient. “Of course.”

Jongho’s eyes followed your movements as you rose—elegant, composed. The robe had been replaced by something casual but fitted, and somehow it felt even more intimate. You didn’t look at him. Not directly.

But he felt it anyway.

The absence of your gaze.

The shift in the air when you passed him.

He sat down across from your husband, posture calm, jaw tight.

There was a pause as the door clicked softly behind you.

Your husband leaned back, folding his hands, expression cool and measured. “You’ve been busy,” he said.

Jongho nodded once. “You called me for a mission.”

The older man smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I did.”

Then he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, voice dropping just enough to sharpen the air between them.

Jongho’s eyes tracked your movements as you returned—two glasses in hand, your steps measured, head slightly bowed in practiced deference. You offered the drinks with that soft, sweet smile you wore like armor, and then…

You climbed back into your husband’s lap.

Graceful. Familiar.

Your arm wrapped lightly around his shoulders, and his hand slid over your waist—tight, territorial. Fingers pressing in just a little too firmly, like a silent reminder.

You clung to him effortlessly, like you’d done it a thousand times. Like this was your place.

But Jongho saw the flicker behind your eyes as you settled in.

And when your husband spoke again, his tone was smooth, but edged like glass.

“So, you’ll be paired with Wooyoung on this one,” he said, accepting the drink without looking away from Jongho. “He’ll handle the front. You’ll clean the rest.”

His smile was calm. Pleased, even.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jongho took the glass with a nod, jaw tightening, gaze flicking to the side to avoid the picture you two made. The possessive grip. The intimacy you didn’t fight.

You didn’t look at him either.

Not once.

And still—he felt you.

The tension. The silence.

The weight of what wasn’t being said.

He sipped his drink once, slow, deliberate.

“Yes, sir,” he said coolly, staring at the desk instead of at you.

Your husband chuckled lightly, resting his chin on your shoulder, murmuring against your skin like it was nothing.

“Good. I like when my men know their place.”

Jongho didn’t respond.

But in that quiet, brittle silence between the three of you-

Something cracked.

“You’re dismissed,” your husband said smoothly, pulling you tighter into his lap, his palm sliding slowly up your thigh. “Don’t keep Wooyoung waiting.”

You felt Jongho’s eyes; just for a flicker. A glance. Sharp and fleeting, before he stood and turned to leave, the door clicking shut behind him with a final, quiet echo.

You let out a soft sigh, more breath than sound, as your husband’s hand drifted higher.

“Looks like someone’s in the mood,” you purred, fingers tangling in his hair, your voice warm and silken as you leaned in, whispering against his ear.

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “Always, when you’re like this.”

You smiled sweetly, pressing a kiss to his neck-but behind your eyes, something else lingered.

You weren’t thinking about your husband.

You were thinking about that glance.

That crack.

And the man who had just walked out the door.

---

The door clicked shut behind him, but the weight didn’t lift.

Jongho moved through the halls like a shadow, his footsteps silent, controlled-but the silence inside him was louder now. Harsher. Every breath felt like it scraped his lungs.

He could still feel it.

The way your eyes didn’t meet his.

The way your husband touched you.

The way his hand slid beneath your skirt like it was nothing.

And the way Jongho had looked. Just once. That single, traitorous glance-too fast to be noticed, too slow to be forgotten.

His jaw clenched.

He hadn’t meant to look. But he had.

And now it was under his skin.

You. Under his skin.

By the time he reached the garage, Wooyoung was already leaning against one of the blacked-out SUVs, tossing a blade between his fingers with maddening ease.

“Took you long enough,” Wooyoung said, straightening. “Boss keep you for a little extra quality time?”

Jongho didn’t answer. He just opened the passenger door.

Wooyoung smirked, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Tense, aren’t we?”

Jongho stared out the window. “Drive.”

Wooyoung raised a brow but obeyed, the engine rumbling to life as they pulled out of the compound, swallowed by the night.

A few minutes passed in silence before Wooyoung spoke again, voice casual but laced with something sharper.

“You know,” he said, “it’s a dangerous thing-wanting something that belongs to him.”

Jongho’s eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead.

“She doesn’t belong to anyone,” he muttered.

Wooyoung laughed under his breath. “Keep saying that if it helps you sleep.”

The vehicle sped forward, cutting through the dark like a bullet.

Jongho said nothing.

But beneath the quiet, his fists had curled.

And he was already imagining how good it would feel; to bleed out that tension on someone who actually deserved it.

The silence didn’t last.

It never did with Wooyoung.

“So,” he said, steering one-handed as the city blurred past them in streaks of cold neon, “how long has this little thing been going on?”

Jongho didn’t answer.

Wooyoung glanced sideways, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, you don’t have to say it. I’m not blind. The way you looked at her? That was practically confession.”

Jongho’s jaw flexed, knuckles tightening where his hand rested near the door.

“She’s the boss’s wife,” he said evenly.

“Oh, I know,” Wooyoung drawled. “That’s what makes it so fun, right?”

Jongho’s gaze snapped to him for just a second; sharp, dangerous.

But Wooyoung wasn’t done. He smirked, voice dropping into something more venomous. “Tell me, when you touched her, did she make the same sound she does for him?”

The car jolted slightly as Jongho reached across, grabbing the front of Wooyoung’s shirt and slamming him back into his seat with a force that made the entire vehicle shudder.

Wooyoung laughed. Laughed, even as Jongho’s fist hovered inches from his face.

“There it is,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Knew you were close.”

Jongho’s breath came harder now, but his voice was still low, controlled; ice on the surface of fire.

“Say her name again and I’ll shut you up permanently.”

Wooyoung held his hands up, still smirking. “Noted.”

Jongho released him with a shove and turned back to the window, rage seething beneath his skin.

Wooyoung straightened his collar, unfazed, but quieter now.

And in the silence that followed, the only thing louder than the engine was the pounding in Jongho’s chest.

Because Wooyoung was right about one thing.

He was close.

Too close.

---

The warehouse was silent when they arrived, just the way Jongho liked it.

No screams yet. No gunshots. Just tension.

Wooyoung flicked the safety off his pistol with a flourish, the playful glint back in his eyes. “One target inside. Two guards. Clean sweep, fast in, fast out.”

Jongho rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck as he stepped out of the car. His face was blank. His eyes weren’t.

Inside, it didn’t take long.

The first guard heard the door creak and turned too slow.

Jongho didn’t hesitate.

A flash of steel. A single, brutal strike blade slicing deep across the man’s throat before his hand could even reach for his weapon. Blood sprayed the wall in a violent arc. Jongho stepped through it, calm and steady.

Wooyoung whistled low under his breath from the other side of the room. “You’re in a mood.”

Jongho didn’t answer.

The second guard charged, young, panicked, messy.

Jongho welcomed it.

He ducked the first swing, landed a punch to the ribs that sent the man stumbling. Another blow to the gut. Then an elbow to the jaw. Bone cracked beneath his knuckles, the sound sharp and satisfying.

He didn’t stop.

He slammed the man into the ground, straddled his chest, and kept hitting.

Again.

And again.

Until Wooyoung’s voice cut through the haze. “He’s done.”

Jongho froze; chest heaving, fist slick with blood. His pulse roared in his ears. He looked down at what was left of the man’s face.

Then he stood. Wiped his hand on the corpse’s shirt.

The actual target, the one they were sent to retrieve was cowering behind a stack of crates. Still untouched. Still screaming.

“Your turn,” Jongho muttered to Wooyoung, voice like gravel.

Wooyoung gave a low whistle but nodded, stepping past him with a shake of his head. “Remind me never to flirt with anyone you’re staring at like that again.”

Jongho didn’t answer.

Didn’t look back.

He just walked outside into the cold night air, covered in someone else’s blood, and for the first time in hours

He could breathe.

But not for long.

Because no matter how hard he hit, no matter how much he bled

He couldn’t beat back the image of you in his head.

You. In someone else’s lap.

Smiling like you meant it.

---

It was late.

The kind of late where everything felt quieter than it should—where the silence wasn’t peace, but aftermath.

Your clothes were still strewn across the floor, your husband long gone on another mission, already chasing blood before the sheets had even cooled. You'd stayed behind, wrapped in nothing but lingering sweat and a thin pink robe, trying to find sleep beneath the weight of sore limbs and scattered thoughts.

But then; you heard footsteps.

Not rushed. Not heavy.

Measured. Familiar.

You sat up, heart already skipping, and padded over to the mirror. The reflection met you with flushed skin, the soft silk hanging off your frame, and the fresh marks—deep along your neck, lower on your thighs. You grimaced, tugging the robe tighter. The silk didn’t cover enough. Nothing really could.

You stepped into the hallway.

Just in time to see Jongho retreat into his room.

He looked drained. But it wasn’t just fatigue.

There was something else clinging to him.

You moved before you could think.

Quick steps. Soft knock.

No answer.

You rolled your eyes, heart racing with something you didn’t want to name.

Then you opened the door yourself.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

He was at the sink, shirtless, blood splattered faintly across his arms and neck—washed away, but not completely gone. He was bent over the basin, splashing cold water on his face, muscles rigid under the weight of something he hadn’t spoken out loud.

You stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind you.

“Jongho.”

Still, he didn’t look at you. Just reached for the towel.

You moved closer.

“I saw you come in.”

Silence.

“You look like you didn’t win,” you said softly, trying to tease the tension away—but your voice cracked at the edges.

He finally looked up.

And you saw it.

That flicker.

Like seeing you right now; with the robe barely hiding the truth of where you’d been—hurt.

Not jealousy.

Something deeper. Something dangerous.

Like seeing you here wearing that robe, skin flushed, collarbone marked with someone else’s hands wasn’t just painful.

It was a wound.

“I don’t lose,” he said, voice flat.

A quiet, burning kind that didn’t bleed.

It just scarred.

“But something’s wrong.”

You took another step closer, standing just behind him now, watching his reflection in the mirror.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then, softly, bitterly:

“You have his hands all over you, and you still come to me.”

You didn’t flinch.

You whispered, “Because I don’t feel like myself until I see you.”

His jaw clenched.

His breath hitched.

And still, he didn’t move.

But everything in him screamed that he wanted to.

The air between you was heavy.

Not with lust.

With want. With the ache of two people who shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be this, and yet couldn’t seem to walk away.

Jongho turned back to the sink, gripping its edges so tightly his knuckles went pale. He said nothing.

So you stepped closer.

The soft hush of silk brushing your skin was deafening in the silence. You reached out, slow and careful, placing a hand against his bare back—right between his shoulder blades.

His muscles tensed beneath your touch.

“I’m not asking for anything,” you whispered.

“I know.” His voice was low. Strained. “That’s the problem.”

He looked up again, catching your eyes in the mirror. His gaze burned into you; anger, pain, restraint, every emotion he’d been burying beneath obedience and silence now rising to the surface.

Your fingers traced the scar on his shoulder gently.

“I’m not trying to make it worse,” you murmured.

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You don’t have to try.”

You stepped beside him now, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, but you didn’t reach for him again. You didn’t push.

You just stood there.

“I don’t know what this is,” you admitted. “But it’s the only time I feel real.”

His eyes closed for a moment. A single breath.

“I want to kiss you,” he said quietly. “I want to touch you.”

He looked at you then not in the mirror, but directly, eyes locked on yours.

“But I won’t. Not while you still taste like him.”

Your breath hitched.

Shame. Longing. Desire. They all swirled inside you.

You nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“I understand.”

You turned to leave, trying to keep your breath steady, your heart from shattering all over the floor.

But his hand caught your wrist.

Not rough. Just enough to stop you.

“So that’s it?” he said, voice low, but laced with something darker; hurt masked as anger. “That’s what this is?”

His eyes locked on yours, burning. “You come in here for a little softness after your husband’s finished with you? Sleep with one of his men and call it comfort?”

You flinched like he’d struck you not because he raised his voice, but because you could hear how much it cost him to say it.

“That’s not why I’m here,” you said, gently, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “I came because I needed-”

“Needed me?” he snapped, bitter and unsteady. “Or just someone who isn’t him?”

You pulled your wrist away slowly, and this time, he let go.

“I came in here because you make me feel human,” you whispered. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m a prize, or a possession, or a tool.”

His face twisted, but he said nothing.

Just stood there. Breathing like he was holding back the storm behind his ribs.

“I’m sorry if that makes me cruel,” you said. “But I didn’t come here to use you, Jongho.”

The silence after your words stretched, aching.

And for the first time, you both looked like you didn’t know what to say next.

The truth sat between you, raw and unpolished.

Neither of you knew what to do with it.

But something in Jongho’s eyes cracked wide open.

You saw it- the image still burning in his mind: you curled up in your husband’s lap, playing the part, while he sat there, silent, pretending it didn’t gut him. Pretending it didn’t ruin him to see you like that.

He knew you were hurting, too.

He saw the cracks in your smile. The tightness in your eyes. How every soft word and polished gesture was just another layer of armor in the war you lived behind closed doors.

And he hated it.

Hated watching you play perfect for a man who paraded you like a prize, then marked you just to remind the world and you who you belonged to.

Jongho sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he moved to the bed, sitting heavily on the edge. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, careful breaths, like he was trying to calm the storm inside him before it pulled him under.

You watched him quietly.

Your hand lifted instinctively, wanting to run your fingers through his damp hair, to soothe. To touch.

But you didn’t.

You just stood there, helpless, aching.

Wondering what he was really feeling, what he wasn’t letting himself say.

“You should go,” he murmured, not looking at you. “I need time alone.”

You shook your head softly. “No. I’m not leaving you alone.”

You stepped closer and reached out, intending to take his hand; something small, something grounding.

But before you could, Jongho’s hands caught your wrists.

And he pulled.

Gently, suddenly until you stumbled forward, landing on top of him.

You gasped, startled, your hands braced against his chest but before you could say a word, his lips were on yours.

Desperate.

Slow.

Deep.

And it undid you completely.

Every suppressed ache, every word unsaid, every quiet moment of watching each other from a distance it all poured into that kiss.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, his arms wrapping around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

There was no rush.

No pretending.

Just the undeniable truth of two people finally breaking.

Together.

Your lips moved together in slow rhythm, mouths molding, breathing shared. There was no desperation in it just depth. A hunger that had waited too long, carried too much weight.

Jongho’s hands slid up your back, firm but reverent, as if he still wasn’t sure this was real. Like touching you too suddenly might break the moment.

But you didn’t pull away.

You kissed him deeper, your fingers tangling into his hair, finally doing what you’d stopped yourself from earlier. His breath hitched when your nails grazed his scalp, his hands gripping your waist tighter in response.

You shifted in his lap, the thin silk of your robe brushing against the rough fabric of his clothes. His jaw clenched, holding back, fighting to stay composed but his restraint was thinning with every press of your body against his.

“You can touch me,” you whispered against his lips.

His eyes met yours, dark, searching, like he needed to hear it again.

You nodded, breath trembling. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

He leaned forward, guiding you gently backward until your spine met the mattress. The robe slipped open slightly as you landed, revealing the soft curve of your thighs, the fresh marks already blooming on your skin. His gaze lingered, not with judgment, but with something deeper. Protective. Pained.

His fingers brushed your collarbone, down to your waist, and then slid beneath the silk, parting it as his mouth followed, kisses mapping every inch he’d been denied. Every scar. Every bruise. Every place he wanted to rewrite with reverence.

You sighed his name, head tilting back, one hand curling around the sheets while the other clung to his shoulder.

And for the first time in so long; you felt wanted, not claimed.

Cherished, not owned.

Jongho’s lips trailed down your body, until you felt his breathing against your inner thighs.

You felt his tongue swipe in between your folds causing you to moan and arch your back. One of his hands was holding your thighs over his shoulder and the other was circling inside.

He took his time, tasting your pulse with his lips like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Jongho groaned against your heat as you rolled your hips up into his mouth. You dug your fingers in the sheets moaning loudly unable to control yourself. Your pupils blown wide, lips parting as he started to move his fingers in slow, teasing circles.

"I-I am so close..." You whimpered. Jongho smirked pulling his face away to watch your reactions. His breathing was hot and heavy against your cunt. He licked one last time before getting up pushing you more comfortably on the bed as he hovered above you.

"Are you sure?" He whispers, chest rising and falling as he lifts both of your thighs over his waist.

"Yes." You whisper back wrapping your hands around his neck softly.

You let out a gasp feeling him push deep inside.

And it wasn’t just sex. It was everything—days of tension and want and sweet, aching need pouring out of both of you, slow and deep and complete. His hands cradled your face. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your moans spilled into his mouth like confessions.

“You fit so perfectly around me; it is like you were meant to be mine.” Jongho groaned thrusting deeply into you causing your eyes to roll back.

“You feel incredible.” You whimper feeling his cock go deep inside you, the tip kissing your cervix.

“Please don't stop—” You cry out, feeling the pleasure get stronger and stronger.

“I’m—” you gasped, unable to finish.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered roughly, thrusting deep into you now, matching your rhythm with raw, precise thrusts that sent you spiraling. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

Your body seized first—pleasure tearing through you in a white-hot wave that left you crying out his name, clutching him like you’d fall apart without him.

He came undone with a groan that sounded like relief, like prayer.

And when he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, the room filled with the sound of your breathing—tangled, quiet, together.

---

You lay there with Jongho, the warmth between you still lingering in the sheets, your fingers tracing slow circles on his chest. He returned the touch in kind—caressing your arms, kissing your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose like he was memorizing every part of you he wasn’t allowed to keep.

“I wish we didn’t have to hide,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jongho’s lips stilled for a beat before you slowly sat up, pulling the blanket around yourself. The silence was heavy—not uncomfortable, just filled with the ache of truth.

“I should go,” you said quietly, eyes flicking toward the far side of the room. “I don’t want anyone to start asking questions.”

He stayed where he was, the sheets resting low on his hips, watching you as if every step away chipped something off of him.

“I wish you could stay,” he said under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

A small smile tugged at your lips, even as your heart pulled in the other direction. “Me too.”

You stood, slipping your robe around your shoulders, tying the sash with slow, practiced hands.

Jongho didn’t try to stop you.

He just watched.

And when you looked back at him one last time, he gave you that same look he always did—the one that asked a thousand questions and never demanded an answer.

“I’ll see you soon,” you said softly.

Then you turned and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind you before the illusion could fall apart.

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

And with it, the warmth left the room.

Jongho stayed still for a long moment, eyes fixed on the space you’d just walked through. The quiet was louder now. Almost unbearable.

He dragged a hand over his face, then dropped it over his chest—where your touch still lingered like a ghost. Faint. Tender. Dangerous.

The sheets still held your scent. That soft perfume you always wore—the one you probably didn’t even like but kept putting on because he did. Because he wanted you to look perfect.

Jongho turned his head to stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, chest rising in shallow, careful breaths.

I wish you could stay.

He’d meant it more than he thought he would.

But it was selfish.

And you deserved more than that.

You deserved freedom. Safety. A world that didn’t make you sneak down hallways at 3 a.m. just to feel seen.

And he—he was just a soldier. A shadow your husband used when the knives needed to stay clean.

But when you were here…

When you touched him…

He felt like a man again.

Not a weapon.

Not a threat.

Just someone who existed beyond his usefulness.

He turned over onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter across his body like it might hold him together.

He knew what this was.

Stolen time.

Borrowed breath.

But even knowing that, it didn’t make it any easier when you left.

And still—

He would wait for you to come back.

Every damn time.

---

The hallway was cold beneath your feet, your robe barely doing its job as you moved in silence. The warmth from Jongho’s room still clung to your skin like a secret—one you didn’t want to wash away just yet.

When you slipped back into your bedroom, the lights were dim, the room still.

Your husband was already asleep—spread out across the bed, chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. The scent of expensive cologne and sweat lingered in the air, mingling with the memory of what had happened hours ago. What you let happen.

You stood there in the doorway for a moment, just watching him.

The man who owned the house. The name. The power.

The man whose hand had been on your thigh earlier like you were a possession.

The man who, right now, wouldn’t notice if you cried or disappeared.

You walked in quietly, stepping over your discarded clothes, still tangled on the floor like the aftermath of a story you didn’t want to reread.

You didn’t bother putting them away.

Instead, you crawled into bed beside him carefully, curling up on the far edge of the mattress where his body heat didn’t quite reach.

Your back was to him.

Your heart, somewhere else entirely.

You thought about Jongho.

The way his fingers had brushed your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. The way he didn’t touch you to own you—but to understand you.

You thought about the way he looked after you left—like he wasn’t sure if letting you go was the right thing, or just the only thing.

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

You wished you were still in his bed.

Still lying in the quiet of his arms instead of this silence, this weight, this beautiful prison made of gold and control.

You closed your eyes.

And tried to pretend the warmth you still felt belonged to this room.

But it didn’t.

It never had.

---

The morning light cut across the dashboard in sharp golden slants as the SUV rumbled down a backroad outside the city, tires crunching over gravel.

Jongho sat in the passenger seat, silent, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer something better than this conversation.

It didn’t.

Wooyoung had his usual shit-eating grin on as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“So,” he started, dragging the word out, “sound like someone had a fun night with the queen of the house.”

Jongho didn’t look at him.

Wooyoung grinned wider. “No denial. Interesting.”

“Drop it,” Jongho muttered, jaw tight.

Wooyoung just kept going. “I mean, sure, she’s gorgeous. Sweet. Way too good for the bastard she’s married to. But you? You really went there?”

Jongho’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, still not meeting his gaze.

“Was it worth it?” Wooyoung asked, tone dipping a little lower now—not quite mocking, but close. “All that tension, all that secrecy? Just for a few stolen hours in the dark?”

Jongho finally turned his head.

The look he gave Wooyoung could’ve cut steel.

Wooyoung whistled low, impressed. “Damn. You’ve got it bad.”

Jongho didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Everything was already written in the rigid set of his shoulders. The tight line of his mouth. The way he’d been on edge since dawn.

Because it had been worth it.

And that scared the hell out of him.

But what scared him more?

He wanted it again.

The moment they stepped out of the car, Jongho felt it.

Something was off.

The air was too still. The perimeter too quiet. There should’ve been guards posted, movement around the warehouse. But the building sat like a held breath—silent, waiting.

Wooyoung felt it too. His smirk faded, replaced by something sharper. “Eyes up,” he muttered, already drawing his weapon.

Jongho didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

The front door was ajar.

They breached it fast—silent, practiced. Inside, the first thing they saw was blood. Not fresh. Dried and dark, trailing across the floor in a smear.

Then the ambush hit.

Three men burst out from behind a stack of crates—blades, guns, fury.

Wooyoung ducked, rolled, returned fire.

Jongho moved like a machine.

But it wasn’t clean this time.

It was furious.

He charged the first man without hesitation, slamming him into the wall so hard the concrete cracked. The man raised a knife—too slow. Jongho disarmed him with a twist, then drove his elbow into his face, once, twice, until the man collapsed in a heap.

Another came from the side—Jongho caught him mid-swing, dragging him down and driving his knee into the man’s gut. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Blow after blow landed, not for efficiency, but for release.

The third hesitated, tried to run.

Jongho tackled him to the floor, straddling his chest. His fists rained down—controlled, precise, but relentless. Every strike echoed like thunder through the warehouse.

You come in here for a little softness after your husband’s finished with you?

He hit harder.

I want to kiss you. I want to touch you.

Faster.

Say you’re mine...

Blood splattered across his hands, his shirt, the floor.

And still he didn’t stop.

Not until Wooyoung’s voice snapped through the haze.

“Jongho!”

He froze, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles.

The man beneath him was unconscious—barely breathing.

The room was still again.

Wooyoung stared at him, wide-eyed, but said nothing.

Jongho stood slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard. His heart felt like it might crack open in his chest.

He wasn’t sure who he’d been fighting.

Only that it hadn’t just been them.

---

The car was silent on the drive back.

Wooyoung didn’t speak. Not right away.

He kept his hands on the wheel, his gaze flicking occasionally toward Jongho, who sat in the passenger seat, soaked in blood—some of it his, most of it not.

Jongho stared out the window, face unreadable, but his chest still rose and fell like he hadn’t fully come down yet. His fists sat clenched in his lap, knuckles split and bruised, dried blood cracking with every slight movement.

The hum of the engine filled the space between them.

Wooyoung finally cleared his throat.

“You went too far.”

No response.

“You know that, right?”

Jongho’s eyes didn’t leave the road outside.

“I had it under control,” Wooyoung continued. “But you—you weren’t fighting like a soldier. You were fighting like you were trying to bleed something out of yourself.”

Still, nothing.

So Wooyoung tried again—softer this time.

“Was it about her?”

That did it.

Jongho’s jaw tightened.

His voice was low when it finally came. “I said drop it.”

Wooyoung sighed, but didn’t push. “Look, I’m just saying… you keep carrying that kind of rage around, it’s gonna get you killed.”

Silence again.

A long beat.

Then Jongho muttered, barely audible, “Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Wooyoung blinked.

But by the time he turned to look at him again, Jongho had leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed, blood drying on his skin.

And for the rest of the drive, neither of them said another word.

---

The water ran red at first.

Then pink.

Then clear.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

Jongho stood under the shower, head bowed, one hand braced against the tile as the water pounded down over his back. His eyes were shut tight, jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling like he was still in the fight—still hearing the bones break under his fists.

He should’ve stopped.

He could’ve stopped.

But he didn’t.

And not because of the mission.

Because of you.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw you curled up in someone else’s arms. Soft robe. Bitten skin. A laugh that wasn’t real. A smile painted on just for survival.

And still, you had touched him like it mattered. Held him like you meant it.

And he believed it.

That’s what scared him the most.

The water poured down, hot and relentless, but it didn’t wash it away. Not the guilt. Not the rage. Not the twisted coil of want and shame and something too fragile to name.

He scrubbed harder. Arms. Chest. Knuckles that still throbbed.

It felt like trying to rinse out something that had already seeped too deep.

You make me feel human.

He hadn’t deserved that.

And yet you gave it.

A sound escaped him—a low, frustrated groan swallowed by the steam. He turned off the water and stood there for a beat, dripping, raw.

It wasn’t the blood that bothered him.

It was that even with it gone—

He still felt dirty.

---

It started the next morning.

Subtle, at first.

Jongho didn’t show up for breakfast detail with the other men. You hadn’t expected him to be seated at your husband’s table—but you’d grown used to seeing him pass through the halls. Catching the flicker of his gaze when no one else noticed. The way his presence steadied the air around you.

But today… he was gone.

By midafternoon, you were sure of it.

He was avoiding you.

You saw him once, across the courtyard. He was walking briskly toward the lower training level, head down, expression blank. You’d stepped forward—just slightly—just enough to test if he’d see you.

He did.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t look at you the way he used to.

He passed by like you were no one. Just another shadow on the wall.

The rejection hit harder than it should have. Your stomach twisted, fingers clenching lightly at your sides.

Maybe he was scared. Maybe he regretted what happened.

But you didn’t.

Later, when your husband left again for a meeting, you lingered outside Jongho’s door. Just for a moment. Just long enough to stare at the wood and wonder if he was on the other side—if he felt you there, hesitating.

You almost knocked.

Almost whispered his name.

But then you remembered the way he looked through you earlier.

So you turned away.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

That it was safer this way.

But your chest ached with the weight of it.

Because he made you feel real.

And now, for the first time in days—

You felt invisible again.

---

The night was still.

Too still.

The city lights blinked in the distance like stars just out of reach, the air cool against your skin as you stood on the balcony, arms bare, robe barely tied. Somewhere far off, laughter echoed—your husband’s, probably, over a poker table and a half-empty glass of bourbon. His nights were always carefree.

Yours never were.

You stared down at your hands, wrapped around a wine glass, knuckles pale from how tightly you held it. The red liquid shimmered in the light, half-drunk, half-forgotten.

Then, without thinking, you raised it and drank until it was gone. Every last drop.

It didn’t help.

The ache was still there.

The hollow space Jongho left behind. The silence where his hands had been. The look in his eyes that told you you were something real, only for him to vanish like it had never happened.

You gripped the railing, jaw trembling, your vision blurring as tears stung the edges of your eyes.

He’s just like the rest of them.

He said nothing. Did nothing. Walked away like you were a mistake.

Your fingers dug into the iron so hard it hurt.

“All men are the same,” you whispered, your voice breaking as the tears finally slipped free. “They take. They always take.”

You gasped quietly, trying to catch your breath, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. But it was no use.

You were unraveling.

Alone again.

Used again.

And no matter how much you’d tried not to believe it—

Jongho left, too.

•

E/N: No Author note but I got one for y'all... Hi. :3

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nanamineedstherapy · 22 days ago

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Fiscal Year from Hell

Summary: Gangs of Wasseypur x Shark Tank but everyone has rabies.Previous Chapter - [Tumblr/Ao3] A/N: Startups are built on caffeine, delusion, and very poor financial decisions. This one’s no different—except maybe for the barista war crimes and a suspicious amount of matcha. Read when you're emotionally stable. Or not. That’s between you and your burn rate.

You’re not crying. You’re just sweating aggressively out of your eyes while three auditors go through your office like it’s a crime scene and you’re a suspect with no alibi.

“I’m sorry,” one of them says, holding up a RedBull-stained invoice with Suguru’s signature. “But this expense line item says ‘aesthetic vibes for the foam art.’ What exactly is that?”

You look up slowly. Smile like you haven’t been imagining your own death all morning.

“It's R&D.”

He blinks. “It’s a delivery from Smoor Chocolates.”

“Research. And... development.”

You don't even look at Ino when he walks past with his “crisis face”—which is just his usual face, but paler.

“This is my fault,” he says, half-sobbing.

“No shit,” you mutter.

He continues anyway.

“I thought if we launched the influencer campaign with ‘chai but aesthetic’ hashtags, we’d reach Tier-2 metros faster—”

You hold up a hand.

“Do not finish that sentence unless it ends with your resignation letter.”

Nanami is standing with the auditors now. Silent. Stone-faced. Calculating how much money you’ve lost since the audit started. Possibly also calculating how quickly he can escape to a Big 4 consultancy.

“We have four days,” he says, finally. “Before the freeze becomes permanent.”

Four days.

Four days before your account gets locked. Your servers go cold. Your startup gets tagged as “dead on arrival” by TechCrunch.

You built this from your bones.

And now you're watching it rot.

Suguru waltzes in like he isn’t half the reason this happened. Hair tied. Shirt half-buttoned. Holding two cappuccinos—one for you.

You swat it off your desk.

“I spent four days tweaking the recipe,” he says, nonchalantly.

“I’m spending the next four fixing the damage you and Ino caused,” you snap. “Start by returning the Japanese matcha grinder you borrowed from corporate R&D funds.”

He shrugs. “But it’s ceremonial grade.”

“Get out.”

Gojo calls a team meeting. You don’t want to go.

He’s smiling too much. Again.

“We have options,” he says, as if that word means anything anymore.

You sip black coffee. “Enlighten me.”

He shifts, almost proud. “I’ve asked my dad to float a stop-gap round.”

You exhale.

Of course.

Gojo's fallback plan has always been Daddy. Daddy’s network. Daddy’s cheque. Daddy’s legacy. He’s never needed to fight for anything on his own.

But you nod. Because you’re desperate. Not stupid.

“Fine.”

Until it falls through.

Of course it fucking does.

Because Gojo’s dad doesn’t invest in “chaotic ventures with no executive discipline.”

(Your photo, by the way, was on slide two of the deck.)

So Gojo pivots. Naturally. Smoothly.

“I asked Utahime’s dad to step in.”

Your pen stops moving.

“He wants to help,” Gojo says. “We’re practically family anyway. The wedding’s next quarter.”

You say nothing.

Just nod again. Cool. Flat. Silent.

You haven’t spoken to Utahime in years. She never acknowledged you at IIM. Never once invited you to her study group. Never looked at you unless it was to smile and shift the conversation toward herself.

You learnt quickly—she didn’t hate you.

She just didn’t see you.

That afternoon, Utahime shows up at the office.

Says nothing. Smiles politely. Hugs HR.

Then corners you near the espresso machine.

“I think it’s best if Satoru maintains some distance,” she says. “This... tension between you two is creating confusion. For him. For the company.”

You stare at her like you’re reading an outdated user manual in a language you’ve grown to hate.

“I haven’t spoken to him outside of work in six months.”

She nods. Smiles tighter. “Still. Just... avoid him.”

“Sure, whatever you say, girl.” You finish your coffee and walk out.

Back in your cabin, you're alone.

Sukuna walks in.

Drops a hard drive on your desk.

"Backup of the analytics engine. If this thing dies, you’ll want something to sell."

You look up at him.

He shrugs. “I don’t like watching smart people burn.”

"Didn't peg you for a survivalist."

He smirks. “I’m not. I’m a sadist.”

That night, at 2:43 AM, you unlock your phone.

Find a name you haven’t touched since graduation.

Toji.

Not the intern-victim Toji of today.

But Professor Fushiguro—ex-Visiting Faculty.

Now your logistics head. Quietly fixing what Suguru breaks.

Still somehow the only person who’s never lied to you.

You text:

“I have a contact for a silent angel. No board seats. Just a check.”

He replies instantly:

“Call me.”

You do.

You’ve been dating the silent angel for years.

No one knows.

You plan to keep it that way.

The next day, funding arrives.

It’s not big. Not enough to make headlines.

But it buys you runway.

It buys you time.

It buys you your company.

Nanami signs off on the financials.

Megumi rebuilds the deployment pipeline.

Kokichi rewrites backend logic with brutal precision.

Yuji and Junpei reorganise warehousing faster than Toji can grunt.

Ino finally shuts up and starts selling again.

Even Suguru makes three baristas cry before retraining them.

You rebuild the brand.

Smaller. Smarter. Meaner.

The investors are gone.

But the vision’s still yours.

Gojo knocks on your door at 7:43 PM. Coffee in hand. Smile uncertain.

"I heard about the angel. Nice move."

You nod.

He waits. Shifts. Tries.

“I really thought I could help. With my family. With Hime’s family. I just... I didn’t want to see you lose this.”

You look at him like he’s a stranger who keeps showing up in dreams you don’t have time for.

“I didn’t lose,” you say.

He nods. Quiet. Eyes downcast.

“You didn’t end up needing me,” he says.

“It’s handled now. You should go home. Utahime must be waiting.”

And finally—He believes you. Not what you said. But what you didn’t say. That you don’t need him as much as he needs you.

---

A/N: So. Was it survival? Revenge? Or just another Tuesday in founder hell? Tell me in the comments—who failed you the most, and who surprised you? And be honest: would you have taken Gojo’s deal? P.S. Utahime says hi. She brought lavender cookies. I threw them out.

Next Chapter - The 3AM God Complex - [Tumblr/Ao3]

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fictionalrelapse · 1 month ago

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twenty-eight days #1 | riorgail

Fandom: The Empyrean AU

Rating: M

Tags & Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, drug addiction, alcohol abuse

Chapter Summary: Twenty-eight days to live. Twenty-eight days to disappear. Violet boards The Empyrean Sea with a suitcase that isn't packed for a return journey. Xaden is on the run from his problems and is ready to do anything to forget.

Full chapter on AO3, snippet below!

...Golden rays of sunshine peek through the cloud cover, sending rivulets of light over the crowd of people. Xaden skirts the edge until he’s parallel from the group of girls, leaning against a wall. They’re sitting in a clump, as women do, on the loungers around the pool, already obviously inebriated. One of the blondes looks up as though she can feel his gaze.

Smoldering eye contact. A calculated sip of his drink. Cross the ankles, hand in a pocket. Smirk.

She smiles nervously and whispers to her girlfriends, but she’s already preening her hair and glancing back every few minutes.

The formula never fails.

Xaden keeps the smirk and pulls back, surveying the crowd again, making sure he flashes the tatted side of his neck. He’s heady with confidence and liquid courage, sowing seeds for future one-night stands.

And then he sees her.

She’s not far from him. Sitting alone at a table with her legs crossed, buried in a notebook she’s scrawling in. The crowd’s given her a wide berth – despite the woman’s small stature, her energy is commanding the air. Electric.

Her brunette hair is braided loosely, cascading over her shoulder. A shock of silvery-white hair curls around from the top of her forehead to the end of the braid like a waterfall. Her loose-fitting white dress whips in the breeze, highlighting her curves in a way that draws his eyes in. Like a moth to a flame.

And when she sets the pen down and glances up, their eyes connect, and he forgets whatever depraved thoughts he was about to have.

Shit .

It’s as though Xaden has come face-to-face with a mirror. Her gaze is stormy but hollow; seeing, but in another world. The crushing weight of something arcing through those hazel tones. So much like his own. So much like… those of his comrades. He would recognize it anywhere.

It’s haunted.

But there’s more to it than that. Her face is so… familiar .

Vaguely, he’s aware of the blonde approaching, and the other woman has already returned to her book. They speak, but he’s not thinking about what he’s saying. Then they’re at the bar, drinks in hand, moving closer. When she traces up his arm to his shoulder, his other hand meets the blonde’s waist as though the dance has been rehearsed. And when the woman’s lips crash into his own, he can almost wipe those devastating hazel irises from his mind.

Almost.

Read the full chapter on AO3.

A/N: don't mind me just putting my pookies in situations. gonna try for weekly updates with this one, depends on how much time i have to edit and tweak what i've already half-ass written. <3 if you read all of this know that i love you heh.

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atulksposts · 1 year ago

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the-little-ewok · 2 years ago

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Collateral Damage

Poe Dameron x G!N reader

Rating : M

Wordcount : 6800 (ish)

Warnings : Friends to lovers, sort of slow burn I suppose, angst, fluff, reader has a fear of flying, arguing, vague illusions to Poe's torture by the FO, vague mention of parental death (Poe's mom), mentions of panic attacks.

Summary : Poe finds out you are scared to fly, and makes it a personal challenge to fix that. Only spending so much time together, causes some complications.

A/N : there's a few bits here that mention Poe's past as a child which is from Freefall however there are no direct Freefall spoilers contained, and it isn't necessary to have read it to enjoy this.

To the anon that requested an angst to fluff Poe fic...I hope you enjoy!

"Poe, please don't look at me like that!" You beg.

"Like what?" Poe gives you a genuinely confused look, as though he hasn't been staring at you for the past ten minutes like you're a particularly complex puzzle he needs to work out.

"Like there's something wrong with me," you sigh, twisting the mug of tea nervously in your hands.

"I never said that! But seriously? You're scared? Of flying? This is a joke right?"

"I just think if we were made to fly we'd have wings is all." You shrug, trying to be nonchalant as you sip your drink, your fingers pressing hard into the china as you try to ignore his shock. You don't look up but you can feel his eyes burning into you.

"How did I not know this? How have you hidden it from me of all people! I'm equally impressed and offended." You suspect by his tone he's more offended than impressed, but it was never truly your intention to hide it from him. The secret just sort of… happened.

When you were children you barely knew Poe, not until after he returned to Yavin, his eyes a little darker than they had been before, his steps a little more calculated, though no less bold. When you started helping Kes out around the little farm he bought, you had gotten to know Poe a lot better. Barely tolerating him at first, before you fell into an close friendship. It had been easy enough to deny his requests to go flying with him in the early days, especially given the amount of trouble he got into.

Then when you were older Poe seemed to flit in and out of your life. Between the academy, the navy, and now the resistance, sometimes it seemed like he was never around.

But he always reappeared eventually. He came back to Yavin sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. He used your back garden like his personal shipping yard, but you never had the heart to tell him off about it, despite the fact you had smashed more than your fair share of crockery in shock at the sudden noise of a roaring engine coming down on your house.

Everytime he asked if you wanted to go flying you found some excuse not to, sometimes elaborate ones you aren't even sure Poe believed. You assume perhaps he thought you were avoiding spending time alone with him, which was in part true some of the time.

You could have told him the truth, but the way he lit up when he talked about flying — the freedom of it, the adventure of it — had always made the words dry in your mouth. He couldn't possibly understand, and you knew he would react, well, exactly as he had.

"I didn't! You never asked, and it never came up in conversation. It shouldn't have tonight. It's irrelevant. I don't need to fly," you shrug stubbornly, wanting to get away from the topic if only to stop the quizzical gaze he's fixed you with since it came up.

"But-but there's a whole galaxy you're missing out on!" He splutters, still wide eyed with shock. "You can't tell me you want to spend the rest of your life on Yavin."

"I like Yavin!"

Poe gives a huff of disbelief at you, folding his arms.

"Liar."

"You know Poe, not all of us have the need to fly out into the night and get blown to pieces like you," you sigh, rubbing a hand over your eyes, frustrated at his reaction. "Anyways it's late. I should go."

Getting up you put your mug in the sink and grab your jacket, intent on leaving and finding some way to avoid this topic for the next however many years, probably forever.

"Hey, hey, don't go. I'm sorry, okay?" Poe begs getting up and taking a gentle grip of your arm to prevent you moving. You ignore the fire that ignites your skin where his fingers are wrapped loosely around your arm.

"Tell me what scares you? About flying I mean? Let me try and understand," he pleads.

Taking a breath you sigh. How could you explain it to someone who spent their whole life up there? How could you explain it to someone who lived and breathed the freedom of the flight?

"Pilots die, all the time. Things go wrong, fights, pirates, technical failures…" you trail off with a wave of your hand, freeing your arm from his gentle grip, not used to his touch. "I just…can't stand the thought of dying alone out there in the cold. It's hard enough worrying about that happening to you."

"You sound like my dad," Poe sighs quietly. "He didn't want me flying either. Not after my mom."

Reaching back out you squeeze his hand briefly, knowing that while the relationship between Poe and Kes had somewhat mended over the years, some cracks ran too deep to ever be fully healed.

"You know, Kes never shuts up about you flying. Always talking about what a good pilot you are and how your mom would be so proud of you, how you fly just like her. I swear it's all I heard for weeks the last time you were here."

Poe falls quiet for a long moment, deep in thought, a frown etched deep into his brow.

"He's proud of you, Poe. I know he struggles to say it sometimes, but he is," you offer gently.

Poe waves a hand nonchalantly, as though it doesn't bother him, but you know it does.

"Well you know my dad likes to keep things to himself, but apparently not from you," he eyes you somewhat suspiciously. "He likes you, you know. He told me once I should marry you. Imagine that, us, married."

He lets out a snort of a laugh as he shakes his head at the thought. You want to make a joke about it, you want to laugh it off and tell him you'd never agree to it even if he asked, but the spark of feelings you've so carefully navigated all these years flared to life suddenly and in full force at his words.

There's always been something between you, something a little more than friendship, something you both know can't be. Something both of you have avoided talking about for a long time now.

Perhaps when you were younger maybe you could have figured something out, but Poe was hardly ever around and now, well now your worlds were too far apart. Yours here on the ground, his far off in the stars. It was better not to prod too hard at open wounds, but Poe's laughter at the thought of you together, still cuts deeply.

Something must flicker across your expression because his amusement dies and Poe gives you a half smile.

"It's just, you know, you're seeing someone. Aren't you?"

"It didn't work out." You shrug as though you don't care. The truth was it never worked out, because you would always be in love with someone else. How were you supposed to give your heart away when at any given moment the one that makes it beat could drop from the sky without warning?

"Oh," he sounds genuinely sad which only drives the knife further in. You drop your eyes from his, pulling at a loose thread on your jacket as he continues. "I'm sorry. You'll meet someone else though! Although maybe…. Off this planet?"

You sigh and roll your eyes. Really you shouldn't be surprised that he found a way to spin the topic right back to your issues with flying, which you suppose was better than your love life so at least there was that.

"Oh come on. You can't be scared if you haven't tried it! Lemmie take you!" Poe sounds like an excited child on life day. Clearly the thought of conquering your fear appealed to him.

"Absolutely not! I've seen the way you fly!"

"Did you not just say even my dad thinks I'm good at flying? And besides," he leans on the counter, a shit eating grin plastering his face, "didn't you hear I'm the best pilot in the resistance?"

You roll your eyes at his cocky statement.

"Poe, I've heard a great deal of things about you over the years, not all of them I can believe and most of them I've had to defend your good name against!"

He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head like a curious loth cat.

"Like what?"

You quickly go through the ment rollerdex of things you've heard, deciding to pick out your favourite.

"Like… the time you apparently almost married a Hutt."

Poe opens his mouth and then closes it again, suddenly becoming very interested in a tin of tea on the side. He picks it up, rolling it between his palms, purposely not looking at you.

"Well, really that wasn't even my fault," he mumbles eventually, realising you aren't going to fill the expectant silence.

He can't seriously have done that? The ridiculous story can't possibly be the truth?

"You have to be kidding me! I got into the biggest argument that you wouldn't be so stupid to get into something with them. Do I even want to know the real story?"

You had vehemently defended your friend, arguing well into the night that while yes, Poe was reckless, and yes sometimes he spoke without thinking, and yes sometimes trouble found him, you were still absolutely sure the story was completely untrue. You suppose you have a few apologies to make now.

"It's not like I intended to agree to the marriage! It just sort of… happened."

You stare at him, open mouthed waiting for the rest of the story, knowing he won't be able to resist defending himself. But instead of launching into a lengthy explanation he grins, setting the tea down slowly and fixing you with an expression you are all too familiar with. The one he uses when he knows he's about to get something he wants.

"Trade. I'll fly you somewhere. Then I'll tell you."

And there it was. He knew you wanted to know the truth, unable to resist a good story about the far off places he visited and troubles he got into. You should have predicted the bastard would use that against you.

You fold your arms.

"No."

"I'll just fly you to the other side of Yavin? Short trip, in and out."

"No!"

Poe sighs dramatically, pushing himself up off the counter.

"Fine. You drive a hard bargain. I'll tell you the whole story if you let me show you around my ship and tell you how unscary it is to fly. Strictly no piloting."

"Please agree so you can both shut up. It's after midnight, and the noise you two make will bring the first order down on our heads without them even looking!" Kes Dameron booms from the hallway, making both of you jump.

"Sorry dad!" Poe yells while he gives you a grin of victory.

"Sorry Kes! I'm leaving now." With a sigh of resignation you slip on your jacket. "Fine. No flying."

"No flying," Poe agrees with a nod, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers invitingly. You hesitate to take it, but he slides his hand into yours anyway, squeezing your fingers. "I'll walk you home."

You try not to think about how right it feels to have your hand in his.

"Poe, Poe," you repeat a little louder as he continues rambling away, pointing to the different parts of his X-Wing, a misty look in his eyes. You're sure you lost him a good while ago, and he hasn't stopped talking long enough for you to explain you have no idea what he's talking about.

"You have to put your hand up to ask a question when I'm teaching," he chides you teasingly. Rolling your eyes you put your hand up, glaring at him when he grins silently at you for a long drawn out moment. Just as your patience breaks, opening your mouth to ask anyway, he cuts in first.

"You have a question?"

"Several," you respond dryly. "Firstly, can you please slow down? I've no idea what you've been talking about for the last twenty minutes. Secondly, I'm pretty sure you've told me about everything that can go wrong and now I want to be near this thing even less. Thirdly -"

"This thing? This thing?" He interupts, his eyes going wide with shock. "This thing is a T-70 X-wing. I've done a lot of work on this thing!"

"I apologise I insulted your ship," you laugh, watching his brows pull together in an annoyed frown. Maker, Flyboys! As cute as he was you couldn't really expect any other reaction.

"Don't apologise to me. Apologise to her!" He points at his ship before he folds his arms stubbornly, as though he's actually serious. You pause for a moment, realising he is serious.

"Thirdly, I don't think this is helping and I'm sure you have better things to be doing," You continue, ignoring his sulk. Poe drops his arms, his expression softening.

"It is helping," he insists. "If you know what can go wrong then you know how to fix it, or how to account for it at the least. Then that part isn't so scary anymore. I promise."

"It doesn't feel like it's helping," you mumble, wrapping your arms around your chest, the low hum of anxiety vibrating under your ribs. "I'm sorry. I'm not being ungrateful. It's very nice of you to do this."

"You don't think I can do it," he grins and you roll your eyes at him for what feels like the thousandth time since he's been back.

"I'm not a challenge," you remind him with a glare.

"You kinda are though," he grins. Trust Poe to see this as some sort of game he can win. "Come on. You can trust me. I know about these things. How'd you think I survived this long?"

"Sheer dumb luck?"

Poe laughs, a deep elated noise that brings a smile to your lips and makes your heart ache with affection. It seems so rare these days that he truly laughs like that, and when he does, here with you, it only makes his inevitable absence harder to swallow.

"Probably a bit of that too," he admits with a shrug. "Okay, new plan."

He plonks himself down on the ground, patting the space in front of him for you. When you're settled opposite him he takes both your hands in his. When you try to pull away, the touch giving a jolt in your chest, he grips your fingers tighter, forcing you to stay with him. It's an all too familiar dance now. You push him away, and he only proceeds to try and hold you closer. When he's here you wish he wouldn't, but when he's gone, you ache for his easy familiarity.

He gives you a genuine open look, and your heart aches a little that he's truly trying to help when you feel so beyond helping.

"What do you think about when you get scared? When you think about being up there. What is it that worries you so much?"

"I guess dying alone?" You suppress a shudder at the thought of floating out there in the darkness, no one to hear you scream for help.

The pilot doesn't even miss a beat before he answers quickly.

"Okay, I'd be with you so that's not a problem. We would die together."

You glare at him, unamused. Ignoring your vehement stare he gestures for you to continue.

"Fine. Being shot out of the sky. Lot of time to think about dying while you're plummeting to the ground."

He gives you a grin, "We both know that's not an issue because I'm a great pilot, so no matter where we are I promise you I'll land safely, all parts intact, especially all the bits I like," he winks and you desperately try to ignore the flare of heat on your skin. "I've done it so many times I could do it in my sleep! Next problem."

"Kidnapped by pirates." You shoot quickly.

"They'll give you back after half an hour." Poe snorts with laughter when you reach out and slap his arm hard.

"Asshole," you grumble, fighting back a smile.

He grins at you, clearly enjoying himself at your expense and while you should mind his teasing, you find it hard to care, not when his eyes are lit up with genuine joy.

"You are really not helping," you laugh eventually, shaking your head. "I'm a lost cause."

"Not entirely, just mostly. I mean none of these are good reasons to be scared," Poe smiles and you have to admit it chafes you a little that he still doesn't seem to understand.

"I never said my fear was rational."

"It's not entirely irrational either," Poe acknowledges with a shrug, finally allowing you to pull your hands out of his while he taps his chin in thought. You curl your fingers into your palms, willing away the memory of his touch.

"What you need is a distraction!" Poe proclaims brightly. For a shocked moment you think he's talking about a distraction from him, which is entirely exactly what you need. But he keeps talking and you realise it's nothing like that, although he inadvertently makes you distracted anyway, from flying at least.

"Yeah, something to take your mind off getting up there."

You shake your head, knowing it won't work. Suddenly this whole thing seems like a bad idea. Poe wasn't one to give up, and yet over the years you've tried just about everything to get over your fear. A weariness starts to creep in, encouraging you to make your excuses and leave.

"I doubt anything would distract me that much. Anyway, I think we should do something else. Flying isn't that important." You try, knowing it's hopeless now you've encouraged him this much.

"What if I flew naked?" He grins, wiggling his eyebrows. His constant blatant flirting is starting to take a toll, and you can't muster even a smile this time. He knows, yet he does it anyway. It's infuriating sometimes, purposely poking and prodding when you're just trying to get by without spilling your heart all over the grass.

"Coming from the person who laughed at the notion of us being married, I don't see how you think I'd care about that." You don't quite mean to bite it out the way you do, but Poe ignores your attitude and leans back on his arms, gazing at you.

"Yeah, because we'd argue all day long about everything. I'd be messy, and you'd want a tidy house, we would fight over what to have for dinner, because you won't believe I'm the better cook, I'd want to paint the walls blue, but you'd want green. You'd want to live here and I wouldn't." He waves his hand, indicating that there would be a longer list of issues if he continued. "The thought of us being married is funny because it would be chaotic, not because I don't love you."

The words hit you like a shot, and judging by the look of fear on the pilot's face he probably hadn't thought them through before they left his mouth.

"Guess the cats out of the bag now. Well, suppose it was never really fully in the bag anyway," he mumbles, running a hand through his messy curls, before he stares up at the sky. "I mean, I know we've never….I know we've never gone down that road, but you know I've always had a soft spot for you."

You knew. Of course you knew. You both held an affection for each other, but you also know it wasn't meant to be. Maker knows you've spent your life trying to get over him, and Poe… well he never breathed a word about his feelings in the matter. You assumed he had moved on some time ago. If his list of conquests was anywhere half true, he moved on quite well.

You avoid his gaze, looking down at the dirt. "Love is a lot different than a soft spot. Seems funny you never mentioned that before."

Poe swallows, sitting back up properly and reaching to take your hands, you snatch them back before he has a chance, a swell of anger starting in your chest. There is no need for him to tell you this. You don't want him to tell you this. It won't make any difference to say it out loud.

"I knew I couldn't stay so what was the point? You've said yourself how much you love Yavin. Who was I to ask you to give it all up? You deserve someone who could be there for you, where you wanted to be. You still deserve someone like that."

"So why bring it up when you know it isn't you?" You snap angrily, getting to your feet, panic pulsing through your veins. While you've had this conversation a hundred times in your head, in reality you have no idea how to react. Suddenly the open wound becomes a sinkhole, and every wall you've placed around your feelings starts to crumble in. Your chest constricts with panic. He can't do this now. Not after all this time. You won't be able to rebuild what he's torn down. This will burn your friendship to the ground.

"Because I'm selfish," the pilot admits, jumping up and following you as you storm across the garden towards the house, the flaring pain in your chest getting worse with each word that leaves his mouth. You won't talk about this. You can't talk about this.

"Yes, you are! You blaze in and out of my life and everytime I think I might have a chance to mend myself, you come tearing down from the sky. Maybe it is about time to actually have this conversation so we can both move on!" You spin on your heel to face him, stepping back when he reaches for you again.

If he touches you now you won't ever be able to let him go, he'll find a way to calm you down and you don't want to be calm. You want to be angry. You want to yell, scream, and let out every feeling you've kept locked inside. You want him to feel even a small spark of what he's done to you for years. You need to be angry.

"Why can't we just be together now?" He interrupts your rant.

"What's the point, Poe? You know I won't leave, I can't leave. And you can't stay. It won't work and we both know it."

"We don't know that because we haven't tried!" He implores passionately. "You can come with me! The resistance would be lucky to have you. If you just try! If you just let me show you. I promise it's not so scary, and then we can go anywhere we like!"

"I can't do it, Poe. I just can't and there's no point trying to make you of all people understand that."

You turn to leave but this time he's quicker than you, reaching out and catching hold of your wrist.

"So this is how it ends is it? We dance around this for years and then we just do what? Give up?" The pain lacing his voice is enough to make your lip tremble as you bite back the tears.

"You're right. We've danced around this for years because we both know it isn't going to work! Why now? Why after all this time decide to drag all this up now?"

"Because we are in the middle of a war. Because I don't know what's going to happen to me tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. Because I might not be here to tell you this, and for some reason it kills me that I might be gone and you would never know that I loved you. I've waited years for you to find someone who makes you happy, someone who gives you everything I can't, but everytime I come here I know it hurts you because it hasn't happened. And I need you to know that someone, that I, love you. I don't think I can just walk away this time." He sounds resigned and it crumbles away every last brick you had to protect yourself. Poe doesn't think he's going to survive this war. In the end, he knows he's going to leave you anyway.

It makes you angry to hear him talk that way. Poe was the upbeat one. Poe was the one who always figured a way out. He doesn’t just accept the inevitable. And you don't need him concerned about you either.

"Well you should just walk away, because I don't need your pity!" You yell, feeling the hot tears escaping your eyes.

"That's not what it is!" Poe takes a breath, clearly trying to calm himself and de-escalate the situation. "I'm just trying to be honest with you for once. I can't just leave and say nothing this time."

"You mean like you have every time you disappear into the sky for months on end?" You laugh bitterly.

The pilot swallows, his eyes searching yours, pleadingly, begging you to understand why now, but the anger still swells in your chest.

"I've always come back to you. Every time I can. For Makers sake do you think I'd be here so often if you weren't?"

When you say nothing Poe frowns, reading your expression all too clearly.

"You won't even consider coming with me? You won't even try?"

You wrap your arms around your waist, holding yourself together as you shake your head.

"I can't. We can't and you know it. I…can't leave. I can't leave," you repeat in a whisper, shaking your head, the tears flowing fast down your cheeks.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Poe apologies softly, reaching out to take your arms, drawing you close to him. You try to fight it, pulling your body away, but Poe ignores you, holding you tight against him until you stop fighting, allowing him to hug you tightly.

"I know you can't leave," he admits, letting you go to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your cooled skin, his thumb sweeping away tears. "You don't have to, okay? Just say the word. Say the word and I'll be here, with you. I'll stay right here so we can try. Tell me that's what you want. Tell me you feel the same and I'll do it."

You know what he's offering, and you know he can't fulfil it. He's speaking without thinking it through, in desperation, trying to fix things, to fix the damage his words have done.

You wish you could accept it, but the thought of Poe grounded, here, a place he fought so hard to escape, causes an ache in your chest. You know it can't be that way.

Maybe he would give it all up for you, but it would never be enough. Not for him. Eventually the cracks would form, and he'd be gone, and leave you so much more broken than you already were.

"Tell me you feel the same," he whispers, leaning into you.

"Don't do this," you beg softly, bring your hands up to rest on his arms to push him away. You can't seem to make your body follow through with the action.

"Then stop me," Poe challenges, his hand sliding around the back of your neck. He's so close you can feel his breath against your lips, the warmth of his body against yours.

Maker, he was going to break your heart. He won't stay, he can't stay. You won't make him do that, not for you. But you're sick of fighting it, sick of trying to pretend. He's here, with you, wanting you. Just this once, once can't hurt.

The screeching beep of his comms stops you both, the sudden insistent noise cutting through the tension and your own clouded thoughts, making you step away from him quickly. Poe lets you go, his expression pained, though he doesn't move to answer the incoming call.

Swallowing hard you gesture to his pocket, refusing to meet his gaze, fearful of what you might find there.

"You should get that."

"Yeah," he nods distractedly, taking a breath and fishing the comm out. He holds it in his hands, glaring at it before his gaze flickers back to you. "Can we talk later?"

You hesitate initially but then nod. Later gave you time to think, to process everything, to try to explain to him why this can't be. Maybe you can salvage your friendship after some time apart.

A tiny voice in your head whispers the vicious truth. It was too late for that.

It's less than an hour before he leaves again, back on urgent business for the resistance. You hadn't opened the door when he came to say goodbye. You hadn't answered when he asked if you wanted him to stay, and you hadn't the strength to smile and see him off this time. He left you with the memory of his muffled voice, promising he will come back, promising he'll figure out a way to make this work, begging you to think, to try.

For once you're grateful he's gone. At least he isn't around to see the damage.

The tea Kes Dameron had pressed into your hands has long since gone cold as you stare out at the grass, little shoots growing where previously a star fighter engine had burnt them away, one that so far hadn't returned, and perhaps never would.

There's a sigh behind you, a creak of the porch steps as Kes sits down next to you. The older man had come to help you fix the flickering light in the kitchen, something you'd have once asked Poe how to fix, allowing him to instruct you via comlink, teasing and laughing at your questions and frustrations. But you hadn't spoken to Poe, not in months now, too ashamed and regretful of your behaviour, and too fearful of what speaking with him may bring up.

"He was asking about you again earlier. You can't keep avoiding his comms."

You can feel Kes's eyes on you but you refuse to look up from the dent in the grass. You don't need to ask who he means.

"I'm not. Poe calls at bad times."

Kes makes a disbelieving noise, taking the now cold mug out of your hands and setting it down to the side, making you finally look up.

"It's been a bad time for the past two months. What happened between you?" He frowns at you.

"Nothing." It was the truth. In the end nothing had happened, not really. But the almost of it, the almost hurt worse.

You don't want to talk about Poe. You don't want to think about it. But the next question slips out without you being able to stop it.

"How is he?"

Kes lets out a long breath.

"You know Poe, all smiles and reassurances but he hasn't been the same. Not since…" Kes trails off and your stomach gives a now familiar lurch at the memory of Kes turning up at your door, pale and scared, stuttering out that the First Order had captured his son. As far as you know Poe never told Kes what happened in those days he was gone, but if the stories you heard were even half true, you're surprised he made it out alive.

"He needs someone there," Kes continues eventually.

"He has his squadron." You ignore what Kes is implying. It's a conversation you've had a hundred times over now. It makes your chest ache in a now all too familiar way.

"He needs you, and for all your denial you need him. You can't spend your whole life moping around here. I can make the arrangements to get you there. You just have to say the word."

You had tried in the weeks following his departure to do as he asked, to fly. You had walked to the shipping yard every day, listened to the roar of the engines, talked to the pilots, tried with every fibre to set foot on a ship, any ship, but you couldn't do it.

You had come to accept that you were right to distance yourself. There was no way for you to be together.

"Kes, I can't do that. I… me and Poe… we just aren't… our lives don't fit together." The shame burns in your chest that you couldn't be there for him when he needed someone the most, after his escape from the First Order.

Kes scoffs in an all too familiar way. You wonder if Poe knows where he got that reaction from, if he knows how much like his father he can be.

"Don't fit together? You kids," Kes rolls his eyes. "Nothing in this life is ever easy. If you want something enough you'll find a way through it. Poe's mother," he hesitates, the words catching in his throat. It's rare for Kes to mention Shara, but when he does, it always seems it causes him physical pain. The older man swallows hard before he continues, looking up at the sky.

"She was a free spirit like Poe. But she loved with her whole heart, and so does he. He'd give up the world for you. Don't let your fear hold you back. Don't make the same mistake with him that I did. If you do, you may lose him forever."

Kes was right in a way, your fear was holding you back, it always had. You'd always known Poe's heart was in the stars, and your fear would never let you leave the ground. But Poe had offered to give his world up for you — his stars, his resistance, his freedom. Even if he couldn't stick to it, he was willing to try.

Maybe you could try again. For him.

Poe is still in his flight suit, his hair damp and messy, helmet clutched in one hand, talking animatedly with another pilot who you vaguely recognise, who apparently knows you straight away. The pilot nudges Poe — who continues to chatter away obviously— before forcefully spinning him around to point at you.

You can tell you are probably the very last person he's expecting. His eyes go wide and he blinks a few times, as though he's imagining you here. He opens and closes his mouth but whatever words he wanted to get out, don't seem to come, or at least you can't hear them across the yard.

You hadn't told him you were coming. In fact, you still hadn't answered a single one of his comms. It's not that you hadn't wanted to talk to him, but more that you hadn't wanted to disappoint him if, in the end, you couldn't go through with it. Getting here had taken weeks, the trip was rearranged three times after you found yourself unable to get on the ship, and in the end Kes had dragged you in himself and tied you into your seat, reasoning that you needed a push. He was probably right, but you would still be having words when you saw him again.

Raising a hand to Poe you give him a small wave, glad that you landed a good few hours before he returned from whatever mission run he was on this time. It had given you time to clean up and compose yourself, for the shaking to finally stop.

You hesitate in the landing bay, unsure if you should go over or stay put. Poe decides for you because the moment you move a foot forward, he runs to you, skidding to a stop almost toe to toe with you.

"Here-you-h-how?" He stutters out looking you over, as though you might have been kidnapped and dragged here against your will. "Is everything okay? What's happened? My dad-"

"Is fine," you cut him off, recognising his rising panic. "Everything's okay at home. I just thought it was about time I came to see you for once." You give him a nonchalant wave of your hand and a shrug, although your stomach feels full of stones as you take in the new scar across his cheek.

"But… you wouldn't even fly with me!" He sputters out, as though that's the most important point.

You give him an apologetic smile.

"Your dad made me realise I needed to be here," you confess, "We heard about what happened. Your dad was worried about you and how…" you were coping after being tortured.

You don't finish the sentence, swallowing hard.

"I was worried about you." You drop your eyes, instead gazing down at his scuffed boots, still feeling ashamed you hadn't been here sooner.

The pilot sighs, "I'd have come to you if you'd just answered my calls. I just thought you didn't want to see me, and then things here got… a bit crazy."

"I know, but the way we left things. I didn't know…I couldn't…I'm sorry. I tried to come, I really did. I couldn't and… I couldn't tell you…I panicked and everything that happened, and what we said, and what I did, and I wanted to be here for you when you were… but I couldn't. I tried but i couldn't do it, and then -"

"Stop, stop, stop," Poe shushes you, pulling you into his arms and holding you against him tightly, while you try to ramble out an explanation, an apology, and confession all in one, the words tumbling together, desperate to escape.

"Shhh stop," he repeats softly, squeezing you against his chest.

It's more than just a friendly hug, it's more than just a greeting. He holds you tighter than he ever has, one hand curled into the back of your shirt while the other grips his helmet, his face buried in your neck, as though he could hide from the world. Your heart aches for him and everything he's been through as you hold him.

You wait for him to ask you questions, to call you out on how you acted, even to tease you for the whole situation.

Instead, "I'm so proud of you," is all he says.

You bite your lip hard to hold back a flow of tears, gripping his flight suit as he squeezes you breathless.

"I can't believe I wasn't your first," he huffs suddenly against your skin.

"What?" You squeak, heat flushing over your skin at the sudden change in conversation.

"Pilot! I wanted to take you on your first flight," He sighs, pulling away to pout at you in the most adorable of ways. It makes you want to laugh at the look of actual disappointment on his face. You hadn't realised it had meant so much to him, then you remember that he had seen you as a challenge and can't help but wonder if it's purely that someone else won, where he lost. You can tease him about it later and find out.

For now you'll sooth his jealousy just a little.

"Does it help if I tell you your dad had to basically restrain me. I cried, had I don't know how many panic attacks, shut my eyes the whole way, and I absolutely never want to do it again?"

Poe considers this for a minute before he grins, "Kinda does… but not the crying or panic bit. Or the fact you don't want to do it again" he clarifies quickly, before you have a chance to tease him about enjoying your misery. "We can work on changing that last part. And I'm still sad you didn't trust me to take you first."

"Well maybe if you didn't fly that barely legal piece of junk X-Wing I'd have-"

He suddenly leans forward and presses his lips to yours, cutting off any further insults you could throw at his ship, and while his kiss takes you by surprise, it's not unwelcome, and you immediately find yourself sinking into it.

The kiss tastes of desperation, of impatience, of longing buried for too long.

You let out a soft moan as his tongue licks into your mouth, deepening the kiss. You tangle your fingers in his sweat damp curls in the way you've wanted to for so long.

His helmet thumps noisily to the ground when he drops it to wrap both his arms around you this time, pulling your body hard against his. He slides one hand up your back to the back of your neck, holding your mouth to his as he kisses you passionately.

This time it isn't his comms that interrupt you, but the hollering cheer of his squadron.

You pull apart suddenly, your cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Poe gives you an abashed smile, throwing a rude hand gesture to his still cheering comrades, mumbling a soft apology.

"Sorry, I just decided it might be better to skip the talking part this time, since it didn't really work out so well last time."

You can't help but let out a soft laugh, feeling dizzyingly elated at the lingering feel of his lips on yours.

"No, it did not."

Poe grins, drawing you close once more, "now what were you saying about my beautiful custom X-Wing that you are absolutely going to be flying one day?"

You roll your eyes. Flyboys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 6 months ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 31: Ice Meets Fire

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your fangs sink into Wyll's neck with a loathsome, satisfying snap, and the taste hits you instantly—hot, succulent, and metallic. Each mouthful is a tide of warmth you’ve been deprived of for too long and wakes the insatiable beats of your hunger with a ravenous growl.

You try to take small, calculated sips, but with each gulp, your body demands more. Astarion’s compulsion presses against your mind like a net thrown over a wild animal, pinning it down while it struggles. Even without it, the bloodlust roars louder than reason.

Slow down.

The words parrot futilely. No matter how hard you try or how tightly you close your eyes and will yourself to stop, the blood flows endlessly. You’re a starved animal finally sinking its teeth into prey, and restraint is a concept that crumbles under desperation.

It’s too much. It’s never enough. Every sip is like a promise and a cruel joke. Your hands tremble as they grip his shoulders, your nails cutting into his skin as if you could tear him open and swallow him whole.

Wyll doesn’t resist. His steady breathing brushes against your neck, an unbearable reminder of his trust. You hate it. You hate how calm and utterly unafraid he remains, even as you drain him dry.

Your jaw tightens, a feeble attempt to break the rhythm, but the compulsion won’t allow it. More, it whispers. Take it all.

Stop.

You scream it in your mind, but it’s a plea lost in the void. There’s no way out, no way to stop the frantic rhythm of your own undoing. You drink and drink, each pull dragging you closer to the point of no return.

You claw at the edges of Astarion’s compulsion, trying to wrench yourself free even as your mouth greedily draws more and more. Wyll trembles in your grasp. His skin grows clammy under your fingers, his pulse weakening with every passing second. A feeble push against your shoulder does nothing but fuel your shame. He’s trying to stop you; you’re too far gone to heed him.

“Alright, Illyria, that’s enough now,” Karlach interrupts, her tone light but strained. “You’ve had your fill, yeah? Let him go.”

Her words barely register. You feel Wyll’s body growing weaker, but you can’t stop. Astarion’s will is absolute, and even as you try to cleave it out of your mind, white-hot pain sears through your skull, a punishment for daring to resist. When Wyll sags against you, Karlach’s tone sharpens.

“Oi! Illyria! Enough!”

When you still don’t respond, she growls low in her throat and snaps her attention to Astarion. “Astarion,” she barks, “stop her. She’s gonna kill him!”

His laughter rings out, a cold, melodic sound that chills the air. “Oh, Karlach,” he drawls, amused and unbothered. “Why would I? She’s simply indulging her nature. Isn’t it beautiful to watch her embrace what she truly is?”

Karlach’s voice rises, anger threading through her words. “She’s not some bloody animal! If you won’t stop her, I will.”

“I wouldn’t,” he purrs, low and dangerous. “Let her finish. It’s been so long since she’s truly fed.”

“Damn you, Astarion!” Karlach snarls, her fists clenching as she glares down at him.

Your mind screams, your body obeys, and you drink, helpless to do anything else.

You hear Karlach’s heavy footfalls as she charges. There’s a sharp thud, a muffled grunt of pain, and then a scuffle. Karlach curses, her voice raw with fury, but the sounds shift too quickly for you to follow.

Please, you beg silently. Tear me away from him. End this. Kill me if you have to.

She doesn’t reach you. Instead, Astarion drags her into view. His iron grip clamps around her chin, forcing her to face the gruesome scene. She thrashes, teeth bared, her powerful muscles straining against his unyielding hold, but it’s useless. His strength is far beyond anything mortal.

“Ah, ah,” Astarion chides with icy amusement, tilting her head to ensure she can’t look away. “None of that now, my dear Karlach. This is a lesson—one I think you’ll find invaluable. Watch closely.”

Karlach’s fury trembles in every word. “You twisted bastard. Let her go. Let him go!”

“Oh, Karlach, such righteous indignation! It is positively delightful, but you misunderstand.” His crimson eyes flick to you with a devious gleam dancing in their depths. “She doesn’t want to stop. Do you, pet?”

Your stomach lurches at his words, but your body betrays you, still locked in the monstrous act.

“You can fight,” he says, addressing Karlach now, “but it’s pointless. She’s mine, body and soul. And you—” He leans in closer to Karlach, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “—you get to watch your dear Wyll slip away, all because she is weak.”

He wrenches her head back, forcing her eyes to lock on you. Then his gaze meets yours, piercing and cold, devoid of mercy. “Look at her, darling,” he sneers. “Isn’t it poetic? The mighty Karlach brought to her knees, helpless as her lover dies in your arms. Does it not just… sing to you?”

Karlach’s voice breaks through the haze, trembling and raw. “Please,” she sobs, her gravelly tone cracking under the weight of her despair. “Please stop. Don’t do this. Don’t let him do this to you.”

Her pleas carve into your chest. You want to scream, tell her you’re sorry, and beg her to understand that you can’t stop. But no sound escapes you—only the low, guttural growl of a predator feeding.

The tears come, hot and shameful, clinging to your lashes as you try to blink them away. They blur your vision, turning Wyll’s ashen skin into a smear of pale grey, and still, you drink.

“Illyria,” Karlach chokes out your name, her voice softening, cracking under the weight of her grief. “I know you’re in there. Please, fight him. You’re stronger than this!”

But you’re not. You’re weak. Weak like Astarion said, bound by his will and the unrelenting pull of the hunger that consumes you.

Behind Karlach, Astarion’s laugh snakes through the room. “Stronger?” he echoes, mocking her with a slow, deliberate drawl. “Oh, darling Karlach, how naive you are. She isn’t strong. She’s exactly what I made her to be. A creature of hunger and obedience.”

Wyll slumps in your grasp, his life slipping away with every pull, and the sob that builds in your chest dies unvoiced.

Karlach’s tears fall freely now, glinting in the dim light as they streak down her face. She struggles against Astarion’s grip, desperate and futile. “You bastard,” she snarls with anguish. “You’ve done this to her. You’ve taken everything she is!”

Astarion leans down to her ear, his voice a silken blade. “No, my dear, she’s given herself to me. Isn’t that right, my sweet?”

Your mind screams no, but the compulsion twists your silence into agreement, and you feel the weight of his words like chains tightening around your throat. Karlach’s gaze shifts to you, her eyes red and brimming with pain.

And still, you drink.

The decision crystallizes in the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into a frozen lake. You’ve avoided this, hidden it away in the recesses of your mind, locked tight and buried deep. The bond between you, that last shred of connection untouched by Astarion’s cruelty, preserved out of fear—fear of what he’d do if he found it, fear of what it would mean if it failed.

But now, with Wyll’s life bleeding away in your arms and Karlach sobbing in a mixture of rage and despair, you see no other choice. This is your only chance to reach him and find the man you married buried somewhere beneath the monster.

You hesitate. Opening the bond is more than a risk; it’s a surrender. Once the door is flung open, there will be no taking it back. He will know everything. Every thought, every emotion, every fleeting whisper of rebellion or resentment.

Your lies, your hopes, your hatred, your love—laid bare.

If this doesn’t work, you’ll have handed him the keys to your soul.

Wyll’s pulse is faint now, fluttering like the wings of a dying moth. The moment stretches, endless and excruciating, and you realize you’re out of time. You take a shuddering breath, an act so unnatural it feels like a mockery of the life you no longer have, and then you let go.

As soon as the bond snaps open, raw pain floods you. It’s a cold pain, sharp and creeping, like frostbite gnawing its way through your skin, burrowing deep until it reaches the marrow of your bones. You feel it settle there, an ache so profound it almost suffocates you, but the worst part is the sound.

A symphony of voices—no, not a symphony, a cacophony—erupts in your mind. It’s endless and discordant, every note wrong and sharp, scraping against the edges of your sanity. The voices chant in a perverse harmony, a song of paranoia and malice.

You’re nothing. Weak. Disposable.

The words sting, but their tone is beguiling. They are contemptible yet tempting, each syllable laced with a sweetness that beckons you to listen, lean in, and believe. They promise power, freedom from doubt, and freedom from pain—if only you would give in.

It’s maddeningly seductive, and you wonder how he hears himself think over the constant noise, but then you realize he doesn’t.

The voices swarm, and suddenly, you feel them notice you. They latch on to your thoughts, slick and insidious, winding through your mind like vines coated in thorns. They twist and tighten, infecting you with a venomous corrosion that eats away at the very essence of who you are.

Why fight? One voice coos, silk-soft and dripping with disdain. It’s easier this way.

You’re not strong enough, hisses another, low and venomous, its words slithering into the cracks of your defences. You’ll never be strong enough.

Your thoughts start to warp under their influence, each one pulled apart and rearranged until you can barely recognize them. You try to push back, to reclaim control, but the voices are relentless. Their chant grows louder, a deafening orchestra. The pain intensifies, but underneath it all is a coaxing warmth, a vile comfort that urges you to let go.

You wrench yourself free from the glacial pull, gasping as if emerging from freezing water. The pain lingers, an ache in every nerve, but you focus on what you must do. With everything you have, you flood Astarion with the only weapon you possess against this: your love, your light, the memories of the man he was.

You pour it all into the bond, a torrent of warmth and brightness against the cold, oppressive dark. You push in the sound of his laughter when it was soft and unguarded, the gentle brush of his fingertips against your skin when he thought no one else was watching. You show him his own humanity—the pieces of himself he would scoff at but that you know still exist.

Your eyes snap open, and they lock onto him. Astarion stands frozen like a marble statue come to life, his body rigid and trembling under the weight of your assault. His crimson eyes are round and unblinking, as if he’s seeing something he cannot comprehend.

You plunge deeper, shoving aside the frost-choked whispers of madness that try to devour you, wading through the virulent mire of his mind. It’s a labyrinth of jagged edges and venomous traps, each thought a barbed snare waiting to close around you, but you press on.

You sift through every shadowed nook and cranny, tearing through the layers of rot and cruelty, ferreting out anything—anything—that resembles your husband. You dig through memories warped by his ascension, memories drenched in blood and ash. The twisted delight he takes in control and domination rears up like a predator, snapping its jaws, but you shove it away.

“Come back to me,” you whisper through the bond, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”

The deeper you go, the more the cold bites, as though his darkness fights back. The voices return, screaming now, a cacophony of rage and hatred, but you don’t relent. For a brief, flickering second, something surfaces—a glimmer in the murk, faint and fleeting. It’s small, fragile, but unmistakable.

Him.

The ropes of compulsion shatter, and your body is finally yours again. You throw yourself away from Wyll with such force that you skid across the ground.

Karlach, trembling with fury, tears herself from Astarion’s slackened grip. Her teeth are bared, her face flushed with a rage that could rival the Nine Hells. She hurls him into the nearest wall, the sickening crunch of stone meeting flesh ringing in your ears.

Before you can react, she’s already moving, stalking toward where her axe rests against the far wall. Her movements are swift and purposeful as she bellows, “That’s enough! You’ve gone too far this time, fanged bastard!”

Astarion collapses in a heap where she threw him, his body still as death. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, his eyes wide and vacant, staring into nothingness.

“Karlach, wait!” you shout, scrambling to your feet. Your voice cracks under the weight of urgency, but she doesn’t hear you—or doesn’t care.

Her massive hand grips the haft of her axe, and you see her muscles tense, preparing to swing it down on him.

No. No. No!

You don’t think; you don’t plan. You hurl yourself forward with every ounce of vampiric speed and strength you possess, slamming into her waist just as she lifts the axe. The two of you crash to the floor, a tangle of flailing limbs.

“Karlach, stop! Please!” You cry, your voice raw.

She struggles against you, her strength an inferno, each movement sending tremors through your bones. Her skin burns where it touches yours, the sizzling of flesh like acid to your ears. The smell of charred meat fills the air as your hands blister and blacken, but you hold on. You can’t let go.

“Get off me!” She roars, her voice filled with grief and rage, both directed at you and the monster you’re protecting.

Her elbow slams into your side, and you feel the snap of ribs. Your vision wavers from the pain, but you cling to her, ignoring the agony, ignoring the smell, ignoring the searing heat.

“Just a moment!” you plead, your voice breaking, your desperation bleeding through.

Even as you grapple with Karlach, wrestling her arms away from the axe, you push your focus back into the bond, back into the void of Astarion’s mind. The dying star you glimpsed is faint, but you rocket toward it.

Please, gods, please.

Karlach fights you with everything she has, but you hold on, your body burning, your concentration stretched thin. You press into the cold darkness, reaching for that light buried deep within the abyss. The moment your mind touches it, it’s as if the fabric of reality buckles and tears apart.

Astarion’s thoughts unravel like threads pulled too tightly, snapping one by one in a chaotic cascade. Time feels loose; space dissolves. Your stomach churns as you’re plunged into a vortex of fragmented memories, cruel desires, and the frosted whispers of lunacy. You cling to the light, gripping it desperately, even as it threatens to slip away.

Then, a hand of molten fury seizes you.

You barely register the movement before you’re airborne, her throw sending you careening through a table. Splinters bite into your back as you crash through the wooden frame, landing in a heap amid shattered debris. Pain flares in thorny bursts, but you barely notice it over the chaotic pounding in your head.

The clang of metal echoes in your ears as Karlach hefts her axe. The heat of her wrath radiates through the room, and you can hear her steps storming closer, shaking the ground beneath her.

And then you hear it.

A voice. Quiet, like a long-forgotten melody. “Illyria?”

Your dead heart clenches with the phantom pain of longing. Astarion’s voice is no more than a whisper, but it’s warm, familiar.

Real.

Your head snaps toward him. He’s still crumpled where Karlach left him, his pale face slack, but his lips move faintly, shaping your name like a prayer.

“Illyria?” he repeats even softer, the first raindrop landing on thirsty earth.

Karlach doesn’t see or hear it. Her axe arcs high, the blade gleaming an angry red with the light of the fire. The edge looks sharper than death itself.

You barely think. The Weave rushes to your grasp, the familiar pull and snap of magic coursing through your veins. You cast Misty Step, the incantation escaping your lips as you vanish from your place among the broken table and reappear in a swirl beside Astarion.

There’s no time to check if what you heard was real. You throw yourself over him, draping your body across his in a desperate shield. Karlach’s rage fills your ears, a feral roar that shakes the walls. You feel the whistle of the blade through the air above you, its keen edge cutting a deadly arc.

Your fingers twist into Astarion’s clothing, clutching him tightly as you close your eyes. You don’t pray; you don’t plead. You brace yourself for the end, for the strike that will come—and hope it will be quick.

Astarion shakes violently, the tremors running through him like cold fire as if he’s been trapped in a block of ice for centuries, yet his skin burns with an intensity he can’t comprehend. His fingers claw at the ground, trying to anchor himself in something solid. Everything around him is nothing but a blur, a haze, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts that ricochet off each other.

He breathes in, trying to steady himself, but the air feels too thick in his lungs. His chest aches with the effort like he’s been holding his breath for far too long. Confusion—raw, brutal confusion—fogs everything else. His thoughts are disjointed, starting and stopping abruptly, tumbling over one another with no real direction.

Thunk.

The sound breaks through the pandemonium, and his eyes snap open. Everything swims in his vision, a sea of wind-whipped black spots dancing like a storm. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fuzziness that clouds his senses. It doesn’t work. The world still feels distant, out of reach.

Where am I? Why is everything so wrong?

He shifts slightly, disoriented, and his gaze lands on the floor where a blade is buried deep in the ground, the metal glinting ominously. It’s too close.

A spike of panic digs into his gut, and he forces himself to sit up, but his head spins as if the very act of thinking is too much. He swallows hard, pushing the blackness away from his vision, but everything feels… foreign.

Voices.

He hears voices. They sound distant, muffled, as though they’re underwater, but he can’t make sense of them. His fists ball, and his body is trembling harder now as if his very being is being torn between two worlds. He needs to focus. He needs to remember. The last thing… what was the last thing he remembers?

His mind reels, but it slips away before he can grasp anything. It’s like trying to hold water in his hands. His memories dissolve before they fully form, slipping through his fingers, and his chest tightens as the pain in his head intensifies.

Nothing is making sense.

He tries to move, but his limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, like his body isn’t entirely his own. Every motion feels like wading through mud. His thoughts scatter, and all he can do is sit there, confused and trembling, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

Astarion’s head throbs, each pulse of pain rebounding off his skull. The voices grow louder, each syllable incomprehensible, a maddening murmur that rakes at his sanity. It’s as though they speak in a language he can’t begin to decipher.

The wall finally presses into his back, but there’s no escape from the flood of confusion, or the warping, spiralling chaos.

A song begins to play in the back of his consciousness—an earsplitting, strident melody that cuts through the confusion like a blade. It’s painful yet strangely alluring as if it’s coaxing him into somewhere deeper and darker. The sound twists around him like vines, burrowing into his thoughts. It feels like sinking into a hot bath, too inviting yet far too dangerous.

His vision starts to dim, as though his very life is draining out. He shakes his head violently to dislodge the sensation.

No. He can’t lose himself in this. He won’t lose himself.

The world shifts, and in the firelight, something catches his eye—a gleam of something metallic. He turns his head, his vision clearing just enough to make out the sight before him. There, through the gauze of confusion and pain, he sees her.

Illyria.

His spawn.

No… No, that’s not right.

His bride. His wife.

Yes. The memory is there, blossoming like a delicate flower in his fractured mind. He sees her walking down the aisle, her beauty illuminated by the setting sun. He remembers their vows, the promises made beneath that golden light. The memory is so vivid that it nearly takes his breath away.

But something is wrong.

Illyria looks… different. She’s thinner, almost gaunt, her skin stretched tight over bone as though the life has been drained from her. Her once radiant form is now emaciated, bordering on sickly.

Why?

The soft ache in his heart is foreign to him, unsettling. He doesn’t like it.

She grapples with Karlach. Illyria’s movements are sharp and frantic, her voice a mixture of hissing, growling, and pleading—wild, untamed, desperate. The sound of it grates on his senses, twisting something deep inside of him, but it’s when he sees her eyes—wide with fear, with rage, with something he can’t quite place—that it really hits him.

Astarion’s mind stutters. He doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. What is happening? Karlach. Why is she here? He wants to call out to Illyria, but the words stick in his throat, trapped between disorientation and horror.

Gods, he just does not understand.

Illyria stands between him and Karlach, her presence like a beacon, something he’s lost but desperately needs to hold onto. The Weave dances around her, a radiant glow that hums with raw power. It is both beautiful and terrifying, crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

Why are they fighting?

The question circles in his mind like a whirlpool. These people, these faces that once felt like friends—why are they at odds now? Karlach, with her rage barely contained. Illyria, his wife, standing in front of him, protective and fierce, as if she's trying to shield him from some terrible truth he can't yet grasp.

Illyria’s blood drips from her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to care. She wipes it away quickly, her gaze fixed on Karlach, unwavering and unyielding. The tension between them is palpable, as though the air itself could snap at any moment.

Karlach's hatred burns into him, cold and furious. It makes Astarion shrink inside, though he fights it, his body rigid, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. He opens his mouth to speak, to demand answers, but no words come. “Enough, Karlach!” Illyria snarls, but then her intonation softens. “Give me a chance to explain, please.” “It better be one Hells of an explanation, soldier,” Karlach spits, relenting though her anger simmers just beneath the surface.

Illyria’s stance softens, the dangerous crackling at her fingertips fading, but the tension in the air lingers. She doesn't fully relax, but she moves towards him. The weight of her steps feels like a relief, a return to something familiar and steady.

“Astarion?” Her voice is soft, uncertain, as though the question itself is a plea. She reaches out to him, and his heart, or whatever remains of it, skips a beat.

Her touch—he's afraid of it. Afraid of her. Afraid of everything right now.

He recoils, a reflex so strong it feels instinctive. The touch, the closeness—his mind cannot reconcile it within the turmoil. The pain, the confusion, the disjointed memories, and now this, her reaching for him, her fingers outstretched like she’s reaching for the last thread of his humanity.

Illyria stops short, her hand wavering in the air before dropping. The silence between them grows thick, oppressive and filled with unspoken questions. He can feel her hesitation, the way she’s pulling back, trying to read him, trying to understand the distance he’s put between them.

But Astarion can’t breathe. He can’t think. His mind is a mess of shattered thoughts, fragments of who he was and who he is now.

“I…” His voice cracks, hoarse and weak. He tries again, but the words die in his throat.

Why does she look so different? The soft ache in his chest tightens, a strange, wrenching sensation that doesn’t belong.

Illyria watches him, her eyes searching as if looking for something in him that she knows is there but can’t reach. He feels like a stranger in his own body like a piece of himself is locked away.

Everything about this moment feels wrong. But she’s here. She’s real. She’s his, even if he doesn’t know what that means right now.

"Astarion," she repeats, her voice quieter now, the question lingering between them like a breath held too long.

Astarion’s head spins, the world blurring as he stares at Illyria, her face so close, yet somehow so far away. Everything feels distant—her eyes, her voice, even the air around him seems hollow. His chest tightens, his breath coming in short bursts that make his ribs ache.

What’s happening to me?

"Illyria," he whispers, though the word feels foreign on his tongue. He opens his mouth to say something more, but it’s as if the words are stuck.

His fingers twitch, reaching out toward her, but he hesitates, the distance between them like an invisible wall. He doesn’t understand why he’s afraid of her—why it feels so wrong, so unsafe. His mind is a storm, a mess of jagged thoughts, and his body seems to betray him at every turn.

“Illyria…” he repeats, a bit louder this time, but it comes out choked, like a plea. “Where are we? What happened?” He doesn't even know what he's asking or if he really wants to know the answers. He shakes his head, the effort making his skull feel like it’s cracking. “I don’t—Gods, I don’t understand. You—You’re not real, are you?”

Her voice comes soft and coaxing. “Astarion, look at me. You’re okay. You’re here with me.”

His eyes snap toward her, but it's like trying to focus on a dream that keeps slipping away. “No, no, no—I’m not okay,” he mutters to himself, more than to her—his head throbs, a pulsing rhythm that drowns out everything else. “I’m broken… I’m—what happened to me? Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I—think?”

Illyria’s voice softens, though he doesn’t know if it’s from pity or care. “You’re not broken, Astarion. You’ve just been through a lot. Please, just tell me what you're feeling."

His breathing hitches as he forces himself to meet her eyes, but it’s like looking into the abyss. She’s there, yes, but she’s not. How can she be here when everything feels like it’s slipping away?

“I—feel... cold.” His voice cracks again, and he feels foolish. “Cold, and… so godsdamned hot, all at once. My thoughts are so loud, but they make no sense. They are screaming at me. All of them—every single one. I—” He stops himself, chest heaving. The words do not come out the way he wants them to.

Illyria shifts closer, her eyes searching his face with such intensity that it almost burns. “It’s okay. We’ll work through it. What are they saying?”

He flinches at the question, the voices in his head rising again like a tide.

Lies! Betrayal! They’re lying to you, Astarion. She’s not really here. She’s just a dream. Don’t trust her.

Astarion clutches his temples, trying to block out the noise. “They—they will not fucking stop.” His voice is strained, shaky. “It’s all just... jumbled, endless screaming inside my skull. They keep saying things I do not want to hear, things I cannot—do not—understand.”

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away. No, he refuses to let her see him break. Not like this. Not when he can barely keep himself together.

“I’m not… I don’t know what is real anymore. I do not know who I am.”

His vision pales again, and he can feel himself slipping under like quicksand. The warmth of her presence and her voice beckons him, but it’s like a distant lighthouse through a fog, flickering and fading just as he reaches for it.

“I don’t know who I am anymore," he repeats, the words coming out in a broken whisper. ”I don’t know who we are. Why can’t I just— Why can’t I remember?”

Astarion trembles in front of you. His eyes flicker, the depths of his gaze growing darker and more unfocused with each passing moment. His lips part, but the words he speaks are disconnected, like fragments of shattered glass struggling to find coherence.

“Illyria... you... you look...” He swallows hard, his hands trembling as they press to his temples. “You look... thin. Like you’ve been... starving, but I don’t—I don’t understand.” His voice cracks. “How did this happen? Why does it hurt to look at you? You're so... different. So faint.”

He stares at you as though he doesn’t recognize you, his words more of a question than anything else. His chest heaves in desperate gasps, but the air seems to cling to him in suffocating waves like it’s both too hot and too heavy for him to breathe properly.

“Gods, this air... it is too thick. It’s... burning, but not—why can’t I breathe? It feels like the weight of everything is pressing on me, inside me. I can’t—I cannot breathe, Illyria. It’s too much. Too hot. Too—” He coughs a strange, choked sound that only adds to the disarray in his voice.

You instinctively reach for him but hesitate, knowing better than to crowd him too soon. You can’t force him to calm down; it has to come from him. Your fingers itch to soothe him, but instead, you will yourself to hold steady, to be the quiet within his storm.

You let your voice be the anchor, soft and steady, something to tether him to reality. “Astarion... I’m here. Breathe with me. Just breathe, okay? It’s alright.”

His eyes flash with an almost frantic energy as he seems to latch onto your words, but there’s a haunted look behind his gaze.

“I don’t know how... They... they won’t let me think. Every little thing just keeps... spinning. Illyria, make it stop. Make it stop... please.”

You steady your breath, forcing everything else to quiet inside you. There’s no room for your worries or fears right now. Not when he needs you more than ever. You push away the anxiety that rises like a tide in your chest, the unease that it could take so little for him to slip away from you.

“Astarion,” you murmur again, your voice a whisper but strong. “You’re safe. You’re with me, and I’ve got you. You’re strong. You just need to find your way back.”

He shakes his head frantically as if he can’t hear you; his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles are white. "I don’t—I don’t want this. I do not want to feel like this. I don’t want to be lost." His words crack as if he’s breaking apart at the seams. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

You reach for him slowly, your fingers brushing his arm with the gentlest of touches, just enough to remind him of your presence but not so much that you swarm him. “You’re not broken, Astarion,” you whisper, the words almost a mantra, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself. “You’re not broken.”

His gaze snaps to your hand, and for a moment, his eyes soften—just barely, but it’s there. The tiniest spark of recognition. He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but the words die on his lips as his body shudders gruellingly, like even that tiny piece of clarity frightens him.

“I just need... a moment,” he mutters, his voice raw and strained. “Just a moment... to breathe. To think. To remember...” You stay on your knees by Astarion, watching him as he breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions. You don’t touch him, though the urge to do so burns at the edges of your mind. He needs space, space to breathe, to think, and to untangle the mess of his thoughts.

Behind you, Karlach calls to Wyll, shaking him, her desperate pleas cutting through the tension in the room. You don’t want to look or face what you've done, even if it wasn’t by your own choice, but the scene is too loud, and you can’t avoid it forever.

You glance over your shoulder. Wyll’s slumped form in the chair twists something deep in your gut. You close your eyes momentarily, trying to drown out the noise in your head and focusing on the sound of beating hearts in the room.

Karlach’s pulse is loud, strong—like the whirring of metal gears. Astarion’s... it’s fast. Erratic. Thunderous in your ears, pounding with the chaos inside him. Then, there’s Wyll’s. It’s weak, distant, but still there—the steady thump of a life that refuses to fade.

It should be a relief. He’s alive, after all. But the feeling is sour, like something rancid eating away at your insides. The thought of the betrayal in his eyes, the shock that will surface when he wakes, makes your stomach tighten.

Astarion shifts slightly, but his focus is still on the shadows behind his eyes, caught in whatever has a hold of him.

“Wyll’s alive,” you offer apologetically.

"How do you know?" Karlach asks in a timbre strained between hatred and relief.

You hesitate for only a second before gesturing vaguely to your ear. "Vampiric hearing.”

Her eyes flicker toward you, searching for any glimmer of hope, any shred of reassurance you can give. “Will he live?” she presses, her voice low, fragile.

You nod, though doubt lingers. “He needs rest,” you say, and the words come out sounding more confident than you feel. “He’s strong. He will pull through.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

He's back!

Wyll's alive!

#astarion fanfic #astarion x reader #bg3 #astarion x you #ascended astarion #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts #pallidmoon #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion baldurs gate

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just-horrible-things · 3 months ago

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‘Verse: Resistance, co-author @whump-sprite AU: Chewtoy Alone (alt to Chewtoy)

Necessities [First | Prev | Next]

Ari returns to the Block 2 breakroom to get her feeding chart, spots the drug list on the table, and remembers her antibiotics crisis. Fuck. Probably time to address that.

The coffee machine dispenses another drink, then tells her to refill the beans. She adds a note to the day’s to-do list, as an add-on to the kitchen run.

She sips at the coffee without tasting anything but the heat. Just under three days of pills left. Well. They might all be dead by three days from now. The rest of the staff might come back and shoot everyone. Or the insurgents might take over, god knows what they’ll do. Probably bring their own antibiotics.

She stares at the numbers, and sighs. Excuses, excuses.

Without optimism, she redoes the sums, tapping the numbers into the calculator on her phone. 2.78 days.

Maybe if she cut 201, maybe… 402… who else… She shuffles through the scattered pages all around her. The problem is she keeps writing things down on whatever page she’s toting around at the time, so everything is all over the place.

201 could probably do without, yeah. Maybe 208, 212, definitely 402. 413, 414… A few quick scribbled numbers, another division tapped into her phone.

Three and a half days. Not a lot better.

What if she cut everyone who isn’t actively dying? More scribbles. More sums.

Four days.

The problem is, most of the drugs are going into the goners. If she cut her losses and let them just die, she’d have… more than a week for everyone else.

Oh, and 217 isn’t taking them anyway. How does that change the numbers? Not enough, that much she’s sure.

She needs to find more drugs, then. She’s disassembled every first aid kit she can get her hands on, but most of them were the tiny kind they keep in the offices, and didn’t even have any antibiotics.

Oh, what about the pills she has upstairs? They’re not amox, they’re something else, but it’s all essentially the same isn’t it? She tries to picture the bottle in her head. How full was it when she took a dose this morning? … Did she take a dose this morning?

It must be something like half full. She got a new one when they started reassigning people away, didn’t she? She was worried about the supply. Maybe more than half full. Call it half – so 15 pills.

That’s… not even half a day’s worth, at the current rate.

She’s pretty sure she could break into some more offices, but could she get into the infirmary? She hasn’t tried yet… they must have more bandages and stuff too.

Still turning her options over in her head, she starts setting up for the food round. Empty bottles get dropped off in a corner as she clears the trolley. She retrieves the big pot from the interrogation room – the sink in there is better than the ones in the break rooms.

She almost forgets the feeding chart, grabbing it and the clipboard at the last minute, then heads for the elevator.

Since there’s no one to tell her not to, she’s put everyone on essentially the same rations. Easier than keeping track of who’s meant to be starving and how badly – and besides, what would the point be?

There’s also no one in the canteen or the kitchens to serve up the slop she usually collects – whatever the fuck that stuff is. But the doors on the store rooms weren’t built to real security standards and Ari’s crowbar got her in without much trouble.

There’s enough bread in the freezers to feed an army. Ari gets a batch out every morning, and the stuff she got out the day before is thawed and ready to serve. She kinda imagined it would come out damp, but somehow it doesn’t.

She doesn’t give enough fucks to try and cook for the prisoners, but there’s loads of canned shit in the stores. Beans, lentils, tomatoes, soups of all kinds, hot dogs, corn, peas, corned beef…

Ari picks a couple of ingredients every meal – avoiding anything that looks like it might need cooking – and just tips out a dozen cans or so into the big pot. Today it’s peas and hot dogs. Sure, the resulting heap of cold ingredients isn’t exactly appetising. But it’s real food, and honestly it looks better to Ari than the unidentifiable shit the kitchen usually serves up.

Some of the chattier prisoners have questioned the food, but none of them have complained per se. So she figures they probably feel similarly.

The pot, the bread, and a few extra cans of soup go onto the trolley. Oh – and more coffee beans. She nearly forgot. Then she drags it back down to Interrogations. Pill bottles also go on the trolley. One stop at the interrogation room to grab the plastic bowls, and she’s ready to go.

She’ll try the infirmary this afternoon, she’s decided. For now, she’ll skip the amox for everyone who doesn’t really need it. If she gets her hands on more, she can go back to giving it liberally, but she ought to try and conserve it for now.

The first pass is for everyone on the block who can take a bowl and feed themselves. 201, 202. 205 through 208.

“No drugs today, interrogator?” 201 accuses right off the bat. “Given up on me already? What did I do?” “You don’t need them,” Ari fires back. “Your back’s healing fine.”

211 only gets what food she can drop through the grate. That means mostly bread. Today she puts a couple of hot dogs in a plastic cup and drops that through as well. Probably they’ll fall out when the cup hits the floor, but that’s his problem.

If she’d been living off bread for a week she’d probably eat hot dogs off the floor.

“Come on,” he cajoles, “you can open the door. I’ll be good, I’ll wait at the back.”

214, 215 – 215 screams a little startled scream like she does half the time the door opens, even though she must be able to hear Ari going up and down the block. 218, 219.

“Can’t you take the chain off? Just so I can eat?” “You can reach your mouth just fine.”

Then up and down again hand feeding, or holding the bowl for the ones who can sort of feed themselves. 203, 204. 209 is crying. “Don’t hurt me,” he whimpers. “Chill,” Ari tells him. “It’s just breakfast. If I was here to hurt you, you’d know about it.”

210, dead-eyed and compliant. A little more awake, perhaps? Not a lot. 212. 213 glares daggers at Ari the whole time, but he eats. 216 threw up yesterday, so she gets a smaller portion, fed slowly.

217 is also crying. “Are you sure you won’t take the antibiotics? Might bring your fever down…” “No drugs,” 217 mumbles, and flinches at her own courage. Ari sighs. “If I was trying to drug you, you know I could force you.” “No drugs.”

220. The chain that connects his wrists to the wall has enough slack to let him reach the toilet and move around a little, which means it also has enough slack for him to lunge at her if he’s really determined. “Try to bite me and you don’t get fed today,” she reminds him. “Unchain me and you wouldn’t have to get your hands that close,” he grouses. “Do you want this, or not?”

He shuts up, so she feeds him. “You’re scared of me,” he observes between mouthfuls of peas. Ari doesn’t dignify it with a response. “If you weren’t scared, you’d have done worse to me by now. You know you should be scared. I’m going to remember –” Ari shoves the spoon into his mouth hard enough that it clacks on his teeth and the split on his lip starts bleeding a little again. “Just shut up, will you? Eat. Be glad I’m still bothering to feed you.”

He doesn’t know how fucking lucky he is. He’d only been here a day – maybe two? – before the real interrogators fucked off. Probably wouldn’t be so fucking cocky if he’d tasted a bit of real punishment.

Block 4 is much the same as Block 2. She skips 403. Make trouble while you’re being fed, you don’t get fed.

404 refuses food, closing her mouth and turning her head away. “C’mon,” Ari coaxes, “you’re only gonna get sicker if you don’t eat.” The prisoner won’t look at her, and she won’t eat either.

408 licks Ariadne’s hand while she’s trying to feed him a hot dog. She slaps him, and takes the rest of the food away. Fucking typical. He’s always trying to gross her out.

415 turns his head away after a couple of mouthfuls. “I can’t,” he mumbles, “I feel sick.” Ari sighs. She checks her clipboard. He didn’t manage much yesterday either. “What about soup?” she offers. “I got some tomato soup, that’s easy to keep down.” He hums a thready, uncertain sound. “I’ll come back with soup.”

403 is whining as Ari drags the trolley back past his door. Evidently he’s worked out that she skipped over him. She pauses briefly to listen. “I’m sorry, okay? I said I was sorry. Ple-ease. Feed me. Interrogator? Can you hear me? I’m sorry.” “You’re not,” she tells him through the door. He’s always whining, but it doesn’t stop him lunging for the door at the slightest hint of a chance.

Ari dumps the empty bowls into the sink to wash up, and returns to the breakroom to warm a can of soup for 415 like she promised. She brings it to his cell with a couple of slices of bread, settles beside him on the floor, and dips little bits of the bread in the soup for him. He eats, if reluctantly.

“I think I’m dying,” he whispers between bites. “Am – I dying, sir? I don’t want to die…” “I don’t know,” Ari answers honestly. “The pills are meant to help.” He eats a little more, then, “Why? Why me?” Ari shrugs her shoulders. “I dunno. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.” “I didn’t do anything…” A delayed flinch, as he realises the claim might get him punished. “Not my call,” Ari shakes her head. “There’s no use telling me. I couldn’t let you go if I wanted to.” “Can’t you tell them? Can’t you… please?” “I’m sorry.” There are tears in his eyes. Ari feeds him as much soup as he’ll accept, then leaves him be.

She heats another can of soup for 404, thinking maybe it’ll go down easier. The prisoner turns her head away from that, too. “Look, I even warmed it up for you,” Ari coaxes. “Just let me die,” 404 grumbles. Ari sits back on her heels. She thinks she ought to have something to say to that. Some argument or maybe admonishment. Nothing comes to mind. “I guess,” she allows, and takes the soup away.

And since it’s already warm, Ari has 404’s portion for lunch. It’s more or less lunchtime anyway, and she doesn’t know what else she’d eat. No point opening another can. Some days she eats the same cold food she serves the prisoners, if there’s a portion left over. She kind of feels like it ought to be somehow humiliating, but it’s not like anyone’s watching.

She eats sitting on one of the desks in the security room, and reflects that she really doesn’t miss her colleagues. Yes, the quiet wears on her nerves. And yes, they’d make the work easier. She could get 211 pinned down. But fuck them. At least this way Ari isn’t being pushed around all day as well. She doesn’t have to do anyone else’s paperwork. Nobody’s getting their hands all over her.

With any luck they’ll all be killed by insurgents and she’ll never have to see them again.

She should check the news, she realises. When did she last check – yesterday? Probably the day before. No, she should finish the last of the food round first. There’s only 407 and 417 left.

Neither of them can handle solid food, so Ari waters down a final can of soup to make a broth. She warms up one bowl at a time to take to the respective cells.

407 manages less than a quarter of her portion, even fed as slow as Ari’s patience can handle. 417 manages less. Ari makes a note to try again later. Maybe she should do an extra meal for them first thing with the amox. She’d have to go to the canteen earlier in the day… or keep cans in the breakroom. That would work.

Finally the morning rounds are done. Almost in time to start all over again.

It’s callous of Ari to be glad she doesn’t have to worry about Blocks 1 or 3, but she is. She’d never get any sleep if she was dealing with eighty of the fuckers instead of forty. But 1 and 3 aren’t her problem because she can’t get in there. She’s tried the doors, but they’re built solidly to keep would-be jailbreakers out, and neither her card nor her crowbar are sufficient.

Everyone on 1 or 3 will be dead by now. It’s been – what – a week? Too long to go without water.

Reluctantly, she checks her to do list. Wash up – once she’s collected the dirty bowls. Wash yesterday’s abandoned wound dressings, which needs to happen before she can do the “medical” round, so soon. Try to break into the infirmary. And oh, yeah, the news. She can do that one over a coffee, which instantly boosts it to the top of the list.

The security computers don’t connect to the internet, but there’s a TV in the lounge. It’s approximately the oldest TV Ari’s seen since she moved out of her mom’s house, but it’s still going strong.

She flicks through channels, pausing on anything that looks like news. Something about atrocities in South America. Something about some bank shutting down. Stray dogs? A crawler headline mentions police “putting down” “civil unrest” while the presenter talks about taxation.

Looks like the party line is still “nothing to see here, business as usual”. Ari can’t really afford to watch until they do a summary, which might have something useful in it. But presumably if the channels were allowed to talk about the insurgency it’s all they would be talking about.

She’d better do some washing up, she supposes.

She takes the tray of used dressings up to the kitchen, because the break room really doesn’t have the facilities to boil water. While the pot’s coming to the boil, Ari rinses the worst of the blood and pus out of the dressings in the sink with a shitload of detergent. Once the water’s boiling, she dumps the whole load in.

She has no idea how long is long enough to boil things – this is some kind of medieval makeshift hygiene and Ari’s well out of her depth. Usually she lets it boil for about half an hour, figuring that surely that has to be long enough. This batch sat out overnight and got flies on, so she gives it an extra fifteen minutes.

While she waits, she raids the storeroom for a packet of crisps. She eats about half, but they taste of cardboard so she abandons the pack half-eaten.

Three or four days. Is she really still gonna be stuck here then, still living the same day over and over?

[Next]

#my writing #verse: resistance #au: chewtoy alone #chewtoy!ariadne #glad some of you are enjoying this haha #it's very minutiae but that's kind of the whole deal

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

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Happy Doing Taxes With You

Rating: General CW: None apply! Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Domestic Fluff, Tooth-rotting Fluff, Dialogue Light, Doing Mundane Things With One Another

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is being able to exist together comfortably, sitting side by side and doing your own thing."

💕—————💕

Sundays were for work and complete and utter silence in their house. Now, it wasn’t for big errands like going to the bank or out grocery shopping or any of that nonsense. It was the small things. Things that could be completed over time, if necessary, but were still manageable enough that they could be done in a day or so. This was the day for house chores: laundry, mopping, vacuuming, meal prep. It was a day for: returning their DVD rentals, getting a quick tire pressure check, going through the car wash. It was another simple day of: sit in silence and bask in each other’s easy glow.

During tax season, though, Sundays were for paperwork. Checkbook balancing, getting their receipts in order, finalizing the songwriting (in Eddie’s case), editing that week’s lesson plan (in Steve’s).

This particular Sunday morning, the tax season of 2012, it was for genuine tax paperwork. Collecting W-2s and miscellaneous necessary purchases, the student loan payment on Steve’s part, a car loan for Eddie. It was a coffee and bagels kind of morning. It was a sit at the dining table and let Poncho snooze peacefully on the couch, curled up in a ball, purring away the rays of sunlight beaming on him. A morning in which Steve didn’t contemplate dying his hair to cover up the white streaks or notice how dirty his everyday glasses were, where instead he sat on Eddie’s right, eighth grade exams laid out in front of him, a red pen in hand to mark off errors. One where Eddie has the tax documents, the Casio calculator the size of a small paperback book, his hair tied up (the white dispersed and gentle), his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue tucked into his bottom lip, leaning back with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, and doing all the math for the both of them.

Steve enjoyed this kind of work. The warmth in it all. Their blinds half open. The dust of their space floating through the air in a gentle gust. Pens making soft taps against the dining table as it made strokes on their respective papers.

He loved sipping noisily on his coffee every once in a while, which earned a small snort from Eddie. Loved letting his eyes drift for a moment, basking in Eddie’s careful left hand marking beautifully all the big numbers that Steve fucking hated. Even loved looking at the same test questions for hours on end, if it all meant soaking up the soft heat of Eddie’s body next to his.

Eventually, though, they both hit a wall. Eddie, because he needs a moment to stand on their back porch and look out at the backyard, as the butterflies settled on the flower garden Steve started, taking in the crisp March breeze, maybe smoking a cigarette if he felt inclined to do so—just away from the numbers that began to bleed together. Steve, well all those years twirling bats and wringing things around with his hands finally caught up to him, a bad case of carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists—and also, for the same reason, the words bled together. (There’s so much English literature that he can consume. And he’s had to read fifteen summaries on The Outsiders.)

So, they take their warm, room temp coffees. A fresh onion bagel from the toaster, smothered in cream cheese and some slightly bitter beet jam (Steve’s own specialty, he’d raised the beets like children). And they go stand outside next to each other.

Elbows on the fencing of their wraparound porch. Faces pointed towards the calmly stirring grass. Slurping noisily, again Eddie snorts, and again, Steve can’t contain his smile. Their bagels go quick. Crumbs littering the porch’s wood. Cream cheese lightly stuck to the corners of their mouths, tongues darting out like party noisemakers.

Eddie takes Steve’s left hand and squeezes. The wedding band on Steve’s finger clinking against Eddie’s old, well loved mood ring that can only show one color:

Pink.

Steve squeezes back with passion. Knowing that, in about fifteen or twenty or forty minutes, they’ll go back inside and sit back down at the dining table, noses to their paperwork, ruminating on numbers and words. Steve’ll run out of papers to grade, he’ll rub a palm down Eddie’s back, stirring him gently. He’ll kiss Eddie’s cheek, his rough stubble itching at Steve’s chapstick softened lips. They’ll discuss: “Tilapia and couscous? Or should we celebrate being done with our work?” Steve knows he won’t be frying up fish. “Pizza and beer and Golden Girls?” Eddie will ask.

He won’t be able to say no, Steve knows that. He finds it easier to comply with Eddie. To go along with it. After all, doing taxes and house work and discussing dinners, four years wedded but married since 1995—being together since 1986—Steve knows his life is nothing but flat plains and lavender. No more monsters. No more bloodshed. Just simple things.

Like leaning into Eddie’s side, their hands still joined, coffee cups empty, breath mingling as cream cheese and onion bagels. Looking out on their backyard. Standing on the wraparound porch that Eddie promised. In the glow of midday sunlight and one another.

“Love you,” Steve whispers, voice hesitant to break the quiet.

“I love you, too,” Eddie promises just as soft.

💕—————💕 I realized the other day that like all of my steddielovemonth works can be read in such a way that you follow Steve and Eddie from before they got together to when they got married. So, I guess this kind of a married Steve and Eddie AU now, too.

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 14 #domestic fluff #married steve harrington/eddie munson

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joz-yyh · 1 year ago

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(Guess) What's In the Paper Bag

SUMMARY: Mashita brings the spirit doctor some much needed R&R. (Be advised, this story contains minor SPOILERS for Death Mark 2 up until chapter 5 of the game!) No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Mashita Satoru/Yashiki Kazuo

RATING: M (swearing/ sexual themes)

WORD COUNT: 2,976

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: My first Death Mark fanfic, so please be gentle! I've been a fan of the games for a long time, but finally stepping out of the shadows to create something for it~ Please consider leaving a kudos if you enjoyed! ^v^/

▪️ Have a look at my Mashita art ➜ Here!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The infirmary is where he spends most of his time these days, when he's not out chasing spirits, the only place that still feels safe, its bland nondescript walls becoming an all too familiar reprieve.

As the Departed grows stronger, his allies dwindle, the stakes growing exponentially higher. No matter how badly his friend's may want to help him, Yashiki can't stomach the thought of losing a single one. He won't allow their souls to be condemned, chain linked into a horrible fate because he failed to protect them from a vengeful spirit's appetite.

Better they remain absent. At least that meant they were alive.

It is no wonder he's alone then, sat at the steel desk in the corner, toiling over his notes, trying to make sense of the missing pieces.

The empath swivels at the sound of the sliding door being shoved open, not expecting company, greeted with the cat-like eyes of a green-coated authority figure.

A relief spreads throughout the spirit doctor, thin lips curling in a smile at his partner's sudden appearance. Even in hopeless, tight spots like this, Yashiki can always rely on him.

“Mashita,” he breathes, more than happy to see his handsome face.

In his own way, the foul-mouthed gumshoe returns the sentiment, sporting a devilish grin.

“Got time for a coffee break,” the suited detective offers, walking up to him, holding out a styrofoam cup.

Yashiki folds his hands in gratitude, accepting this glimmer of salvation, admiration reflected in his tired eyes.

Rather than use a chair, Mashita hooks a leg onto the edge of the desk his partner is occupying, leaning his weight atop it, watching on as the kujou family head takes a temperate sip.

“Hope you don't mind. It's black.”

His timing is expertly calculated, Yashiki holding the liquid inside his mouth, not wanting to spit it out, but also holding his breath so that he won't taste the bitterness.

The mischievous cop laughs, the other male acting as though he's been betrayed, glass spectacles making the kicked puppy dog look all the more convincing.

“Chill man, it was a joke. I remembered to sweeten it for you.”

Upon hearing this, Yashiki remembers how to breathe again, swallowing down the caffeine with a heavy gulp.

“You're lucky the convenience stores don't charge for that shit or else I'd be broke by now.”

Yashiki thinks unsweetened decaffeinated coffee is a desecration of its holy sanctity, but Mashita sees it the other way round, preferring his without all the added sucralose.

The taller man takes another long sip, the lines under his eyes seemingly less haunted after doing so, a fountain of youth and energy returning to his skin.

Mashita smirks at the change. Funny how a fellow middle aged man needed help taking care of himself, but the detective doesn't mind babysitting too much.

“Donut,” he asks, pulling out a wrapped one from his pocket, chocolate glaze drizzled overtop golden perfection.

He swears, Yashiki's voracious eyes snap towards him even more earnest than before, practically salivating at the mouth, though you'd never guess he was a chocoholic by the calm and neutral tone he uses.

“Sure. Thanks, Mashita.”

With that, he takes the proffered treat, bites into it almost as ravenously as the Departed.

It paid to be a cop sometimes. Forgive the stereotype, but if nothing else, he could provide Yashiki with an endless supply of coffee and confections.

“Where's yours,” the kujou head asks, words muffled, inhaling more pastry.

It takes the detective a moment to realize what Yashiki is really asking is if he's eaten properly himself.

“Don't worry, I already had mine.”

Yashiki accepts this as truth, returning to nibble away at what remains of his donut, the gray-eyed sleuth nursing at his own coffee in the meantime.

He waits until a famished Yashiki is sucking the flakes of sugar from his fingers before moving onto his next question.

“You still have my gun, right?”

The longer haired male clenches his teeth, as if suddenly swallowing something horribly unpalatable.

“Yeah,” Yashiki admits, turning gloomy, “But do you think I really need it? Guns don't usually work on spirits.”

“Maybe not, but I feel better knowing you have it. Plus, there are some pretty nasty humans out there. Just ask Kokkuri.”

Yashiki sighs, having no other choice, but to go along with his plans. “If you say so.”

The room turns silent, Yashiki adopting more of his usual haggard state despite all the effort Mashita was putting in to cheer him up.

“You look tense,” the police detective observes, setting down his drink on the meeting table, slipping off his perch, “let me take care of that for you.”

Yashiki is so adorably naive as Mashita sneaks behind the stool, wedges himself between the spirit doctor and his studious profiling.

Firm hands rub along his neck, the slope of his shoulders, warmth and comfort in every twist of his fingers.

It takes some coaxing, but the bifoculed man let's him slide off the collar of his trenchcoat, Mashita able to massage at his partner's sore muscles more effectively with less layers in the way.

Yashiki hums in his throat, eyes slipping shut, relaxing into his touch, rolling his head back and moaning his approval.

“Been too long, huh,” the detective teases, cracking a smile as such a delicious reaction.

“Mashita,” the spirit doctor gasps, brows and teeth clenched in pain, the man kneading over a particularly tender spot.

“Got it,” his partner says, easing up his technique, working over the stubborn knot until it becomes smooth again.

Yashiki missed this, more than he thought he would. He'd forgotten what it was like, having someone he didn't feel guilty about indulging in soothing his worries away. He settles against the hard body positioned at his back, head feeling cumbersome, laying it to rest against one of Mashita’s long-sleeved arms.

He doesn't know how he survived all those weeks without him, the ex-police detective absorbed in his own grimy casework just as Yashiki had tied up the secrets of the Kujou mansion.

“The Departed is obsessed with you, right?”

Yashiki wonders why the malicious entity is suddenly being brought up, but nods subtly in acknowledgement.

“Do you think they're watching now?”

Just what was he getting at? Why this train of thought? Where was it headed?

Regardless of his motives, there would be no point in lying. Mashita would see right through it.

“Don't know,” Yashiki answers honestly, “I can usually sense when they're near, but the infirmary seems to be a safe haven. At least it did, up until this last case.”

Mashita's hands are on either side of his neck, resting gently beneath the cut of scruff at his chin, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “Won't they be mad when they find out?”

The implications are purposefully vague, but Yashiki deciphers it, one of the few that would be able to.

“We shouldn't provoke it,” the long haired man cautions, grasping for logic through the haze of yearning, “more people could get hurt.”

“Or maybe, the competition will do it some good.”

Yashiki recalls the Departed words, threats made to Ai, Shou and all the rest flashing through his mind in glaring red text.

“It usually targets those who are close to me. You would be the Departed's next prime rib.”

The cocky gumshoe laughs, “Tell ‘em to bring it on.”

He guides the spirit doctor's head back, stealing a kiss, soft and exploratory, relearning the curves of his lips, a new sensation for his memory to treasure.

For as much of a fight as he’s tried to put up (which coincidentally isn't much of one), the spirit doctor melts, pulling the other close, digging nails into short strands of choppy black hair.

“We should wait til after we close the case. It would be safer,” Yashiki reasons, parting them with a wet smack.

Mashita was just the type to jump right into another dangerous situation, even if he didn't have a full scope on the matter, having fallen prey to the supernatural before. But who knows if both of them would survive that long, if they would get another chance like this again, a rational mind making sense of reckless actions.

“Not sure this can wait,” Mashita says, dragging a hand along his lover's chest, eyeing the strain of his erection.

Yashiki chokes on a gasp, hips jerking up into his touch.

“Good to see you've missed me too,” he breathes, clutching at Yashiki’s pecs through the fabric of his shirt.

The look Yashiki is giving him, such wanton need and surrender, begging to forget reality in exchange for a few moments of bliss.

The detective plays with the obscured peak of his nipple, liking the effect it has, the man squirming in his seat, arousal twitching in his pants, looking for freedom of its restraints.

Feeling as though he’s tortured him enough, Mashita slides his hands down, molding it around the egocentric bulge, his friend stifling a moan. Yashiki is burning up, hiding his face inside his partner's jacket, huffing and shaking, a testament to how turned on he is.

“C’mon, you need to help me with this,” Mashita teases, tugging at the zipper to the Kujou's pants, needing to be careful in peeling it off him, needy as he is.

“Your sleeve will get dirty,” Yashiki weakly protests, always looking out for his companions' well being.

They're not exactly in a private space. This was still a school after all. Anyone could walk in and realize what they're doing in an instant, but it was late, the curtains drawn, most of their clothes still on. It should be fine. They’ll be quick.

“S'alright, I'll just roll it up,” Mashita chuckles, pulling away to do just that.

Yashiki takes the opportunity to unbutton his fly, fumbling and impatient, catching his erection on one of the metal sprigs, but he hardly cares. It’s only a few seconds, but he can’t wait for Mashita to return, instead taking his weeping erection in hand, stroking himself in desperation.

“Hey, that’s my job,” the police officer chides, a pale hand molding over his, stopping his pursuits, insisting to take over for him. The spirit doctor relents, giving up control, letting the other man squeeze him, inexplicably tight.

Mashita marvels at how hard he is, how wet.

“God Yashiki, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

The bifoculed man simply groans, words too hard to articulate, bucking into his partner’s stern grip, pleading with him to move.

A part of Mashita wants to draw this out, level such juvenile, harebrained passion into something more long lasting and ripe, but how can he, when Yashiki wants him this much?

With this thought in mind, the detective mimics his friend's breakneck pace, indulges the spirit doctor’s desires with swift, repetitive pumps, the swollen head pink and round like ichigo daifuku.

Yashiki’s nails return to scratch at his skin, leaving marks, grasping for purchase, muscles going taunt, signaling the rapid approach of his peak.

“Nnn, Ma … Mashita,” Yaskihi’s cries, legs flinching, rippling with aftershocks.

Cum spurts from his gaping slit, gushing in heavy clumps over the policeman’s meticulous fingers, the dark-haired medium heaving to catch his breath, fingers flexing around whatever material is within his reach.

Mashita feels chills crawl up his spine, goosebumps spreading across his skin, heat in his cheeks. Shit, this has gotten him riled up too.

He attempts to slide his soiled hand down Yashiki’s shaft, the man spasming from how sore the abrasive treatment has left him until the detective finally lets go, guiding his hand up to his lips, disposing of the evidence with his tongue.

“Hey Yashiki,” he drawls, mulling over the flavor, “you taste like sour plum sake.”

The empath can’t help laughing at such absurd comments, already feeling much better despite how depraved he must look.

If only Sakimoto could see him now, legs parted open before a man’s caress, perhaps she would be relieved to see his true inclinations, though, this wasn’t a good look for a teacher, participating in lewd activities after hours, on school grounds.

Mashita finds a box of tissues nearby, cleans what remains of the sticky substance on his hand, before tossing it in the waste bin. Similarly, he offers the same courtesy to Yashiki, the older male taking a tissue of his own, tidying himself up as well.

Mission accomplished, the detective turns towards the exit, about to head out.

“Wait, what about you,” Yashiki says, reaching out to grasp at the younger man's belt buckle.

The cop dodges his hand, taking a step back, only his jacket tails grazing the pads of his slender fingers.

“I'll take care of it later,” he growls, practically feral, “I was just trying to help you relax. You’re always too stressed out.”

Yashiki seems unsatisfied with that, tucking himself back inside his trousers, zipping them closed before rising from his chair.

“No way. Come here,” the lecherous teacher asserts, yanking the shorter male to him, reeling him in by his striped necktie.

“H-hey–!”

Mashita is unbalanced, suddenly reminded of how much taller the bearded man is, Yashiki pulling him in for a kiss that is so sweet it makes his teeth ache.

He wasn't expecting anything in return, really he wasn’t, but it's just like Yashiki to give back, to put more effort in than what he receives. Mashita can’t deny he wants this too, but after all the laborious trouble he put in to give the spirit medium a break, he’s going to go and exhaust himself again if he allows their debauchery to continue.

“Satoru…” the detective stutters, losing his cool, “... hey, this is bad. Don't push yourself so much.”

Yashiki doesn't hear him, he's too absorbed in assaulting his mouth, giving it his all. Mashita’s completely weak to his lover’s tongue, adding his own, letting an amorous Yashiki assume control while he struggles to keep up.

The detective can't keep his footing, the older male steering him around by the lapels, backing him into the medical supply cabinet, pinning him flat against it.

“Fuck,” Mashita snarls, listening to the contents of the cabinet clatter around inside, “why you gotta be so … so damn persistent.”

For a creepy bastard, he looks too sexy and too confident, a dark gaze boring holes into his, so deep and fathomless like licorice candy.

“It's your spirit power,” Yashiki pants, raking hungry eyes over him, “I felt it pulse just now.”

“Really,” Mashita taunts, raising a fine brow, “My spirit is telling you to do all this?”

It was common knowledge that Mashita was more of the dexterous type, offering both insight and strength, his spiritual prowess wimpy by comparison, practically non-existent. The dabbling of the occult and sensitivity to spiritual attunement was more of Yashiki’s expertise, though he doubts his own measly affinity could cast such a lustful charm over one with his partner’s ancestry.

“Hmm,” Yashiki affirms, leaving off his grip, hands slipping down his lover’s coat, knees hitting the floor and it’s pretty obvious what he intends to do from there.

“Not just yours. Mine too,” Yashiki hums, embarrassment made evident only by the blush on his cheeks, nosing around the ex-cop’s concealed erection.

Mashita looks away, closing his eyes as his fingers slip across the sleek glass behind his back, feeling weak and powerless to the Kujou's seduction.

With a smug little, “hm,” the spirit doctor smiles against his crotch, glad his partner has finally decided to cooperate, fingers gliding down his trousers to undo his zipper.

When the spirit hunter pulls him out of his pants, the detective gasps, bowing forward, biting his lip to keep quiet. One hand grips him around the base, the other around his trembling thigh, a hot tongue coming to lave against his aching tip.

Yashiki is too eager, and Mashita can’t hold back his stifled sobs, tears welling in his eyes because it feels too good. The ex-cop tugs at his partner's ebony locks of hair, shaking with want while his partner seems completely at ease, immune.

“Ah, damn, that mouth of yours, hate how good it is,” Mashita huffs, cynical, as he bangs his head against the cabinet for some clarity, “No wonder all these spirits want a piece of you.”

Yashiki responds by continuing his salacious torment, taking his sweet time, completely ironic with how much of a hurry he was in for Mashita to jerk him off earlier. The spirit doctor removes his hand, relocating it to Mashita’s other thigh, clinging to his pant legs, taking more of him into his mouth, licking him down, into his throat.

“You’re mine though, don't forget that,” the younger of the two grumbles, watching as his length disappears inside a thin pair of lithe lips, his partner sucking his cock like it’s the most demure act ever known to man.

He hasn’t necessarily been neglecting his own needs, he pleasures himself every now and then, but this scandalous teacher has him cumming in minutes regardless of his personal maintenance.

“Ahh, dammit,” he moans, head knocking against the cabinet doors again, “Yashiki.”

The occultist is drinking him down, hot tongue guiding his release along the underside of his length with a string of long, languid licks. Mashita swears he blacks out for a few seconds, Yashiki already standing while the detective is still recovering, never seeming to catch his breath or his balance.

Somehow, they’ve managed a 180, a complete reversal of their physical and mental conditions of when he first arrived, Mashita feeling ragged and sapped, while the other seems a spry buddah of calm.

As he watches Yashiki rearrange his clothes, dress them both back up properly, Mashita can’t shake the nagging thought that his partner might be a lethal incubus in disguise.

#my writing #death mark #death mark 2 #yashita #satoru mashita #kazuo yashiki #spirit hunter #spirit hunter death mark #shiin #yashiki #mashita #shibito magire

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