#about ; pantomime of the night

[harmonysanreads]

*kneels down*

HAAH WHA??? HELLO? SOMEONE PLEASE PINCH ME AM I DREAMING????????

for context

Okay okay... I'm done screaming irl, this is?? I'm lost for words how beautiful it is???? I just woke up so I'm having a hard time processing reality (I legitimately screamed and now my mom is looking at me with a lot of concern) I wish I could be more eloquent but I'm just floored from how moved I am. Wdym "kneels down" I'd have you sit on a throne if I could :< RIP that friend who doesn't even have a name, you died a tragic death but at least it gave us exquisite content ✨

[slicedoggy]

.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Unpunishable

Astarion x F! Tav

(Girl Talk part 4, can be read alone)

18+ love triangle dynamics, possessiveness, blood drinking, tav being a menace, dom/brat, angry sex, power play, fingering (f!), mild restraint, spanking, spitting, p-in-v, prostate orgasm, some silly fun at the end

After Karlach spent the night with Tav, Astarion is feeling very normal about it. So normal that he needs her in his tent all night. Just to feed, he swears...

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

-

"You can feed from me tonight, if you'd like."

Her words were sweet, alluring. He knew he should express gratefully, but he was tight. Breathing through his nose.

"I'll see you tonight, then." He intoned in his best pantomime of casual.

Pretending he didn't see her emerge from Karlach's tent this morning. That he didn't go back to his tent to scream into his pillow.

Oh gods, no, no. Why had he waited?

Well, he knew. Fate had aligned against him, like it always does. He had planned to tell her, he truly had. But then she had nearly drowned. By his own idiotic actions, to boot.

Some god truly had a vendetta against him, he just wasn't sure which.

He tried to reassure himself, watching her mill around camp, it didn't appear they were together. Yet, anyway. They exchanged sly glances but beyond that their chatter was relatively the same.

Maybe he still had a chance.

Oh who was he kidding, it's Karlach. He's done for.

No. No, he couldn't give up.

Tonight, he had her for tonight.

Watched as her long legs kicked out in front of her as she sat down, leaning conspiratorial to whisper something in Shadowheart's ear. Saw the cleric's cheeks go red.

Feeling his eyes she glanced up, smiling cat-like at him. Pulling her hair over her shoulder. Tipping her head back slightly, beckoning him.

Gods below, he was in over his head.

Her face smeared with a smile, arms coming up. Arcane power pulsing wicked through her. "Umbra!"

Their enemies were swallowed in darkness. A flash of red hair as she dove in. The sounds of thrashing death from the darkness.

He pulled his focus back to the light, firing down on those on the outskirts. Pointedly ignoring the sounds of her viciously tearing into bodies.

He had asked before why she could still see in her spell.

"Ironic, isn't it?" She had laughed, pointing to her demonic eyes. "The blind leading the blind, truly. Well, previously blind. It's the Devil's Sight." Leaning on her hip, flourishing with her fingers. "What can I say, I'm thorough. I intended to never be without sight again, and I meant it."

He knew it went deeper than that, if her reaction to Volo's "help" was any indication.

When he had pulled a needle from his pack she grabbed his wrist tightly. Her normally charismatic eyes tight with icy rage. Sitting up.

"You are not putting that in my eye." Her voice a hiss, grip tightening.

Volo had flinched, endless apologetic words flowing from his mouth.

She had reminded him of their other Drow, Minthara, in that moment. Could see the same cold controlled anger in her. He understood why they were close. Both Drow nobility. Both raised with the same frigid hand.

The more he got to know about her, the deeper the rabbit hole went.

Now, their enemies were felled and he let out a relieved sigh. They had gotten into a powerful rhythm of combat, all knowing their role and executing it well. But that didn't guarantee victory.

She emerged from the dark, absolutely soaked in blood. Shaking the excess off of her blade with a flick of her wrist. Her usually neatly pinned hair falling out of its plaits. Chest huffing with exertion.

Gods below spare him.

"Call off?" She shouted, eyes scanning.

Since she fought almost entirely in darkness, she usually didn't know how the others had fared. So they worked out a system.

"Aye!" Karlach called cheerfully.

"Aye!" Minthara growled, pulling her greataxe out of a body with a grunt.

"Aye!" He called, more breathily than he meant to.

She smiled at him. "Excellent. Good job, all. Though I had no doubts."

"Minthara, check for injuries. Karlach, take account of the dead, throw any scrolls to me. Astarion, help me with this locked chest."

He let out a great sigh, pretending to be put upon.

She leaned into his play, looking at him with great pleading eyes. "Astarion, pleaaase~"

He could never tell her how shockingly effective that was on him.

"Alright, you child. Step aside." She laughed, stepping away with a flourish of her hand.

He crouched down, taking out his tools with sure hands. Beginning his ministrations.

"You know," He jumped at her voice in his ear, her warm body crouched behind his. "You make this look so easy, surely it must be harder?"

He resisted the shiver that sat at the bottom of his spine. Her velvet voice directly in his ear.

Of course she was still drenched in blood. She knew what she was doing, the she-devil.

"I assure you, it's difficult for most." He huffed, focusing back on his work.

"Hmm, do you think I could do it if I practiced?" She murmured, he could hear the smile in her voice. "I've been known to have very nimble fingers."

He nearly dropped his tools. Memories of their first night assaulting his mind. Regained composure.

"I'm sure you'd make a fine locksmith, darling. Now if you don't mind." His voice was snippy, irritation thinly veiling his arousal.

Always teasing him. Gods he wanted to push her against a wall.

Shook his head slightly. No. Less of those thoughts. Focus.

"Oh, you're no fun today." She giggled, rising to feet. He immediately felt the absence of her body.

"Prickly, I'll have to watch that I don't nick myself." At the word nick, she waved her wrist past his face as she passed. Rejoining their companions with a look at him over her shoulder.

Oh he was going to take her apart tonight.

He paced in his tent. So many emotions crashing around inside him. Longing, fear, anger, desire. And the one that surprised him the most; possession. That had been at the forefront of his mind shockingly often.

He wanted her. Badly. And he wanted her to himself.

He had a great fondness in his heart for Karlach but if it came down to it, he wanted it to be him.

Rest assured, he wouldn't go down without a fight, and he didn't fight fairly.

The flap of his tent lifted slightly, her white eyes asking for entry.

"There you are." He purred as she stepped inside.

She tied down the fabric. The universal sign of do not disturb.

Oh?

His dead heart raced a little.

"Well, are we planning for more than a feeding tonight?" He stepped closer, smirking.

She pulled the pins in her hair, kicking off her boots. Shaking her head, her red hair fell and bounced down to the base of her spine. Her eyes cutting up to his.

Hells below it wasn't fair.

"If you play your cards right. Now help me with my armor."

He stepped forward and she turned her back to him. Pulling her hair away for him.. His quick fingers went to work on the buckle on her shoulder.

The smell of her well-oiled leather breastplate, the blood still caught in its creases. The oils in her hair, something sweet. Appleblossom.

"...Are you smelling me?"

He sputtered, heat rushing to his neck. "Certainly not. Gods."

He saw contained laughter in her shoulders as he lifted her breastplate off. She sighed in relief, stretching.

"I don't mind." She turned her head slightly, winking at him. "I'm sure your keen senses tell you a lot. Don't they?"

She stepped back into him, sliding her head into the side of his face.

He leaned in then, giving in completely. Eyes closing, breathing in like she was the most enthralling perfume. If he could bottle it, he would wear it on his wrist.

His hands came up to pull at her hair, nuzzling down into the curve of her neck. A small moan in his throat. Exquisite.

She kicked off the last of her armor, now in her damp underclothes, still sweaty from their fight earlier that day. Her musk coming to swirl into the heady bouquet.

"How do you want me?" She asked, sighing and leaning her head back.

That question send a quick shock of pleasure into his already hard cock.

"Down. Down with me." He pushed on the back of her knees with his own.

She kneeled down with him, straddling around her back. Pressing his erection hard into her lower back. Making his intentions clear.

This was the first time he had taken charge between them and it sent a delicious thrill up his spine.

He bit down into her with a groan. Pulling her into his throat in pulses. Her taste sending his eyes into the back of his head. He would never get used to it.

Her little sighing whimper stroking down his cock.

He latched on harder with a growl, his frustration brought to the surface again. How many times did he have to bite her to make it clear that she was his to the others?

His.

That she felt the need to seek out other bodies. Oh he would make her certain that she needn't do that tonight.

He pulled off with great effort, laving his tongue obscenely up her neck. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

"So I couldn't help but notice," He started, fingers trailing up her arm. "That you spent the night with our sweet Karlach."

"I did." She agreed, pushing her ass back into him cheekily. Subtly moving her hips up and down. "Do you have any feelings about that you'd like to share?"

He expected her to deny it, to get flustered. He should know better by now.

Gods below, he wished he could warn that idiot on the beach that he was about to walk into the vipers' den.

"Feelings?" He intoned, playing up for time.

"Mhm," She hummed, reaching up and playing with his ear. Her skilled hands pulling, the sensitive skin betraying him. He stifled a moan.

"Would you have liked to join?" She smiled, giving a little tug.

The band of frustration snapped inside him. Catching her wrist into his hand.

She gasped and he could smell a new wave of arousal rising from her.

"No. I did not." He growled.

"As a matter of fact," He hissed, pulling her hair in his fist. Her neck bending open to him. "I was not pleased to see that at all."

She moaned, arching her back. "No?" Her voice coming out hot. "Not into sharing?"

He reached around her front. Pulling her chest wrappings off in a harsh flick of his wrist. Falling away into her lap.

"Not even a little, darling." He warned, directly into her ear.

Fingers twisting her peak. "I intend to make you mine."

She shivered, much to his delight.

"Prove it." She hissed, turning her head just enough to look in his eyes. That devilish smile on the edge of her lips.

He shoved the space between her shoulder blades, pushing her face down into his pillow. Hiking her hips up.

She groaned, then laughed. Laughed.

He growled, pulling her underclothes down roughly. His hand snapping hard down on her ass.

She mewled, burying her face in his pillow.

Oh now we're getting somewhere.

He struck the reddening skin again, the crack of his hand hanging in the air. Seeing the wetness start to drip down her cunt.

"You evil little thing." He chided. "Are you going to be good?"

She hooked her legs around his knees, pulling him off balance for fun.

"Hmm, I'll consider it." She mused.

He reached around her front, fingers circling against her clit, other hand pushing two fingers inside her. Fast and angry. She moaned, pushing her hips into him.

"You'll consider it..." He repeated, goading in his voice.

He thought about how she had him in the same position not long ago. Felt a thrill of fresh arousal fire down his cock.

He blurred his hands against her clit, curling his fingers and slamming inside her.

She arched her back up like a cat, her hands held out to balance her curling. Little choppy breaths.

"Astarion," She moaned, nearly whimpering.

Oh that was doing it for him. Pre-cum pooling in his leathers.

"Say my name again, or I stop."

She hit her fist against the ground in frustration, not wanting to give in. He smiled wide. Oh, he could get her to play his game by the rules.

His hands started to slow in warning.

"Astarion!" She whined, incredulous. That same tone when she asked for help earlier.

He started back up again dutifully. Her shooting daggers at him. Giving her a smug preening smile.

She was rocking back into him, sweet little urgent moans pushing out of her. He loved to hear her sing for him. Him and only him.

"Tell me you'll only make these sounds for me." He leaned forward into her ear.

"Is that what you want?" She panted, hand coming up to cup his head.

"Yes." He bit at her ear. Hands punishing.

"Swear it."

She panted, nearly there. The smell of her blood burning with heat.

"I swear. Now fuck me like you hate me."

He groaned, his cock throbbing against her backside. Suddenly remembering that she had never taken a man before. His arousal doubling.

He released his cock from its painful cage. Lining up to her with as much restraint as he could muster.

Planted a hand on her lower back. His cock steadying at her entrance.

"Hold on, darling."

She slammed back, sheathing herself on him to the hilt. He groaned, nearly buckling over.

Gods below, she was going to kill him.

"All out of venom?" She teased.

"Do I need to gag you?" He held her hips harshly, restraining her. Rolling into her at a punishingly slow pace.

"You can try." She moaned, gripping his length. Clenching down around him in pulses. The languid pace making her shake.

He gripped down on her hair again, fisting it at her scalp. Pulling her head back.

Saw her smile, eyes closing in pleasure. Hips meeting his in rhythm. Finally giving in to him.

But he wasn't done with her.

He leaned over her back. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes, those haunting white eyes. Filled with desire for him, pupils blown wide.

"Open your mouth."

She looked surprised but obliged dutifully. Those perfect plush lips falling open.

He spat into her mouth.

He saw her eyes hitch back, clenching down hard around him. Knew her orgasm was close behind.

He said her name sharply as he slammed into her, pulling her hair again. "You look at me while I fuck you through this."

She nodded, swallowing his spit. Face flushed.

Gods now he could barely keep his eyes open.

Her face cringed in what looked like pain. Eyebrows knitting together. Keeping her eyes open with what looked like great effort.

"Oh Gods," She whined, as the first contractions hit.

He focused on keeping pace but it was a futile effort. Her cunt taking him at the rapid pace of her undoing.

He felt his own face screw up in pleasure. Her eyes still locked on his.

Whimpering and begging moans pushing through her. Body shaking against him deeply.

"Please come, Astarion." She urged, her voice so sweet.

He could hold off no longer. Hearing his name said like that again the match striking to the powder keg.

His pelvis contracting in vicious pulses. His body remembering her pleasures had activated his prostate without touch. Those same hard tremors shooting through him. He spilled inside her in unbearable pulses. He bit down on his arm to not scream. Coming so hard he saw stars, and then coming more after that. Unable to maintain eye contact anymore, his rolling back into his head.

"Oh Gods. Fuck." He groaned into the muffle of his bloody arm. The pleasure finally winding down.

She squeezed his thigh reassuringly as she panted, head fallen into the pillow.

He pulled out of her slowly. Groaning at the obscene amount of his spend pouring down her backside.

Gods he didn't know he had that much.

He grabbed a cloth and wiped it away from her. Though he would love to stare at it for hours.

"Oh thank you," She purred tiredly, smiling at him. "What a gentleman."

She sat back on wobbly legs, reaching for her clothes.

He grabbed her wrist.

"What are you doing, darling?"

"Getting dressed." She said simply. Looking at him confused. "Don't worry you'll be free of me soon." She said easily.

Gods below how did she still think he didn't want her.

He pulled her into a searing kiss.

She squeaked in surprise.

"I Don't."

Bite.

"Want you."

Bite.

"To leave."

She moaned quietly into his mouth, wrapping her legs around his back.

"You're sure?" She asked, eyes soft. Melting him through.

"For the love of... yes!" He admonished, to her little smile. Biting her lip.

Blushing.

He never thought he would see the day.

"So you want to be my boooyfriend~"

"Oh Gods, I'm regretting this already."

"You liiiiike me~"

"Yes, you demon." He grabbed at her waist, biting at her playfully.

She squealed out a laugh. Trying to get away. "No biting! No biting!"

"A little late for that, don't you think?" He laughed. Digging his fingers into her sides to reignited laughter. Wiggling to get away.

"No! I'm ticklish!"

"Oh, you've made a grave mistake, admitting that." He leaned down and nipped at her sides.

He smiled evilly at her hands shoving his head, her mouth open wide in a gasping laugh.

He could get used to this.

~

(okay I think this is the last one of these, I hadn't planned to make this a series but the gods of smut took my hand. thank ya'll for all the feedback on this series!!!)

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 57

Part 1 Part 56

The dark, it turns out, is better than sunset. Sunset turns the sky pinks and purples and reds. Will can’t be sure where he is. At least in the dark, all he has to worry about is a Demogorgon taking him.

Still, every shadow is a threat that Will’s running from soon enough. And once he starts running, there’s no way to stop. Will’s panting and breathless in the 2 a.m. darkness by the time he’s crawling through Eddie and Steve’s bedroom window.

It sticks briefly when he opens it, making an ungodly screch but then he’s up and through, and falling on and then over Eddie’s dresser with a loud clatter.

“What the fuck, Byers?” Eddie says, bolting out of bed to click his lamp on.

Will looks around the carnage that surrounds him – Eddie’s knick-knacks and books all over the floor and looks up at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“You should be!” Eddie replies, arms pantomiming a punch in Will’s direction. “I could’ve killed you!”

Steve, still laying down on the far side of their bed, snorts. “Like you’ve ever fought anyone in your life.” His voice crackles with interrupted sleep. He doesn't roll over, just keeps his face smushed into his pillow.

Eddie squawks. “You got something to say, Harrington?” he demands, finally standing up and putting his hands on his hips to loom over Steve where he’s still lying prone in the bed. Not that Steve notices, seeing as his eyes are still closed.

“Weak ass bitch.”

As Eddie gasps in affront, Will feels the sickly panic he’d felt upon waking slowly start to fizzle out.

Eddie kneels down beside Will to pick up his belongings, grumbling about his strengths, and how Will’s lucky he could feel him coming, and thank fuck Wayne’s not home. He doesn’t mention the spilled objects, doesn’t try to kick Will out. Will helps him pick up his belongings and hopes he can stay.

“What’re you doing here, baby Byers?” Eddie asks, flopping back onto the bed.

Will follows, burrowing into Steve’s side until he groans and slides over just enough that Will can fit. He turns his head on the pillow, opening one bleary eye to squint at Will.

“Can I stay here?” he asks, not looking away from Steve, living and breathing beside him.

Steve blinks a few times rapidly, clearly trying to wake up, before shifting his gaze past Will to look at Eddie. “Does your Mom know you’re here?” he asks.

Will turns onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He bites his lip, doesn’t respond at all. Not that they seem to need it with the way he can feel them having a silent conversation above his head.

“She’s gonna freak out,” Eddie says gently.

Will slumps further into Eddie’s sheets. He can already feel the nip of the cold night’s air when they kick him out. Only, he doesn’t want to go. “She doesn’t get up until six.” He says it like a prayer. If he leaves this bed right now, Will thinks he might just explode.

Eddie blows out a breath. Will can’t tell without looking if he’s exasperated, or resigned, or just done entirely. He doesn’t look. Not until he feels Eddie slump into the bed next to him, bracketing Will between his and Steve’s warm, protective bodies. “What happened?”

He turns his head, not toward Eddie but to look at Steve, who’s looking back, breathing and alive. “I had a nightmare,” he says. The word doesn’t seem loaded enough for the way his breathing had ticked wrong through his lungs.

Steve turns his head, finally uncovering both eyes. There’s pillow marks on his cheek. He looks sleep-rumpled and soft. “About me?” he asks.

Eddie sucks in a quiet breath behind Will. Neither of them look his way. Will nods, chokes out, “you were back there,” through his dangerously clogged throat.

Steve’s eyes soften further, and he smiles sadly. “It’s alright, Will,” Steve says, ruffling his hair the way he always does. “They got me out, remember?”

Will nods. He doesn’t correct Steve; doesn’t mention that he woke up thinking of Steve’s quiet voice – it’s like, sometimes I blink, and it’s like I’m there – or how when he woke up, he was sure Steve’d been taken again, until he crawled in through the window and spotted two snoring lumps.

“Yeah, they got you out,” Will says, trying to convince himself that out means back.

They hold eye contact for a while, until Steve's eyes begin to droop. None of them have been sleeping well lately. Guilt curdles in Will’s stomach that he’d interrupted both of their sleep. But, he might’ve died if he’d stayed at home; just shriveled up like a raisin in his own worry.

“How about you stay for a little bit, and we drive you back before your Mom wakes up?” Eddie asks.

Will finally turns away from Steve. Eddie looks sad, and worn, and worried. Still, Will takes what’s on offer with both, greedy hands. “You won’t tell her?” he asks.

Eddie shakes his head, glaring over Will’s head when Steve makes a protesting noise. Steve sighs. “Fine, fine, we won’t tell her,” Steve mumbles. “She’d flip out anyway.”

Will settles into the warmth, lets it soak through his bones, and closes his eyes. He tries to fall back asleep, but the darkness behind his eyelids is where the monster’s live. He opens his eyes.

“What are you guys doing for Halloween?” he asks. The guilt surges again when Steve snuffles like he’d almost been asleep, but Eddie answers readily.

“Fuck all, I imagine.”

“Language,” Steve murmurs around his pillow, cutting the G and making it sound more like lan-wah. Will snorts.

“What about you?” Eddie asks, ignoring Steve entirely.

Almost vibrating with excitement, Will replies, “we’re going as the ghostbusters!”

“Haven’t seen that one,” Steve mumbles, making Will gasp, outraged, even as Eddie chimes in, “me neither.”

“You’re both dead to me,” he says on instinct. Then the memories of all the times he thought Steve really was dead trickle through his mind, and his intestines prickle. But then Steve and Eddie laugh quietly – alive alive alive. “Anyway, we’re going to dress up for school and I get to be Egon!”

“Gesundheit,” Eddie replies.

“Wait, you’re wearing them to school?” Steve asks, sitting up like this news is enough to invigorate him. “Bad idea, Byers.”

Will glares at him, brow furrowed. “Uh, why?” he asks, in that same tone that gets Jonathan to call him a brat.

Steve just rolls his eyes, and ruffles his hair again, this time much more violently. “No one dresses up in eighth grade, dummy. You’re gonna get like, beat up.”

Eddie reaches over Will to smack Steve on the head. “That’s terrible advice!” he says, shoving Steve back into the pillows and looming over Will with intense eyes. “You gotta embrace the whimsy of childhood while you still can, baby Byers.”

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, if he wants to get picked on.”

“That’s going to happen anyway,” Will says without thinking. When both boys’ eyes narrow, he continues hurriedly, “so I might as well have some fun with my friends!”

Steve grumbles his unintelligible complaints while he settles back into his pillow. Eddie wraps his arm around Will and shakes him around. “That’s my boy!” He says it like a proud parent. Will preens, ignoring the way his cheeks are warming at the praise.

Eddie yanks him down so they’re all three horizontal, cramped together in his small bed. “Now, sleep!” he demands.

Will dutifully closes his eyes, but even as the breathing of his two companions evens out, Will doesn’t fall asleep. He doesn’t mind, just revels in the warmth of being where he truly belongs.

Part 58

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect

[wri0thesley]

ruin - mahito x reader (2.8k)

mahito has a little present for you.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. reader is afab and mentions past wearing of a dress, no other gendered terms are used. unhealthy relationship (as is so constant with mahito), dub-con. blood, manipulation of mahito's body parts, biting, fingering. threat of future death (mahito is his own warning, let's be real!).

The strap dangles off of Mahito’s finger, the ruffles and lace and chiffon of the delicate concoction that the curse is holding blowing slightly in the breeze that runs through the sewers at night. His grin is wide enough to make anticipation that might be fear prickle over the back of your neck, and you take a deep breath and swallow as you stare at him and the garment. 

“Well?” He asks you, his smile not leaving his mouth, the two colours of his eyes glimmering brightly in the night. “Aren’t you going to say ‘thank you’?”

“I didn’t know if it was for you,” you say to him, truthfully - though you’ve never seen Mahito in anything but his trademark soft trousers and shirt, he’s often tugged at your own laces and your own buttons, been fascinated by the way that garments are constructed, giggled once as he’d slipped his hand beneath the hem of a dress you were wearing to investigate the layers of tulle and organza beneath that gave the skirt shape. He’d followed you through the city once and lingered at the window of a maid cafe, wondering aloud to anyone who could hear (that, again, had just been you) what it would feel like to be one of those maids.

Beholden to the customers who walked in, calling them ‘Master’ and bowing subserviently and pulling cute little poses when asked, drawing hearts in dessert sauce atop of ice cream sundaes--

(Mahito doesn’t need to eat, but he’d snuck a few bites of an ice cream you’d attempted to buy for just yourself, back when you were pretending that he wasn’t following you and you were a totally normal person. Since then, he’s barely shut up about it - a child trying his new favourite food, pouting and whining when you try and say no to his demands. It’s easier to give him. You think it’s going to be easier to give in here, too).

His face falls into a pantomime of disappointment, his mouth pulling almost too wide at the downturned corners.

“You don’t like it?” He asks, with the air of an injured bunny rabbit. “I picked it out especially! The store had all sorts of these fancy underwears, but I looked at them all very very carefully and thought about what would look best on you and checked the size tags in the underwear you’ve left here--”

That’s the underwear that he’s ripped off of you, then. The underwear that’s a lost cause; the ones that you haven’t worn back to your shitty little apartment because they are quite literally unwearable. Mahito acts like you left them here, in his sewer, the way an ordinary couple leave the detritus of their lives in one another’s bedrooms and bathrooms and kitchens. 

“It’s really nice of you,” you try and say, swallowing dryly, your eyes flitting nervously between the lingerie and the curse. “It’s just . . .”

He steps forward, his pace deliberate and lazy. You walk a tightrope with Mahito; he tells you you’re his favourite and grins at you and pokes your cheeks and you feel special, yes. You choose to come back to this sewer time and time again, to let yourself be drawn into his cool embrace and to kiss him back when he kisses you and to breathe in the scent of sweet rot and fresh grass that follows him wherever he goes. But sometimes . . .

Sometimes you catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, when you say something he doesn’t like. A narrowing of his eyes, a twist of his lip. Sometimes he speaks to you in a voice that drips with honey, but seems to hide the edge of a blade in its sharp consonants. Sometimes he laughs when you say something you mean, the tone high and cruel, and you wonder if he’s thinking about placing his hands upon you and shaping you into a thing that can no longer speak or reply or act on its own behalf. 

This moment is one of those tightrope moments, you think. Mahito tilts his head to the side and repeats, voice still deceptively slow and soft like wading through molasses. 

“You don’t like it, cutie?”

“Of course I do,” tumbles out of your mouth, and Mahito must notice the edge of panic because his eyes crinkle at the corners and he lets out a soft little huff of laughter. He takes another step, and then he’s in front of you - you can hear the water of the sewer lapping against concrete, your own heart beating too fast in your chest. You’re suddenly aware of everything - your breath in the air, the clothes you’re wearing and the places they stick to your body, the bead of cold sweat trickling down the nape of your neck. “It’s lovely.”

“Good,” Mahito says, looking inordinately pleased with himself - one hand reaches out for you, grabbing your chin, and before you can react you’ve been pulled into a kiss. Mahito’s mouth against yours is cool; his teeth nip at your lips without much care, his tongue teasing the seam of your own. His scent swirls around you, his nails digging into the soft underflesh of your jaw--

You feel your body respond to Mahito’s man-handling, to the knowledge of who it is who’s currently kissing you - the twist of arousal like a bullet in your gut, the heat that fills your cheeks. 

He breaks the kiss with a wet pop, a satisfied look in his eyes. Limned by the shine of the moon and stars and city street lights that make it here to his little sewer sanctuary, he’s beautiful. You know you’ll do whatever he asks of you. 

“Because I can’t wait to see you in it,” he says, with a grin. He offers you the lingerie again, and you have no choice but to reach out with a trembling hand to take it. 

It’s clearly expensive. Mahito doesn’t pay for anything, of course - it would be hard for someone who cannot be seen by most to make a purchase at a cashier - but you can’t help the thrill of feeling special that goes through you as you handle it. It’s a little white lace number, frilled at the straps, flounced at the waist into a short cascade of ruffles that will sit high on the thigh. The fabric is sheer and delicate, wispy enough that it feels as though it might rip merely from being looked at. 

(It won’t survive a night with Mahito, but as you stare down at it, you try not to think about that). 

Crystals sparkle, sewn carefully onto cups and edges. The tiny ribbon tag proclaims that Mahito was right; he did painstakingly pick out your size. 

He stares at you with barely contained anticipation, tapping one of his feet.

“Well?” He asks, eagerly. “Aren’t you going to put it on? I wanna rip it off as soon as I can, heh. . .” 

“In front of you?” Your brow creases. 

“Well, it’s not like I haven’t seen you before!” His tone is teasing, but there’s that look in his eye again; you’ll have to tread carefully, to diffuse this one. Sometimes he likes it when you play the over-innocent - finds it amusing, he says, how cute you can be sometimes. How purposely obtuse, how unobservant . . . You deliberately fiddle with the pretty piece of lingerie, press your mouth forward into a pout and will heat to come into your cheeks. 

“I just . . . thought you’d like it more if it were a surprise. . .” You say, and the danger in Mahito’s gaze passes again in favour of another wide smile. He laughs, a joyous head-thrown-back kind of noise.

“Ah!” He says. “You’re right, cutie. A surprise!” He pivots on his heel and deliberately claps his palms over his eyes, enjoying himself. “I’ll count to twenty!” He calls backwards to you - you can hear the smile in his voice, the giddy excitement at your suggestion. A little tension drains from your shoulders. “When I get there, I’m going to turn around and see you in it and have my wicked way with you! One!”

When he starts counting, you realise how little time you actually have to shed your current clothes and get into what he’s given you - and you don’t particularly want to know how sulky he’ll be if he turns around to discover that you haven’t gotten his gift on in time. By the time he’s reached seven, you’re shivering and naked in the sewer (not the first time, you think ruefully), your clothes in a pile before you. You carefully tug the new lingerie on, your fingers fumbling with clasps. By the count of fifteen, it’s at least on you and fastened, though it’s not quite laying correctly and you’re pulling ruffles out from where they’ve gotten caught up with one another.

By the count of nineteen, breathless and sweaty, you’re just about presentable. 

There’s no time for you to worry about how exactly the white might accentuate flaws and insecurities when Mahito is happily calling out ‘twenty!’ and whirling around with a grin on his face that seems to glow with a frightening otherworldly light. There’s one brief flash of fear the moment he claps his hands together and his eyes drink you in for the first time--

(If you’re not good enough, or found wanting, what might he do to you? Will the kisses and the proclamations of how much he likes you and adores you and how good you taste, how good you feel, how soft and warm and human and desirable you are mean nothing to him? The nights you’ve spent panting into one another’s mouths, the stuttering groan out of his throat the first time you touched his carefully manufactured cock, all come to naught?) 

But then he’s grinning. 

“Why,” he says, with a smile like the big bad wolf. “I did a great job, huh? Cutie, you look good enough to eat--!”

And then, like the big bad wolf all over again,in one graceful movement he’s pounced like an animal and he’s upon you. 

He’s a clash of teeth and tongue, interspersed with breathless laughter and long fingers pulling at delicate fabrics. He pants into your mouth, simply enjoying himself - his hands roaming all over the curves and the lines of your body, taking great handfuls and palmfuls and squeezing them deliberately hard until you squeak into his kiss and he laughs breathlessly again. 

His teeth nip at your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and you taste the coppery droplet at the same time as you hear one the delicate lace straps rip and your shoulder is left bare.

“Oops,” says Mahito, pulling back, but by his grin and the twinkle in his eyes you have no doubt that he meant to do it - and no doubt, too, that he does not feel a shred of shame for doing so despite the craftsmanship that must have gone into this garment. “Oh well . . . now it’s broken, I won’t worry about ripping the rest of it off!”

He dives back into devouring you. His lips brush your jawline, down the line of your throat, teeth grazing and nipping at the vulnerable flesh there. Your core and your heart pound as one until you can’t tell what’s fear and what’s arousal. There’s no matching underwear for this little negligee number and you hadn’t risked Mahito’s ire by keeping your own on, so your sex is bare - and you feel a trickle of your own slick on your inner thighs, smearing damp. Your breath catches as Mahito gives you a particularly hard bite with teeth you don’t remember being quite so sharp last time he had bitten you. 

He laughs again. 

“You’re adorable when you’re scared,” Mahito murmurs, through a mouthful of kisses. “I can feel your heart beating, taste it in the air . . . ooh, cutie, it makes me just want to ruin you.”

Your body can no longer tell fear from arousal, though. It’s been so long, and being with Mahito is the same as having a guillotine above your head whilst there’s someone knelt between your thighs using their mouth upon you - the fear simply adds to your desire, now. You whine as he snaps the other strap and giggles as the fabric falls from your body.

It’s barely been on you for five minutes, but it’s no surprise that it will end up sodden and stained and ruined in Mahito’s sewer. It’s just like you, in that way; something bright and mortal and ordinary made into something else by Mahito’s hand.

At least it has been made into something else without the aid of his cursed technique, you suppose - and then Mahito’s hand slips between your legs and his rough calloused fingers find the seam of your sex to slip between and your mind goes blank of anything but how those digits feel, thumb and forefinger roughly finding your clit and pinching it in a way that makes you whine. 

You barely notice that he’s shoving you, bullying you towards a wall until your bare back meets the unpleasantly damp concrete and brick of the sewer - all you can concentrate on is the rhythm of him and his fingers, the feel of him smiling against your bare skin. You whimper again when he pinches once more, harder this time, and he pants against your neck;

“Make that noise for me again, okay? It’s so cute--!”

One of his other fingers finds your entrance. He circles it, still giggling against your bare skin as you pant and whimper and whine pitifully into the humid air.

“Those noises!” Mahito laughs, nosing against the spot just below your ear. His teeth tug at your earlobe. “Do you even know how pathetic you sound, cutie? You’re lucky I think it’s adorable!” His finger slides into you, and you squirm as you feel the slender digit swell within you so that it pushes against your walls. Mahito is always doing this; manipulating his body when you least expect it. His cock inside of you almost so big you feel split apart, his tongue longer and longer so he can fuck you on it--

Another feeble noise escapes out of you as you feel the swelling continue, as Mahito tilts his finger just so in order to reach all of the most delicate parts of you. You wonder if he’ll stop before you fall apart. He’s still pinching your clit, still touching you, still breathing on you and panting and letting you ruin yourself for him. He twists your clit gently, just a bit too roughly to be pleasurable--

But your body has grown to known the cadence and the rhythm of Mahito’s attentions, and despite the flash of pain that emanates from between your thighs it twists inside of you into a confused kind of pleasure and you come for him, pathetically whining again, a gush of your own slick releasing despite the swollen finger-almost-cock inside of you as your body prickles all over with the confused and painful shocks of your orgasm. 

“See?” He coos. “Pathetic little thing! You even like being pushed around! You like it when I hurt you, cutie! You like knowing that the thing making you come is inhuman--”

“No,” you reply, weakly,  but Mahito doesn’t seem to care about your response to him - and neither does your body. As he maneuvers himself around and slots himself between your legs, your thighs part for him and his laugh is like the crowing of a bird as he reaches into his trousers and fishes out his cock, already straining and flushed at the tip and leaking precome. 

His finger, an ordinary size again, slips from inside of you. You think dimly about running away - but then you look at Mahito again, so handsome, so lovely, his eyes wide and bright and excited . . . You think about how long you’ve lasted so far. You think about how he looks when he’s come, his body curled about you and his mouth curled into a smile with his eyes closed like a satisfied cat. You think about the expensive present carefully chosen for you.

“Mahito,” you whisper, into the air, your voice soft and creaky and sore from the whimpering. “I love you.”

Mahito slaps the head of his cock - he’s gone for one of his favourite shapes and sizes today, slightly too thick for you to be comfortable so your whimpers of pleasure are rasped with pain, an upward curve that hits your g-spot and just far enough beyond that it hurts - against your wet sex. 

“Oh,” he says, a smile bright on his face as he slides the head inside of you and your fingers find his broad shoulders to cling onto. “I know you do, cutie. And I think that’s just about enough to keep you alive. Don’t you?”

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Jax and Zooble (seperate) x reader whos mute? Their appearance is based off a mime and pantomime logic often happens to them (like being trapped by invisble walls, being able to use invisible tools, etc). Maybe the reader gets into danger and speaks for the first time, calling to them for help?

You didn't specify if this is meant to be romantic or plutonic so I wrote it as plutonic, hope that's okay!

Zooble x mime Reader

★ Zooble is just relieved to finally meet someone who won't try to talk to them when they want to be left alone. You are very easy to ignore which wins you some friendship points.

★ You have so much power as a mime, a downside being that you can't speak. Actually, you probably don't even have a mouth. Why would you need one? If you were mute before getting stuck in the circus it would be fitting for you not to have a mouth.

★ Oh god, the invisible walls, they are the bane of your existence. It's amusing to everyone else but infuriating for you. Imagine being stuck in a mirror maze but you can't see the mirrors.

★ On the bright side you can chase Jax around the tent with an invisible chainsaw! So I guess you win some and lose some.

★ While Zooble appreciates the quiet that comes with being around you, they would rather not play a game of charades when you need to tell them something. The solution? Just write it on paper, obviously.

★ Still, you mostly talk with your hands and facial expressions. After a while Zooble might actually learn what you mean! A conversation like that goes like this:

Y/n: 👋

Zooble: "Um, where did Gangle go?"

Y/n: 👈👌🫡👍😓

Zooble: "The hell is she doing under the lake?!?"

Y/n: 🫵😠🤌🫤☹️👏

Zooble: "Oh for @&$#'s sake.."

Y/n: 😮‍💨🙌

Ragatha (in the corner): "How did you understand any of that?"

★ The first and only time Zooble heard you speak was a shock. At first they thought it was a weird, cruel joke by Jax. But no, it was undeniably you. And you where in trouble no less. The shock quickly fades.

★ Zooble isn't exactly a night in shining armor but they are capable of helping you. After helping you get out of whatever trouble you were in they try to forget about it. Zooble is a firm believer in not asking too many questions.

★ Random thought but do you think Zooble is aroace? I feel like they might be but I'm probably wrong.

[arcticlutra]

Janet Lynn Drake struggled through labour with all the dignity that good breeding, and incredibly distilled and refined spite, could muster.

She had endured a Catholic wedding for her husband, Jack Fuckboy Drake. And she had endured making pleasantries with Jack Mediocre Drake's College Boys. She'd even managed to stomach the fact that Jack New-Money-Zero-Class Drake had thought profiteroles were a suitable dessert options.

New money and all the options it entailed, and they always forgot class.

But Janet had been born with a Crowne, so she endured it all with the dignity and decorum expected of her.

And then she had seen an opportunity and had taken it. Taken a not-as-drunk-as-he-pretended Bruce Wayne, slipped him an extra glass of champagne for a toast. Cajoled him into a sip or several and waited for Isley's cocktail to do its work. After all, if that brute Falcone could be mostly successful with such a gambit, then so could she. And besides, her aims were nowhere near as obvious.

Nine months later, and a few choreographed nights with Jack, and here she was. July the Nineteenth, and she had been graced with her little Prince, a black haired boy with her ice blue eyes.

Her Little Owl.

"What a good looking son, Jannie!" Her insipid cover crowed. "We should call him Jackson! He looks so much like me."

Insipid. Garish. And seemingly blind. His fortune was at least something of a comfort.

"Jack, darling, that would be crass. Jackson as his middle name perhaps?" Janet told him, at least as a middle name it would help the pantomime for a while at least.

"You're totally right Jannie." Jack readily agreed.

Janet smiled and imagined pulling the pathetic man's tongue out through his severed throat. Maybe a belated Christmas present to herself.

"How about Timothy for a first name?" Janet asked.

"Timothy?" Her second choice asked.

"It comes from Greek: Τιμοθεοσ. It means 'honoured by God'". Janet informed him, "And he is surely blessed by the Gods in many ways."

"Timothy... I like it, Jannie."

Good, not that it mattered what Jack Outlived-his-usefulness Drake thought.

Timothy Drake, her Little Owl.

Janet Drake would never see her Little Owl crowned. But she had left him a Court, and her son would one day sit on its throne, having been crowned by his own beloved.

[loving-family-poll]

Ultimate Incest Tournament - Round 4

Propaganda under the cut:

Gerard/Mikey:

Vocalist and bassist respectively of my chemical romance. they are insanely codependent (describing themselves as the same person just different heights etc). gerard has also licked mikeys nipple onstage. good times

Gerard is decidedly super abnormal about mikey. he has written many songs about him that are always adjacent to straight up love songs. he has also been explicitly sexual with him (giving him a pantomime handjob, caressing his chest, saying he looks like a hooker etc etc) while also constantly babying him. theyre codependent and they finish each others sentences and theyre in ickydisgusting brotherlove❤️❤️❤️❤️

Grew up together as the outsiders in their New Jersey town and spent their teenhoods together in a musty basement. Mikey learned to walk by running after Gerard and face-planting. Gerard drew comics for Mikey and told him stories. They went to a Smashing Pumpkins concert together and decided that being in a band is what they wanted out of life. Mikey learned the bass because Gerard was in bands and he wanted to join. Gerard called up Mikey after witnessing 9/11 and told him they're gonna start a band. Everything they do is together, they love each other. And isn't it so much fun to turn that incest?

Mikey Way wrote a comic where the main character, who looks like him from the black parade era, gets a woman pregnant. Which isn't incestuous on its own, but she looks like the female version of Gerard Way from the black parade era. Love is love or something

Dave/Rose:

Daverose blondetwin sweep because they were codependent without ever meeting from growing up seeing each other in their dreams

What does it mean to be an abused teenage boy growing up alone and seeing a girl in your dreams every night who is also your best friend. and when you finally meet her you go on a suicide mission together even though nobody was asking you to die with her. and then you are the only two human beings left in the recognizable universe on a cold meteor surrounded by aliens but you’re glad it’s with her. and when you finally touch the girl from your childhood dreams she looks exactly like you. because she’s your sister

I don't have words for how good these snarky assholes are together. DaveRose is brain chemistry changing. They both put up so many fronts, and engage in so much snarky wordplay, and are constantly trying to get under each other's facade. They play off each other so well, witty and sharp, I need them to be together always

We all die & we all die alone are the two cold truths of the universe but dave and rose broke both simultaneously by ascending to godhood together

Their twincest wins because it is just so confusingly tragic? profound? dave leaving rose behind in a doomed world, dave following her to the bomb. they are both so closed & cut off & curt its hard to imagine the depth of these things. but that is their love language: giving up their lives for each other over and over, in a confusing and fumbling and heartfelt love song. i can’t say i love you but i know we’ll die together anyway. because we’re made of the exact same stuff. i’ll find you again at the last moment. that’s love.

THEY DIED TOGETHER, YOUR HONOR

Confirmed canon by the author, (something happened) between them. Parallels of dying by each other's sides in EVERY timeline. They are THE womb-to-tomb. There is nothing platonic about winking at your brother while talking about crushes, that shit is incestuous. Seer/Knight archetype. They will die protecting each other.

do you realize love someone if you don’t follow them on a suicide mission into the gaping maw of a literal fucking sun after they knock you out and psychoanalyze you in your dreams? the blueprint of the “ethereal androgynous blonde boygirl twins” trope. witch/knight dynamics. they find each other to die together in every timeline no matter what (but they’re still emotionally constipated teenagers who bicker and make fun of each other in pesterchum). kids with grown-up powers. perfect little freaks of nature. what if we looked exactly like each other’s eyes

[powderblueblood]

YES, NURSE RATCHED - a hellfire & ice retelling of chapter eight's most pivotal moment, from eddie's pov

a special treat for my love @deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth eddie munson x f!reader, reader is nicknamed lacy, reader's last name is also mentioned, this is lore-filled and handsy so if that's not your thing keep it truckin, minors dni i do not like you go away warning for strong language, smut inthe form of public fingeringgggg, drug usage, extremely bad parenting (al munson klaxon), evoking the feeling of a comedown, billy hargrove gets his shit rocked, excuse all typos it's redacted o'clock and i'm a little buzzed word count: 2.6k

The first thing you should know about the following occurrences is that they are preluded by a whole lot of next thing Eddie knows. Things snapping his attention to the left, to the right, knocking him over the head, rearing up on him with little to no warning.

Number one? His dad showing up at Reefer Rick’s, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived and frantic, putting on a pantomime of being so psyched to see his boy! Rick snapping to attention and falling into his role of affable associate of Munson Senior immediately, despite the apology he’d tried to press against Eddie right when Al crunched the gravel of his driveway. What followed was a bender that Eddie couldn’t help but give into. Al has that effect on people, even him, even Eddie in his angry, angsty resoluteness that he should know better. 

You try knowing better when you're all bewitched, bothered and bewildered and shit.

Cue cut lines and records blaring until daylight broke over Lover's Lake– then Eddie, rising at noon but barely landed from his previous (ill-advised and bad-parentally-supervised) high, got it in his head that he ought to show up for school. At least for a little bit. 

Because they’d tossed your last name around a little last night, Al and Rick. Doevski this, Doevski that, in weird, vague terms that Eddie didn’t all the way understand. And the more weed he smoked and the more Jim Beam that got passed around, the less he remembered.

Which, dumb, right?

You’d tell him that was dumb.

You’d tell him he should have stayed sharp, listened up, gathered information.

He passed out on Rick’s sagging couch, mind searing with nothing but thoughts of you nagging him for intel.

Eddie woke up cotton-mouthed with your name on his lips. 

He needed to see you.

To catch one of your avoidant, barely-there glances as you flit through the hallway or maybe even spy you smoking a cigarette on the outdoor bleachers, reading in silence with Ronnie or Wheeler.

He’d think of what to say to you in the moment; probably spurned on by the sneer you’d give him– which he’d totally have earned, for having the nerve to ignore you for so long. 

Forgive me, he'd say, hands held aloft in Christlike composure, I just couldn't look you in the eye knowing you were getting willingly boinked by some Ivy League sweater monkey.

And then you'd have to admit your little bullshit college boyfriend wasn't Ivy League, and he'd prod you with that for a while, and things would eventually ebb back to whatever shade of normal you two were pretending to be. So? Okay!

But.

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s peeling into the parking lot and the first thing that he sees, bada bing, is you. All however many feet of you, steel true and planted on the hood of Billy Hargrove’s fucking Camaro, wielding a baseball bat like a sword.  

Eddie’s heart stops for the full entirety of a what fresh hell is this filter-focused second before he skids the van to a halt and launches himself from it. 

He advances this helluva scene just in time to hear you holler out, right in front of God and everyone,

“One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!” 

Eddie’s tread stutters and he wonders if this is what people mean when they use the expression taken out at the knees. Can he get a fucking encore, please? 

But then there’s the issue of the rabies-ridden Hargrove, the kid who’s snorted so much of Eddie’s dubiously cut supply that it’s no wonder that word has gotten around that he can’t keep his johnson rigid. There’s a thread dangling somewhere that makes Eddie wonder how familiar you are with that concept but. Alas. Digression. 

Hargrove calls you a cunt, and Eddie’s vision is replaced with a swathe of red. 

How ‘bout you try playing it cool, hearing someone talk to your girl like that, after a night of fun family drug-taking? 

Wait. His what? Hold on--

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s side-swiping Hargrove like a dirty bumper car, yak yaks something kind of funny (he hopes) and does not turn to look at you standing backlit like a holy fucking statue. Because he knows you’ll look beautiful up there, white hot with rage, holding a weapon poised for minor automotive destruction. He can’t handle beauty, not right now. Because of that thing from before with his knees. 

“...now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

It’s impossible to say whose hair trigger that tugged first, yours or Eddie’s. That’s like chicken vs egg. That’s like Han vs Greedo. That’s like, irrelevant. 

That baseball bat clatters to the pavement, a hearty overture to Eddie’s surge of empowerment, of rage, of insisting that she isn’t, I’m not, she isn’t, I’m not, nobody talks about her like that–

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s sitting beside you. Outside the principal’s office. Hand split open and aching, nose backed up and a little bleeding, coming down like the fucking Hindenberg. Reckoning with the fact that he wouldn’t need to be a little morning-after zipped on coke to throw a punch for you, if it came down to it. If it came down to it, he would have tried caving in Billy Hargrove’s other eye socket. He would have made him look like the Elephant Man if you needed him to. 

He liked that Eraserhead movie you made him watch. 

“He needs an ice pack…”

The soft mumble from you makes Eddie take this breath that makes his chest feel like it might concave. You, you. Reckless, unbuttoned, unlaced, off-kilter you, that still had time to snap at him after he’d tried to freeze you out, that still had eyes that asked him did it hurt? 

Eddie eavesdrops on as much of your grilling with Higgins and the hot guidance counsellor as his damaged eardrums will allow. Temporary insanity. Disgusting prank. He wonders what that’s about… and again, didn’t even think to question what brought you onto the hood of Hargrove’s car. He just saw you. He just acted.

He just keeps doing that. 

And then he hears. College. Application deadlines are within touching distance. 

“I can turn this around.”

Of course. Eddie hadn’t even thought about that, because he’s him. And it was something you were probably worrying yourself sick over, because you’re you– you wanted out of here. To get up, go, be someone great.

“New York, ideally,” you’d said to him once, tightrope walking across the broken bleachers outside; you’d been waiting around for him to give you a ride home, but he had a deal to make first. You were weirdly patient, weirdly pensive that day. “Someplace I can go and burrow in and absorb everything and grow out of a crack in the sidewalk, new.” 

Eddie’d held your hand, helping you step over a gap in the bench, “Not taking Manhattan by storm? Hurricane Lacy?” 

You–and he remembered this–had held onto his hand for a few more minutes, a cigarette dwindling in the other. Your fingers were cold; they clutched at his a little tighter when you spoke again. 

“No. Not Manhattan, not midtown, not big business. I have precipitated a change in my weathervane.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means that someone taught me the difference between being important and being significant.” 

Back in the room. Eddie drawls out some stupid crack to Higgins, who he’s still supplying with enough benzos to take out Jonestown a second time, which is the only reason he hasn’t been booted out of Hawkins High for absolute and final good. And then you’re alone again, the two of you. Together. 

“Wanna get out of here?”

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s spending the last of his energy like it’s burning a hole in his pocket, horsing around on the nurse’s saddle stool while you rifle through her office. You are all edgy and commanding because you have no idea how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me.

Good. He likes you better like this, at least for right now. Likes to watch you attempt to pirouette on the razor’s edge of your relationship to one another, mostly because your attempt is more graceful and easier to watch than his is. And he likes to watch you. Watch you do anything, really. 

Watch you snap at him to get on the bed. Fuck. 

Watch you tear and dab at his busted knuckles. Fuckfuck. 

Watch you talk about Cat People and press his hand to his chest and tell him he’s injured and wrong and watch you watch searing, singing alcohol on his split lip dry up. Eddie watches your eyes brighten and darken with curious affection, like those twinkle lights that fade in and out, steady as breathing. His breathing is anything but steady. His knees have come apart, letting you stand between them.

You dab and he lets this broken sound loose from him, because the proximity of your body to his feels like a fresh fucking spring breeze and god, god, the way you’re touching him with such gentle, measured movements, like you’ve choreographed every one–

You’re so exact. You’re so organized. He wants to unexact you.

Eddie uses his good hand, not that either of them are really any good, and presses as much of you into him as he can. The flush of your front, the flush of your mouth, he even has to stop those shorn denim-sheathed legs of his from wrapping around your hips. Eddie’s grip, it travels, hitching tweed up the curve of your ass. 

You don’t push him away like he figured you might, you don’t indignantly demand what is going on?! You don’t. You weave your hand up the line of his thigh, to the hard edge of his crotch where he is straining, a rigidity that’s been building since you went all Nurse Ratched on him. 

A rigidity that’s hard to keep down around you, badum-tsssss. 

Fuck.

Eddie almost knocks the word loose with a low groan that’s pressed into the supple flesh of your cheek, your lovely blushing fucking cheek, a cheek he goes to kiss or bite or something but misses by a hair because you’re straining your neck back. To look at him. Not soberly, he hopes. 

Someone down there is wishing him death by dick.

Not the wettest, wildest, filthiest dreams that he’s had about you (and categorically, there have been many) could have prepared Eddie Munson from the earth-shattering consequences of this tiny gesture. Your tongue, perfect and pink, darts to his lip, stinging and sore and comes away with the tiniest drop of ruby-red blood sitting on its tip. 

And you suck his bottom lip between yours, eyes fluttering closed.

Eddie’s cock jumps as his heart does, not a second out of time, as you clamber up, into his lap– so completely un-Lacylike, so totally… unexact. How, in all the vastness of Heaven and earth and Middle Earth and Hell and the Bookstore and the closet and his bedroom and the van could he be so fucking stupid?

“Just friends, right?” Eddie is deaf to how pained it comes out sounding.

His good hand travels. He finds your thighs, the softness there giving way to easy indents for his fingers and he knows, he knows that this is where his hands should be–unless, higher could be good? Higher, high up past those offending, incriminating lace top stockings that drilled through Eddie’s mind like an ice pick, giving him whatever the opposite of a lobotomy is. Haunting him with a fervour, begging him to snap them, but there’s no fucking time for that, god it hurts but there’s no fucking time for that because you. Two. Are. In. The fucking. Nurse’s. Office. 

But the world has ceased turning. 

Eddie’s mouth opens in a silent attempt at a moan as his fingers push past to the beating, radiating core of you that the throbbing, radiating core of him longs for. 

You’re so wet, and soft and lush and it rings through is head like a fucking hallelujah, you’re wet, you’re wet for him.

More than anything, he needs your encouragement–he needs to know that you want him to keep going. That you want him, that you want him, that–

You nod, frantic and undone, and Eddie kisses you for it just before he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing. But nothing in his body tells him to zoom out–in fact, the only thing he wants is more in. More you, more of you wrapped around him. He moves his hands with a clumsiness usually uncharacteristic of him, fucking guitar guy, fucking painting miniatures and shit guy. But it works, according to you and the way you keen against him with your beautiful, spit-shining lips parted and pulling against his. 

These little noises, chirps and swallowed moans of yours– it’s like music. He wants to choke on them.

Eddie’s voice kind of cracks open again, letting a little air and a touch of begging out. He strains, pained, cock aching against the hitch of denim. “Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Because you’re lonely, and Eddie knows that, with his fingers stroking you deep. You’re lonely, or would be, were it not for him. And it feels like now, in the heady swirl of these few moments that are stretched into an infinity, that he’s using it against you, but he’s not. He should be the one doing this for you, he should be the one making you feel this way, making you tremble even as he clumsily thumbs at your clit, because he thinks knows you and he thinks you want it unmeasured and unshackled and washing over you in a wave of sheer blind devotion and that’s why his tongue is all over your neck. 

That’s why his knuckles are split. 

That’s why there’s no malice in Eddie’s voice when he croaks, “Just friends? Lacy?” as you rock and spasm, hands clutching him around the shoulder and whimpers barely deadened against his lips. He can feel the texture of your pinched brow against his own. 

He wants to clutch you as close as he possibly can, but he’s got one good arm and it’s between your legs.

Between your legs. Jesus fucking Christ. 

Sobriety hits like a tidal wave as your breath returns to its normal rhythm; Eddie’s doesn’t quite have the same rebound. He’s still huffing a little, out of exertion or out of nerves, as he slips his hand out from under you, brushing what was off on his jeans. A small patch of his own bodily fluid collected there too, making sure he’s wearing the both of you like Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter as he walks around for the rest of the day. 

Eddie, throat starting to tighten up, pulls you in for one kiss, to give you one last taste of where he’d been split open for you. Melodrama dances around it; shades of we shouldn’t have, but we did, but we can’t, but now I have to fucking live with the fact I cracked open this Pandora’s box and I’m sorry. 

Or something to that effect. 

And you see right through him, because you always do. Hair in a muss, lips flushed, adjusting your skirt, re-exacting yourself, you clean up any evidence that this had ever happened. At least, on a surface level. 

Eddie dares to look at you once more, and you dare to look back at him. And thank god he’s sitting down, because that look shoots him right through the fucking aorta. You, wide-eyed and small-looking, pupils darting and unsure, are asking him why. Pleading with him, why. Why do this. Why now. Why at all, ever, why did you have to. Even though you know. 

“I–”

“No, I know. I know. I certainly know.”

Because you’re Lacy. You know everything. 

Eddie does think about going after you for a second, after your curt nod and dash through the door but he knows that it’s a zero-sum game. He has nothing good to say. It’s not even you that’s rendered him speechless– funny thing, you usually do the opposite. You always give him something to say. He just has nothing good to say. Nothing worthy of you. 

So he sits there, on the examination table, waiting for the mythical Nurse Lydia to tend to his wounds. 

First he’ll will himself soft, then he’ll will himself sane. 

Famous last words.

[fuckmyskywalker]

"On My Wedding Night." — Clayton Beresford.

— CW: 18+, smut! Virgnity, cheating, PiV, slight misogynistic tones. | Word count: 0.9k (not proofread!!)

— List of films! | Taglist.

— a/n: I'm so sorry for the delay:(, I'm feeling way better now! although my doctor said I should rest, I need to make the whores happy.

Clayton’s hands rest on your hips, trailing your exposed neck with kisses. He is careful not to wrinkle your dress or to rip the delicate lace… after all, he wouldn’t want to ruin your wedding dress. His soft lips make their way back up to your ear, and the warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine. Closing your eyes, you allow your body to relax as his lips move against your skin. You feel your heart flutter as he whispers in your ear.

“Where is he?” He asks, kissing underneath your ear. You know who he is talking about. 

“In the garden. I think with his father” You moan when he cups your breasts from on top of the corset, arching your back towards him. 

“Look at you, a vision in white… your husband is a lucky man, isn't he?” Clayton’s voice is laced with both disdain and bitterness— he absolutely despises your husband.

Mostly because he is the one who got to marry you, instead of him.

To be fair, it was all arranged. Both parties benefited from the deal, it would offer a wonderful public image, and well… who cares about «true love» when the ring comes with a promise of a nine-digit check. Still, despite everything being nothing more than a ridiculous pantomime, the thrill of the man who owns your heart touching you instead of your brand-new husband is exhilarating. 

“What does he know about you…” Untying some of the bows from the front side of your corset, he hooks his finger on the edge, lowering it enough to free your breasts. With his palms, he cups them, giggling them softly and brushing your nipples with his thumbs. “Does he even know you are a virgin? That you saved yourself for me all these years… just for your stupid father to snatch you away from my side…”

Clayton’s voice trembles with anger, frustration, and lust. Every word he says is true. He loves how sweet and innocent you are, how much you craved and desired to marry him to fulfill that fairytale you grew up envisioning. He adores those pure intentions— and he waited gladly, but he finally reached his limit.

“If he thinks he will be your first, he is so fucking wrong” 

Maneuvering you with rough hands, he pushes you onto the bed of the guest room you two hid in, crumpling the various layers of fabric, lace, and crinoline in his trembling fingers. You attempt to protest, to tell him to be careful or else he will ruin your dress but Clayton hushes you with a slap on your thigh.

“I paid for this dress, remember? So I get to be the one to fuck you in it.”

A possessive growl escapes his throat when he sees the matching lingerie set he also bought, the expensive fabric feels so soft, and he wonders if that’s how good your pussy will feel. Hurriedly, he yanks your thong down, kneeling behind you and spreading your ass only to stick his tongue inside your tight hole, moaning at the taste— of course you are wet, virgins are the ones who get wet easier. 

“You made me promise you I would be your first, and I will keep that promise,” He says loud and clear, his fingers already sliding inside you, curling them and scissoring them to prepare you for what’s about to happen. Clayton feels his heartbeat ringing in his ears but that’s the least of his problems now, he would be a happy man if he died buried in your pussy. “You can even imagine this is our wedding night, dollface, I know you want me to be your husband.”

Without a warning, he guides the tip of his hard cock into you, gripping the base and your ass for leverage. The sudden rush of pain and adrenaline makes you moan against the duvet, it hurts— it’s not the amazing, beautiful first experience you read so many times and watched in so many corny movies. But somehow it’s a different form of pleasure. It burns, and you feel your walls stretching wider for the first time, being too used to his fingers by now. Clayton groans, which is a raw, husky sound that reverberates within him, a sound you had never heard before; not even after jacking him off— it is the sound of real pleasure.

“You are so fucking tight, just like I knew you would” Clay moans, wasting no time to pull back his hips and guide them back as deep as he can reach. “You like that, dollface? You like me being the first one to fuck you?”

You nod desperately, closing your eyes when his hands land on your exposed shoulder to push you back against his cock, fucking you without abandon. He is one hundred percent right, this is how it was meant to be. You wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“I l–love it, Clay!” Your response makes him chuckle, but not in a mocking manner, if you could see his blue eyes, you would not only see the lust and passion but also the adoration. Underneath him, you look like a beautiful deity, surrendering yourself to him. 

“This little virgin pussy will be mine forever,” Every thrust breaks the cords inside your head, it’s a newfound sensation that even if it is slightly uncomfortable, soothes you with an immense bliss that it’s not comparable to anything in this world. “You won’t let him fuck you, do you hear me?” The hand that isn’t grasping your shoulder slaps your ass playfully, admiring how it bounces against his hips. 

“You will fucking remember your wedding as the day you lost your virginity to me.” 

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[harmonysanreads]

Vampire Arlecchino and her children was not something I knew I needed until now-

The brainrot has been simmering in my head since I saw a fanart I think? (Though I don't really remember which one) I think the concept suits her, specially with her aesthetic. An alleged kind noblewoman who raises orphaned children but, is secretly training them to be deadly predators. Tbh the fic itself nearly gave me a meltdown because I just couldn't find the right footing at the beginning. I'm very happy you enjoyed it :>

[bleucaesura]

STOLITZØ - FIFTY EIGHT

Blitzø sat in bed staring up at the ceiling when he heard a knock at the door. It opened a crack and Fizzarolli poked his head inside.

“Fizz!” Blitzø beamed at Fizzarolli.

“Hey,” Fizzarolli looked around the room. “Is this an ok time?”

“Of course,” Blitzø waved him over. “I sent Loony home to get a proper night’s rest. And Stolas… Actually. I don’t know where Stolas is.” He shrugged.

Fizzarolli closed the door behind him and pulled up a chair by the bed.

“Oz caught him in the hall.” Fizzarolli sat down and made himself comfortable. “Said he had something to discuss with him.”

Blitzø raised an eyebrow.

Fizz waved it off.

“Doesn’t matter. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Mmk.”

They sat in awkward silence for a time.

Blitzø cleared his throat.

“You look good, Fizz.” He smiled warmly at him.

“You’ve definitely looked better.”

“What? You’re not digging the pharaoh mummy look?” Blitzø pantomimed tossing back voluminous tresses over his shoulders. “Not into head bandages?”

Fizzarolli averted his gaze.

“Not a fan of hospitals.”

Blitzø cringed. “F*ck… I’m sorry… I didn’t me-“

Fizzarolli waved him off. “Really not a fan of seeing people I love, hurt.” He looked down at his hands in his lap.

Blitzø reached his hand out as far as his IV would allow, trying to reach out to Fizz.

Fizzarolli noticed and looked up to meet Blitzø’s gaze.

“Thank you for being here, Fizz.”

Fizzarolli smiled sadly and took Blitzø’s out-stretched hand. “I wasn’t gonna let anyone keep us apart this time.”

Blitzø grinned and fought back tears.

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, holding hands, enjoying this moment. One that had been long overdue.

Blitzø tried to fight it, but a yawn managed to escape.

“You’re tired. I’ll let you rest.”

No…

Fizzarolli went to stand but Blitzø gripped his hand tighter.

Please don’t go…

“Would you stay?” He looked at Fizz, pleading. “Like when we were kids?”

Fizzarolli thought for a moment, then he slid his hand out from Blitzø’s.

“Oh… Right..” Blitzø’s heart clenched, tears welled up in his eyes and he looked away. “You’ve got to get home…”

A moment later the lights in the room turned off, and Blitzø looked back to see Fizz standing by his bed.

“You’re going to have to move over if we’re both going to fit.”

I f*cking hope he can’t see me crying in the dark…

Blitzø scooted as far over as he could and Fizz climbed under the covers on the other side of the bed.

They both shifted until they lay on their sides facing each other.

They chuckled awkwardly.

“Well. Haven’t done this in a hot minute.”

Fizzarolli snickered. “Nope.”

Blitzø noticed Fizz was still wearing his jester hat.

“Aren’t you going to take that off?” He asked off-handedly.

Fizzarolli froze and buried his face in his hands.

Blitzø’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Fizz?”

Fizzarolli looked at Blitzø, silent tears streaming down his face.

“Fizz?! What is it?” Blitzø could feel something was very wrong.

“Blitzø…” Fizzarolli shuddered a sigh.

“Whatever it is…” Blitzø reached out to take his hand.

Fizzarolli covered his face with one hand, shook his head and held up a finger - telling Blitzø to hold on.

“You’re f*cking scaring me, Fizz…”

Fizzarolli sat up. Blitzø propped himself up on an elbow.

“I’ve only ever let Asmodeus see me without this,” Fizzarolli touched his hat.

Blitzø raised an eyebrow.

“But it’s a part of who I am,” he swallowed hard. “And I think I need to be ok letting others get close enough to see… EVERY broken part of me.”

“You’re not broken, Fizz,” Blitzø reached out to him, but Fizzarolli shook his head.

“I know I’m not,” he took a deep breath. “But I’ve still got broken pieces…”

Fizzarolli pulled his hat off and clutched it to his chest in anguish. He couldn’t bear to look at Blitzø.

Blitzø shot upright.

This is MY fault…

“F*ck.. Fizz… I’m so f*cking sorry…”

Fizzarolli started to cry all over again. He tried to hide his face and put his hat back on, but Blitzø grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re f*cking amazing, Fizz.” Blitzø clutched him tightly. “And don’t worry… Your horns will ALWAYS be bigger than mine.”

The two cried themselves to sleep that night in the same position they’d always slept in as little kids: curled up, touching foreheads and holding hands.

***

Stolas and Asmodeus stood in the doorway to Blitzø’s room and watched Fizzarolli and Blitzø sleep.

“Is this something I need to be worried about?” Stolas whispered to Asmodeus.

Asmodeus smirked and shook his head. “I ain’t.” He looked at Fizzarolli with such love and adoration, Stolas couldn’t help feeling like he was invading their privacy somehow.

Asmodeus looked at Stolas and squeezed his shoulder in encouragement. “I get your reticence. It’ll take time for you two to figure each other out. But I know my Fizzy.” He looked over at the boys and smiled.

“And the fact that Fizzy let Blitzø see him like this” Asmodeus cocked his head so Stolas would look where he was looking - at Fizzarolli’s exposed horns. “Means he’s trusting people again. Trusting Blitzø again. Opening himself up to the idea of family again”

Family…

Stolas’s heart ached. He wanted that kind of closeness with Blitzø. He wanted Blitzø to let him in like that.

“And if my Fizzy trusts him with that kind of vulnerability? I know you can too.” Asmodeus smiled warmly at Stolas. “Hell. I trust the idiot with Fizzy’s life. That’s gotta say something, don’t it?”

Stolas smiled meekly back at Asmodeus. “It does.”

“Good.” Asmodeus clapped him on the back, catching him off guard. Stolas tried not to squawk in surprise.

Asmodeus chuckled.

Stolas shot him a glare.

Asmodeus snorted, tried to cover his laugh, and turned into the hallway. “Let’s go. Give those two some more time to rest. They need it.”

“Yes.” Stolas followed, looking longingly over his shoulder at Blitzø, and how peaceful and content he looked sleeping there, next to Fizzarolli.

If only I could make him feel that safe…

“I suppose you’re right.”

*****

[noisycroissant]

I Will Find You

Astarion x Reader (Soulmate AU)

Based on that aquarium scene from Romeo + Juliet (1996)

*******

She hated the costume. It was a sick twisted joke on her Mistress' part to make her wear this to the damned ball at the Szarr Palace.

A vampire ball on Hallow's Eve. How tasteless.

An ankle length white gown, plain and unadorned except for trimmings of lace at the hem and scooped out neckline. Of course her mistress would never let any of the spawn wear high-necked outfits or wear necklaces when they were taken out to mingle in high vampire society. The bite marks must be visible to everyone. The ownership must be acknowledged.

It was the wings that sealed the pantomime of it all. Stiff lacquered wings, covered in soft goose feathers, tied on to her shoulders with string. With the pale skin, she could pass easily for an angel should anyone see her flitting about in the darkness.

But one flash of her smile or a second look at her eyes and they would know that she was just another monster in sheep's clothing.

*******

Over the decades, Cazador had done several tasteless things to seal his status as the patriarch of the Szarr clan. From using his spawn as "entertainment" to holding lavish balls were his spawn waited hand and foot on drunken patriars of Baldur's Gate, there was no level Cazador would not stoop to to ascertain power.

But this? This took the cake.

A high vampire society ball on Hallow's Eve. Complete with costumes and candles and music.

Pathetic.

The armour and chainmail looked heavy but was actually just made of paste and cleverly dyed. As one of the prized spawn in the palace, it was imperative that he "mingled with anyone who looks important, if he knew what was good for him".

The threats didn't register anymore. After all, how different could this night's ending be from all the other times there was a ball in this wretched place? Some drunk and out-of-it duke or duchess would fancy him, he'd have to sweet talk and charm them into a chamber, do what was expected, make the necessary sounds and words, and it would be over.

And another piece would be added to the mosaic of power Cazador was building.

The hatred made bile rise in Astarion's throat and he retched into a nearby vase. It was better his stomach remain empty for what was inevitably to come.

******

It was not as bad as she'd imagined. There was a certain flair and theatre to seeing vampires of all classes costumed and swanning about.

Like they were normal people at a Hallow's Eve party.

Her mistress had let her "loose" for the night. Which meant she could walk around with the rare gift of turning down propositions. A small mercy, but after a century of servitude, she would take what she could get.

She walked along the edges of the great hall, trying to stay out of sight and in the shadows, trying to avoid anyone's eye. Just one night to herself. That's all she wanted after a century of turning.

******

Astarion saw the person with wings in a plain white gown seeking the edges of the room from the moment the Eastern Vampire Court's Mistress and her brood had arrived.

He'd been following her, unnoticed, since. He didn't know why but he had to see her face. It wasn't mere curiosity. It was an unexplainable pull he couldn't fight.

He followed and followed and finally had her alone in his sight. She was watching the ornamental fish in the aquarium near the archway to the garden. Her pale fingers following the path of a bejeweled looking fish. He moved to the other side of the glass and slowly walked into the faint light emitting from the aquarium.

Her smile was the first thing he saw on her face. The warmth, the soft creases at the ends of a generous mouth. The way her cheeks rose to her eyes.

His eyes were what she saw first. A warm burgundy, like aged wine, surrounded by soft lashes and sharp cheekbones. The curiosity pooling in those eyes as they took her in.

Astarion didn't believe in gods anymore. He didn't believe in love anymore. He didn't believe in fate anymore either.

But for one moment, he believed the goddess Sune had touched his heart.

The angel smiled at him and he knew. He'd heard of fated mates but he'd never dreamed he'd find his while living a life shackled to Cazador. But now he knew.

That fate spins along as it should. No point in fighting or denying it.

******

The spell was broken as another spawn of her brood appeared seemingly out of nowhere. "You must come immediately. The mistress requires you," says the spawn as he grabs her elbow and pulls her towards the dance floor.

Astarion did not think twice before dashing after her. He deftly moved between people, watching as she was pulled away further and further into the crowd.

Their eyes never left each other.

The curiosity and subtle longing in her eyes was enough for Astarion to know that she had felt what he'd felt too.

That damned, inescapable pull.

He'd found the one thing that was going to be his, and come hell or rapture, he was going to claim it.

[carmybears]

Flirting with Knives

pairing: carmy berzatto X female!reader

summary: a fluffy little vignette about cooking with your new boyfriend, except he tries to turn it into a cooking lesson

word count: 900

“I cannot keep watching this.”

You snort, biting back the smile that is tugging at your lips as you continue dicing the onion sitting on the cutting board in front of you.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Carmy. And besides,” you throw a glance over your shoulder. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t judge me.”

Your relationship with Carmy was new. As in text each other all night, gossip to your best friend about him, and generally spend every waking moment thinking about when you’d get to see him next kind of new. It was the intoxicating stage in the relationship where you pretty much wanted to have your hands on him at all times, but also still panicked about the state of your apartment whenever he stopped by. All in all, it made you feel like you were about sixteen years old again. But every time your eyes met his, you could feel yourself getting caught up in a flurry of butterflies and you wouldn’t change a thing.

Tonight, you were cooking for him for the first time. You’d pulled out a recipe for cherry balsamic glazed pork chops and thyme roasted potatoes that you had made enough times before to know that it was reliably delicious and easy enough for you to make without making a fool of yourself in front of Food and Wine’s Best New Chef.

That said, cutting onions can be a bitch and your knife was fucking dull.

“I’m not judging, I swear!” There was laughter in Carmy’s voice as he sidles up behind you, putting his hands on your hips. “Could I just maybe give you a few pointers?”

With an exaggerated roll of your eyes, you set the knife down on the cutting board and step aside. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmy steps up to the kitchen counter, taking up the onion in one hand and the knife in the other. His voice is gentle as he explains to you how best to position your hand as you hold the onion and then pantomimes the cuts he is going to make. It isn’t until he presses the blade to the vegetable that he curses under his breath.

“Jesus Christ babe, when’d you last sharpen this thing?” The shock on his face is palpable as he looks at you with wide eyes and mouth hanging agape. It’s kind of hilarious.

“So…” You draw out the syllable as long as you can before you make your confession. “I might not have a knife sharpener.”

If you thought he looked outraged before, you’d be mistaken.

“You wound me, you know that?”

You tilt your head back and laugh.

“Absolutely fuckin’ ridiculous. I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

You reach for him, your fingertips barely grazing the waffled sleeve of his Henley shirt as he turns on his heel and crosses into your living room, where his backpack lays in a heap on the floor.

“Carmen, baby, what are you talking about?”

He unzips the bag and pulls out a neatly tied roll of fabric. “I’m talking about this.”

“Are those your knives?!” You exclaim. “Do you always take those everywhere with you? Or should I be afraid?”

“Well yeah, I take them with me over here because I usually end up going straight from your bed to the restaurant,” he reasons, giving you a quick peck on the lips. “And the only thing you should be scared of is losing a damn finger to those dull knives of yours.”

He lays the roll out flat on your kitchen counter and pulls out an incredibly sharp knife, setting it on the cutting board.

“Now, we’re going to finish making dinner and then tomorrow night I’m coming over and sharpening all of your knives.”

“Is that your idea of foreplay?”

He smirks then, that little dimple forming in his cheek, but very pointedly does not answer your question. You decide to take that as a yes.

You take Carmy’s knife up in one hand and the onion up in the other, arranging your fingers in almost the same way you had seen him do it. “So, like this?”

“Um, not quite.” He curls his hand up into a claw and demonstrates. “You want to curl your fingertips down under a little more.”

You mimic what you see. “Better?”

“No, um, let me…” He comes around to your other side and places his hand over yours, gently positioning your fingers into place. As he works on perfecting your technique, you look up at him, study the way his brow furrows in concentration. You rock back in your heels just enough to feel the press of his broad chest against your shoulder. A feeling like electricity courses through you, and you’re not entirely sure that you’re all that hungry anymore – not with your favorite chef on the menu.

“Y’know, Chef, you should probably just put your arms around me. I’m not sure I can cut these onions all by myself.”

He pauses what he's doing and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his body. His lips are pressed against the bare skin at the base of your neck and you feel a puff of warm air as he laughs lightly into your skin. When he speaks, his voice is low in your ear, giving you goosebumps. “Are you flirting with me, chef?”

[ddarker-dreams]

ive been reading way too much romance manga lately and all of them seem to have a wardrobe malfunction scene and I MUST to ask.,. sr reader having a wardrobe malfunction ?? their reactions like “I do not see I do not perceive” but internally screaming. thoughts? ponderings? musings even??

WAIT HOLD ON !! YOUR BRAIN IS HUGE !! there is nothing i love more than shojo tropes... scarlet ribbons would pair so well with them omg... i need to look up a list and start writing them for funsies <3

reader here is fem!

[Scarlet Ribbons Index]

Giorno

Giorno is stuck in the middle of an intense moral dilemma. If it’s just the two of you, he’d rather not embarrass you by pointing it out; he’d use his Stand to pull down your skirt on the sly. He doesn’t want you to think he’s been ogling you and that’s how he happened to notice the malfunction. In the moment, he’s honestly so concerned about navigating this with decorum that he forgets to get flustered. It isn’t until later when he lays down for the night that the weight of the situation hits him. He feels like he’s disrespecting you somehow by letting his thoughts wander and does his best to think about anything else, takes a cold shower and everything. Almost loses it on the spot when your Stand gives him a knowing thumbs up the following day. 

Bruno

Bruno is similar to Giorno where he prioritizes not wanting to make you uncomfortable in any way. While he’s trying to figure out what to do, he’ll be damned if he lets anyone wander into your general vicinity. He radiates the most ominous aura to keep others at bay. He fights every instinct in his body not to stare and admire the skin he isn’t used to seeing. Bruno already feels guilty for harboring romantic feelings for you in the first place, seeing as you’re his subordinate. This definitely isn’t helping. You’re over there smiling and making jokes while he’s struggling to remember how to breathe. Ends up shedding his blazer and throwing it over your shoulders, unable to take the stress any longer. The end of one crisis ends up inadvertently causing another. Bruno learns that day that he really likes how his clothes look on you. 

Fugo

Fugo starts sputtering, trying (and failing) to string together a coherent sentence. He’s landed in this situation a few times ever since you started rooming together, summer being especially dangerous. He honestly has no idea what to do with himself when you’re walking around in a tank top and short shorts. Ends up getting mad at you and your stupidly attractive body, but is even more upset with himself for how easily it riles him up. It’s just a little bit of skin, why can’t he control himself? He’s above such boorish behavior! Probably. You’re none the wiser to his tribulations and assume he’s just glaring at you because you forgot to take the trash out or something. Will only inform you of the malfunction if you’re planning to go out — he’s not letting anyone else get treated to such a view. Fugo ends up having to pantomime the issue to you because his tongue simply will not form words. He cannot look you in the eyes for the next few days. 

Mista

Mista is uncertain if this is a blessing from God or a trial from the devil. He’s being allowed to view a little glimpse of heaven, yet the cost is steep; what if you catch onto his staring and piece everything together? You’d probably write him off as a creep. Then his chances with you would be ruined forever unless you got hit with a memory-erasing Stand. It’s unusual for him to be perturbed by anything, he’s normally so relaxed. He would be if this was happening with literally anyone else but you. Since you’re involved, he needs to use like, tact or whatever. It’s rough. Eventually, he brings you close with an arm around your shoulders and whispers what the problem is. He’ll eagerly offer to help in any way you need it. 

Narancia

He goes to cover his eyes with his hands... but then splays his fingers so he can still see. Only a peek. You’ll find out what’s going on the fastest with him. Narancia just can’t keep his thoughts inside his head when you’re involved. It’s difficult to tell who is the most embarrassed between the two of you. He’s apologizing, you’re apologizing, it’s developing into quite the scene. It doesn’t help that he swears to stab anyone who walks by to preserve your honor. You have to convince him to put the knife away while readjusting your traitorous outfit. After the heat of the moment has passed, he dejectedly asks if you hate him now. Please reassure him that he did nothing wrong or he’ll be sad for ages. 

Abbacchio

Surprisingly has the most composed response somehow? He knows how the rest of his team gets when they’re around you, it’s like the caveman part of their brain takes over. Abbacchio likes to think he’s better than that. He’ll call you over and calmly explain what the issue is. He doesn’t beat around the bush but he’s not crude either. If you’re out and it’s something you can’t fix right away, he’ll offer to go buy you a hoodie or whatever. It might be a little mean of him to admit, but it’s kinda cute watching you get flustered over the whole ordeal. Though he’s nice enough not to tease you about it in the moment, expect him to bring it up every now and then whenever you start pestering him too much. 

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Summary: Free from his master’s vampiric thrall for the first time in 200 years, Astarion’s mind, body, and heart war with each other over how to seize and solidify his precious, and precarious, newfound freedom. Luckily, Tav’s there to help. Or perhaps ruin all his carefully laid plans. Multi-chapter longfic.

Rating: 18+, Explicit Content, Porn with a lot of plot and a lot of feelings ❤️‍🔥

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angstarion, Astarion Character Study and everything that entails, PTSD, Descriptive Explorations of Emotional and Sexual Trauma, Manipulators to Lovers, Vampire Sex, Blood Kink, Blood Drinking, Grinding, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Tav is CIS female and a bard. Full tag list on AO3.

A/N: As a veteran vampire fucker, Astarion really is something special. Will be updating every two weeks. This will be messy in the best way possible.

Read on AO3 Chapter 2❤️‍🔥. Chapter 3❤️‍🔥. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7❤️‍🔥. Chapter 8.

❤️‍🔥=Smut

Chapter 1: Bite

Somehow, Astarion was watching the sun set. This simple moment, which the rest of his companions almost certainly took for granted, was a miracle to him. He had resigned himself to endless night a century ago, yet now here he was basking in a sunset like it was nothing. He stared at the fading sun until he couldn’t anymore, until his retinas burned and the last languid finger of light finally dipped below the horizon, abandoning Faerûn to a soft, somber twilight. Each precious, fleeting day was a gift and Astarion intended to feast on each one down to the marrow.

Somehow, Cazador Szarr had once again failed to find him. For 200 years his master had ruled Astarion’s waking moments with an iron fist. And then a small, wriggling little worm had miraculously interrupted Cazador’s vampiric hold on him. Imagine, a vampire lord losing to a worm. Astarion could die, again, of laughter. Yet even here, two weeks out from The Gate, Astarion felt his Master’s phantom eyes on him. He didn’t understand it but Astarion wasn’t a fool: he knew his time was limited. It was only a matter of whether the Mindflayers or Cazador would catch up to him first. Neither option was particularly good but the choice was easy, if he had one: he’d do anything, absolutely anything, to keep from returning to the Szarr Palace.

As the camp settled in for the night Astarion pantomimed preparing for bed, a routine he knew he was fumbling clumsily through. The night had been for hunting, seducing, fucking, killing. It had never been for relaxing. For reading. For chatting idly with people he wasn’t planning on stabbing in the back. For now at least. He knew they’d have no qualms about stabbing him, should they discover his condition. Even so, he had meditated more these last few nights than he had in decades. It cleared his mind a little, but it did nothing to calm the dread he carried in his bones. Nor did it assuage his gnawing hunger.

So far, none of his companions appeared to have figured out Astarion’s little secret. He watched each one of them carefully, scouring their faces, voices, and bodies for the smallest micro-expressions of suspicion. Karlach, Hell’s Above, didn’t seem to have much going on upstairs, a genuine blessing. Lae’Zel was too focused on reaching her blasted crèche to spare him a second glance, thank the gods. She could easily skewer him if she felt like it. Shadowheart was too busy guarding her own secrets to pry into his, although she could be oddly perceptive at times. Gale only stopped talking when he had his nose in a book, but he was still the resident wizard and needed to be watched should his, alleged, considerable intellect decide to return to him. The fact that Wyll hadn’t noticed was in itself suspicious, but perhaps the famous Blade of Frontiers wasn’t half the monster hunter he thought he was. Maybe Astarion could survive this after all.

And then there was Tav. Responsible, pretty, annoying, Tav. She had become the de facto leader of this ragtag tragedy, which was perfectly fine with Astarion. He did his best work from the shadows anyway. Tav spent her days settling their squabbles and running after every single irrelevant quest they were given like a dog after a ball. She was clearly too distracted, and too tired he often saw, to notice that he was more than he let on. Perfect.

Astarion wasn’t used to going unnoticed. He had accidentally drawn Cazador’s ire numerous times by simply existing. He had tried to fade into the background countless times, but Cazador’s cruel eye was always drawn to him. “Go on boy, do the only thing you’re good for.”

Well, he wasn’t completely unnoticed. He felt the way Tav’s eyes roved over him when she thought he wasn’t looking, felt her pulse hammering in her throat when they spoke to each other. She didn’t say anything and neither did he, but it was nice to know that he was still alluring even when disgustingly unwashed.

Astarion had the patience of a centuries old predator. Despite the ache behind his fangs, he waited until he could pick out the gentle snores of each one of his companions, not moving until Lae’Zel had made her 15th loop around their camp’s perimeter, which was more than enough time for her to lose herself in the banality of the night’s watch. He’d have to be quick, but he knew what he was hunting for: he had picked up on the heartbeat of a boar hours ago. It wasn’t a sound per se, but more of a pulse he felt in his gut. He honed in on its tantalizing rhythm, allowing himself to be drawn down through the forest and up back onto the road where the beast snuffled for food along the path. Easy.

His muscles tensed. His mind went blank. He slid through the night and tackled the boar, ripping into its neck with a savage bite. The boar thrashed against him but Astarion bit down harder, tearing into the beast’s jugular with a bloody squelch. It collapsed under him and Astarion brutally pinned it to the ground. He gulped down mouthfuls of blood so big that they hurt his throat as he swallowed. As he drank, he could feel the boar’s jerks become weaker and weaker, until its death throes were merely twitches. When there was no more blood, Astarion released his jaw and rolled away, gasping in the dirt as a wave of nausea engulfed him. He thought he was going to be sick. It was the most blood he had drunk in one sitting in 200 years and it sat heavy and bloating in his stomach. He was full. Satisfied? No. But he was full.

But even the fresh spoils of victory grow bland. His palate wasn’t made for beasts. He wanted something finer, something richer. Still, a boar was leagues better than a rat. But he knew, had known for some time, that his body needed more than animal blood to be truly nourished. It needed the blood of thinking creatures.

What would happen if he grew too weak, too feeble to fight? Would this merry band of would-be heroes leave him behind, alone in the wilderness for Cazador to find, if he couldn’t keep up? He would never go back. He’d die first.

You could do it, you know, a dark inner voice whispered to him. Why don’t you have a taste of your new friends?

No. He forced that impulse down. He was a vampire spawn, but he was not a monster. Were they frustrating? Deeply. But these indifferent strangers had been kinder to him than anyone had been in centuries, kinder than anyone who had actually known him. He would not risk whatever precarious piece of safety he had for a quick meal. He’d blow his cover. They’d hate him. They’d kill him. It was the only course of action that made sense once he was discovered. Which was only a matter of time.

Despite everything, his master’s old orders still echoed dully in his mind: Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. He didn’t know if he could bite them, even if he wanted to. Cazador had forbidden it.

Astarion slipped back into his bedroll unnoticed, mission complete. He wasn’t tired, was too wired from the hunt and from the day’s fighting to truly rest, but he knew he needed to meditate if he was going to be of any use tomorrow. If he was going to continue fooling them into thinking he wasn’t a monster hiding in their midst. Rolling onto his side, he caught sight of Tav fast asleep in her tent, the flap carelessly unlatched. Tav, who had readily forgiven him after he had threatened to slit her throat. Tav, who looked but never touched. Tav, whose opinion and guidance seemed to matter the most to everyone in camp. Astarion sunk into deep reverie.

~~

“It’s dead, my friend. Are you really going to gawk at every piece of carrion you find?”

Astarion could flay himself. He hadn’t bothered to hide his kill from the other night because who seriously cared, there were dead beasts all over the forest, and of course Tav had quite literally stumbled over its exsanguinated remains. Crouching down to examine his kill, she pored over the corpse with thorough precision. He was dead. He was so dead unless he did something.

“Darling,” Astarion began, positioning himself right behind Tav, unsure what he was going to do but moving just to move. At the same moment Tav stood up and took a step backward, crashing into him. For a moment their bodies were completely flush, her back against his chest, her peachy bottom cushioned against his groin. Astarion reflexively reached out to place his hands on her hips, but Tav jolted forward and out of his grasp.

“Sorry!” She gasped, flushing a delicious rosy shade. She pointedly averted her eyes.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Astarion purred. Tav dared a glance up at him and he flashed her an easy smirk. “Are you completely satisfied?” He asked, layering the question thick with innuendo. “There are much better things we could be doing. Shall we go now?”

Somehow, Tav turned even redder. “It’s definitely odd, but a dead pig isn’t the weirdest thing we’ve seen so far,” she conceded.

“No, it’s not. It doesn’t even place in the Top 50 on this little adventure,” Astarion quipped. Tav laughed at that, a quick mirthful giggle. “I’m sorry, everyone. Let’s keep moving.” Tav hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Astarion for the briefest of moments, but she quickly continued onward, surging forward towards the head of the group. Astarion breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She had apparently noticed nothing.What a cute, malleable little idiot. ~~

The idea had occurred to him before, that second night underneath the stars. Back when he had thought that their little adventure might actually be over soon. Which had meant that Cazador’s punishments would be imminent. He had wondered aloud if their adventure may actually end the next day and Tav had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “It doesn’t have to, we could keep traveling together.” Such a sweet gesture had stirred something in him. The others hadn’t seemed keen on him, nor on each other for that matter. But Tav was kind. Giving. She was already giving him safety by letting him travel with her. What else would she give him, if he played his cards right?

Would she let him drink from her? He was ravenous. He imagined her soft and pliant underneath him, arching her neck, begging for his bite. Astarion was dizzy at the thought of such submission to him, such power over her. He tried to imagine what she would taste like but his brain couldn’t supply an answer. If Cazador had forbidden it then humanoid blood must be delicious.

But why would she help him? No one offered help for free, especially not to a vampire spawn. Even kind, giving Tav also benefited from their traveling arrangement. And his safety in this little arrangement was only tenuous at best. If he didn’t want to be staked on sight, he’d have to sweeten the deal somehow.

He knew how, but something inside of him had hesitated that night. Now, he could kick himself. How many times had he seduced and in turn allowed himself to be seduced? He was a professional, this should mean nothing to him by now. At least Tav was pretty. Flustering her had been both useful and fun. He had certainly done worse. And after today, he was beginning to suspect that Tav may actually like him, just a little.

But still. He was free for the first time in centuries. Did he really want to spend his precious moments of freedom on his back again? Was this really all he was good for?

He just needed some time to think, he would figure this out.~~

Unfortunately, the rest of his cohort were not as amenable as Tav. Today Tav had chosen himself, Lae’Zel, and Shadowheart to explore the nearby forest, which made for a particularly sullen group. Unnerved by his close call yesterday, Astarion realized that he had to acquire more allies….make friends, as it were. Gods. He hadn’t made a real, genuine friend in centuries. The last time he had tried hung heavily in his heart.

Astarion knew that he was profoundly unlikeable. He had been told so many times. There was only one good thing about him, one thing he was good at and only one thing anyone wanted from him, so naturally he would lead with that. He was already working Tav. Lae’Zel was powerful and would make an excellent ally, but Astarion decided to let her come to him. She seemed the type who liked to do the conquering. Gale was a strong option but he was still pining over his goddess and Wyll would probably want to get married first. As appealing as they both were, he needed allies now. And Karlach was literally untouchable, which derailed the entire plan. That left the mysterious Shadowheart.

Drifting to the back of the group, he began poring over the many lines he had used throughout the decades to charm and flatter his targets. Shadowheart acted cold, but Astarion could tell that she was hiding some softness underneath it all. Perhaps he could coax it out of her with the right words, if he indicated that he saw the real her beneath the facade. Adopting a pensive air, Astarion smoothly sidled up her.

“Shadowheart. Such a dark name for such a delicate flower,” he said softly. He tilted his head to a thoughtful angle, trying to catch her eye with his sad, smoldering gaze. Shadowheart shot him an icy glare.

“I heard you practicing that back there. Next time, keep your pick-up lines to yourself.”

Ahead of them, Tav choked on a laugh. “Better you than I,” Lae’Zel scoffed. “If he had tried that on me, I would have ripped his tongue from his mouth.” Astarion audibly gulped and drifted far away from his hostile companions. Tav shot him a sympathetic glance. “Yeesh, tough crowd,” she said. Astarion snorted. “Some people have no taste,” he said. Tav laughed, but Astarion still kept his hands to himself for the rest of the day.

~~

He knew it would happen, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

“First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

Cazador was here. Cazador had found him and by the gods, Cazador knew all of Astarion’s new transgressions.

“I’m sorry, Master! I was kidnapped, I had no choice!” Astarion whipped around, crying out into the darkness. The darkness said:

“Second. Thou shalt obey me in all things.”

Which he hadn’t done. He had flagrantly disobeyed. Who would obey such cruel demands unless they were forced to?

“Third. Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

He hadn’t meant to, he had been abducted! He didn’t choose any of this! But Astarion knew that Cazador didn’t care about that. “Please, not again,” he begged, knowing that it didn’t matter what he said.

“Fourth. Thou shalt know that thou art mine, you pathetic little worm.”

Astarion jolted awake, tossing off his bedroll with a shout. The campfire burned steadily, casting off the shadows of night. The deep supernatural darkness of his dreams was gone. His companions lay by the fire and in their tents, somehow still asleep despite his pitiful cry.

Cazador wasn’t here. Cazador was back in Baldur’s Gate and he was in the middle of the wilderness. He wasn’t going to be flayed. Yet. But it was only a matter of time. Cazador would be furious that Asatrion had somehow slipped off of his tight little leash. And worse, Cazador would be jealous when he discovered that Astarion could walk in the sun and he could not.

It dawned on Astarion: he can walk in the sun. He can cross streams. He can enter houses without permission. The tadpole had disrupted so much of his biology already. Perhaps it had fully broken Cazador’s hold. Maybe he could disobey completely. In every way.

He had gone to bed hungry that night. The boar had been too close a call for comfort. And he hadn’t been able to secure additional protection. Astarion had starved for centuries, he thought he could keep himself in check. But the promise of feeding on what he truly craved finally made his hunger unbearable.

He scanned the camp, taking in his companions sleeping forms. So relaxed. So unsuspecting. Who would have the honor of being his first thinking meal? Almost immediately his eyes found Tav, who was curled up by the fire. The flames flickered over her fine features, her beautiful skin. Shadows danced down the length of her neck, disappearing into the valley of her breasts, their round tops peaking shyly out from her loose camp shirt. He had never seen her so accidentally exposed, so vulnerable before. He had to taste her. She would be delicious, he just knew it. His body was moving of its own accord, drawn to her. Bending down beside her, Astarion ghosted his face across her neck, instinctively finding the intoxicating pulse of her heart beat. He bared his fangs, running his tongue behind them. He would be quick, gentle. He only needed a taste, just needed a moment of her warmth. She was so-

“What are you doing?”

Astarion recoiled sharply as Tav sat up, suddenly awake. He swore audibly and withdrew, retreating back to the shadows. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he gasped. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Tav stared back at him, surprise and horror dawning slowly across her face. Astarion thought he saw the beginnings of disgust. “I just, I just needed-“ He had no idea what to say. There was no way out, he was caught. “Blood.” His admission hung strangely in the air between them. Then Tav began to put the pieces together, at last.

“You…are you a vampire?” She asked, incredulous.

“Not entirely. I’m a vampire spawn. But I only feed on beasts! Deer, kobolds-“

“Boars,” Tav supplied.

“…boars too.”

“I knew you were acting strangely yesterday,”

“I’ve just been so weak, so slow. If I had a bit of blood, I could think clearer, fight better.”

There’s a pulsing behind his eye and then Astarion’s mind is yanked backwards to the first time that Cazador had compelled him to eat a rat. He hadn’t wanted to, had begged Cazador not to make him do this, but while his mind resisted his body had obeyed Cazador’s sadistic order. And yet, he had been so hungry that he couldn’t be fully sure what he had done in vampiric thrall and what he had done for sheer survival. He had eaten many rats since then, but that first one had been particularly humiliating. And now Tav knew.

“You didn’t eat them by choice. You ate them because he made you.”

“Yes,” Astarion admitted bitterly. “I ate whatever vermin I was so generously allowed to eat. You’ll eat anything if you are hungry enough.” Tav’s eyes softened and Astarion saw pity shining in her gaze. His lip curled.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” She said.

“Would you have said yes?” He countered. “At best I thought you would say no. At worst, I thought you would drive a stake through my ribs.”

“I wouldn’t have done that, you’re my-“

“I’m your what, your friend?” Astarion sneered. “Vampire spawn have no friends. We’re created by monsters and the world sees us as monsters. Don’t patronize me, darling.” Astarion spat. Tav turned away, trying to hide her hurt in the flames of the campfire. Astarion regretted his outburst almost immediately. Pushing her away now could be fatal.

“And yet despite all that, I needed you to trust me.” He took a tentative step toward Tav, pitching his voice lower to a soft, seductive rumble. “And you can trust me. I swear it.”

“Strangely I do, I do trust you.” Tav’s voice was barely a breath, a whisper above the crackles of the flames. “I only meant that you’ve had numerous chances to kill me since the first attempt and you haven’t. You’ve even saved me a few times.” Astarion continued advancing.

“I’m glad, truly.” He said.

“And we still need each other.” Tav said this softly, sadly, as if she didn’t want to say it.

“We do indeed,” he agreed. “So, do you think you could trust me just a little bit further? In the spirit of needing each other?”

They were so close now. Tav turned towards him, the question in her gaze. He reached out and tucked a stray tendril of her hair behind her ear. “I only need a taste.” He allowed his finger tips to stray down the column of her neck. “I swear.” His mouth hovered over hers. Tav visibly shuddered underneath his ghostly touch. “Not a drop more than you need.” She said. So tough. So generous. “Of course, not one drop more.” He leaned in, his mouth above the shell of her ear. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” She nodded. Placing his hand on her hips, Astarion gently guided Tav downward onto her bedroll where he settled next to her, curling against her side.

“Will it hurt?” She asked. Her eyes were wide, her pupils yawning caverns. Astarion doubted that he looked any better. “I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he promised. He would try. He would try for her.

“I’m ready.” Tav bared her neck and closed her eyes, turning her face away. This was really happening.

Sliding his body over hers, Astarion lowered himself on top of her. Their bodies slotted together, her breasts pressing up into his chest, his pelvis settling down against her own. Astarion’s hand cradled her neck tenderly, cupping her chin in his lithe fingers. And then he struck, sinking his fangs quickly and precisely into her flesh.

Fresh lifeblood flooded over his tongue in hot, sweet spurts. She wasn’t delicious, she was exquisite. He pressed his lips fervently against her neck, desperate for more of her. His tongue lapped along her throat, seeking every rivulet of blood that escaped his lips. Tav’s gentle fingers came up to trace circles against his scalp and card between his curls. A warm shiver traveled down his spine and he groaned into her neck as he swallowed her down. Astarion mindlessly ground himself against her center and he realized with a surprise that he was hard.

“Astarion,” Tav gasped, her body arching up to meet his. His hand moved to her waist and began to slip underneath her camp shirt, gliding along her exposed flesh. He took a deep pull of blood from her, the deepest one yet.

“Wait, Astarion,” Tav’s voice was growing faint. A weak hand began to press against his shoulder and he immediately grasped it and forced it back down, harshly caging her in. He couldn’t stop. He would never let her go.

“Stop, please Astarion!” He heard how weak Tav’s voice sounded now and it finally broke the spell. He released her throat with a bloody gasp, forcing his body off of her.

Tav rolled over, clutching the ruin of her neck. She looked disheveled, debauched. A feast in every way. Astarion stood abruptly, reeling.

“That was amazing,” he whispered reverently. He was filled with an unfamiliar feeling. He felt light, strong. Brimming with energy. Astarion caught a trickle of her blood as it slid down his lips with a disbelieving finger. He licked it off with a slow thick swipe of his tongue, greedy for more of her. His desire for her was beginning to scare him.

“As delicious as you were, I need to find something more filling.” He spun on his heel but stopped himself from fleeing. He needed to leave before he seriously hurt her, but he didn’t like the thought of her crumpled and alone, used and then discarded. Like he had often been. She had placed her life in his hands for his comfort. He couldn’t ever remember receiving such a kindness before. He turned back to face her, still sprawled and heaving on her bedroll.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” And then he was gone, striding confidently into the night.

~

He didn’t think he could hate Cazador more than he already did. But to finally savor such nourishing blood from a beautiful, willing source did not soothe him. It did not bring him relief to finally feel strong and healthy, to finally pierce the mental fog that had clouded his mind for as long as he could remember. Drinking from an oasis after subsisting on spoonfuls of fetid blood for centuries did not bring him peace, but only deepened the darkest pit of his rage.

~

Chapter 2: Gift