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thedreamlessnights · 1 month

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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bluemerakis · 5 months

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┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ I’m the guy mothers warn you about, the son they’re afraid to have ❞

⇀ Word count: 15k words (sorry ☠️)

Guess who finally mustered up the courage to write a Coriolanus Snow fic, and holy shit, this might just be the longest once-off I’ve ever written.

My dear @quicksilversg1rl , this fic goes out to you 100x over. I hope this makes up for the fact that I couldn’t put Tom under your tree ☹️ I hope that it’s enough that I put him in your dreams instead <3

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WARNINGS:

dom!coriolanus, some out-of-pocket makes-you-go “wtaf💀” Coriolanus moments, smut, swearing, possessiveness, manipulation, toxic relationship, choking, pet names, degradation, edging, lots of italics and dashes (sorry I was feeling myself (not literally you sicko) ), masturbation, unprotected sex, cockwarming, dryhumping/wethumping(?), fingering/fisting, oral sex f receiving, the therapy you’ll need after reading these warnings

‼️DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE ABOVE-MENTIONED WARNINGS‼️

SYNOPSIS:

Coriolanus had always known you held potential to win the games, from the day he’d laid his eyes on you at the 10th annual reaping. You were the key he’d been missing all these years, and how he saw almost every opportunity unlocked by your presence at that year’s hunger games.

The secret of how he’d risen into power? The answer was much simpler than anyone had expected. You. Sure, Coriolanus had done his fair share of treason and murder to contribute to his status, but it was your victory that had granted him access to the Plinth fortune and made his ambitions possible. He wasn’t a man that liked to share credit, but he thought your performance in the games a worthy enough candidate.

To show you just how thankful he was, he’d invited you to live with him after the games, for however long you pleased, and he’d made it his mission to show you all the pleasures the Capitol and his lifestyle had to offer. He liked having you near him at all times, and he liked it even better when he was inside of you.

What he didn’t like, though? When you flirted with other men, especially when it served to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus Snow doesn’t like sharing, and he doesn’t tolerate disobedience, either. You’d learn that lesson the hard way.

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Coriolanus was a man bred for purpose, like his father before him, and it was a purpose he often reminded you of—a means to keep your neediness at bay, to tame your urge to be at his side every waking hour of the day, a ploy to remind you just how little value you posed to him outside of a night of fleeting pleasure. He marvelled in the opportunity to make you feel insignificant, a false promise too-quickly forsaken the moment your existence captured another man’s desire—a man that wasn’t him.

In the midst of a party he’d rather not have attended, he watched you from a quiet corner of the venue hall, conversing away with a man he hadn’t had the displeasure of meeting just yet. He didn’t know whether you were honestly that painfully oblivious to the desires of the man before you, who clearly wanted nothing more than a taste of one of the renowned hunger games victors, or whether you had deliberately struck up a conversation to get a rise out of Coriolanus.

But when his eyes narrowed on your hand that reached to move a strand of your hair back to the security behind your ear, he knew then exactly which particular game you were playing.

You always did that when you felt subconscious—when you knew you were being watched. It was a tell that Coriolanus had come to identify the more time he’d spent observing you. He’d needed to—it was necessary in order to know the truths you would not tell him. Not out loud, at least. But now, he was pretty fluent in your body language, in more than one way.

He watched you tilt your head to the side in the slightest manner, an act that often sent all the conservativeness of men toppling over the edge. Your lip suctioned into a concentrated bite as you offered small, attentive nods—you were getting him to think you’re interested in what he has to say, pretending not to notice the way his eyes traced your lips and occasionally flickered across your peeping breasts.

The sight stirred an anger in Coriolanus, his fingers tightening around the glass of wine clutched in one hand. He lifted the wine to his lips, taking a sip as though it would somehow quench the imminent fire that threatened to take control of all reasonability. He couldn’t let you get a rise out of him, not in public where he had an image to uphold. Goddamn you and your games, he hated being the one to play it. That had been the fate of you and the districts, not him—Capitol-born and rich beyond imagination. Was this his retribution to pay? Sentenced to your little games after all he’d brought upon you?

You moved a hand to caress the man’s shoulder, offering a sweet giggle. And then there it was, the slightest glance in his direction, fleeting but an obvious beckon for attention. Coriolanus clenched his jaw as you purposefully turned your back on him, his eyes boring into your exposed shoulder blades, framed by a dress that paraded all the right aspects of your body—a dress he’d picked out for you. He hadn’t gone through all that effort to make you look so ravishing, only for another man to enjoy it. It had been for him, a reminder of what his prize would be after enduring this insufferable party.

He’d planned to rip it from you, as mercilessly as he could offer, to toss it onto the floor and you onto the bed, naked and accessible to whatever he desired. However, you seemed hellbent on denying him a good night. He watched you reach for the man’s hand, your motion suggestive as you tugged on him and began to lead him away from the mayhem.

Coriolanus knew exactly where you were taking him.

He watched you weave your way through the dancing bodies, the music falling into the background as he trailed your every move—the way the man blatantly admired the curve of your ass. What an unacceptable circumstance, to think his favourite toy was not his own limited edition—one only he could afford to play with. After all, why had he endured the battlefield of this unfair life to claim a reward that promised power and money and control, only to feel so helpless in his infatuation over you. He hated what primal need controlled him, rendered him incapable of letting you go.

What had it all been for? The poison, the betrayal, the heinous crimes he’d committed—all to prove that he bore no seal of humanity, felt no obligation to love, until you came along, making him look the fool each time you batted a devious lash or wrung those perfect lips around suggestive words. Each time you spoke was like fragments of an enchantment, slowly being made whole and taking its magical toll on his entire being, beginning to claim everything he was—making him obsess, making him weak.

The day he’d gotten you as his tribute, you’d had been nothing more than a mission—a means to secure a prize that would set him for life. But there had been something about you, something that had drawn him in like a sudden whirlpool, now he couldn’t escape the obsession you’d cursed him with. He’d never before felt the burden of caring about another person’s life, needing to know what they were up to at all times.

Coriolanus recalled seeing you for the first time, the day of the reaping, after the tributes had been transported to the Capitol. He remembered seeing you thrown into the zoo display—the way you had instantly found your feet and ran a hand through your hair, made unruly by a rough and sleepless night. Your brows were knitted closely together with unmistakable anger, a look that promised vengeance to the Capitol despite the silence on your lips. Your dress had been made ragged to match your hair, evidence that the bats had showed no mercy toward your pretty privilege. Maybe it had been your looks that had drawn them in, after all.

He’d been ready to deem you a lost cause, disappointed that once again, he’d been stuck with rigged odds. He had been convinced that somewhere beneath that shredded fabric on your skin, you bore the kiss of rabies, doomed to die like countless before you. But he’d seen a few of the other tributes, bearing the same tells of their struggle with the bats in their shredded clothes and tired eyes. One of those amongst the suffering had been your fellow district twelve tribute, Morgan Lark, and he had possessed the worst wounds out of all the affected.

It’d been less than a few hours until the wounded tributes started retching up fountains of white, their eyes glassy and their movements frantically lost on them. Yet there you had sat, watching with perfect control and composure as they had dwindled into mere husks of the people they used to be.

Coriolanus knew then that you had been different—stronger, a tribute that might just prove the risk to be worth it. He’d insisted on investigating the cart you’d been transported in, eager to know the truth behind your journey. Had you truly been strong enough to evade the consequences of the bats? The mystery of it all was pressing enough to consume his every thought. He needed to know. His future depended on it, depended on you.

That evening, after much persistence and a bribe that he honestly couldn’t have afforded, he’d gained access to your cart. There wasn’t much to look at, given that it was nothing more than an empty container, without even the courtesy of a blanket. The scene was almost hauntingly familiar, personal. Nonetheless, he’d paced the walls, eyes searching every aspect of the metal, every dent and hole in the floor. He’d found nothing other than a few rusty nails—nothing interesting, that is until he’d picked one of them up and inspected it closer to find its apex crusted with blood.

A few of the nails were identical in their blood-coating, not a coincidence. Coriolanus gathered them up into his father’s handkerchief, almost regretting the decision as the rust stained the symbolic, white fabric. He placed them cautiously into his blazer pocket, scanning the cart one last time before making his departure. He made a beeline to the morgue, where the bodies of the five infected tributes had been placed shortly after their passing. He needed to see Morgan Lark’s body, to know what secret you could have hidden in his death.

Once he’d gained access to the corpse, he’d pulled back the white covering. A strong waft of formaldehyde greeted his senses and burned his eyes teary. He had been surprised that the body was being preserved, though he didn’t doubt that Dr. Gual had plans to somehow extract and weaponise the rabies in the next games. The chemicals had instantly become so overwhelming that he had to pull his handkerchief from his pocket, empty the rusted nails onto the tray and cover his mouth and nose with the fabric to keep his nausea at bay.

Coriolanus studied the corpse, struggling to contain his pressing disgust as he laid his eyes on the shredded flesh. The bats had gone to town on Morgan, leaving little sections of skin intact. He’d mustered up the courage to get close enough to inspect the wounds, noting that the scratches embedded along his body were not all the work of the bats. No, some of them had been too deep of a wound for a bat’s claws to commit. He had a very good idea of the origins of those wounds, his eyes flickering to the rusted nails on the tray.

He knew then that it was not strength or immunity that had protected you from the touch of death, but your keen mind and craftiness with sharp objects. Coriolanus had pieced together a rough picture of what had happened: you’d managed to get close enough to cut Morgan with the nails, ensuring wounds that were deep enough to bleed profusely, which attracted and encouraged the bats to attack him. You hadn’t been so lucky to go completely unnoticed by the bats, hence the disheveled dress, but you had sure as hell been lucky enough to have been spared from their bite.

What a clever girl you were, perhaps too much for your own good.

Coriolanus had to admit that he’d been impressed by your cruelty—your drive to survive. It gave you an edge, a promising reason to win. He liked those odds, you were becoming a plausible risk to him. Just what would you have been willing to do to a tribute you’ve yet to meet, if you’d so easily betrayed a fellow district partner?

As he’d left the morgue that evening, he couldn’t deny the smirk that had wound his lips the entire trip back. He knew then that, for the first time in all his years as a mentor, this might be the year that he’d finally claim the Plinth prize.

What a worthwhile pick you had been. He liked good investments, and you had proven to be the best one yet. You’d taken that entire game, playing it smart, staying lost in the shadows and gathering what scraps you could make into a worthwhile means of defence. You weren’t the strongest or the most skilled fighter by any means, but you were smart, and that was a quality lost on many of the tributes.

They all marched around, boasting their strength as some sort of show of dominance. They thought it made them ferocious, earned them another hour of life, but Coriolanus knew that it only drew attention, that they were stupid in bringing about a speedier death. You had known that, too.

Coriolanus slipped out of his mind, watching as you’d stopped by one of the tables to grab a snack, making a point to be sloppy so that the strange man would feel honour in being able to wipe your lips clean, spurring on his ego and his erection. You had pulled that trick on Coriolanus many times. He hated seeing you provide that same sort of attention to anyone else.

His attention was diverted to a pair of Capitol business men, who had approached him and were attempting to bombard him with pitches he couldn’t have been more arsed to consider, not when he had something more pressing on his mind—not when you had deliberately stolen his attention away.

How incredibly selfish that you should demand his time even when you were not at his side, or laying below him with your legs spread open and cunt practically begging for his generosity. He didn’t tolerate time-wasters of any regard, so he’d ensure that you made up for it.

He lifted a dismissive hand toward the face of one of the men, who fell silent with a look of indignation, but even he wasn’t fool enough to unleash his temper unto the heir of the Plinth fortune. Had Coriolanus known that murdering his best friend would have come with so many perks, he’d have made a point to bring about that particular death benefit much sooner.

He lifted the glass to his lips, draining the rich wine that had been marinating the depths of the glass for far too long. He beckoned over one of the runners, placing his empty glass onto the tray before turning his attention back to the business men.

He offered an insincere dip of his chin. “My apologies, but I’ve more pressing matters to tend to. Please, do enjoy the beverages,” he slipped between their dumbfounded bodies, before adding, “and the women, if it’d please you.”

Coriolanus manoeuvred his way through the crowd, his eyes not once leaving you, even if he had to watch you relentlessly flirt with the other man. Not only were you good with your hands, but you unintentionally weaponised your beauty, too. He had always thought you to possess an innocence that seemed to frame your features, a natural gift that kept eyes focused on the contours of your face rather than on the schemes of your hands. That had always been your advantage—in the games and in your everyday interactions.

It made him angry that you’d remade his mind in this way. No matter how much Coriolanus tried to remind himself of the purpose he’d been bred for, all that he’d done to get to where he was now, all the people he’d carelessly murdered—there was no denying the truth:

No matter what higher, callous deity he claimed to be, he was only just a man, carved from anger and burdened with otherworldly jealously. All because of you.

Just as Coriolanus had managed to push past the last of the dancing bodies that had been blocking his path, he spotted you leaving through the doors, dragging your new pet behind you. His footsteps were brisk as he made for that same doorway, his fists balling at his sides as he stifled the urge to redirect his anger unto the unsuspecting door man. No, he’d best save that anger for you, transform it into something that would make you suffer, as he’d been forced to endure this evening.

He slipped through the doors, instantly greeted by a much quieter atmosphere, the laughter and music of the event muffled behind the now closed doors. Across the room, he saw you slip into the elevator, glimpsing just a hint of a smirk on your perfect lips as the doors slid closed and engulfed his view of you.

Annoyance pricked at his chest, he’d have to wait for the elevator to come back down. That was too much time gifted to you, time that could easily be used to bring you one step closer to coming undressed for that man. He’d never found himself wishing for a stairwell more than he did right now, but Capitol architecture stupidly insisted that stairs were a concept made only for the districts.

Coriolanus trudged his way over to the elevator, running an impatient hand through his hair as he watched the countdown of the various different floors commence on the monitor. His residence was the topmost floor, an expensive suite that the Plinths had gifted him on his day of recognition. He’d been kind enough to allow you to stay in one of his rooms, to have you in his proximity at all times where you’d more than once enjoyed the free luxury of his lifestyle, and this is how you’d repaid him—by bringing other men into his sacred space.

He couldn’t help but imagine what you were up to at this instant. The thought of you trapped beneath the man on one of the sofas overlooking the city made him bite the inside of his cheek—those were the sofas he’d so often pinned you to, forcing you to admire the view as he admired you, demonstrating his praise for your beauty through the actions of his fingers in your cunt.

When Coriolanus had first met you, he had thought you hated drawing attention, especially when it warranted a much speedier death in the games. You’d always been so reserved, so hellbent on silence as you kept a calculating eyes on anybody who wasn’t you. He’d like that quiet air about you, it was a call for guidance, a plea for somebody to claim your trust—he knew he could have given that to you.

But now, Coriolanus could have laughed at that thought.

You, hating attention? What an odd facade he’d so easily been fooled by—but he’d grown smarter since your first encounter. He knew the real truth now. What a glorious night that had been, the first time he’d taken you to bed.

He could still smell the desperation that had trailed from your cunt as his nose burrowed into your swollen and beckoning clit—the way his hands had squeezed the skin of your inner thighs a faint blue in his attempt to trap them against the bed. They’d been so eager to wrap around his neck, to make him prisoner within your euphoria. He’d shown his disapproval by wedging your thighs further apart, an action that earned a shocked moan from you, coupled with a gasp at the growing aggression of his tongue inside of you.

How he enjoyed being the puppeteer of your body, pulling your limbs every which way until you’d been contorted and opened up for him to exploit. You often needed reminding that you were sentenced to his will, made prisoner to his desires.

He could still feel the faint traces of your arousal that had painted pictures across the sharp lines of his jaw, mercilessly freed by the way his tongue had ravished your folds and plucked from you what little dignity and silence you had managed to fashion up until that very moment. No matter how much you’d pretend to feel indifferent to his attention, your body had always betrayed you—it was unashamedly and passionately thankful to his ministrations.

Your pathetic moans still echoed on a loop in the dark corners of his mind—an ear worm he couldn’t discard of, though he couldn’t honestly admit that he’d want anything of the sort. It spurred him on, serving as a constant reminder of his pretty possession, and just how much you needed him—his touch, his validation, his attention. He was the poison-kissed oxygen that you couldn’t help but inhale, fooling yourself that it would somehow replenish the air in your lungs and give you the freedom of living, existing, all the while your every bodily cell came closer and closer to becoming his. It didn’t take much for him to claim all that you were and all that you could be, only the right words and that glorious goddamn night in bed.

He’d completely remade you in his image, branded you with his bedroom generosity, always leaving you with just enough to satisfy, but never enough to last for more than a few hours. You always came back begging for more.

What an attention whore.

At last, the elevator dinged its arrival, the doors opening to welcome Coriolanus inside. He slipped in almost instantly, moving to press the button of the top floor. When the doors finally closed, he became trapped in the air lingering inside, noticing a trace of your sweet perfume. He’d come to admire that scent, thought of it as a way to identify every place you’d been in. But your sweet scent had fused with the musky odour of that strange man, an unpleasant smell that suffocated your own in mere seconds. He could only imagine that same odour plastering itself to your neck and all across your clothes as the man forced himself onto you, enjoying what didn’t belong to him.

After a few minutes, the elevator came to a stop, the doors sliding open to reveal two intertwined bodies at the other end of the lobby. You were pinned against the doors to Coriolanus’ suite, the man’s hands wandering beneath your dress and up your magnificent thighs, shrivelled lips sloppily searching the skin of your neck. Your head was tossed back against the wood, eyes sown shut as you let slip the sweetest of moans, a sound that Coriolanus had claimed as his own.

He barged through the elevator doors, the sound of his angered footsteps earning your attention. You lowered your head to him, watching with a playful smile at what was about to unfold. He ignored it, the satisfaction in that grin, the sense of achievement at your ability to control him, have him trailing after you like a dog on a leash. He’d let you have this moment, to savour its short-lived existence because once he was through with this man, he’d show you just how much trouble you’d caused him.

Coriolanus grabbed the oblivious man at the collar of his shirt, too far gone to think with his brain rather than his cock to notice he’d appeared, and plucked him from you. He shoved the man away, who stumbled backwards with his footsteps serving as clear evidence of mild intoxication. The toad began protesting, before his eyes finally found Coriolanus and his lips clamped shut on a look of realisation.

“You come into my house, drink my wine, enjoy my woman, all without a trace of shame?” Coriolanus snapped, his voice gruff with built-up anger.

The man fashioned an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean any offence, Mr. Snow, I swear by it!” His hands made frantic gestures, eager to exonerate himself. “It was her that came onto me, she invited me back here, suggested we get to know each other better—“

Coriolanus lifted his chin, his glare cold as he stared down his nose at the man. “Are you implying that it’s her fault?” It most certainly was, but if Coriolanus had to endure all that had just happened, he intended to have some fun with it.

The man stilled with a look of uncertainty that passed between you and Coriolanus, his hand moving to scratch the back of his head.

“Are you even a man at all, if you’re so easily influenced by a girl that bats her lashes at you and caresses your arm one time?” He had to ignore the irony in that statement; he could’ve almost been talking into a mirror. “You’re pathetic, blaming your lack of control and better judgement on her,” he said, eyes hardening as he took a step forward, the man simultaneously retreating a step with a gulp.

“Go find whatever excuse of a manhood you claim to have in somebody else’s cunt, and don’t let me catch you back in this building. It wont be words that warn you off next time.” His hands clenched into fists at his side, itching to grab the fleeing man and grace him with a well-earned punch—but he wouldn’t gift you that satisfaction, too.

When the elevator doors closed on the stranger, Coriolanus turned to face you. You were picking at your nails busily, as though the entire interaction had bored you beyond interest.

“What were you thinking?” He snapped at you, inching closer to glare you down.

You glanced up from your hands, offering a mere shrug as you crossed your arms and glanced up at him cheekily. “I wasn’t thinking at all, really,” you admitted. “Just wanted to feel some good things.”

Bitterness found its way onto Coriolanus’ tongue. “Do I not make you feel good enough?” He scolded coolly, his eyes searching yours angrily. “Would you rather I call that prick back and have him stick his two expired inches inside you?”

A hint of hurt seemed to widen your eyes, your expression shaped with confusion. “Didn’t think you cared what I got up to,” you muttered, glancing off to the side.

Coriolanus knew that to be complete bullshit, a feeble play at attempting to settle your own insecurities. He knew what you wanted to hear from him—that you mattered to him, that he wanted you to himself, that the mere thought of another man touching you would send him into inexplicable rage. To an extent, those were all true, but not in the way you'd wanted them to be, not in a way he was capable of giving.

He restrained the anger he felt towards you, knowing that he needed to take a gentler approach. You weren't in a state fit to endure his anger, not now. He needed to coddle you, to keep your emotions intact, otherwise he risked losing you. He couldn't have that.

“I care,” he said at last, moving a hand to grip at your chin. He’d forgotten how soft your skin was, it’d been weeks since he’d been permitted to touch you, business keeping him away from your warmth. He moved your face to his, searching between your eyes and your lips. “And you know that I care, too, or you wouldn’t have put on this little display.”

“You don’t care—not really, Coriolanus,” you snapped, your hand plucking his from your chin. “You constantly remind me that I’m nothing more than pleasure to you, an object you love to parade around, so as long as it’s your name engraved on me.”

Correct, he thought, his hand returning to his side. He gazed at you, the cogs of his mind reeling busily as he cautiously selected his next words. He couldn’t be angry with you, not now when you were so fragilely being kept together by emotion. It mattered what he said to you, even if the words weren’t honest. He knew that you needed reassurance, something akin to love to cling to, to keep you satisfied beside him. The condition that came with having a toy he loved to play with, was having to look after it, to ensure it didn’t break or wear with time.

That was exactly what he had to do with you, so he fed you whatever conniving words he could to keep you indulged in whatever illusion you’d had about your relationship with Coriolanus. A necessary evil to preserve his hold over you. He was selfish that way, but you were far too entertaining to let slip, and he did rather enjoy you—your company and your body.

Truthfully, you did have some sort of hold over him, and he’d let just enough of that truth show to control you, to convince you of his love for you.

“In all my years of existing, I've never once felt compelled to share my life with somebody else," Coriolanus told you softly. He moved his hand to return that same rogue strand of hair back behind your ear. "Not until you. I can't explain it, the way the mere thought of you with another man sends me into an unparalleled rage—to think that he could give you something I couldn't. The thought of somebody touching you the way I touch you. . . It's unbearable, unacceptable."

He placed his hands on either one of your cheeks, lifting your head to face him. His words had too easily buttered you up, moulded your face with a look of infatuation. “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have followed you all the way up here. I’d have let you fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, however you want. But the fact is, I care—a lot.”

You still harboured a certain look of uncertainty in your eyes, those damned eyes that made him go feral. He could tell that you wanted to believe him, but you had reservations that he hadn’t yet satisfied with his words. He needed to say more, do more.

“Do you see me chasing after any other girl the way I chase after you?” He pressed on, grabbing your face a little more ferociously, just to sell the point. “You’ve consumed me, reduced any ounce of respect I’ve once had for myself to nothingness. I could’ve had you pawned off the Capitol after the games, to do whatever bidding they demanded of you, but I chose to keep you by my side, to spoil you with everything you deserve for winning the games. Tell me one person who’d be willing to do the same for a district nobody that they held no care for?”

Your eyes had grown teary at his words, your bottom lip quivering beyond your control. You had meant to look tougher, Coriolanus could tell, unmoved by his words, but you were only just a naive girl burdened with the need to be loved. So you believed it, every poisonous word dripping from his lips—lapped it up hungrily like a douse of honey, in fact. Perfect. He was gaining back your trust.

You caved into Coriolanus, his hands falling from your face to wrap around your body and keep you against him. His one hand curled around the nape of your neck while the other wrapped around the small of your back, so perfectly shaped to accommodate his arm. How could he be convinced that you were not made just for him, when every aspect of your body seemed to be carved just for his touch? The hand on your head began to move with rhythmic strokes across your hair, his lips moving to place a kiss on the crown of your head. He rested his chin where he’d placed his kiss, as though sealing in the sensation, before he spoke up.

“You were incredibly selfish tonight,” he murmured. You pulled back subtly to glance up at him with slightly furrowed brows, and he lifted his chin from your head to gaze back at you impassively. “You put me through hell, making me watch as you flirted with that man, touched on him all over as you promised him sex. Do you think that was fun for me?”

Your eyes glinted with a hint of guilt, your lips parting with a soft no.

“No,” Coriolanus agreed, his eyes undeniably annoyed as he glared at your guilt-ridden expression. His fingers ventured along your back, finding the zip to your dress, the only thing keeping your body prisoner in the fabric. He tugged at the zip, harshly at first, his need to punish you poking through his actions, but he had to refrain from that for the time-being. More slowly, he began to pull the zip down your body. “I think it only fitting that you should be punished for your little games, don’t you agree?” His eyes flickered back up to yours coolly, almost challenging you to disagree.

The fabric of your dress grew loose on your body, the straps beginning to slide along the slope of your shoulders. You glanced up at him in silence, not wanting to admit the words, but the neediness on your expression told him that you were all game for your punishment—not that it ever was something unpleasant. Coriolanus was always generous when it came to putting you in your place.

“Glad we’re on the same page, dove,” he said, the dress releasing your body at last. It pooled onto the floor around your heels, leaving you barren save for the bra suffocating your breasts. He glanced down at your lower half, faintly surprised to find that you’d neglected the courtesy of wearing any underwear.

"Was this supposed to be an apology?" He asked, glancing back at you through a charming smirk.

A smile broke through onto your lips. "I thought it'd make undressing me quicker," you replied, lowering yourself to remove the heels from your feet. You were glad to be free of that hell. They made your calves look good, but they were torture on your feet.

"Well, aren't you considerate?" Coriolanus responded, then paused before adding. "So you knew how this night would end, with you and I nothing but a sexual amalgamation?”

"It was more of a hope,” you replied as you straightened yourself up.

Coriolanus' constraint gave in at your insinuations, his hand moving to caress your cheek, his eyes lowering to your perfect lips that he craved to taste in that very moment. You reached up to deliver the unspoken need onto his lips, but he kept you grounded with a hand around your collarbone. "You're not kissing me with those lips," he told you. “Not after that prick has wiped his saliva all over you.”

His hand left your body to reach into his blazer pockets. He pulled out a key, his hand snaking around your waist to slip the key into the door hole. His face was intentionally leaned close to yours, his eyes narrowed with a mixture of concentration as he struggled to unlock the door, and because he could smell the man’s cologne clinging desperately to your skin. He’d need to take care of that before the evening could proceed, it was a detrimental hinderance to his cock. At last, the doors gave in with a loud click, and he pulled the key from the lock.

He leaned back with a curt beckoning of his chin. "After you,” he said, placing the key back into his blazer, his eyes not once neglecting yours.

You gave him a long stare, almost daring to be disobedient before you clearly thought better of it. You bent over to collect your dress and your shoes before turning to push the doors open. Coriolanus dropped his attention to your ass, which practically begged for his approval as it bounced with your every step. He entered inside after you, closing the doors behind him.

You ventured a few steps into the well-furnished living room of the suite and tossed your clothing onto the nearest sofa, your eyes trained on the glass walls that offered a breath-taking view of Panem. You’d always marvel over the cityscape as if it was your first time seeing it, but in all honesty, it was the fact that the lights of Panem fashioned a different colour each night, and it always seemed to illuminate new buildings and views that you’d never noticed before.

Coriolanus watched you, your hand absentmindedly reaching to hold your elbow as you admired the view—one that you’d already seen countless times before, he thought. He wondered whether you were contemplating your circumstances in this instant, as if the reality of what you’d done had finally started to sink in, and what the consequences to follow would be. He could read you fairly well, but there were still moments that your thoughts were lost on him.

“Are you scared?” He asked, his voice echoing throughout the empty space.

You turned to face him, your hands falling to your side. The lighting was dim, but the amusement etched onto your features were clear. “Scared? I didn’t survive the games only to be scared of you, Coriolanus Snow. Besides, this is hardly our first rodeo. I can’t imagine there’s much more surprises you could spring on me.”

Coriolanus cocked his eyebrows, smiling at those words. He appreciated your effortless wit. Most of Panem’s ladies were annoyingly submissive in their conversation, saying only what they thought he wanted to hear, as though it’d make them more desirable to him. You didn’t need to be told what to say, you just said it, and he was glad for it. Control could be exhausting, especially when he strove to maintain it in almost every aspect of his life. It was refreshing to know that he didn’t have to control your personality, too.

“Good,” he said, inching closer until he could reach out a hand to grab your arm. He turned you around forcefully, cool fingers teasingly tracing the skin of your shoulder as he made his way down to the clasp of your bra. He undid the hook, freeing your breasts from the pretty white lace, before tossing it onto the sofa beside your other discarded items. He turned you back to him, his eyes instantly lowering to the hardened nipples crowning your soft breasts. “Somebody’s eager,” He jested, his voice a soft rumble as his eyes rose to meet yours. “Did you want something from me?”

“You know I always do, Coryo,” you responded, taking your lower lip into a subtle bite.

Coriolanus’s eyes hardened at that nickname. “Don’t call me that,” he demanded. That version of himself had died a long time ago.

Your eyebrows cocked at his tone, your lips momentarily pursed before you asked, “should I call you Mr. Snow instead?”

“Just Coriolanus,” he replied, rolling his shoulders to remove his crimson blazer. Your eyes were stalking his every move. He could tell that you wanted nothing more than to reach out to what little clothing remained on his body and tear it away mercilessly—that you wanted him to take you right here at this very instant. But he was faintly impressed at your patience as you decided against any reckless action, instead opting to wait for his next command.

He folded his blazer and draped it over his arm, his free hand beckoning for you to follow him to his bedroom. “Come on.”

Your eyes followed his footsteps, your disbelief keeping your feet glued to the ground. Coriolanus glanced over his shoulder when your footsteps didn’t commence behind him. Your reaction was justifiable. He’d never once once invited you into his room in all the months you’d lived with him. He knew that you were foolishly thinking that this moment marked an intimate milestone in your relationship, that this act was an attempt for him to show just how much you meant to him.

“Problem?” He asked.

You willed away the dumbfounded look on your face, offering a half-hearted no as you caught up to Coriolanus. As if the sentiment was fragile, you merely walked ahead of him in silence, afraid that one wrong word would revoke the invite.

He trailed behind you as you approached the door to his bedroom. You tossed a glance over your shoulder as you sought out confirmation in your actions. Coriolanus gave a small nod, an encouraging smirk poking through. You smiled back, turning your attention to opening the door. You slipped inside, your attention instantly flying to the furniture that occupied the space. It was modest, very limited to necessities.

The bed, needlessly big, was slightly undone, the comforters left untidy as though he’d just climbed out of bed and the covers half pulled from the pillows—a picture frozen in time. A plate and a mug was stacked onto the bedside table, the previous day’s clothes draped across the sofas near the windows. Your eyes were fixating every detail around the room, as though burning a mental picture into your mind as a souvenir for later.

Coriolanus moved to place his blazer beside his other clothes on the sofa. “Sorry for the mess,” he offered, moving to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. “As I’m sure you know, I don’t usually have the worry of entertaining guests.”

You turned to face him, your eyes lowering to his skilful fingers. “I like the mess,” you responded, making your way over to him. “It feels personal, seeing this side of you—allow me to.” You shooed his hands off the waistcoat, taking his place in undoing the buttons. You glanced up at him seductively, your eyes flickering down to his full lips.

He watched you undress him, slowly but surely, knowing that he could’ve done a much faster job. But he allowed you to take on the role, knowing that it made you feel important, that your body would show him just how thankful you were and how much these little details meant to you. Once you had unfastened the last button, you removed the waistcoat and admired his toned and broad physique, painfully concealed behind his white shirt.

Coriolanus glared at your wandering eyes, wondering whether you were trying to picture him naked. He’d never been fully undressed in all of their little rendezvous, it was something far too intimate for him. And there had only been a few occasions where he’d fucked you with his cock and not his fingers or his mouth. He’d found himself deriving the utmost pleasure when he got to solely focus on how you came undone for him, how powerful his every movement upon you really was.

When your hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, he grabbed at your wrist. “Not yet,” he told you. “You still reek of him.” You frowned at his words, your hands falling to your sides in disappointment. “Come with me,” he said, moving past you toward the bathroom. “We’re going to take a little bath.”

Your interest peaked at his words. “We’re going to bath together?” You asked curiously as you followed after him.

“You’re going to bath,” Coriolanus corrected as he reached the large alcove bathtub. He leaned over to turn on the tap. “I’m going to watch.” His hand trailed the many soaps and balms that lined the rim of the bathtub. He’d made it a mission to collect every scented product he could manage once he got his hand on the money, simply because he could, and he liked smelling good.

“Sounds perverted,” you shot at him, crossing your arms as you watched him draw your bath.

He grabbed ahold of a rose-scented oil and began pouring it into the water. “You didn’t agree to live with me because of my normalcy,” he said distractedly. “But because you knew just how much my so called perversion had to offer your pathetic, little, touch-starved body.”

He tossed a glance at you over his shoulder, satisfied by the red gleam that had snuck onto your cheeks. He turned his attention back to the tub, reaching for a bottle of bubble bath. He began adding it to the water, a few droplets reaching up to stain his shirt.

“In any case,” Coriolanus continued. “It’s the least you could do for me after tonight’s shit-show.” He placed the bottle back against the wall, closing the tap once the water had reached an appropriate level. He unbuttoned the cufflinks of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves, taking a few paces back. He jerked his head at you. “Go on,” he demanded.

You unfurled into a dramatic stretch, parading your breasts as you faced him. “Join me.”

He fixed you with an unwavering stare, not so keen to play into another one of your games. “Get in.”

With one last glare, you turned and dipped one leg into the bath, instantly pulling back with a hiss. Your head snapped to face him. “It’s too hot,” you protested.

Coriolanus moved to retrieve a chair from the corner of the bathroom, placing it a few inches from where you stood. He sat himself down, offering a mere shrug to your words. “Good observation.”

“I’m not going to burn myself bloody just so that you can get off,” you spat.

“Then let’s kill some time while we wait for the water to cool down,” he suggested, his eyes once again tracing over every inch of your exposed body with keen interest.

You looked open to his request. “What did you have in mind?”

Coriolanus’s eyes flickered back up to you. “Touch yourself,” he said earnestly. You paused at his words, suddenly looking self-conscious, before you hesitantly began to caress your breasts. He watched your fingers squeeze and grope at your skin, imagining that it were his own hands in their stead, only he’d be a lot less kind in his touch. Your fingers trailed teasing circles around your nipples, further hardened at your own toying and his intense observation.

“Lower,” he ordered, feeling frustrated at your lack of venturing into your lower extremities.

Your eyes glinted at him, a look that seemed to say greedy. Yes, he was. Who could blame him? He’d grown up starving for most days of the year, now he’d take as much as he wanted.

His eyes fixated the hand that lowered in a painfully slow motion across your stomach, reaching that sweet spot housed between your legs. As your fingers began to fondle with your clit, you threw your head back with a pitiful moan. He knew he could’ve extracted a louder sound. He almost felt obliged to take over, but he had to remind himself that you were undeserving of his touch, that you needed to be punished with the urge to feel him, yet be denied that pleasure.

A few minutes of your fondling had passed before your ministrations eventually became too overwhelming to maintain control over your body. You lowered yourself to the bathmat, your hand not once leaving your cunt. You spread your legs open, offering a broader view to Coriolanus. Your eyes were glazed over as you glanced at him. He tilted his head slightly in approval, feeling his own cock growing interested at his view of your pathetic situation.

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he praised, noting the way your eyes lowered to his pants. He parted his legs slightly to take the pressure off of his growing erection, eager to hide his arousal. He didn’t want you to notice just yet how much he was truly enjoying this. Your movements eventually became more erratic, incoherent sounds spewing from your lips.

“I need you, Coriolanus,” you managed to blabber out, your tired head resting onto the rim of the bathtub, eyes periodically fluttering closed as you alternated between consciousness and whatever universe of pleasure was found behind your eyes. “Please,” you begged.

“You’ll have me soon,” he said, “when I see it fit.”

“I’ve been good for you,” you protested breathlessly. “I’ve done everything you told me to.”

“You have a lot to atone for,” Coriolanus pointed out, his eyes lowering to where your hand had slowed its movements. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

You glanced at him past your tired lids, but you obliged nonetheless, adding a finger inside of your cunt to increase the pressure. He supposed it was fair, if he had refused to place his own fingers inside of you. He couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto lips as he watched a stream of white begin to trail from your opening, recalling how good you tasted. It was a shame, really, that it would go to waste onto the bathroom mat instead of onto his appreciative tongue. From the sound of your pathetic mewling and your ragged breathing, Coriolanus knew that you were growing close to your high. He didn’t intend for the fun to end just yet.

“I want you to continue until you feel like you’re going to cum,” he told you, though he wasn’t sure you’d heard him past you own noise. “And then I want you to stop just before that happens.”

“That’s mean, Coriolanus,” you managed to say.

“You haven’t seen mean yet, dove,” he said. “Now stop talking and focus.”

Your fingers picked up their pace with a newfound eagerness, the knot in your stomach growing inescapably larger, the urge to come undone becoming harder and harder to contain. Coriolanus wasn’t sure you’d obey his command at this point, you looked too far gone to resume control over your own actions. His eyes narrowed, watching closely at what fate you’d choose to follow. Much to his disappointment, you practiced constraint, your hips shooting up with anticipation, only to sink to the floor as you denied yourself the orgasm.

You glanced at Coriolanus past your teary lashes, a silent request for praise. He heeded your need, rising from his seat to crouch beside your slumped figure. He combed the loose hair from your face, wiping away the beads of sweat that dotted your forehead.

“You’re too good for this world,” he murmured sweetly. He felt as though he could have choked on the banality of his words, but the soft look in your eyes as you gazed up at him made it worthwhile. He nodded to your hand, still resting on your cunt. “Show me how good you felt.”

You pulled your hand from its playground between your legs, creamy white webs entangled on your fingers. They pulled a string along your stomach as you lifted your fingers for Coriolanus to study.

“It almost looks like you don’t need my help,” he chuckled, his hand fastening around your wrist to bring your fingers to his lips. His blue eyes bore down into you as he took each of your fingers into his mouth. One by one, his tongue hungrily weaved around them, claiming your juices from your skin.

You gazed at him with a wild look ablaze in your eyes. “Don’t I deserve a taste?” You said. “After all, I did all the hard work. I deserve to taste the fruits of my labour.”

“You should be modest,” Coriolanus said once he removed your fingers from his mouth. “Nobody likes a brag.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” you retorted lightly, your eyes glinting with exhaustion. “I like you.”

“Mhm,” he offered softly, placing your hand gently onto your chest. He reached his hand between your legs, an action that caused your thighs to stiffen around him. “Relax,” he cooed, pressing his palm into one of your thighs, encouraging you to open up to him.

“Sorry,” you said, easing off the defensiveness. “I’m sensitive down there at the moment.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, gazing at your fragile expression. Fuck, he could take you right here. His fingers moved with caution as they glided along the folds of your drenched cunt, gathering up your cum into untidy clumps. He followed a trail of arousal that had traveled down into the cleft of your ass, pressing a teasing finger into your asshole.

You gasped at the sudden invasion, and Coriolanus’s throat rumbled with a chuckle. He removed his fingers and brought them to your lips. You glanced at his slender fingers, not needing much convincing to take them into your mouth. You turned your attention to him as you began to suck at him suggestively, exaggerating your head bobbing as you made a point to cover the entire length of his fingers.

He watched you with a lopsided smirk, enjoying the whore-like behaviour you so willingly offered him. Now and again, he’d thrust his fingers a little too deep, more than what your throat could handle, which caused you to gag around him. Strings of your saliva had begun to slither down his exposed forearm, pleasantly warm on his skin. He imagined his cock in the stead of his fingers, enjoying the same warmth and wetness your mouth had to offer.

When you’d decidedly had enough of licking his fingers clean, you pulled your lips from him with a characteristic pop. Coriolanus reached that hand over the bathtub, dipping it into the water to feel its temperature. It had cooled down considerably, but it was still warm enough for a worthwhile soak. He withdrew his hand and wiped his fingers onto his shirt.

“The bath will get cold soon,” he told you. “Get in.”

“Is that all?” You asked disappointedly.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll show you what I’ve got in stock for you.” He straightened up and took a few paces back as you perked with new resolve and found your feet.

He backed up to reclaim his position on the chair, crossing his legs as he watched you. Your back was momentarily on him as you climbed into the bathtub, the water sloshing a welcome. You submerged yourself into the warmth almost instantly, a content groan reverberating in your throat. His eyes lowered to your hand, which had began to spread the foam of the bubble bath across your bare chest and breasts.

“The water’s so good,” you murmured.

“Don’t get too relaxed,” he warned.

“Why don’t you join me, Coriolanus,” you said, your eyes fluttered open as you moved to fold your arms onto the lip of bathtub. You rested your chin onto your arms, glancing at the erection he could no longer conceal. “I’ll take good care of your little cock, that should keep me on my toes.” Your expression beamed at your choice of words, deliberately chosen to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus merely scoffed at your teasing. He had many things to prove, but the size of his cock was not one of them.

“You sure you could handle me, since you’re still so sensitive down there?” He asking mockingly. He leaned back into his chair, his hand coming up to clench his chin, the other grabbing his elbow.

You tilted your head prettily to one side. “Only one way to find out,” you murmured, leaning back against the wall of the tub as you kicked your foot out and onto the edge. Water splashed partially onto the bathmat, but most had been caught by the bare floor.

Coriolanus lowered his eyes to the puddle. “You’re making quite a mess for someone who’s been in here for less than half an hour.”

“Give me an hour and you’ll see just how much of a mess I can make,” you challenged.

He lifted his chin to face you, his eyes narrowing the slightest. This side of you was something he’d never experienced before; you were a lot more daring, undoubtedly brought on by the importance you felt at being allowed the opportunity to bathe in his bathroom and in his company. He’d like to test just how long you could keep up this illusion of bravery, and how quickly you’d drop it when he had you sprawled onto his fingers.

“Come here, then,” he said, uncrossing his legs and spreading it as an invitation for your thighs.

Your eyes snuck a peak at his hard on before you broke away from your slutty pose and climbed from the warmth of the tub. You took a few steps toward Coriolanus, water and soap slithering down the curves of your body and onto the floor.

You stopped short of his legs. “You’re sure?” You asked, eyes making a point of the shirt and pants he still wore. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with a little less on?”

Coriolanus grunted from a place of impatience, reaching out his hand to grab at your wrist. He pulled you into his lap, rough hands guiding your hips to comfortably straddle his clothed thighs. The soapy water coating your body began to bleed into his clothes, his pants the most affected, but he could hardly be arsed in this moment. He just needed to feel you, needed to use you. His fingers gripped at your thighs, his heavenly blue eyes boring down onto your strained expression as he began to forcibly guide your bare cunt over his bulge.

Coriolanus’s movements set a generous pace, endorphins bolting through your core each time his bulge struck your sensitive clit. The texture of his pants was harsh on your skin, creating a friction that seemed to generate copious amounts of heat—screw sticks and stones, this method of fucking could have started all the fires in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lower half instinctively beginning to cooperate as you rocked back and fourth in sync with his guidance.

Your head came to rest in the chiselled crook of his neck, his earthy fragrance fucking heaven-sent on your senses, further engulfing you in bliss. His throat vibrated against your ear with strained moans, they came as subtle grunts that prompted his hands to speed up the pace. He was so eager to feel you, to settle his drawn-out erection. You winced as his fingers burrowed into the skin of your thighs. He’d neglected all caution in your handling, his need to control your movements overpowering what slither of consideration he’d held for your comfort.

It didn’t take long for the stinging sensation to blend with your pleasure, slurred moans pouring from your lips as you felt cum begin to leak from your entrance. It lubricated the fabric of Coriolanus’s pants, offering some relief from the coarse material. You screwed your eyes shut and pressed your face into his shirt, eager to muffle the mewls of pleasure you seemed to have zero control over. His chest rumbled with a breathy fuck, and you felt his body momentarily convulse with the overwhelming feelings your bodies shared.

You turned your head, your nose brushing against the skin of his neck. Your eyes fluttered open, drinking in the view of his adam’s apple, so prominent and manly. It bobbed as Coriolanus swallowed a moan. You brought your furthest hand forward to hook the side of his neck, pulling him against your lips. He didn’t resist, it’s almost as though he was too focused on his own work to pay attention to your own dealings. You littered sloppy kisses all across his neck, placing extra emphasis around his adam’s apple. You kissed all around the bulge before giving into your thoughts and dragging your tongue over it, leaving a sloppy trail in your wake.

The warmth and wetness of your tongue on his throat made Coriolanus release an unexpected groan, a hand leaving your hips to wrap around your throat. You let slip a chuckle at his action, and he held you out in front of him, his cold eyes glaring into yours as he decided to brutalise his movements. You moaned loudly, the sound strained as you forced it past his suffocating hold on your neck.

“Coriolanus,” you choked out breathlessly, your hands sliding along his broad shoulders. “I need you inside of me.”

“You’ve waited this long,” Coriolanus muttered. “You can wait a little longer.” His hold on your throat grew tighter, your vision starting to blur behind a mixture of fresh tears and your compromised oxygen.

He watched your eyes flutter closed and your teeth clench as you inched closer and closer to your edge, your nails digging through his shirt and into his shoulders, steading yourself against his aggression. His singular hand on your hip began to cramp at his incessant groping and steering, but he was beginning to feel his own orgasm approaching, and that was motivation enough to push through—that, and your whorish desperation.

He released his grip on your neck, the air returning to your lungs as a cough and a splutter. He hooked the nape of your neck and pulled you into the comfort of his shoulder, urging you to rest your tired head there as he finished you both off. With both hands once again firm on your hips, he picked up the pace. He rested his chin onto the crown of your head, his eyes fluttering closed as he allowed the scent of your conditioner to swallow his senses.

With each movement, he brought you down harder onto his cock, craving rougher strokes. The squelching of the cum coating your folds and spreading along his pants was music to his ears, and he gritted his teeth to bite back his ragged breathing so that he could continue to hear the way he’d transformed your cunt. He could feel his own pre-cum trickling from his tip, the warmth spreading along his shaft by the generosity of your wet folds. Fucking hell did he yearn to be inside of you, almost as much as you craved him, but he had to be stronger than his own desires.

It didn’t take long before every nerve tracing the length of his cock began to fire rapid impulses, the prolonged stimulation proving to be too overbearing. His lips parted with strained breaths, the black abyss behind his eyes beginning to birth a cosmos of anticipatory stars. The image built and built until he thrust you one last violent time along his cock, his hips rocking up into you, delivering just the right ounce of pressure before white engulfed his vision.

His grip on your hips loosened, his ears buzzing with the aftermath of his high. He hadn’t even realised that you’d come undone before he had, your whimpers and vulgar pleas lost in his concentration. The only evidence of your orgasm was the new patch of wetness that had marked his pants, a generous mixture of squirt and cum.

Your breathless voice sounded at his ear as you moved your head from under his chin. “I want to feel like that all the time.”

“That can be arranged, dove,” he chuckled hoarsely.

You felt his hand leave your hip, the skin there instantly growing cool. He dragged his fingers repeatedly along the wisps of your hair. It was as though he were petting a dog, only his touch was a lot gentler and more intimate. You allowed your eyes to flutter closed, your lips parting with a content sigh as you waited for the ecstasy of your orgasm to dissolve. You rested your chin on his shoulder, listening to the calm of his breathing, focusing on his hand caressing your hair.

You pulled back to glance at him, his eyes questioning as he returned your stare. Your attention moved to his lips, they looked so soft and plump, not nearly red enough. You’d been robbed of the opportunity to nibble on them, to contort them between your own lips, to taste the wine he’d downed at the party. You didn’t think you’d be properly satisfied until you got your wish. Did that make you ungrateful?

Coriolanus offered a faint smirk, your thoughts loud and clear. How selfish of him, he’d forgotten to kiss you during your little ride. Not a train-smash, he had the entire night to make up for that. His hand on your hair tightened there, forcing you into his vicinity. You wanted to protest at the hairs pulling at your scalp, but you hadn’t gotten the chance, not when his lips silenced yours in a hungry tumble.

He didn’t kiss you as often as you would’ve liked, but when he did, it was always imbued with passion, his movements erratic like he’d been starving and you were the first source of food he’d encountered in days. You got lost in the movement of his lips, the pace so fast that you couldn’t properly match it, though not for lack of trying. You allowed yourself to be swept up in his kiss, accepting that he was in control.

Coriolanus moved his hands to grab ahold of your breasts, his attention marvellously divided between fondling them and tracing his tongue along the inside of your mouth. You moaned into him, the sound muffled and lost to your entanglement. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, offering a sharp nip that caused you to wince in surprise. You felt his lips broaden in a smug smile, his hands neglecting your breasts and trailing a seductive path down your waist to deliver a crisp spank to your ass.

The skin stung where he’d struck you, but he was so quick to soothe the ache with gentle rubbing. The curves of your ass fit so perfectly into his palms. He pulled his lips from yours, not sparing even an instant for you to process his movements before his sharp nose found sanctuary in your cleavage. He littered kisses there before moving to plant a trail around the circumference of your breasts.

“Coriolanus,” you moaned, your head lolling back.

He hummed against your skin, a halfhearted acknowledgement. His hand found its way between your thighs, his middle finger sliding between your labia where beads of your brand new arousal waited to greet him. He slathered his fingers in your juice, lubricating the skin before he slid his finger into your entrance.

Your entire composure collapsed at that, the built up suspense of needing him inside you satisfied at last. Your entrance clamped around him at first, the sensation always forgotten with how few and far apart these glorious moments were spread, but within a fraction of a second, you melted onto his finger.

You nibbled at your lower lip, the bite deepening as Coriolanus’s teeth found your nipple. He alternated between tugging at your hardened buds and swirling his tongue around and all over it, mischievously marking steaks of saliva along your skin. A few seconds later, his ring and index finger joined the party within you.

Your grip on his shoulders lowered down his back, eagerly clawing at the hard and chiselled muscles, but his damned shirt got in the way. You pulled back, Coriolanus’ lips robbed of your breasts. He glanced at you, his fingers continuing their thrusts. Your hands flew to tug at the buttons of his shirt. The first few you’d managed to undo, but you had finite patience for the others, resorting to an aggressive tug that split the buttons from the fabric.

“Are you going to pay for that?” Coriolanus jested lightly.

“I’m sure there’s plenty more shirts where that one came from,” you said hastily, yanking the sleeves down his broad shoulders.

You instantly dove in to kiss at his chest. He’d never been excessively muscled, but he was still strong and toned, his frame broad and absolutely mouth-watering to gaze upon. Your hands wandered along his chest, sliding along his shoulders and down his arms. You attempted to tug his shirt all the way off, Coriolanus aiding your motion as he momentarily pulled his fingers from inside you.

He rolled his shoulders and removed his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. You glanced at his torso, now completely exposed to you. You couldn’t stifle the smile on your lips, thinking that he looked a lot like a male stripper—bare-chested yet still clothed from the waist down, presenting himself on a chair. All he was missing was a sexy dance of some sort.

Coriolanus frowned at your gawking. “What’s on that mind of yours?”

You pursed your lips. “Nothing,” you answered, placing a kiss on his lips. You moved to murmur in his ear, “now If it’s not too much to ask, would you kindly stick your fingers back inside of me?”

When you withdrew to look at him, Coriolanus wore a wicked smirk. “What a slutty thing to say.” His fingers returned to your cunt, but instead of easing his way inside, he opted for his whole hand at once.

You didn’t know whether you were more shocked at his gesture, or the way your cunt had easily welcomed him. His movements were considerably less cautious than before, but you didn’t care about that now, only that he was finally inside of you. You let out a lengthy moan, so eager to verbalise your appreciation. Your hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading them together as you tilted your head back.

You closed your eyes and focused on his hand inside you, how each thrust grew deeper and closer to your sweet spot. It’s as though he’d already mapped out your insides, his fingers knowing exactly which way to wander. Gods, you truly didn’t know whether you or Coriolanus enjoyed this more. He kept up a regular pace for a while, and you’d quickly grown impatient and needy for his brutality.

“Faster,” you complained.

Coriolanus slowed his movements, coming to a complete stop. He wholly expected the miserable look on your face as your head snapped down to face him. How could he allow you to think that he was here to serve you, as opposed to you serving him. He wasn’t just going to hand you what you wanted, life certainly hadn’t been that generous with him. No, you’d have to work for it.

“Okay, we can go faster,” he said, cocking his head slightly. You regained a spark at those words, but it quickly blew out at what came next. “But you’ll do it yourself, since you’re unsatisfied with what I’m giving you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—“ you attempted to protest, but Coriolanus cut you off with free his index finger pressing against your lips, his lips fashioned in a hush.

“No talking,” he murmured. “Just get to work.” He beckoned down to your cunt, his hand motionless inside of you.

Devastated at having to do the work yourself, you crossed your arms around his neck, your expression adorably resentful as you lifted your hips and began to ride him. Coriolanus lowered his free hand to rest at your hip, his attention wandering to your breasts. He couldn’t have ignored them even if he tried, not when they were bouncing inches from his face and calling out for attention. Your moans quickly commenced, your hips already starting to tremble with your next orgasm. You tossed your head back, your movements becoming uncoordinated, like your body had already started to give up.

Coriolanus felt your walls begin to clench around his hand, glancing up to glimpse your face. “Look at me,” he called to you. Your head lowered to face him at once, your eyelids drooping. “Are you going to cum?” He asked, and you nodded eagerly, followed by a strewn out moan.

Good, he thought. His hand on your hip began to press against your movements, interrupting the pace you’d managed to get going. Your eyes widened as your orgasm retracted into a dissatisfying gasp, the high that had been building instantly collapsed at your sudden lack of movement.

“Coriolanus,” you snapped, your tone coming across as a whine. You’d become frustrated with his teasing, and your body shared the sentiment. Your clit ached now, exhausted tremors seizing every muscle of your body. “You’re being a dick!”

“No,” he countered, pulling his hand from your entrance. He looked condescending as his eyes flickered across you face. “I’m punishing you, just like I promised. You’re getting exactly what you deserve, but you’re spoiled and used to getting your way.”

You didn’t have anything to retort, so you glared at him in silence, ignoring the hurt that his words had inflicted upon you.

“Don’t pout,” he murmured, wiping his wet hand along your thigh.

Then, without warning, he hoisted you up at the thighs and manoeuvred you bridal-style from the bathroom towards the bedroom. He lowered you onto the undone comforters of his bed, leaning down with you to place a swift kiss on your furrowed brows. He straightened up at the foot of the bed, his hands reaching for your calves.

“You want to cum?” He asked, his fingers wrapping around your legs to pull you down the bed and closer to where he stood. “I’ll make you cum, over and over again.” That was a promise.

Your lips parted with shock, words scattering from your tongue as his hands travelled over yours knees and grabbed at your thighs. He pried your legs apart, exposing your cunt to him. The last view you captured of him was the way his eyes traced your exposed lower half, a barely noticeable smirk pulling at one corner of his lips. Then, his head dipped into you, his tongue flat and rough on your folds.

You threw your head back into the sheets, your fingers instantly curling into the material as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded and preventing you from getting carried away into another universe. Coriolanus was conscious to strike his nose against your tender clit every so often, clearly enjoying the way it sent a jerk through your body. It was like his own personal control-switch to play with. You were too exhausted to limit the noises that you produced for him, so everything came out a loud and blabbering mess. You didn’t ever want to stop being touched this way.

Coriolanus was a clean man. He liked to keep his hair tamed, his jaw void of any developing beard that he felt would deface his appearance. But it had to have been a week since his last shave, you thought. You could feel the faint stubble poking through, grazing your intimate area as he ravished you below. It was the perfect addition to your arousal, adding just enough noise to push you into overstimulation.

You fought the urge to lift your lower half from the sheets, to greedily claim a deeper thrust of his tongue. He wouldn’t take kindly to that, and you didn’t think you had the capacity to endure any more teasing. Instead, you opened your thighs even wider, your hands releasing the comforter to grip at your breasts.

Coriolanus approved of your behaviour, his praise coming in the form of his tongue up your entrance. You let slip a breathy gasp, your jaw clenching at the lightning that seemed to obscure your vision.

“Fuck, Coriolanus,” you drawled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Please—let me cum!”

He hummed against your clit, the vibrations serving as the fucking icing on top of this sex-themed cake. You core knotted, your breath catching in your throat. Your eyes screwed shut, the pressure building and building and threatening to spill over as Coriolanus’ tongue picked up the pace. He twirled your clit around, his fingers pinching at your thighs, and just like that, your body released all the tension of the evening.

Your chest bobbed up and down with heavy breathing, not feeling as though you could bear to open your eyes. It’s only when you felt Coriolanus’ warmth withdraw from your thighs that you lifted your head to glance up at him. He straightened up and met your gaze with an impressed look, his perfect lips offering a smile—a genuine smile. The sight set off butterflies in your stomach. He was proud of you and your performance.

“You did well, dove,” he praised.

You beamed at his compliment, words not easily extracted from him. The sheen on his jaw caught your attention, your heart jolting with shame to see him absolutely doused in your juice. It trailed well down his neck and onto his chest, making a point to follow the natural contours of his pecs.

“I’m sorry—“ a hand flew to your mouth, hardly believing that you’d produced a mess of that magnitude.

“Sorry?” Coriolanus mocked, his perfect teeth flashing in a laugh. “Don’t be. It’s a compliment. You show your appreciation like a real woman, just the way I like it.”

You watched as his hands lowered to his red trousers, his fingers moving to undo the button. You glanced back at him in alarm.

“You didn’t think we were done just yet?” He asked, his smile turning wicked as he unzipped his trousers and pulled it down. “I edged you twice,” he explained. “And I’d like to think I’m a fair man. So,” he paused and lowered his underwear, which freed his erection. “I owe you another good time.”

He stepped out from the last of his clothing, towering over your body as he inched his way toward you. “I won’t lie, though,” he murmured once he’d reached your ear. “I’m doing this mostly for me. I think I’ve waited long enough to feel you, really feel you.”

You glanced up at him, your eyes large and pleading like a pathetic mutt begging for scraps. “I don’t think I can take any more, Coriolanus.”

“Did it feel good, what you did just now?”

“It felt like heaven,” you told him softly.

“Then this time will feel like being completely reborn,” Coriolanus insisted, his hand relocating hair from your sticky face. “And even if it doesn’t, you’ll push through because this is your punishment, and punishment is not always meant to be enjoyable.”

You glanced off to the side, hating how much the cold look in his eyes stirred something inside of you.

Coriolanus found satisfaction in the way his words kept you silent. He grabbed your chin and turned you back to him, his thumb pressing into your lower lip before he planted a hollow kiss in its stead. He placed his forearm beside your head, leaning onto that side as his other hand reached down for his cock. He gave a lazy pump across his hard length, a pathetic attempt at spreading his pre-cum. He didn’t need to do any better, not when your drenched cunt offered enough lubrication for him to enter without a struggle.

And it did, without a single hitch, as he pushed himself inside of you. Your soft gasp sounded in his ear, his attention still trained below. Once he was sure he was properly inside of you, he turned his head up and placed his arm on the other side of your head. You felt so warm and welcoming, definitely a lot more relaxed than the previous times he’d stuck his cock inside of you.

He began to thrust, not having much patience to start slow and gradually build up the pressure. This entire evening had been leading up to this moment, the opportunity for him to be in this exact position. He’d spent all of his patience, now he just needed to finish what he’d set out to do. He was pleased to feel your hands snake beneath his arms and take up a hold on his back, that is until your nails suddenly sunk into his skin.

He let out pained moan, his gaze growing fierce at the satisfaction on your face. Two could play that game. He withdrew his length a far way out, his tip almost slipping from your entrance entirely, before he rammed himself back inside with an animalistic thrust. His tip collided with your g-spot, a harsh and sudden greeting to the sensitive area.

You let out a scream, your stomach lifting against him. Before you could process the shock, he rammed into you again, and again, and again. Each time, he returned with the same force, and not once did he fail to miss his target. Your nails in his skin continued to sink deeper, the both of you reduced to nothing more than grunting and gasping.

The bed creaked with every movement, the room echoing with the raw percussion of your skin-on-skin contact. Coriolanus bucked into you with such aggression that he began to moan with every sway of his hips. His hands, trapping your head on either side, slipped behind your head to grip at your hair. He yanked, opening up your neck to him. You moaned as his lips buried against your skin, the tip of his nose flattening into you as his teeth sought out your skin.

His movements became jerky, his teeth gritted as he grunted against your neck. You slipped a hand from his back to bury it into his hair, fastening your fingers around his blond wisps that had turned curly from the sweat of his activity.

“I’m going to cum,” he breathed into your neck, his hand flying to one of your thighs. He pulled it up to wrap around his lower half, his thrusts growing violently needy. “Fuck,” he spat, then called your name desperately. You felt too good, especially now that your walls seemed to clench around him—he knew that you were close, too.

Your second orgasm arrived, the hot wetness pooling around his length. He couldn’t maintain his control anymore. At last, he gave himself over to his pleasure, his movements becoming sluggish as he felt his release inside of you. He didn’t stop his thrusts, not until he felt himself empty every last drop inside of you.

Coriolanus collapsed beside you, his hand finding your cheek and pulling your head against his chest. For many minutes, nobody spoke, each one struggling to regain their breath. His other hand held your lower body against him, keeping his cock secure inside of you. He could feel your mingled juices leaking along his thigh and onto the sheets, a mess he didn’t mind right now.

You burrowed into Coriolanus’ arm, a tired sigh leaving your lips. “Fucking hell,” was all you could manage to say after an ordeal like this. Tonight had been his most brutal fuck thus far.

Your body ached everywhere, and you weren’t sure your swollen clit would ever forgive you for what you’d brought upon it. You supposed it served you right for trying to make him jealous by flirting with another man. You’d never stupidly test his limits that way again, that was for sure. You two laid in comfortable silence, riding out the last of your highs.

“Coriolanus,” you called to him softly, your fingers playing with his. “Do you love me?”

Coriolanus tilted his head down to you, his eyes widening at the sudden question. His lips parted to say something, but he quickly bit on his tongue. It was clear that your need for his attention had grown into something more profound, that you’d started to care about him in more than just what he had to offer your body. He turned his gaze up to the roof. “My position doesn’t permit me the time to love,” he answered carefully.

Your hair shuffled against his arm as you sat yourself up to face him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He turned his gaze back onto you, calling your name softly. “I have goals to achieve in this world. It leaves little time for relationships.”

Your eyes held disappointment. “Then what’s the point of all of this?”

“The point,” Coriolanus said, taking your hand into his, his thumb rubbing comforting circles across your skin. “Is that we keep each other company, offer a comfort that others couldn’t gift us even if they tried. We satisfy each other in ways that only we know how to.”

“So I’m just a source of entertainment to you?” You snapped, attempting to pull your hand from his, but his grasp on you tightened.

“Am I anything different to you?” He asked, his tone level, his cool eyes challenging. “Don’t mount a high horse, not when you entered this knowing exactly what you were in for. I take care of you and I make you feel good—that’s plenty more than you would’ve gotten back in the district and in any other location in the Capitol, for that matter. Would you rather go back to your district, back to a cold bed and an empty stomach with nobody to rely on? Maybe you’d rather I put you on the market for as some Capitol slut looking for her next sponsor. I can make that happen—“

“No!” You interrupted, your hard eyes thawing with a look of horror, like you’d recalled all the terrible memories of your life in the district. It was far from pleasant, a past you’d have liked to forget for good. You had nobody, nothing to return to.

As for the Capitol, you knew that there were infinite weirdos and perverts that would marvel at the opportunity to get their hands on a hunger games victor, especially one that had been branded by Coriolanus Snow more than once. You could only imagine what sort of prize that made you, a collectible to be displayed. The thought made your stomach turn.

“I don’t want that,” you said, your head lowering in defeat. “I just want you.”

Coriolanus’s eyes raked across your figure, so slumped in submission and hopelessness. He realised then just how much he’d broken you, reshaped you into a lapdog that would only eat directly out of his hand. “Good,” he murmured. “I want you, too. Only you.” His free hand moved to cup your chin, tilting it to face him. “And maybe. . . you could teach me how to love.”

Your eyes widened at those words, the hand clasped in his going stiff. He tugged at you, pulling you into him. Your head found its way nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his chin moving to rest atop your head. He continued to play with your fingers, his other arm cushioning your neck and holding you against him. He felt your breathing slow into an easy sleep, your warm breath flushing against his chest. He closed his own eyes, breathing deeply at the sweet scent radiating from your hair. He allowed it to lull him to sleep, mulling over your interaction.

He’d known the truth for years already—that his heart bore no capacity for love. It had saddened him, at first, made him feel as though he’d been formed wrong in the womb. His father had loved his mother enough to bring him into this world—his cousin, Tigris, had loved him, too, to the point where she’d have sacrificed everything to ensure that he’d survived the war. Sejanus, too, had loved him like a brother, trusted him with all that he was, and it had ultimately killed him.

All his life, Coriolanus had been cradled with love, but he’d been forever cursed with the inability to return it. It had taken him years to accept it, until one day, everything had clicked into place.

Perhaps he wasn’t meant to love, not when the world had become a disastrous mess in need of order, in need of somebody to bring it to that stage. He knew then that he could offer the order that Panem needed. Peace came at the cost of blood, and blood came at the cost of strength. Strength meant that love had no place and no say in the hard decisions to be made, for its love that made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was a weakness. He didn’t bear that weakness, and he never would.

As for you? Well, you were somewhat of a complicated matter as of now. When it came down to it—the decision between you and his destiny, he’d choose destiny without a doubt. But for now, he’d keep you close. He’d shower you with attention, spoil you with his touch, offer you everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. And once you’ve lost all worth to him, he’d discard of you.

Coriolanus knew that his path was one headed straight for the top, to claim the title of president of Panem. All that he’d done to get here, everything that he’d achieved up until now, it was all just the beginning. He was glad now—that he could not find it in himself to love anyone. It left him free of any liabilities, gave his enemies not even a fraction of power to hurt him.

For it’s the things we love most that destroy us.

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You MUST know I had to include that iconic line

Anyways, I’m sincerely sorry that this fic is like 15k words. I always tell myself to keep it simple but I’ve literally got no say over what happens once my fingers start typing away. I hope you all have enjoyed this read. I’m not TOO sure how I feel about it, but I think I’ve just gotten to the point where I’ve proof-read it so much that I honestly can’t stand it anymore.

This is my first every coryo fic and it was incredibly daunting to write, considering that he is such a complex character to portray and because I unintentionally resorted to flowing between his and the reader’s perspective, which I usually hate, but shit happens. I’ve never read the books (I am getting them for my birthday yay) so it was difficult to get inside of his mind given that I’ve never trod there before. In any case, I hope that I did his character justice in this blabbering mess, even if I did add my own sadistic twist lmao.

MERRY CHRISTMAS MY LOVELIES🎄

Your comments & reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you!! ~

I take requests (so long as I’m comfortable writing it) <3

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#tom blyth #billy the kid #young coriolanus snow #tom blyth x reader #coryo snow #coryo x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus smut #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow fic #coriolanus imagine #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #coryo smut #coriolanus fanfiction

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graysoncritic · 4 days

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A (Negative) Analysis of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - Introduction

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

I want to start this essay by admitting I’m actually embarrassed by its length. Why did I spend so much time on something I dislike? The truth is, I did not begin this with the intention of creating such an extensive, formal study of the Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing run and how it reflects the wider problems with DC’s handling of one of their most iconic characters. I was just trying to organize the thoughts that came up during discussions with other Dick Grayson fans. Before I knew it, I had enough material, enough desire to challenge myself, and enough frustrations to vent to properly create this monstrosity.

I did not begin this Nightwing run determined to hate it. In fact, I was ready to love it. As Taylor promoted the run before the first issue was officially released, I was so excited for it. As I read short interviews where he discussed Heartless, I could not wait to have a new, incredible villain. Foolishly, I believed Taylor when he said he loved Dick Grayson.

Needless to say, I was disappointed. Then frustrated. Then angry. The beginning of any story is a period where writer and reader form an indirect bond, and as the story progresses, so do the highs and the lows of said relationship. As such, a reader’s tolerance for negative factors will either increase or decrease depending on their experience up until that point.

In other words, if the writer fails to earn the reader’s trust and instead takes their attention for granted, even seemingly insignificant details become irritating in a way they would not be if presented in a better story. In such scenarios, the reader can no longer overlook those minor moments because there’s little good to balance them out with. It is a death by a thousand cuts.

In the case of Taylor and Redondo’s run, along with those thousand cuts are also broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma, and severed limbs. A weak plot, simplistic morality that undermines the story’s stated themes, and, most importantly, a careless disregard for Dick Grayson and everything he stands for utterly destroyed my enjoyment of this series.

It is still too early to tell what sort of impact Taylor’s (as of time of writing, still unfinished) run will have on Dick Grayson’s future portrayals. But just because we cannot predict its long term significance, it does not mean we cannot critique it. Currently, we simply lack the benefit of hindsight.

If this essay were to have a thesis, then it is this: Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing not only fails to tell a compelling Nightwing story, but it also exemplifies a cynical, self-serving, and shallow approach to storytelling that prioritizes creating hollow viral moments to boost the creators’ own online popularity over crafting a good story, honoring the character in their care, and respecting his fans – fans who have, historically, often been women, queer folk, and other individuals who felt othered by a cisheteronormative patriarchal society. Taylor and Redondo’s thoughtless and superficial narrative not only undermine the socially progressive ideals they supposedly care for by propagating a cisheteronormative patriarchal worldview, but they also demonstrate a lack of love and understanding for the character in their care. At best, Taylor and Redondo have no interest in getting to know Dick Grayson, nor any respect for their predecessor and their contributions to this character. At worst, they despise Dick so much that they wish to reinvent him into something completely different, tossing away everything that was special to his fans in order to appeal to a readership that never cared about Dick Grayson.

I structured this essay so that, hopefully, each part will build on the ones that came prior. Naturally, because all aspects of a story are interlaced, there will be overlaps between each of the sections. As it may have become obvious from this introduction, I’ll be focusing primarily on the writing of this run. That is not to say that I will not address the art, but writing is the field I know most about, and so it feels only fair to focus my critique on that.

I hope that by the end of this essay, I will have successfully proved that this run’s mishandling of different narrative elements betray a cynical appropriation of progressive ideology and a disregard and disinterest in what makes Dick Grayson so special to so many people. This is an attitude that is present within DC Comics’ current ethos as a whole.

Now, who is this essay for? Honestly, it’s probably not for Tom Taylor fans. I do not believe I’ll be persuading anyone with my writing, and, to be quite honest, neither would I say I wish to do so. Taylor and Redondo’s run has won numerous awards and has many dedicated fans who adore it for what it is. If that is you, then I’m glad. I wish I could be among your numbers. I wish more than anything that I could love this story. But I do not, and I know many others agree with me, and it is to them, I think, that I’m speaking to. As Taylor’s run is praised to heaven and back, I needed a safe space to voice my thoughts. This essay became this safe space. And to others who also feel unseen by the constant praise this run is getting, I think this could speak to you, as well. To be cliche and cringe, this will hopefully let you know that you are not alone.

Finally, I want to acknowledge some people whose thoughts greatly contributed to the creation of this essay. For around three years now I’ve been having wonderful interactions with other Dick Grayson’s fans, and those discussions were not only incredibly fun and cathartic, but also provided great insight into what needed to be included in this essay. My best friend especially gave me a space to vent when I got frustrated, and my original outline borrowed a lot from the messages I sent her, as well as notes I took for our discussions.

I’ll also be directly quoting four different Dick Grayson fans (identified as Dick Grayson Fans A, B, and C in order to allow them to keep their anonymity). Their analyses were so critical to the formation of my thesis and for a lot of what will be addressed in this essay that I actually feel like they deserve co-credit in this essay. Dick Grayson Fan B especially deserves a shoutout in helping me track down a couple of pages used as supporting evidence, as I knew what pages I was looking for but was having a hard time remembering in which issue they were located. I’m quoting them with permission, and crediting their ideas and contributions whenever relevant.

Now, without any further ado, let’s get started.

#nightwing #dick grayson #anti tom taylor

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look-at-the-soul · 2 months

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Every little thing you do- Part 3

Tommy Shelby x reader

Series master list

A/N: I’m sorry I couldn’t post this past Saturday something came up, so next part will be posted on next Wednesday and so on until I go back to post each Saturday. ♥️ Thank you for reading and engaging in this little idea! It means a lot!

Word count: 3,038

After listening to the doctor assure her that the baby was fine last week, Y/N had a lot of time to think and digest all the major changes she was about to face. She couldn’t help but stay up at night and cry endlessly on her own, but after a few days Y/N had finally made a decision. It wasn’t easy, but like her grandmother had said, she didn’t have many options.

Polly had also talked to her with her heart on her sleeve. She had assured her that in the end, women did well with or without a man by their side, her own husband passed away after getting too drunk, Tommy’s father wasn’t the best example to lead a family, Y/N knew too well how their relationship ended up, Ada had married Freddy only for him passing away too soon and she had raised Karl on her own.

She was right, but there was a huge difference, regardless of the useless men in their lives, they still had their last name as support. It didn’t mean anything, but legally it granted them more rights than being a single mother. The injuries on her back had been healing, she was now able to wear her regular clothes and even though she still flinched at times from the pain, it felt nice to move around more freely.

At least she had a place to sleep and food to eat, so at the moment she got it covered. She needed to save as much money as she could though, she had to think of the future.

Staring out the window, she noticed Tommy parking outside, so she rushed downstairs.

“Tommy,” Y/N greeted him. He had been to London, but barely stayed for a night. “How was your trip?”

Tommy hesitated for an instant. Under different circumstances he would’ve shared the new business Mr. Churchill had mentioned at their meeting, but he thought Y/N already had enough in her plate to add anymore pressure. He was still deciding how to manage everything with the Russians and until he got clearer instructions he’d try to keep her out of it.

“Good. I still need to go back next week though.” He followed Y/N into the kitchen, placing a small paper bag on the table. “Brought you something.”

Y/N filled two cups of the tea she started earlier and as she was about to take them to the table, Tommy rushed to get them from her hands.

“I can walk around with them, Tom. I’m only pregnant.” Y/N chuckled at his sudden protectiveness.

“Yeah, what if you feel dizzy? You could burn yourself.” He added worryingly.

But Y/N was busy drooling over the bread Tommy brought.

“Well?” Tommy gave her a long look as he added sugar to his tea.

Y/N looked up at Tommy with her mouth full, the bread was so good!

“Oh! Right… I just wanted to ask if you’re still good with the idea of me living in Arrow House? I don’t want this to cause you troubles with someone.” She took a deep breath and stared down at her hands.

Tommy blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Problems with who? What do you mean?”

It was hard to put her feelings into words, the right words as a matter of fact. Lately she had been having lots of big feelings, lots of things to be afraid of…

Y/N moved nervously. “I’ve never been noisy about your personal affairs Tom, and I don’t want to be in the middle in case you’ve a-a you know… a woman in your life.” She admitted, her voice trailing off by the end.

He squinted his eyes, not quite believing what he just heard. Then he started laughing, a loud, genuine laugh. “This is ridiculous, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

Only then, she dared to look at him, to read his expression.

“Is this what’s keeping you from accepting? Y/N, look,” Tommy took a few steps towards her, his hands found their way to her cheeks to make her look at him. “I’m going to help you no matter what. Just tell me if you accept or not, I’ll take care of the rest.”

They have had each others back over the years, and now it wouldn’t be different.

“I do need to ask you for a favor though.” Y/N folded her arms. “I will need that job you offered me as secretary a while ago.”

“But you’re pregnant.” He protested.

She was already shaking her head. “I don’t want your pity or charity, I need to work.”

With a sigh, Tommy found himself nodding in agreement. She was stubborn and wouldn’t stay still for too long.

“Deal. Although if you feel sick…”

“I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

This time, it was Tommy who pulled her in for a hug, grateful because Y/N accepted the help he was offering genuinely.

“What made you change your mind from your initial decision?” He asked with curiosity.

Y/N took a sip of her tea, feeling grateful after noticing her stomach was taking it nicely. “My grandma helped me see it through. This is the most decent offer I’ll probably get.”

“So you’re accepting because it’s your only option?” Tommy teased.

“Shut up.” She shoved him slightly on the shoulder.

She still needed to send a letter to Lady Winchester to let her know she wouldn’t be able to return to work. Until now she had lied and said she got sick and didn’t want to risk her, but she needed to digest this upcoming change first.

Later that week, Y/N had officially moved into Arrow House. She didn’t own many things other than her clothes that her grandmother managed to take from her house, her hairbrush and a small bag that Polly gave her. So here she was, on her way to an unknown future full of uncertainty, but with a little baby growing inside her. And the incondicional support of the people who were so close to her heart.

Everyone in the Shelby family had been nothing but kind and welcoming to her, offering to help her carry whatever she had on her hands, telling her how they would welcome the baby with a peaky cap and defend her from cruel comments.

Her eyes danced around, she still gasped at the sight of the spacious foyer, the only difference she noticed is that it now had more furniture and different curtains.

“Mary.”

“Good evening Mr. Shelby, may I take your coat?” A maid welcomed them, moving fast to get the coat from him, she then pointed at the briefcase. She even had uniform!

“This is Miss YL/N, she’ll use the guest bedroom I asked you to prepare.” Then he turned to face Y/N. “Mary will help you with everything, please make yourself at home.”

“Nice to meet you.” Y/N admitted with a smile, but deep down she was in shock to see that a maid was practically guessing Tommy’s every move.

“Of course Mr. Shelby.” The maid gave her a subtle look, but didn’t ask any more questions. “Follow me Miss.”

Turning around, Tommy changed his mind. “Actually… Mary take her suitcase upstairs, Y/N come with me.”

Feeling overwhelmed, she followed him, crossing a huge room, Tommy explained her it was his office, he was holding the door open for her to walk in.

“An office! Look at this place… it’s bigger than our kitchen and living room together.” Y/N couldn’t believe this, she took her time to take everything in; the impressive desk, the endless bookshelves -some where still empty-, the fireplace. “You got a painting?!”

Tommy looked down, understanding her surprise. “Is it too much?” Sometimes it all felt surreal to him.

Y/N didn’t think it was her place to point wherever it was or not too much, he could do whatever he pleased with his wealth.

“It’s just I’m not used to all of this.” She shuddered.

There was something different sparkling in his eyes. It was like she was watching the boy with big dreams and killer smile all over again.

“Yeah… me neither.”

Tommy took a long puff of his cigarette, but Y/N wrinkled her nose.

“Are you feeling sick?” He noticed the sounds she made, she was holding her stomach with one hand.

“I think it’s the smell of the cigarette.”

“Shit.” Tommy opened the window and curtains to allow some fresh air to get in and then he stomped his almost untouched cigarette on the ashtray. “Better?”

“Thanks.” She then chuckled. “Sorry I don’t want to be a burden for you.”

“Hey it’s fine, it’s just a cigarette.” He waved at the air to keep the smell from concentrating in the room.

A knock on the door caught their attention, Y/N even jumped in her seat a little.

“Mr. Shelby, dinner will be ready shortly.” Mary announced.

He nodded and asked for a glass of water for Y/N.

“This feels so surreal if you ask me.” She made a funny face that made him laugh.

“I guess I’ll get used to it.”

Pouring some whiskey into the new glassware set he got, he thought about it.

“Look at us.” Y/N said absently, her face moving towards the ceiling. “Who would have thought you’d get a place like this and I’d be expecting a child without a male support.” She rubbed a hand on her still non-existent bump.

Tommy clicked his tongue and gave her an offended look. “What about me?”

“You know what I mean.” She added after noticing his eyes fixed on her.

“How about dinner?” He offered his hand to Y/N. “Let’s see what the chef prepared. Ey?”

Earning another chuckle from Y/N guided her towards the opposite end. A huge table set just for them.

“There’s another painting!” Y/N pointed through gritted teeth.

A huge portrait of Tommy hanged immaculately on the wall. She could barely keep up with the things going on in her life, but it seemed to be surprise after surprise with his own news.

“Just ignore it.” Tommy suggested taking his place at very end, right under the painting. “I needed to spend some money.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Y/N joined him unsure. “Where should I sit then?”

Patting the place next to him, Tommy stood up. “Right here, next to me.” And he held the chair for her, like a true gentleman. A gesture no one had ever made towards her.

“Are you sure I can’t sleep downstairs? I’ll take me forever to walk down… image how I’ll roll down once I get all heavy?”

The image of her swollen stomach invaded his mind for a second, Tommy stopped with his hand holding the glass midway, until he shook his head a little.

“You always love to exaggerate it, it’s not so big.” He added as come back.

“It’s huge and you know it.” She added just before the maids brought their plates.

Y/N was about to take a bite of her food when she noticed something.

“Tommy.” She whispered, making Tommy lean forward. “Do they have to stay there and stare? This is awkward.”

Tommy laughed freely.

“Mary, would you give us a moment?”

“What if you need-”

“I’ll call you.” He interrupted.

She was surprised to see them following Tommy’s requests in a heartbeat. They were eager to please him in every possible way.

“This is insane, they’re watching your every move.”

Tommy chuckled unsure of what to say, he was still trying to adjust to this new lifestyle, trying to be part of a select club to fit in the upper class.

“Well I’m paying them a ridiculous amount of money.”

“You know what I mean.” She stated smirking.

He did, of course he did.

This was the kind of things people like he and Y/N could only dream a few years ago.

“Just enjoy it, you’ll get used to it.”

He smiled at his friend, understanding her confusion. A major change like that in his life didn’t happen overnight, it took time and a lot of effort to built the fucking empire he now owned. It was about damn time that he started getting a small luxury like that property or the service for the place.

Y/N had to admit the food was delicious, she had never tasted anything better than that meal.

“I’m really proud of you.” She expressed as they finished. “It’s like you made your dreams come true, you made it out of Small Heath not from the back door, you made it through the main gate.”

Tommy swallowed hard, Y/N was the only person that had celebrated with him the small victories just as the big ones. He was lost for words, to realize that she felt proud of him meant more that he could express.

“Would you like dessert?” Mary asked folding her hands.

Turning to face Y/N, Tommy realized the way her eyes sparkled. “Just one for her, please.”

She groaned. “This is going to be a problem, you’re going to make me put on some weight with all of this food.”

“Well you need to feed that baby.” Tommy leaned his elbows on the table.

“You don’t even know how grateful I am to have you in my life, you’re saving our lives.” She touched his arm.

“That’s what friends do.” He chuckled as he saw her mouthwatering expression over the plate.

A few moments later, Tommy walked her towards her bedroom.

“This is insane, a small living room inside my bedroom?!” Y/N couldn’t believe how spacious it was.

“There’s the walk in closet, and this additional wardrobe, the vanity… everything you might need.” He added pacing around, slowly. Hands hiding in his pockets. “I think you will particularly enjoy this.”

He then pointed at the window seat. Y/N gasped in surprise, she hadn’t noticed it.

“Woah… Tommy.”

When she turned around, Tommy noticed the tears in her eyes.

“Hey what’s wrong?” He stepped closer.

“You’re just so good to me, I can’t thank you enough for providing a roof to sleep under.” Y/N sobbed.

Her vulnerability broke him. It tore him apart to realize how hard this was to her. His arms found their way around her immediately.

Emotions coming out in the form of tears.

“Y/N… talk to me.”

“It’s just…sad to see my own family doing this to me. The days I spent at Watery Lane, they never went to ask how I was doing.” A sudden sob interrupted her explanation. “To check if I needed something.”

He didn’t know what to say, her family’s message was clear and he could only imagine how she was feeling.

“But you’ve my family,” he offered rubbing her back, “we’ll be with you every step of the way. Try to forget about it, you need to be calm.” He then took a step back, but kept touching her arm, “Think of your baby.”

That seemed to do the trick, because his words made Y/N smile.

“You’re so right.” Y/N took a deep breath. “Scott made his choice and so did my family. From now on it will be this baby, me, Grandma, you and the Shelby family. That’s all I need.”

A half smile appeared on her face. He knew the process wouldn’t be easy, it’d take her some time to rebuild herself, but she had the determination and courage to carry on with whatever obstacle life decided to make her face.

A flash back ran through Tommy’s mind, he went back to the warehouse and he could still hear Scott’s pleads for his life. The blinders had been playing with him for a while and Tommy took his time. But when he faced him, Scott’s eyes were fully swollen, an ugly lip cut and several bruises all over his face.

“You thought you could fuck off like a rat?! Ey?!” He shouted in his face, yanking his hair so Scott could be face to face with him. “Thought it would fun to mess around with Y/N?”

A twisted smirk appeared on Scott’s lips, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Tommy so he moved his hand back and hit him hard across the face with his fist several times.

“This is for fooling Y/N.” Tommy announced and kicked him.

“And this for not taking responsibility over the baby.” He kicked Scott between his legs this time. “Fucking coward.”

Now, with Scott lying on his back groaning in pain, Tommy stepped over him, holding him by the shirt with one hand. “And this for telling me to fuck off.”

It took three blinders to make Tommy step back, he was determined to finish him. He had to take deep breaths through his mouth from the exertion and adrenaline rush. His heart was pumping so hard and fast against his ribs.

“I want you out of the city and you better never come back. Because next time I’ll fucking kill you.”

End of flashback.

“You’re safe now.” Tommy helped her gently to sit on the edge of the bed. “You can have a new beginning here with your baby. I can assure you, you’ll get everything you need.”

Tommy offered Y/N his handkerchief.

“You deserve everything good in world Tommy.”

She knew that he meant every word, and most importantly, he’d keep his promises.

“Now have some rest, you’ve been through a lot.” He groaned as he stood up.

“At what time should I be at the office?” Y/N asked when her friend reached the door.

“8:00 o’clock,” he winked, “but I’ll drive you. Good night.”

As she thanked her best friend one more time and wished him good night, Y/N stared at the spacious bedroom. It was unbelievable, a dream she was afraid to wake up from.

Her heart still felt heavy for not having her family’s support, but in some way she felt secure and protected under Tommy’s wing.

And for now, that was enough.

Part 4

Master list

Tag list: @lyarr24 @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @datewithgianni @cloudofdisney @gretelshelby @garrison-girl-08 @lespendy @onlydeadcells @fastfan @stevie75 @prettylittlehoneyeyesxoxo @esposadomd @forbidden-forest-witch @ange-thoughts @moral-terpitude @elenavampire21 @forgottenpeakywriter @thenattitude @winchestergirl22 @zablife @elk96 @blondie-22 @imichelle-l-rigby @allie131313 @already-broken144 @peakyscillian @babaohhhriley @shaddixlife @sloanexx @sydneyyyya @lau219 @adaydreamaway08 @pono-pura-vida @thomashelbyswife @darleneslane @lauren-raines-x @everythingelseisextra @kmc1989 @red-riding-wood @lovemissyhoneybee @theendlessvoidofdarkest @wannabeperfectionists-blog (can’t tag) @yeppaweshallsee (can’t tag) @skydisneylover (can’t tag) @holacia3 @galactic3a (can’t tag) @mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @ietss @abaker74 @natalie--rushman @elliaze @justrainandcoffee @teawonderfultea-blog1 @galactict3a

#that’s what Cill said #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x fem!reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #peaky blinders fan fiction #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby x reader

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suckerforlovesblog · 10 months

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Pretty little thing

Pretty little thing Masterlist

Series summary: All Mr. Shelby wanted was to remarry. He had to find himself another wife after the death of Grace, not just to take care of his son Charlie but also to grant him access to the finer society of Birmingham. All he wanted the girl to be was a pretty little thing on his arm who simply submitted, obeyed and followed his orders.

And he did find the perfect girl - young, very good looking, of a good upbringing, smart but little did he expect her to have such a strong mind of her own…

All he wanted to do was break her in, like a horse had to be, and his new wife put up a good fight but eventually he is sure, he will break her and make her his completely.

Series warning: Dark!Tommy, toxic relationship, abuse, rape, non consensual intercourse, rough sex, age gap, Sir kink, choking - all the things that come with rough smut

Chapter 1: The perfect girl

Summary: Thomas Shelby is out searching for a wife. Most young women in Birmingham throw themselves at him but he doesn’t like that and goes out further to search for the perfect girl to be on his arm whilst hanging on his lips.

Chapter Warning: age gap, swearing, mentions of sex

Word count: 1.5k

~ tag list: @ncoleys , @amberpanda99 , @priyajoyy @tommyshelbywhore @swordofawriter @goth-cowgirl-03 @thenattitude @sheun-555 @meetmeatyourworst @bruher @frazie99 @blvebanisters @jessimay89 ~

I‘m very intrigued to hear your thoughts!

Also: please let me know what you would like to read! My requests are OPEN!

End of 1925:

Thomas Shelby was still grieving the death of his beloved wife Grace, even after an entire year, and everyone around him knew. He did blame himself for her death because he gave her the bewitched jewel to wear and even put it onto her himself. And she wore it that night, like a target painted on her forehead. But business had to keep going and Charlie desperately needed a mother figure in his life. Frances, the maid, was doing her best and Ada and Polly came to help out from time the time but it just wasn’t the same. He had even hired a governess, a very pretty thing, blonde and petite and at least fifteen years younger then him, to attend to his son’s needs because he couldn’t always be there for him. Thomas who was now nearing forty, also really enjoyed the governess presence, at least when he bend her over a table, fucked her from behind and she didn’t talk. Other than that he avoided her most of the time and let her do her work.

She fulfilled his needs but it didn’t help him with business.

So, Thomas Shelby called a family meeting at Arrow House and now everyone was sitting in front of him in the drawing room: Arthur and Linda, John and Esme, Polly and Michael, Ada, Finn, Charlie, Curly, Jeremia and his son, and Lizzie, of course. Sometimes he still slept with her but she would never be good enough to be his wife. He did like her but Lizzie’s social standing was beneath his new position as a business man.

“Thank you everyone for coming, eh!”, Tommy’s voice boomed: “I have an important announcement to make and I think I need everyone’s help.” All the people in the small room looked at him. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and then said: “I decided that it’s time for me to remarry. It will be good for business.” Lizzie looked at him with wide sad eyes, knowing he would never share the feelings she had for him. Arthur stood up, smiling and went up to give Thomas a small hug, “Proud of you, Tom. Linda will help for sure.” Everyone else looked reassuring and Curly started babbling something no one was able to make out. “May I ask what kind of business you think of concluding?”, Polly said. “Yes but I will not tell just yet ‘eh.”, Tommy says, wetting his lip, “I just think a wife will open up new branches for us and make the company more respectable.” He then puts a cigarette between his lips, after fishing it out of the gold case from the pocket of his coat: “Anyways today is a day to celebrate and I invite you all to dinner. Now, Michael, John and Arthur stay, everyone else I see at dinner.” Thomas lights his cigarette whilst everyone leaves the room except for his brothers and Michael. He sits back down and explains the guys what he’s looking for in his future wife, mostly talking to Michael because the girl should be around his age, a very desirable age in his opinion. The four men make a plan to start the search for his wife tomorrow, starting with all the respectable families in Birmingham and then toast to their success with Irish whiskey, of course.

Early spring of 1926:

Thomas and Michael looked at all the young women in Birmingham, from a respectable upbringing at least. John joked that the two of them fucked their way through Birmingham and that was true to some extent. None of the girls satisfied Thomas’ needs however and Michael was growing tired. “If you keep going like that Tom, we will never find a girl for you. One is not tall enough, the next one doesn’t have enough tits, another one is too stupid, then she is pretty but not gorgeous. This is exhausting.”, Michael says looking at him from the drivers seat of the new Bentley Thomas got. The car was extremely luxurious and expensive.

“Well Michael, we gotta find the perfect girl for me, eh.”, he answered, taking a puff of his cigarette, “She needs to be smart and eloquent for me to be able to bring her around business partners. But she ought to be gorgeous as well because then negotiations will be even easier because men are dumbstruck if they’re accompanied by beautiful women.” Michael also lights a cigarette: “I get that Tom but if we keep going at that speed my dick won’t work anymore with the girl I may marry in the future because I emptied everything I have into some girls” They both laughed and kept driving to meet Alfie Solomons in Camden Town for business.

After driving past the first couple of buildings, he barks at Michael to stop the car and Thomas basically jumps out. He brushes his coat down, fishes a cigarette out of its case and puts it into it mouth leaving Michael more than puzzled. Thomas started walking towards a building, lighting the cigarette with a match and then enters a shop, a tailoring shop it appears. Michael still sits in the car, smoking a cigarette as well and waiting for him to come back.

Thomas looks around the shop, searching for the woman he just saw. He only saw her side profile but Tommy knew she was the one, now on his way to make her his, willing to do whatever it might take and hoping she wasn’t already married. Fuck, even if she was, he were to make her his for sure.

He was so occupied with his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the little bell ring as he entered through the door and then the people inside the shop turning to him. The pretty woman he searched for was sitting behind a desk to his right and he made his way towards her but was stopped abruptly in his step by the owner of the shop. “Sir”, the small man called out, “how may I help you?” “Aye, I need a new suit please and may I have a word with the young lady at the desk?”, Thomas answers. “For sure”, the man says in a low purr, scarred of the dominance in his voice, “we will leave you to it, Sir.” Tommy nods and the man leaves the shop through the back door, pulling a women behind him.

Thomas approaches the woman. She was already looking at him through her Y/E/C eyes, smiling lightly. “Hello miss, my name is Thomas Shelby, owner of the Shelby Company Limited. I saw you out in the street and you caught my eye”, he said and smiled an earnest smile. “My name is Y/N, my farther is the owner of the shop.”, the girl answered. He looked at her thoroughly and she got even more prettier the longer he looked at her. Although Thomas didn’t feel any affection towards her but she was very pretty for sure and he knew that she would be the perfect wife: young, a pretty face and fine features, nice hair, a slim figure. Her voice was very calm and had a pretty sound to it. He knew she would be the perfect little thing on his arm. He looks at her with his icy blue eyes, “Tell me sweetheart, how old are you?” “I just turned 18, Sir”, she said. The obedience and innocence in her voice made him hard, without help anyways, for the first time since Grace died. His heart ached for his lost love but he needed this to work and pushed the face of his dead wife out of his thoughts. “You’re not married, eh?”, he asked the girl more nearly twenty years younger then him. She shook his head, seemingly submitting him to, scarred of his booming figure. He really liked that and smiled: “Please get your farther to me, I need to speak with him. In private. And take the measurements for the suit I ordered, will you sweetheart?” She got up, nodding and getting her farther at first, afterwards measuring him and writing all the details down for his order. She was sent out shortly after, leaving her farther with the unknown man with the pretty blue eyes.

“Tell me Sir, is everything to your liking so far”, the old man asked Thomas. “Yes, indeed”, he answered with his thick Birmingham accent, “I would like to marry your daughter. I know this sounds rushed but she immediately caught my eye and I can provide for her very well.” The older man, the girls farther, looked at him reserved and averse. Thomas looked at him with his blue piercing eyes, radiating pride and dominance and the older man submitted. “Listen, eh, I give you a great deal for her and promise to provide and care for the girl.”, Thomas says, putting another cigarette between his lips, letting it dangle for a little while before lightning it with a match.

He pursued the conversation for a little while longer, settling everything important, like the wedding date and the money the family will receive. After it was all settled Thomas went outside of the shop, calling Michael to set up and then seal the document.

The girl came back into the shop, Thomas walked over to her and put his hand on her waist. She looked up at him confused but he just smiled at Michael: “Meet my darling fiancé, Y/N. We will be married in two weeks time and she will be Mrs. Shelby.”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #Thomas Shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby rough smut #tommy shelby x reader #dark!tommy shelby #dark!tommy

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ronearoundblindly · 3 months

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Hideout (2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sweet Baby (see previous or series)

Summary: 'Grant' becomes comfortable enough to tell you who he is, and you get comfortable enough to show him the kindness he deserves.

Warnings for description of minor blood/injury and light smut (mentions of morning wood, dry humping, hair pulling, praise kink? maybe coached orgasm?). This series is 18+ only. MINORS DNI. There is plenty else for you youngins to read on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 2.6k

Warmer months are for updating the rooms, so they are on a rotation of renovation. There are really busy times and really slow times based on events in town, but there’s an understanding with Grant’s ‘party’ of friends that, if needed, they can stay in the room closed for repair. It’s not as if any room is uninhabitable when they need a coat of paint and some plumbing tune-ups.

Clark doesn’t remember you told him about this—you used the excuse that Grant ’s company are handymen (and women) who come in between other jobs,—so the front desk kid calls you while you’re out running errands one day.

Two ‘dudes’ want to stay in room eight on the end. So? Let them. Those are the people who fix things. Clark just says “kay.”

When you pull into the lot hours later, you don’t expect to find Grant sitting on the curb, filthy and exhausted in some gym clothes, a plastic bag set at his feet.

“Wha’ch’a waiting for?” you call with the window down, hoping his spirits can lift easily.

Grant peers up at you through long lashes. He’s had a knock-down drag-out with a field of bramble…or something. That’s when you notice dark, dried blood in the grime stuck to him, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Sa—Tom used all the hot water,” he huffs, “so I’m biding my time.”

Their room’s water tank, the one due for maintenance, is going to take an eternity to reheat, and it’s the worst luck that there really are no other rooms available.

“Hop on in. You can use the bath up at the house.”

He looks just as startled as you by the invitation, but in no simple terms can you express how bad it is to have a huge guy covered in blood hanging out in front of your rural motel. That’s horror movie bait.

You know Grant. You trust him. All he needs is to clean himself up.

He checks behind him again. The same mix of seeking approval or seeking the cover of ignorance returns to his pretty features, and he trots over to the passenger seat of the car, plastic bag in hand.

He helps you bring in the groceries and supplies from town even though you point him in the direction of the upstairs bathroom immediately. There’s a big jacuzzi tub in there, and he is welcome to soak for however long he wants. You’ll even wash his clothes in the mean time, if he’d like.

Grant seems hesitant to accept or argue.

You press on.

Showing him where everything is in the bathroom takes a minute. You fish around a cupboard for the muscle-relaxing milk additive, explaining it may help him…if needed. You don’t know what’s happened, so you’re flying blind for options.

When the tap turns off ten minutes later, silence descends, but he never handed you stuff to wash. You knock and try the door, just to crack it open so he can hear you.

First, you notice the color of the water. He used the milk bath alright, but whatever washed immediately off him has saturated and soured the clean white into a rusty tan. Second, you pick up the pile of clothes and find more in the plastic bag, except…it’s a suit with a star decal half-ripped and dangling from the chest. Third, you realize you can’t see him in the water at all, not his feet, not his head, no bubbles, so you rush in and shove your hands beneath the surface.

He shoots up in alarm, gasping and sloshing to a different wide, rounded corner of porcelain.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you shriek, hands out and spread wide. “I just thought—I don’t know—I didn’t know if you’d—sorry!”

He rubs his hands down his face and over his dripping hair. He doesn’t even speak; he just waves for you to stop apologizing and clears water shot up his nose.

You have to collapse to the fuzzy rug and hold your heart before it beats right out of your ribcage. You still repeat “sorry” a few more times and then manage an impressed “wow, you kept all the water in.”

He thunks his head back to the lip of the tub and props up one leg, his knee cresting the surface. “I have a talent…”

The dirt, despite how much clearly came off already, is smeared grossly across him.

He looks so tired.

“May I—“ you grab the shampoo bottle all the way at his feet “—help?”

Defeated in more ways than one, he nods through the same concerned and confused gaze that’s become his signature. He maneuvers nearer you while you carefully wet your hands, starting a lather. His head stays down, spine exposed, as you massage at the base of his skull.

His eyes shut.

Your heart now swells with accomplishment; you gave this man a moment of peace.

Fingers gliding over the sinewy, tight bands beneath soft hairs, you press circles around and around his scalp. He cranes backwards while you move up and over the crown of his head, and by just above his ears, he’s laying his full weight in the water, lax against the rim.

You keep going long after his hair is strictly clean, though you’ll recommend he rinse after soaking because the water is too foul to count on.

He remains quiet, so you dip your hands in the water at his shoulders, shake them about, and move on to scrubbing his face clean, too, working down from the hairline and over his beard.

Somewhere around his throat, the man sniffs.

He sniffs again, raising a hand from the water to stop yours.

“My name isn’t…” His eyes open finally, only to stare blankly at the ceiling. “My name is Steve.”

“Okay,” you say, abandoning the washing to sit back on the mat again. “Do you want me to call you that or Grant?”

He turns, brows furrowed, and in the most authoritative voice, he replies, “you can’t tell anyone.”

You rest your chin on the lip of the tub, too. “I know. I won’t.”

Eyes locked, you two stare at each other for a long beat.

“The Captain America suit kinda gave it away though,” you whisper, and to your surprise and delight, Steve flicks water at you in retaliation.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “handle yourself in here while I go start the laundry.”

You stretch and almost—almost—kiss his forehead because, for whatever reason, that feels right, but at the last second you tuck your head down, acting like you were just standing up. You can’t bring yourself to look back at him while gathering the clothes.

You keep busy downstairs, scrubbing at a few spots of caked on muck, trying not to listen to the sounds of splashing, the squeaking as he moves around, the rush of the draining bath, and the tap turning back on to rinse him again. You scramble to find the biggest t-shirt and pair of pants you own (although, come to think of it, Steve’s got fairly small hips, so you grab some stretchy sweats) and hand them through the door when realizing he has nothing else to wear.

He emerges with several visible cuts and scrapes but dismisses your offer to treat them.

“It’s not worth the effort. They’ll be gone by morning.”

You’ve decided something: if he doesn’t bring it up, you won’t either.

Whatever he wants to tell you, whenever he wants to tell it, you don’t ask. You are used to keeping guests’ confidence—not that anyone tells you deep, dark secrets, but you refuse to gossip about cleanliness or things in the trash—and ‘Grant’ will be no different.

You can, however, still tease him.

“Ready to share that queen bed with Tom?” You give his beefy arm a playful punch.

Steve groans.

“Kidding,” you beam. “I’m not making you walk that path in the dark right now. An elk could get ya!”

He pinches tired eyes, a ghost of a smirk realigning the hairs of his beard. You imagine that on any other day, he would put up more of a fight, but he’s fought enough.

“Yeah, okay. As long as I won’t scare the daylights out of your parents by being on the couch in the morning.” Steve steps over to the landing at the top of the stairs.

“They’re at a hospitality conference. I run the place…mostly. Besides, what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer you a bed that fits you?” You dramatically bow and indicate your room. “This way, please, sir.”

Good thing he has no fight left in him. His eyes narrow adorably, but he doesn’t budge.

“I should let Tom know.”

“There is a phone in there, too. I’ll dial room eight.”

You get him some water, hanging his clothes to dry, offering as much privacy as you can in an old house with thin walls.

“Yeah, hi, it’s…yes, yes, I’m… Yeah, I know. I know, Sam, just—you don’t have to laugh about it. She let me use the bath, is all. You’re the one who—Well, don’t take all the damn wa—hello? Hello?” Steve is staring at the receiver of the land line when you appear in the doorway. “Uh, he…gets it.”

He sits on the edge of your bed, glancing around your neither childish nor sterile room. You put the glass down on your side table instead of handing it to him.

“Okay, I think you need rest,” you add, sweeping your hand down his bare arm.

You marvel at how the edges of his cuts are already shrinking, knitting back together in near-realtime. Your fingertips trace around the skin like an interactive roadmap.

First heal this, then he needs this, and this is deeper here.

You wonder whether he feels pain the same as everyone else. Is it dulled? Does he just have to ignore how much and how frequently he hurts because it goes away sooner? That’s a sad thought to you. Just because he’ll be okay, doesn’t mean he should suffer more.

He’s a miracle. As Grant, Steve, Cap, or nobody at all, he’s still a miracle.

“You don’t have to go…”

The last of the evening blurs as you wake, but you remember Steve needed this. He asked you to stay.

Spooning is the only way to fit on the bed together. After finishing your own bedtime routing, you began behind the giant man, curled tight, lightly scratching over his broad shoulders and arms. He fell asleep so quickly, and you don’t recall how long after that you both turned over. You had to drape Steve’s awkward arm around you, show him he could hold you close, assure him he can be as comfortable as he likes.

Whichever way he settled is infinitely better than falling off the bed, and you’re grateful he’s accommodating in a small space. You suppose he has to be. Though, for a man as dense as a brick wall, he is shockingly pliant around you.

Shame you have to stretch, ruining the picture of fitting puzzle pieces you’ve become.

Arms out and legs long, you roll, restless on the one side for too long in the night. Steve shifts around your moves, laying his head on your arm instead of the pillow. His arm that was your pillow wedges down by your waist instead.

Your knees knock his, so even in sleep, he lets them slot through, legs entangled and…his erection laying over your thigh, the tip poking your hip.

Your body tenses for a split second, the muscles of your leg brush harder against his cock, and Steve groans softly, the arm draped over you pulling your body closer.

He’s still asleep, breathing easy, his features totally relaxed.

His golden hair shines in the early light, and he’s so, so beautiful.

You move stray locks from his face, enjoying how he nuzzles and sighs as you play. Quiet, lazy touches.

His hips nudge forward for friction. His fingers grab at your nightshirt. One of his shifts angles his length to drive against your mound instead, and you gasp involuntarily, having smothered your excitement for too long.

He stirs, a heavier, longer breath followed by Steve's whole body going rigid and his eyes squeezing shut. He tries to bury his face in your arm, and you can’t help it. You hope he’ll continue.

You shush him, carding through his hair to soothe him as you did in the bath.

There’s nothing wrong.

He can feel good.

He should feel good.

You want him to feel good. Hell, you don’t say it, but you need to make him feel good.

Steve still won’t face you. He leans closer, shielding himself with your chest, but he doesn’t pull his hips away.

You can hear him thinking through his options groggily, and in your nervousness, you pull at the fistful of hair in your hand.

Steve whimpers and juts his pelvis forward.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Did you like that? Does that feel nice, Stevie?”

His abs flutter with a spasming exhale, but he says nothing. His rough hands dig into your back while he desperately seeks more friction.

You let him—you encourage him—to keep going.

“Whatever you need…it’s okay.”

He pants into your skin, making you sweat while he dissolves into a mewling mess of shame, taking what he deserves.

He bends his leg for leverage, the sole of his foot pressing flush to your calf. You feel his thumping heartbeat along all of your skin that touches his. He swallows moans which sound hollow and deep where they die in his chest before Steve grunts and stretches, the whole underbelly of his cock rubbing your inner thigh and baiting your clit mercilessly with almost-contact.

You release his hair, asking “do you want my han—”

But it’s too late.

Steve seizes you in his last moments hard before he stills, palms so wide you’ll feel the marks over an entire shoulder blade and the breadth of skin from your ass to your ribcage.

You yelp, the nails of your trapped hand clawing at the sheets around you. It’s a good pain. It’s worth it to witness how his body melts into yours after he comes. He’s lax and heavy, pathetic convulsions of ecstasy subsiding.

You’re only just starting to feel the wet fabric on your thigh when he peels away and rushes to the bathroom.

The best thing for him is to act normal. It is normal for him to be hard in the morning, to want contact and satisfaction, and the truth is it’s perfectly normal for you to dream of providing that for him. You want that contact with him. You are satisfied when he is satisfied.

That's scary because it's a secret as hidden from you both as his identity now, but you won't talk about it. If he doesn't ask, then he doesn't want the answer. It's better that way.

So that was okay, and this is okay.

It's okay, and you tell him when you bring his gym clothes back to the door. You repeat it as he walks out of your home unable to look you in the eye, his partially-destroyed past life wadded up in a fresh plastic bag.

At the bottom of the porch steps, he turns, still focused on the ground.

“Thank you for the…the bath.”

You can’t tell anyone about him—about how you feel for him—not even him. It wouldn’t be right. He doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad you feel better, Grant.”

A/N: Google, Play 'Hopelessly Devoted To You.' *starts weeping some more*

[Next Part: Sensitive Boy, Part I]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

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callingmrsbarnes · 1 year

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Roused | Eddie Munson x friend!reader

Summary: Eddie and the reader’s sleepover takes an interesting turn when she has a clothing malfunction.

Content warnings: Swearing, Eddie is an (accidental) peeping tom, descriptions of masturbation, implied smut, NSFW

Word count: 1375

Author’s Note: Surprise, I’m back! This is my first time writing fanfiction for Stranger Things, so any constructive feedback and comments would be appreciated! Minors DNI.

Eddie woke just after seven that morning, right after the light began pouring through his window. He grimaced as his consciousness grew enough to where sensation flowed back into his joints, which were stiff from sleeping on the floor. When he offered to let you stay over the previous night, you tried to insist that you take the floor since you were his guest and didn’t want to kick him out of his own bed. But in true Eddie fashion, he made a huge show of acting scandalized at the idea of “denying such a fair maiden a proper rest from a long day of putting up with a damn fool like himself.” Through your laughter at watching him bow to you and gesture towards his bed, you insisted you didn’t “put up” with him and enjoyed his company just the same, but knew arguing about sleeping on the floor was a losing battle, so you acquiesced and took the bed.

Eddie closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, fully exhausted from staying up with you well into the night, listening to music, watching TV, and easily talking for hours about everything and nothing. He wouldn’t trade those moments with you for anything, but waking up the morning after you two hung out was always hell. His body rarely granted him a full night’s rest, and even if he didn’t go to bed until the early hours of the morning, he always woke up as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, like clockwork. He could occasionally will his brain to relax enough to squeeze in another hour of sleep, but that was a dangerous gamble to take, because sometimes it worked a little too well and he ended up sleeping far into the afternoon.

He turned over towards his bed see how you were faring and-

Oh, shit.

Sometime during the night, you had kicked off his comforter and bed sheets, and had shifted around enough for your sweatpants to be hanging precariously low on your hips. But far more distracting than that, was the fact the button-down pajama top you were wearing had popped open during the night, leaving your tits and most of your torso on open display.

His morning wood twitched in voyeuristic delight, to Eddie’s own disgust. Clothing malfunction or not, he wasn’t going to act like a peeping Tom and get himself off in front of you, especially if you were asleep and had never intended for him to see you topless. Sure, you might have made an appearance in a fantasy or two (or ten) of his when he was jacking off, especially if you had worn a particularly short skirt or low-cut top that day. He might be your friend, but he was still a guy. There was no denying you were beautiful, and that once in a while, curiosity nearly got the better of him when it came to the boundaries of your friendship.

Transfixed at the sight of your breasts, Eddie’s eyes traced over the curves of them to where they peaked into your perky nipples, feeling his breath slow as he winced in longing. He had seen his fair share of boobs in Playboy and Hustler, and once had gotten frisky with an overeager patron behind The Hideout at one of Corroded Coffin’s shows. But somehow, this felt different. Your arms were haphazardly thrown above your head, with errant strands of your hair spread out like a halo against your cheek, your neck, your forearms, and over his pillow. Eddie would be lying if he said he didn’t savor the smell you would leave on his bed after each sleepover you two had, the scent of which somehow both relaxed him and made him thrum with restless hankering for you, wishing that he didn’t have to keep a respectable distance between the two of you, that he could spoon you and rest his nose against your hair during your sleepovers. From where you were angled, the sunlight was cascading onto your torso, framing it in a tinge of marigold. And just out of view of the light, your eyes remained closed in the throes of sleep, your lips gently parted in an ease he rarely saw during your waking hours.

In short, you looked less strictly pornographic and more like a gorgeous renaissance painting.

He wished you were more than just friends, that he could slip his hands around your waist, stroke up your torso and run them over your tits, feel your nipples pebble against his calloused palms as he gently massaged them in circles, watching the gorgeous shapes he could mold them to while listening to your contented hums and moans as you woke up.

Using every ounce of self-restraint he had, Eddie turned away from you, lightly palming his erection to ease some of its stiffness and grunting in discomfort that there was little he could do at the moment to fix his predicament.

Hearing a quiet croon from you, he glanced back over his shoulder, watching your lips slightly stretch in a contented smile, completing your relaxed demeanor before your brow furrowed and you shifted slightly, stretching out your arms. As he realized in terror that you were waking up, Eddie turned over again, curling up in the fetal position in an attempt to hide his boner and feigned sleep, lest he let on what a horrible friend he was for gawking at you without your knowledge.

Your wake up continued with the symphony of your joints popping, followed by more quiet sighs as you breathed life back into your body. He heard your breath sharply catch - you must have realized your shirt was open - and the creak of his bed. You were probably buttoning your top back up.

He kept his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing as he heard your feet pad across the room, hoping that you’d spend at least a few minutes in the bathroom so he could relax for a second and not have his lizard brain be swinging back and forth between being consumed by how gorgeous you were, and pivoting straight back to how disgusting he was for leering at his half-naked friend that way - while she slept, no less.

But to his surprise, he sensed you standing over him, and the shift of you leaning down over him. Shit. You couldn’t know he was awake, could you?

Feeling like he was under interrogation, Eddie continued his steady pace of deep breaths, only pausing for a second when he felt your fingers brush his hair. When he did, he felt you freeze, but resumed his breaths without missing another beat.

He savored the sensation of your fingers running themselves over his hair - he was sure it looked like a hybrid of a tumbleweed and an over-wrung mop first thing in the morning - and lightly stroking the ends before making their way back to his jawline, where you lightly stroked the back of your fingers against his cheek.

“I wish you knew,” you wistfully whispered, stilling for just a few seconds before sighing and standing back up. It was only when Eddie heard the quiet knock of you softly closing his door behind you and making your way to the bathroom that he slowly exhaled.

What was that? You wish he knew what? You had told him on numerous occasions how thankful you were to have him as a friend, how you were glad you could tell each other anything. What was on your mind that you couldn’t tell him?

Unless…

When you came back from the bathroom, you were puzzled by the look on Eddie’s face, appearing like he had just reached a long sought-after epiphany. And when you asked him about it, he didn't answer. He just timidly brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and when he saw that you didn’t pull away, your lips found each others.

And shortly after, Eddie found out that his fantasies of what you looked like completely naked didn’t even come close to a substitute for the real thing. And when he discovered his touches could indeed elicit the prettiest noises from you, he was done for.

#Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson smut #Eddie Munson imagine #Eddie Munson fanfiction #Eddie Munson fluff #Eddie Munson x you #stranger things 4 #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things imagine #eddie munson x female reader #perv!eddie munson x reader

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wheels-of-despair · 6 months

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Enough | A Make Up Story | Tom Grant x You | Series Masterlist

Prologue: Just Say the Word Summary: Just read it, I'll explain later. Words: 400ish

SPRING

"I can't believe you're leaving tomorrow."

"I can stay," you whisper into the messy hair that keeps getting in your mouth. The security light outside shines through the too-thin crimson curtains, bathing the room in red. The color of love. Your legs are tangled beneath the sweat-soaked sheets, and you never want to leave this bed. "I'll stay as long as you want me."

"You can't just walk away from your entire life for me."

"You wanna bet?" You try to make it sound like a joke, but you would. You really would.

"It wouldn't be fair to you."

You hold in a sigh, wishing the question would come. You could go home, tend to your affairs, pack, and be back here for good in three days. But the question never comes.

"I have to try being on my own for a while. I have to figure out how to live without her."

"I know," you whisper, wishing that you could help. "But if you ever need me, I'm only a phone call away. And then four to six hours, depending on traffic."

You both chuckle at this, and hold each other a little tighter.

"Really. I'll be here whenever you need me. Just say the word." You are fully aware how fucking desperate you sound, and you wish you could shut up. You wish you could simply not care… or at least pretend not to. But you can't. You're in love. The kind of love that you need more than water or air. The kind that can make everyone and everything else seem unimportant. All-consuming. Heart-aching. Devastating.

"I know, dove." A pause, and a kiss to your neck. "And I'm grateful." You close your eyes, letting the red fade to black.

"We should get some sleep," you say quietly. You're leaving. You're really leaving all this behind, and if you have to keep talking about it, you're going to spend your last few hours together crying. You kiss the top of the heavy head that's resting on your chest and stare at the ceiling, willing the tears not to come.

"I love you."

Why do those soft, sleepy words make you feel like you're dying inside?

You gather your courage and beg your voice not to crack when you whisper back: "I love you too, Jade."

#writings of despair #tom grant is enough #tom grant #tom grant x you #tom grant x reader #YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOON I PROMISE

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annabelle--cane · 2 months

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I'm not sure at this point whether I'd categorize the paranormal in this universe as being desire based exactly, but there seems to be a repeating theme of, sort of, giving people what they want.

harriet wanted arthur back, and hey, she got. at least some of him. ink5oul gave daria exactly what she wanted, a way to make herself "perfect." the stranger on the side of the road gave the violinist exactly what he wanted, a beautiful violin that he used to climb the social ladder. tom the horror blogger was searching and searching for a film that could finally make him feel afraid again, and he sure got it. dianne margolis felt a bit abandoned and really wanted more staff, and hey presto there they were. this dice guy fashioned himself as a mysterious purveyor of curses and fortunes, reminding me a lot of the violinist's stranger in magp 04 who said that "a stroke of luck" was in order.

this extends to the meta plot as well. gwen wants lena's job and she gets a mysterious email with the perfect blackmail material. celia spitballs about searching cases about being buried alive and she's given one where the case subject is almost crushed to death. sam wants to pursue the magnus institute and the software keeps randomly giving him just the clues he needs to continue.

this doesn't hold up for every case, I don't see wishes being granted as directly for redcanary, dr webber, needles, or terrance stevens, but nonetheless it is making me go hmm. something about wants, obsessions, not leaving well enough alone? with the exception of needles, I think there have been concrete moments where all of our case subjects so far could have stopped, and they know they probably should have, but then they kept going and/or did something a little extra and royally screwed themselves as a result.

#tmagp #tmagp spoilers #marina marvels at life

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queers-gambit · 2 months

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The Business That Pays You

prompt: ( requested ) not all disabilities are visible. being accosted for something out of your control angers the watchdog - your boyfriend, Carmy. additional request: protective Carmy.

pairing: Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto x disabled!female!reader

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

word count: 4.5k+

note: it's not the best, it's short, doesn't really focus on Carm being protective but it'll do for now.

warnings: incredibly niche, depiction of invisible disabilities from author's personal experience, need and use of medical equipment, author doesn't pay for therapy and projects hard in this, cursing, Lord's name in vain, strangers picking fights.

Your mother raised you to be poised, collected, personable. Your mother indeed raised a lady; someone was independent, who valued morals and education, who showed equal respect to both custodian and CEO. Your mother instilled a set of beliefs that you refused to dismantle; becoming someone who knew right from wrong, to be helpful, kind, compassionate, empathetic.

Your mother, however, did not raise you to be a bitch. She did not raise you to take other people's shit, she did not raise you to take life for granted; to walk away from confrontation as much as she taught you to stand up for yourself.

People saw you and made snap judgements; thinking they could manipulate and control you, offer harassment and instill a sense of fear in you. Your mother raised you to only fear the wrath of God, not the opinions of privileged, foul-mouthed nobodies who couldn't understand a Goddamn thing you endure. She did not feed you from silver spoons; you had no preconceived notions about life's realities, but instead of becoming pessimistic, you were extraordinarily optimistic because the world had enough negativity in it.

However, despite the strength your mother built in you, that did not mean you were indestructible or any less human than anyone else. You weren't some robot who could turn emotions off and operate mechanically, you had a heart despite how your mother tried to program it to keep you safe from emotional turmoil.

The world could tear anyone down, she didn't want you defenseless against forces that would take advantage of you; she understood there was often no say in how life played out, so, if she could, she wanted to prepare you for what you could control.

All that to say, your mama didn't raise no bitch - but that didn't mean your feelings couldn't be hurt. While graceful, you had both bark and bite; traits that came in handy when defending yourself against wrongful opinions that drained your energy. Since starting high school at 14, you were always the oddball out - the need for a medical aids making it that much harder to fit in amongst able-bodied peers. Since that age, you were accustomed to every Tom, Dick, and Harry voicing their opinion about you; constantly wondering what was "wrong" when you seemed perfectly capable to their naked eye.

They had no business being in your business. No right to know what medical complications you endure, nor the diagnosis bestowed or any explanation for why you needed medical equipment. Didn't stop anyone from voicing their questions, though, feeling some kind of sick entitlement to answers only you could provide.

You were human, why wasn't that enough? You were a person with real feelings, someone with a heart, someone who bled red and had a thick desire for friendship, love, and acceptance.

One look at you and people would think you're perfectly normal, until the days your chronic medical condition flared its ugly head and forced you to rely on mobility aids. You looked normal, but the truth was, you body was in a chronic state of malfunction and sometimes, you needed braces on your ankles, knees, wrists - shit, even your hips! They couldn't tell by looking at you, but the pain was insurmountable. They couldn't tell by looking at you, but you were at a constant disadvantage. They couldn't tell by looking at you, but life was a never-ending nightmare of confusion that made everyday a little extra complicated.

No, nobody could tell - until you were on the ground. Until you had a dislocated joint. Until you lost control of your body and were forced to operate with limited energy and capability.

As you got older, you learned new tips and tricks that could help navigate life a little easier. You made sure to prioritize your rest, drank two liters of water a day, tried to keep a balanced diet, always took your medicines, and exercised to the best of your limited ability. You did whatever was in your power to help yourself, but most people didn't see it this way.

A lot of people just saw you as an inconvenience, someone who complained a lot and held no stake in this life.

One of your newer accommodations was actually more of a necessity. A qualified rheumatologist recommended you get a cane to help keep your balance and prevent unfortunate injury - being a common occurrence for you. So, a cane was added to your inventory and holy shit, did you hate it. You were used to your disability being invisible, allowing you to just skate by under most radars, but with this mobility aid, you couldn't deflect anymore. You were victim to gossip, a spectacle for people to stare at, a curiosity people questioned without real regard to your emotions.

They figured since you were sick and had been for so long, you were at peace with what was "wrong" and wouldn't be triggered by their jarring questions. You hated it, being asked what was "wrong" with you, why you needed a cane when you appeared fit, how you split your lip or sprained your ankle, why you didn't play anymore sports and spent your free time at a hospital - not considering it wasn't a choice you made willingly.

They considered you selfish for prioritizing yourself; telling you that the world was cruel and unfair, that you weren't special, that you didn't deserve "special treatment" because your disability wasn't directly in their face.

They questioned why you wore braces one day and not the next. They wondered how you got sick to begin with. They wanted to know how bad it truly could've been if you still appeared well-enough.

Many thought you were lying about your disability, not understanding what a "flare up" meant; where your body had lulled into a state of homeostasis before being rattled into painful action. They didn't consider that your "normal" was probably on par with their "worst days". Their questions irritated you, yes, but their assumptions just straight up pissed you off - thinking their hour of Googling was enough to compete with years of attending specialty appointments with qualified physicians.

As a direct result, you developed the philosophy that you can't know something if you don't ask questions. However, now you just hated having the responsibility of teaching them thrust upon you when already being the patient - thinking it shouldn't be your role to play.

You already didn't ask for this illness, you certainly didn't ask to be the one that had to make people understand that you were still viable and worthy - like every other human being. You didn't think educating the ignorant should be your duty, but yet again, who better could understand and put everything in words? Who else could convey your situation, explain how you felt, narrate what you endured?

So, for years, you developed a sort of passive attitude, figuring if someone was curious enough to ask questions, the least you could do was answer truthfully to avoid speculations and assumptions. Perhaps it would make the next chronically ill / disabled person's life a little easier by lifting the burden of education from their shoulders. There was no use in feeling bitter anymore, this was your reality and there was no escape; so, your attitude softened and you became a little more open and forthcoming in your tribulations.

Something Carmy admired since the first day he met you.

It was natural for you to feel skeptical when a desirable, able-bodied, very attractive and talented chef took a sudden interest in you; fearing he had some weird kink or wanted to get his jollies by dating "the sick girl". He proved you wrong around every corner, and after keeping him at bay for several months, came around to the idea of going on a real date. This time, when he asked questions to better understand you, your answers were honest, raw, open, and detailed - wanting him to get the full picture to avoid surprise later down the line. It was the least you could do: giving him a look into what dating you would look like, providing every opening to let him run away.

If anything, it made Carmy cling to you tighter.

He impressed you by how easily he accepted your truth. Next thing you knew, the label "sick" or "disabled" was all but vanished from your mind; Carmy making you feel simply human and as if your state was more than enough for him. He treated you with compassion, and if you had a flare-up in front of him, he remained calm and level headed in order to best care for you. Didn't mean he wasn't afraid or startled, but he was at least capable to help in the moment and ensure your safety. That was something Carmy made you feel: safe.

Safe, understood, like you were enough. As if your condition didn't deplete you, but added to who you are.

Carmen Berzatto - or Carmy - was truly one of a kind. A man of rare stock and breed, someone you confided in and trusted; someone who never needed you to be anything more than what you already are. Yes, you were disabled, but Carmy made you feel alive, passionate, and excited to tackle each and every single day; a sensation you have not known since childhood. Since before your illness took over your life.

However, there were some days that even Carmy couldn't save you from. After being assigned your cane, you were recommended to a physical therapist, who taught you the proper ways to best utilize your new mobility aid. Never have you considered there to be logistics behind such a device, but after a brief tutorial, you could feel the difference in use and developed a sense of gratefulness for the helpful tips.

"One last thing," the PT informed you before you could leave, "I'm not saying you will, but a lot of our patients who have invisible disabilities have reported they've encountered individuals who harass them for using their aids in public."

You didn't put stock into his words, just nodding and using your cane to hobble to your car and get back home.

You honestly didn't even think about the warning for weeks... Until one day, you were boarding the bus with your cane and boyfriend with the intent of heading to The Beef to pick out appliances for the renovations. Carmy normally would've drove, but his car was at the mechanics - leaving you both dependent on public transportation like your days in college.

You panted lightly as you climbed the stairs, feeling more tired than a normal day, but still smiling and nodding at the bus driver, swiped your pass, and limped down the short aisle to an open handicap seat Carmy pointed out to you. With a breath of relief, you relaxed slightly to try and relieve tension in your muscles, boyfriend standing beside you to let your head rest on his belly; the bus making several stops before your destination.

When approaching The Beef, you pulled the wire, heard the bus chime in acknowledgment of your stop, and stood from your seat with Carmy's helpful hand in yours; stomping your cane to catch your weight when it lurched while trying to adjust to your new position.

"All right, baby?" Carm checked, eyes wider than normal; able to recognize a flare-up was working into your system as your weakness grew more apparent.

"Yeah," you mumbled, ignoring the sweat dotting your upper lip as your adrenaline was engaged in order to keep you upright.

"Wow," a snotty voice leered slowly, seeing an older, dark-haired woman eyeing you with a curled lip, "bad enough you stole a handicap seat, but you're really using a cane, too?" She scoffed, "Way to lay it on thick. You look absolutely fine, you don't even need that - "

"Excuse me? Do I know you? Did I ask your opinion?" You snapped, the bus going quiet as patrons eavesdropped on the confrontation. Carmy readjusted beside you, his anger and confusion flaring.

"Well, look at you," she gestured, "perfectly healthy but trying to lie about the state of your health? That's so pathetic! You don't even need that cane! Way to steal it out from under someone who does need it, no wonder Medicaid's all backed up. It's 'cause of people like you thinking it's cute and will get them attention or special treatment that the truly disabled can't get their necessary supplies."

You barked a laugh, cutting off Carmy's ready response. He glanced at you in confusion, only seeing entertainment marring yor features. So, you sneered, "Wow, didn't realize I was talking to Superman."

"What does that even mean?" She sneered.

"Oh, sorry, just thought that since you had X-ray vision and all, you must've been him. You know, since you have such an extensive opinion on my disability and all."

"Wow," her eyes rolled as Carmy snickered, "Millennials are truly the worst - "

"I'm Gen Z, bitch," you cut her off, "and just because I don't look like it in your untrained opinion, doesn't mean my disability is any less valid. You know, not all of them are visible - some of us suffer on the inside and hide the outside really well."

"Something you might wanna learn to do - got a whole lot of ugly you might wanna cover up," Carmy scoffed, shaking his head. "C'mon, baby, don't gotta stand here and listen to this kinda bullshit."

"I just think it's shitty of you to steal equipment out from under those who genuinely need it!" The woman continued, making you pause in slight interest. "You're young, your sprained ankle doesn't warrant a cane - you're just using it for the attention, probably want people to feel bad for you. What? Your little boyfriend doesn't dote on you enough?"

"Listen, lady," Carmy snapped, "we've been decently nice, but you're asking for us to get mean. Why don't you fuck off - you don't have the faintest idea what's wrong with her, I don't think you get to say what's necessary and what's not. You're not her doctor, you have no idea what the issue is, so, please, kindly refrain from imposing your bitterness onto other people. Mind the business that pays you, lady, and maybe you won't be so brash and cranky."

"Jesus, she sounds like my little brother when he needs a nap," you tacked on. "Talk about needing attention - throwing a public tantrum is definitely the way to do that."

"I'm just saying!" She defended, noting how the bus of patrons were glaring at her and shaking their heads, "You look perfectly healthy, there can't seriously be something wrong. You would look way worse if there was something real - "

"Jesus, fuck, use your X-ray vision, Superman, then maybe you'd see how brazenly wrong you are," Carmy snapped, your eyes rolling bitterly. You hobbling towards the door, Carmy's warmth at your flank assuring you he was following.

You offered stiffly, "And for whatever it's worth, I had a trained medical professional prescribe this cane as a mobility aid - I don't need some Karen on the bus offering unsolicited opinions."

"I am not a Karen!" She gasped shrilly, looking mortally offended. "You little brat!"

"Not doin' a damn thing to beat those Karen allegations, I see," Carmy chuckled, slinking an arm around your waist; feeling incredibly protective against these judgements. "You might wanna start minding the business that pays you - which certain, isn't us."

"Hope you have as shitty a day as your attitude," you wished her with a smile when the bus pulled up to the curb, easing yourself down the stairs and onto the sidewalk with Carmy's large hands splayed to ensure you didn't trip or fall.

"Jesus Christ," He cursed, glaring at the bus as it pulled away, "you deal with that kinda shit often?"

"More than I should," you shook your head. "Just - let it go, Carm, it doesn't mean shit. The opinions of one dumbass isn't seriously going to make me embarrassed to use my cane."

"Can't believe the nerve of some people," he shook his head, walking on the side of the street to keep you tucked into his side. "I'm sorry you gotta hear that bullshit, baby, Jesus. Only heard it once and I'm fuckin' pissed."

You weren't sure what you felt, but definitely prickly, irritated, annoyed, and very frustrated. Knowing Carmy was just as wound up helped you feel less alone, and the fact that he tried to protect you from the onslaught of rudeness made you a little fuzzy. Perhaps this world wasn't totally doomed...

However, it seemed that wouldn't be your only encounter with a loud-mouth Karen that day. After helping Carmy with certain designs and decisions at The Beef, he informed you that a health inspector was coming to run point and after, you could go home together and soak the irritated joints that were swelling to twice the size they should be. Richie promised to your two a ride home, revoking the need to utilize public transportation. You didn't mind the bus, but it was a helluva lot easier to get in or out of a car, plus it reduces exposure to nosy strangers, their stares, and any comments people might feel the need to voice.

You stationed yourself in the office with Sugar, helping her with anything she asked, and when you limped onto the main floor, you saw an unknown man and woman in pressed suits talking to Carmy and Richie.

You leaned on a counter and listened, cane stationed in front of you, sighing internally when the man eyed you with mild trepidation. You were so close to snapping, but didn't get the chance because he was asking decently kindly (as if you two were friends), "You okay, Miss?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yeah," you nodded. "Is there anything I can do to help the inspection run smoother?"

"Do you work here?"

"My boyfriend owns and operates the place, I'm just here to help if it's needed."

"Right..." His head shook, shrugging, "Well, uh, no, ma'am, we're just about to finish. Say, if you don't mind me asking, what's with the cane? I mean, you look pretty young, why do you need it? I mean, is it even necessary?"

Carmy was at your side without you even noticing him approaching, arm sliding around your neck to dangle casually as his brows furrowed with mistrust. He asked stiffly, "What's it matter to you?"

"Well, I guess it doesn't, but I was just curious. You mostly see the elderly with canes, a little weird to see someone so vibrant using one, too. I mean," he eyed you up and down, "you look perfectly healthy in my opinion."

"I don't remember her asking for your opinion," Carmy snapped, arm tightening in irritation to keep you close to his side.

With a sigh, you pet his waist and revealed (a brief and condensed version of) your medical diagnosis, explaining what it meant and what symptoms you were forced to endure all day, everyday. "That good enough for you, sir?" You asked sharply. "Didn't realize medical doctors now did health inspections - bit of a step down, isn't it?"

"I'm not a doctor, I'm just pointing out, you don't look sick to me. I'm wondering why you would use a cane if there's nothing wrong? Look, I know about your illness - I have a niece who has the same condition and she's perfectly fine, doesn't need a cane - "

Carmy snapped, "The fuck are you trying to get at?"

"Carm - "

"No, no, fuck that," he deflected your words, "the fuck is this guy on? Where do you get the audacity to have an opinion on a stranger's health?"

"It's just weird and I'm familiar with the illness," he scoffed, your throat swelling with frustration and strangling any response you might've defended yourself with. Something in your chest warmed with anger, raising your heart rate and blood pressure.

It was as if Carmy could sense this, snapping at the man, "It's not just an 'illness', it's an actual disability, asshole."

"It's literally just an inconvenience, there's not something seriously medically wrong - you'd look a lot worse if there was. I mean, there are other people out there with your condition that don't need a cane or braces, and there's also people who need a cane more than you - "

"Disabilities can be invisible, you fuckin' dumbass," Carmy bristled loudly, making Cousin and the female inspector look over. "You got some nerve, don't you? Trying to have impose an unsolicited opinion on something that has literally nothing to do with you?"

"It was just an observation, sir - "

"That you didn't need to voice. You're being fucking offensive and insensitive, she answered your little questions - which is more than I would've done - so you can fuck off now. Nobody owes you - or anyone else - an explanation about their Goddamn health. It's personal and you're just an asshole for asking a stranger about it. Especially one that was just fuckin' standing here, minding her business - you literally came to her, outta your way, and started attacking her."

"I'm not attacking anyone - "

"We good over here, Cousin?" Richie asked with a growl, stalking over with a glare marring his features; female inspector silently following in obvious discomfort.

"Yeah, Cousin, just this dumb fuckin' asshole harassing Y/N about her cane," Carmy answered, neck and cheeks reddening from his anger. Richie and Carmy narrowed their eyes almost in sync, making the inspector hold his hands up in defense.

"The fuck he say?" Richie snapped.

"That she looks too healthy, how his niece doesn't need a cane and is, also, sick, oh, and that she doesn't need her cane - "

"Why? 'Cause you can't see whatever's physically wrong? So you think she doesn't need extra assistance 'cause you can't outright point at her disability?" Richie barked with anger, a vein bulging and pulsing. "Didn't know we had a doctor in the house, excuse the fuck outta us!"

"I'm not a doctor - "

"Oh, so, just a Karen who offers their opinion nobody asks for?" You finally chimed in after calming your emotions. "Or does that make you a Kevin?"

"No, I think Karen's accurate," Richie nodded at you, hands moving to his hips. "Always sayin' the wrong shit, imposin' themselves, right?"

"Accurate," Carmy snapped, dropping his arm to hold your waist.

"Look, I don't know why you're all getting so defensive! I'm the one with the experience, my niece is sick, too, I'm just trying to understand how you think you're different enough to need a cane," The inspector snapped, "I'm just saying, there's nothing actually wrong with her, my niece has explained the symptoms to me, so why use a cane? For attention?"

"Oh, this fuckin' guy!"

"The fuck did you just say!?"

"Dale," his coworker tried to intervene but was ignored.

"Oh, Jesus fuck!" Richie barked loudly. "Is he fuckin' serious? He bein' serious!?"

"'For attention'?" Carmy repeated over Richie, narrowing his eyes and bunching his brows, "Wow, that's fucking golden! Dude has one family member, had one conversation with her as a patient, and thinks everyone with that condition has the same disadvantages! The same fuckin' symptoms - you fuckin' poser!"

"Fuckin' bitch-ass-loser," Richie still ranted.

"Dumb fuckin' idiot. Who needs the attention now?" Carmy sneered.

"She's too young to need a cane and she doesn't even look - "

"Dale!"

"I think you might wanna fuck off outta here - right fuckin' now," Carmy seethed, "and be prepared when you see your boss next, we're gonna report your dumbass to your superiors. You're being condescending and rude, meddling in someone's health - which isn't remotely any of your business. She was nice enough to answer your stupid fuckin' questions, she even explained what was wrong, but you're still gonna shame her? 'Cause you think she looks fine and healthy?"

"Yeah, time for you to get the fuck out! The more I hear, the more pissed off I feel - get out, goodbye, fuck off, before I make this into a physical altercation," Richie growled, moving forward to coral the inspectors towards the door. He was yelling profanities, the male inspector trying to defend himself and his opinions; still trying to say you must've been faking the need for a cane since there was no way someone who looked like you could need it. The woman was apologizing profusely, but was drowned out over the Chi-Town accents yelling at one another.

When Richie slammed and locked the door, still mumbling to himself in anger, Carmy turned towards you and asked, "You okay, baby? Shit, I'm sorry about that - "

"Don't, hey, it's okay," You soothed.

"It's really not - I mean, Jesus Christ," he seethed, "what the fuck even was that? Twice in one day? Gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me."

"I can't say I'm surprised," you shrugged. "I was warned people get lippy when they see people like me, who don't outright look disabled but still need to use their aids."

"Fuckin' bullshit, that's what it is!" Richie raged in a rant. "How the fuck do you put up with that shit? I'd be swinging that cane around like a fuckin' nunchuck - Jesus - fuck these dickheads! Knock their dumb fuckin' opinionated asses out!"

You paused, slowly perking your brows as Carmy chuckled, "Ah, fuck, you just gave her an idea, Richie, Goddamnit. Am I gonna get a call from the cops to come bail you out after you go on a rampage with your cane as your weapon of choice?" He asked you.

"You might..."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't, dollface," Richie smirked. "But seriously, babe, what the hell? Does that happen often?"

You sighed, admitting, "More than you'd think, more than I'd like to deal with. People don't believe what they can't see, so they can only go based on what they think they know."

"They don't gotta open their fuckin' mouths, though," Carmy shook his head, skin still cherried from his anger. "It's fuckin' rude - "

"People love having their opinions, baby, that won't change," you sighed, squeezing his waist. "But thank you, both of you, for coming to my rescue."

"You don't need rescuing," Richie sighed, hands back to his hips.

"Yeah, we know you had it covered, just fuckin' angered me hearin' that shit," Carmy scoffed. "You shouldn't be the only one defending your health."

"You want me to hit him with my car? Give him a reason to need a cane, too?" Richie offered, the two inspectors seen outside the window at their truck; exchanging heated words, arguing.

You paused to consider his offer with a hum, Carmy barking, "Hey, hey, no, no, no, bad idea, no hitting people with cars!"

"You're missing the point - it's giving that Karen a reason to use a cane, too, and for us to mock him that he doesn't look like he needs it."

"No."

"Bitch-ass."

When Carmy left you two alone to deal with something in the kitchen, Richie smirked and whispered to you, "I'm gonna hit him with my car."

"You're a good friend," you chuckled, his grin genuine as he offered his arm; letting you take it and limp back into the kitchen.

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

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shares-a-vest · 6 months

Text

Prompt: Tall (Discord Drabble) I don't think I've written Steddie-height difference discourse/banter so here we go...

As Dustin huffs another frustrated breath beside her, Robin rolls her eyes. She can feel the kid folding his arms beside her as they watch Steve and Eddie flap about, arguing about their non-existent height difference near the front door.

Steve promised he would do all the restocks today while Robin showed Dustin the ropes, prepping their friend for a potential summer job – one that only Keith could officially grant.

But she didn't expect her best friend to immediately become distracted by Eddie's nonsense. He's become kind of a (total) pest, coming in on one too many breaks from the mechanic down the street to tease, taunt and sickly flirt with Steve at every possible opportunity.

Robin grips her notebook, her Bible of Family Video work processes she wants to impart on Henderson in order to impress his potential employer.

She thinks she'll just about break its goddamn spine if the scene before her carries on any longer.

"You are not taller!" Steve complains, holding his arms tight against his sides and puffing out his chest for maximum height.

Eddie snorts, "Oh pish-posh, Steve."

He mirrors Steve's stance and honestly, as she eyeballs it, Robin is sure Munson looks to be an inch taller.

... At least in his work boots.

Steve must read her mind because he quickly points to said height-assisting footwear and clicks his fingers.

"Boots, off!" he commands and Eddie grins.

"Yes, sir!" he enthuses.

"Yuck," Dustin grimaces.

Robin thinks her eyes might roll back into her skull, never to return.

Shoes off now, Steve and Eddie square up again. Steve smirks.

"See?" he teases, "Taller."

Eddie practically hisses as he looks him up and down, fists clenched tight. He murmurs something to himself before he attacks Steve's hair, patting his quaff down and smoothing it out with flat palms. Steve screams, batting him away.

His resistance creates a chaotic (and more than a little pathetic) slap-fight.

"What-cha-fu – "

"You're a no-good cheat with that hair!"

"Don't touch it!"

"Don't worry, Stevie, you're still bigger where it counts."

Dustin claps his hands over his ears.

"Disgusting!"

Steve manages to shirk away from Eddie's hold around his waist, jumping back far enough that he almost falls straight into the shiny new cardboard cutout of Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

"Henderson!" he pants, clutching at his lower back. He takes a moment to gather himself before fishing in his back pocket and retrieves his wallet.

He hurls the thing across the store. It goes flying as Robin and Dustin both fail to catch it. The wallet hits a candy display, knocking a box of 3 Musketeers and scattering them all over the floor inside the counter space.

"Oops," Steve says, bringing his hand to cover his mouth.

Robin catches his eye and scowls.

"Dustin..." Eddie huffs, winded, "Go buy a tape measure."

#at this point family video is the setting of a sitcom for me 😂#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #robin buckley #dustin henderson #lilys drabbles #stwgdailyprompt

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belovedspector · 4 months

Text

Written in the Stars

Pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader (implied Marc Spector x gn!reader and Jake Lockley x gn!reader)

Word Count: 800

Summary: Steven doesn’t have a birthday. He takes the task of choosing one very seriously.

Content: Fluff, one use of a pet name (love)

A/N: This follows Leap Year, but it’s not necessary to read that first. I don’t know a ton about astrology, so I’m learning as I go. Enjoy! :)

Masterlist

“Here it is!” you say triumphantly, pulling a purple book off one of Steven’s lower shelves.

Steven takes the book in his hands gingerly, as if it’s something sacred. “Why do you have this, anyway?”

You shrug. “My college roommate was really into astrology and tried to get me interested, too. I just never got rid of it. It’s sentimental, I guess.”

Steven nods, already flipping through the pages as he makes his way to the couch. “So, what signs are Marc and Jake, again?” he asks, not looking up.

You join him on the couch. “Both Pisces, oddly enough,” you remark.

He hums. “Maybe I should be, too.” He quickly consults the table of contents before flipping to the page on Pisces. “‘Empathetic, imaginative, creative,’” he reads. He skims a few more pages before saying, “It’s all a bit vague, innit?”

You laugh. “I guess it is, yeah.”

“Well, you can turn on the telly or grab your own book, if you like. This will take me a bit to get through.”

You stare at him. “You’re not gonna read the whole thing, are you?”

He looks back at you, confused. “How else will I know what sign I am?”

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” you say. “Jake just picked a date he liked.”

Steven just shrugs. “I’d like to see what the book says, I think.”

“Alright,” you say with a shrug of your own. “Knock yourself out.” You scooch towards the other end of the couch, where your latest read is waiting on the end table. You turn on the lamp and settle in.

Steven’s a fast reader. In the time it takes you to slog through a few chapters, he’s closing the astrology book with a satisfying thump. “All done,” he announces.

You close your own book after marking your place with a bookmark (a slightly crumpled receipt counts as a bookmark, right?). “And? What’d you pick?”

“Virgo,” he says.

“Yeah?” you ask, interested. “Why’s that?”

Steven finds the appropriate page and reads, “‘Intelligent, analytical, hard-working.’” He looks to you, his confidence wavering. “That…sounds like me, right?”

You offer him a kind smile. “I think so, yeah. Did you pick a date?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He briefly looks down again. “Says here I can do any day from the twenty-third of August to the twenty-second of September.”

You hum.

“Wait a second…” Steven trails off, grabbing his phone out of his pocket and typing something in.

“What?” you ask.

“Aha!” he says. “Twenty-fourth August. That’s what I want my birthday to be.”

“How come?”

“Tomb Buster premiered on that day in 1990. I reckon us Steven Grants should have the same birthday,” he explains with a grin.

You can’t help but match his smile. “August twenty-fourth it is, then. I’ll add it to my calendar.”

He closes the book again and hands it back to you. “Thank you for lending that to me, love.”

“Any time,” you say, taking the book and returning it to its spot on the bookshelf. You glance at the clock. “Ready to start on dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” Steven says, standing up and following you to the kitchen.

After dinner has been taken care of and you’ve watched a movie, you’re in the bathroom getting ready for bed. You can hear Steven talking outside the door. You assume he’s conversing with his alters.

When you exit the bathroom, you see Steven standing at the fish tank, bottle of fish food in hand. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he continues on speaking. You realize he’s talking to the fish.

“Maybe I should’ve picked Pisces, Gus,” he muses.

Gus II and his two tank-mates, Tom and Jerry (named together by Marc and Jake, despite Steven’s protests), swim around in slow circles, seemingly waiting for Steven to feed them.

He shakes the bottle, watching the flakes drop gently into the water. “Then all three of us would be the same. And Pisces is fish, innit? It fits.”

“Steven!” you groan playfully. “You can’t just change your zodiac sign!”

“Why not?” he counters. “I just picked it today. There should be some sort of trial period, right?”

You snort. “Maybe, but I like the day you picked. It means something to you.”

“Alright, fine,” Steven says. He bids the fish good night before following you to the bed.

You settle in under the covers and say good night to one another. Your eyes are closed when you hear Steven ask into the darkness, “Do I get a cake for my birthday?”

You smile to yourself. “If you want one.”

“And presents?”

“Of course.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “What about balloons?”

“Whatever you want, Steven,” you say fondly. “Whatever you want.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)

#moon knight #mcu #steven grant #steven grant x reader #x reader #jace writes

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stories-and-chaos · 3 months

Text

Shrike: The House Always…Loses? Pt 1

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” Ace x ace relationship, both parties are moderately sex favorable. This was supposed to be a one shot about how Husk sold his soul, but I couldn’t help myself.]

[Part 1/2 Word count 3142 CW: alcohol consumption, gambling, mentions of sex.]

——————

The house always…loses?!

The 1970’s. You could tell there was some crazy shit going on in the world of the living. Mostly because the new arrivals in Hell had some particularly messed up forms. Tom Trench, 666 News’ anchor, had ended every broadcast for the past three years in an orgy after reporting on the war on Earth as well as the local conflicts.

“Complete lack of class,” Alastor shook his head as the two of you passed a large television screen in one of Pentagram City’s plazas. It was tuned to Tom’s nightly sign off; the camera off kilter and focused on the desk at a bizarre angle. Evidently the camera operator was part of the group on top of the desk. You could hear Tom saying, “oh fuck yeah I’m gonna invade all your landmasses baby,” followed by “here comes the firebombiiiiiiiiingggguh.”

“Zut alors, he’s turned into such a disgrace.” You scowled. “He might as well just work for that uncouth moth bastard at this point.” As you described Valentino, your voice gained a rough edge and wind started to swirl around you.

Your husband gave your hand a soothing squeeze. “Now now dear, you’ll muss your hair before I even get you on the dance floor if you keep it up. Besides cher, we’ll likely encounter him and the fad chaser at this party. If we all give into our emotions we’re likely to level the whole place.”

You breathed deeply. “And I’d hate to demolish a new establishment before even giving it a chance. Zestial requested a few songs as well, I can’t ruin my voice before granting him that.”

The two of you were attending a gala of Overlords and favored subordinates. One of the newest Overlords was providing the venue at his casino. These sort of get togethers were uncommon as more than one of the Pride Ring’s leaders in the same place often resulted in considerable property damage. So this newcomer was either extremely confident or foolhardy. Typical of a gambler.

At the entrance, you and your husband gave each other a final check; you straightened his bowtie, he smoothed back an errant lock of hair for you. Inside the casino was bustling with activity. It was set up into quadrants, each designated by a card suit. One section had slot machines designed to drain money from the poor saps who fell prey to their lights and false hopes. Deeper in were tables for more sophisticated ways to lose money. An elegant bar and well stocked buffet with dining tables nearby took up another section. The last quadrant had a stage for performers, lounge chairs for audience members and a dance floor. There was currently a band playing something forgettable on stage.

There was activity mostly at the gaming tables and bar. Not many Overlords were interested in the machines, the stakes weren’t high enough to care. And while the band was good, there wasn’t a headliner on stage at the moment. Food, alcohol, and barbed conversation was a bigger draw.

“Alastor, Y/N. Good to see you both.” The voice was sultry and professional all around once. “Ah, Carmilla, always a pleasure seeing you dear. You and your daughters,” you husband replied to the graceful Overlord.

“It’s been too long, Carmilla. Odette, Clara, you both look lovely cheres.” You glanced around the opulent venue. “So was this little fais do do your idea Carmilla?”

The tall woman shrugged elegantly. “In part. The owner of this establishment wanted to garner some attention and I owed him a small favor. I merely arranged the guest list. He took care of the rest.” She gestured to one of the card tables. “He’s entertaining guests with games of chance if you’d like to meet him.”

Alastor looked to you, “Well my dear, shall we meet our newest contemporary or mingle first?”

You spotted a tall figure draped in tacky fuschia leering in your direction from the bar, along with a shorter boxy headed demon boring holes into Alastor’s back. “Looks as if there are some unsavories around the liquor. I’m always interested in making new acquaintances.”

Arm in arm, you and your husband headed to the tables, Carmilla and her girls with you. You looked at them questioningly. “Ostensibly, as the hostess, I should introduce guests to each other.”

A demon about your height was dominating at the blackjack table. He had feline features in addition to a set of wings. Whereas your wings mimicked a natural bird’s coloration, his were more fantastical, vibrantly red and black with bars and dots all over. His hair was elegantly slicked back and his crisp tuxedo completed the air of a high roller.

He spotted Carmilla and after he won the current hand excused himself from the table, saying “duty calls friends.” He tucked his cane under his arm; the body was gold and topped with a sphere containing suit symbols, dice, and chips rotating like an orrery within.

“Husk, I’d like you to meet some of our colleagues.” Carmilla began as he approached. “This is Alastor, the Radio Demon, and his wife Y/N, the Singing Shrike. Alastor, Y/N, this is Husk, proprietor of this establishment and our newest sovereign Overlord.”

Alastor released your hand to shake Husk’s. “A pleasure to meet you my good man, truly a pleasure.” You followed up with your own pleasantries adding, “A lovely venue you have here. If the food and drink are up to the decor we may need to come around again, cher.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” his voice was rough but not unwelcoming. More like someone who had smoked excessively for years. “I don’t do things by halves, so I’m sure the refreshments are up to snuff. You’re both welcome to try the tables as well, if you can buy into the pot.” He stated a number that was high, but not exclusionary. No doubt he wanted to hook his patrons to get more value later. “We’re not betting souls tonight, that’s business and tonight’s for pleasure.” He gave you both a toothy smile before heading back to the cards.

You mingled both with Alastor and on your own. Waiters weaved through pockets of activity, serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres. There wasn’t really a crowd, which was smart considering how many Overlords could barely stand to be under the same roof, much less rubbing elbows.

It was somewhat inevitable though. A couple of hotheads, one you recognized and one you didn’t, started bickering, then yelling, then throwing punches. Any longer and they might have started bringing out some powers. Except they were stopped by a barrage of black playing cards. Off balance, they were crashed to the ground when a pair of giant dice rolled snake eyes onto them. Pinned, the two could only wait as Husk stalked over, the top of his cane glowing red.

“Didn’t your mamas ever teach you dumbasses any manners?” He slammed the butt of his cane down between their heads, sending a ripple of power out. “This is my house, my rules, so I’m going to teach you instead.” His gold pupils shined as he grinned down at them. “You wanna fight? You take it outside or I make you. You wanna settle things in here? We got plenty of ways to settle matters at the tables. Now what’s it gonna be bitches?” The two remained silent and continued to glare at each other. “Outside it is.”

The dice vanished but before the hapless combatants could do more than gasp a wave of poker chips carried them out the door with bone breaking force. Husk followed the wave calmly. From the other side, you could hear thuds, explosions, and screams. It only lasted a moment. Husk returned alone. One of the casino employees brought a new tuxedo jacket; there was dust and a bit of blood on the one he was wearing. He combed his hair back and returned to the game he’d been playing.

You sipped your whiskey, amused. Confidence it was then. “It seems our new friend can hold his own,” Alastor mused as he smoothly came up beside you. He held out a morsel of food for you, speared on a tiny skewer. “These are delightful, cher.” You pulled it off with your teeth. Shrimp in a spiced breading. “Mmm, that is lovely darling, thank you. And yes, he seems quite capable…for now.”

Anything else you would have said was derailed by a tall dark form appearing next to you and your husband. “If the two of thee have formed such an opinion of yon grimalkin, his potential is indeed of note.”

“My lord Zestial!” A light shiver sent your feathers rustling but that was expected around a demon as old and powerful as Zestial. Even Alastor tensed, a bit of strain around his lips and eyes. You curtsied as Alastor gave a slight bow. “You are as perceptive as ever. He has a great deal of power and potential. If his luck continues…”

Zestial chuckled. “Thou speaketh truth Shrike. One must make thine own luck. But ‘tis far too pleasant an occasion for such musings. Will thou grace the assemblage with thy voice tonight Shrike?”

“Of course cher!” As if you’d say no. Not to such a simple request from someone like Zestial. “I don’t suppose you have any requests? Or if there’s anything you’d like to hear darling?” you asked your husband.

Zestial shook his head. “Thy voice is a gift alone, I shall not presume to dictate its flow.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid I can’t help but dictate a little ma cher. Rosie requested a dance, so something she would enjoy?”

“I’d be glad to.” Alastor kissed your hand before seeing you off. You let Carmilla and Husk both know that you were ready to take the stage; you’d arranged everything ahead of time so the band was ready for you. Spotlights highlighted your mark as the lights dimmed slightly in the rest of the casino.

There was still a tremor of nervousness in your core as you took the stage. You were glad of it; if you didn’t feel nervous, you didn’t care about the performance or the audience. So you let it fuel the passion in your voice. You started with something that would grab attention, tap some toes. The big numbers would come later. For now you wanted them to listen to you more than the alcohol roaring in their skulls.

Once you had a gathering and you could feel the upbeat vibe in the room, you went into some dance numbers. The first one was for Alastor and Rosie. Seeing those two dancing together made your heart soar. Some might have expected you to be jealous, another woman dancing with your husband right in front of you. But how could you be jealous of your partner and your friend being so joyful together?

Not to mention that after your deaths, Alastor had gotten taller while you…embarrassingly you were the same height. He could still escort you comfortably but there were some dance moves that you couldn’t do together. Rosie was the perfect height, light on her feet, and a delight to watch in her own right. Why deny her and Alastor the pleasure? Or yourself the pleasure of watching.

You sang a mix of eras, which kept the band on their toes. But you loved music from different times and hearing what you could do with various songs. Alastor and Rosie danced for most of the songs, you could see Carmilla’s daughters find partners, and Zestial with his eyes closed, head bobbing to the music. Not even glimpses of Valentino and Vox could spoil the mood.

As people got tired, you slowed things down. There was more swaying on the dance floor now; there weren’t a lot of overt couples among Overlords (at least not established permanent ones) but there were many that shared intimacy for a time. Some had followers they were particularly close to and the rest of their followers often had a special someone. So there were plenty of pairs swaying to your voice.

Your last song of the night was Alastor’s song. It was your routine to finish with that one; carried over from when you were alive. Any demons that had seen you perform before knew it was your finale and worth paying attention to. The applause after the last note felt like champagne bubbling in your glass: delightful. You had a policy of not taking encores or requests after Alastor’s song, no matter how much anyone offered.

Alastor was there as you descended, hand ready for you. “As ever, you make me glad you married me, cher. Shall we get something to eat, I’m starved.” He knew you were likely to be as well, you tended to be ravenous after a performance.

To your surprise, there was clapping still near you; Husk, pulled away from the gaming tables. “I haven’t heard a performance like that in years. I’ve got a proposition for you, Y/N. Can I have some of your time after your meal?”

You and Alastor exchanged a glance. “Why not join us? As you said, it’s a night for pleasure, so presumably it’s not too serious,” you said as Alastor nestled your hand in his arm.

“If you’re both alright with that, don’t mind if I do.” You took a seat at an empty table while Alastor prepared a plate for you. You didn’t always let him, but you had put a lot into that performance, with so many people to impress. Fortunately, neither he nor Husk took long. Vox was starting to eye you from across the room. You would have hated to get wires and grease all over Husk’s new floor.

Alastor presented your plate as smoothly as any waiter, earning a throaty chuckle from you. There were more of those lovely shrimp, prime rib, salad, a baked potato and a slice of peach pie. You ate like a bird, which meant voraciously. You had to eat close to half your body weight in a day, much like the little bird you resembled. Fortunately you weren’t a pure carnivore and the peach pie was wonderfully nostalgic.

“Well, cher,” you said while stabbing a forkful of greens, “what’s this proposition?”

Husk swallowed, wiped his lips, and leveled a golden stare at you and Alastor. “I’d like to hire you of course,” he replied, expectedly. “I don’t have a headliner here yet and watching you made me realize how much this place needs one.” He sipped his wine. “So what do you say to a couple shows a week? I’ll give top billing to an Overlord, especially with pipes like yours.”

You smirked and raised your glass in admiration. Most assumed that Alastor was the only one with power in your relationship. Despite there being multiple female Overlords, once they found out you were married they acted as if you were little more than your husband’s hanger-on. While that granted you a number of opportunities (and demons chained to you with deals) you appreciated any that had a better grasp on your marital dynamic.

“What kind of compensation are we looking at? I don’t sing for free, cher.” Not even tonight had been free; Carmilla had paid your rate. There was one being in all existence that got to hear you for free.

Husk immediately named a figure. A gambler he might be, but he was a businessman too. He gave a number higher than your usual fee. Not high enough to make him seem desperate, but enough that he respected your talent and to entice from other engagements. “Obviously any tips are yours and you both will get perks of casino employees.” Evidently he noticed your shared enjoyment of the food and drink and wanted to sweeten the deal by including Alastor.

You pretended to mull it over while chewing your prime rib. “Quite the generous offer, ma petite chat. Why not, say three nights a week?” Husk readily agreed verbally. Neither of you moved to shake hands or sign papers; you could never be too careful with Overlords, especially when you were one.

The three of you chatted lightly as you ate. Alastor and you had experience with the old guard while Husk knew a lot of the young bucks. Neither side was about to give away more than the minimum information, but you got the impression he could be a decent ally.

Or pawn.

After the meal Husk asked you for a dance. You readily agreed, looking forward to seeing how he was on his feet. Not to mention a dance partner your size would be a nice change. He wasn’t as good as Alastor (who was?) but he was quite good. He seemed surprised by a couple maneuvers that incorporated your wings, evidently he hadn’t experimented much with his.

He actually got three songs with you before thanking you and heading back to the card tables. You were just feeling warmed up and went to retrieve your husband. Only to be intercepted by none other than Vox.

“Hey there sweetheart. How about you let me show you moves?” He gave you a grin and moved to take your hand in his.

You raked him up and down with your eyes. “Oh Vox, I’ve seen all your moves. They’re not impressive.” You pinched his wandering hand between two of your talons, making sure to draw pinpricks of blood before releasing him. “Allons’y cher, best you find a partner who can slow down for you.” Alastor had arrived at your side and added, “My darling wife makes an excellent point, although I’m not sure there’s anyone who can. Better luck next time ol’ pal!”

Without further ado he swept you onto the dance floor. He gleefully kept you dancing the majority of the night. You changed up partners a couple times, him with Rosie and you with Husk. At the end of the last song of the night, a slow dance, he lifted you into a bridal carry. Your wings cupped around his shoulders as he swayed with you.

Back at home, he and you exchanged notes on the evening while going through your nightly routines. “Cher, are you certain you don’t want me to deal with Vox?” he offered yet again.

“I can handle him darling. It seems I’ll need to be more direct however. More importantly, what do you think of my new employer?”

“Hmm.” His staticky hum filled the room as he climbed under the bedcovers. “An interesting fellow, we’ll need to see how he does. And you being there so often will give us plenty of opportunities,” he chuckled darkly.

You matched his laugh. As you settled next to his lean form you replied, “Agreed. This should be entertaining.”

A/N: part two may take a couple days, I’m finding pre-deal Husk’s voice hard to pin down. I hope you all like my head canon for his stronger abilities. Also, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for future Shrike snippets, she’s just fun to write. 💜🤍🩶🖤

@edgyboi10000 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @deafsignifcantother @whitewolfsoldat @ch3sire-blu3 @bengewatch

#hazbin hotel #hazbin fanfic #hazbin alastor #asexual alastor #alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin husk #fanfiction #asexual reader #asexual #ace representation #acespec

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