#seems real skin but it's FUCKING MARBLE
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JAGO - Venus (2018)
JAGO is an Italian artist working in the field of sculpture. He was born in Frosinone (Italy) in 1987, where he studied art high school and then the Academy of Fine Arts (left in 2010).
His artistic research is rooted in traditional techniques. Jago uses marble as a noble material, but he treats fundamental themes of the era he inhabits, establishing a direct relationship with the public through the use of video and social networks to share the production process.
#JAGO#Venere#the Michelangelo of the new era#Venus#contemporary art#contemporary artist#sculpture#contemporary sculptor#IO SONO ALLIBITA RAGA#seems real skin but it's FUCKING MARBLE#IO LO AMO FOLLEMENTE#come artista e come ragazzo#perchè è proprio gnocco#infatti è pelato :))))#women#beauty
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Teenage Dream [Loki x Reader]
A link to my Masterlist is HERE
Summary: A trip to Asgard means a visit to Loki's childhood bedroom - and his teenage fantasy. (w/c 1.9k)
Warnings: 18+ only. Loki x Female Reader. Established relationship. Smut. Body fluids etc etc. Language.
“This is your childhood bedroom?!”
Loki’s arms spread wider, turning in a lazy circle as you gape at the high ceilings and golden cornicing. Open archways lead to a balcony which runs along the full side of one wall, Asgard sprawling below in afternoon sunlight.
It’s huge.
“What did you expect?” Loki shoots a lovingly indignant look over his shoulder. “Some kind of hovel-sized quarter the kind of which Stark has bestowed on Lang?”
His boots thud in quick succession on polished marble before he jumps through the air and lands on the modest queen-size with a bounce – a hand balled at his temple.
The sheets have clearly been replaced since he last laid in it, but old habits die hard. The green and gold of his colours is in full effect in this room from the curtains to the tapestries and the quilt draped across the mattress.
“Lie with me,” he says, looking up through his lashes. “Please?”
Something about seeing Loki dressed in his, what he still calls, ‘Midgard garms’ suddenly seems ridiculous in one of Asgard’s royal bedchambers.
A pair of tight black jeans cling to his muscles, denim shifting as he draws one knee over the other to rest on the bed. His forest green t-shirt has ridden up at his lower stomach, a victim of the obscene measurements of his stretching body. He chuckles lightly, making a thick line of his obliques tighten as he slips his fingers further into mussed hair.
"I told you I was a prince," he says sheepishly.
You make your way to the bed and he flips to his back, releasing a happy groan as you straddle him. His eyelids droop, a flash of his upper teeth as he bites his bottom lip.
"Frigga will be expecting us," you say as you roll your hips against his crotch.
"Uhhh...gods-" he grunts, large palms rubbing up your thighs tight on either side of his chest. ‘Frigga can wait. I said I would give you a tour, and give you a tour...I shall.’
"Not from down there you won’t."
You yelp as Loki sits up and his lips fasten to yours, hand cradling the back of your head and forcing you in a violent kiss. He bites your bottom lip, sucking out gently. You moan softly as his hands begin to rub your thighs again.
He’s needy. The sentimentality of bringing you Asgard for the first time is doing a real number on him. Your fingers run down his neck, down the hard dips and ridges of his abdomen through the t-shirt.
“I used to pleasure myself in this bed, dreaming of a woman like you-” he says huskily, beginning to thrust upwards.
The painfully tight erection bursting against denim rubs against your gusset, toying back and forth. You feel a swell of arousal web between your folds as your eyes dart towards the open door. Just a crack, but it’s enough. The guards are never far in the palace it seems, even for a Prince who’s all grown up.
“Say more,” you tease.
It’s a whisper, but it seems to echo. Loki chuckles quietly into the curve of your neck before he tips you easily to the side. You meet the mattress with a bounce, your head disappearing between the crevice of two plush pillows. Loki’s long form rises above you, impossibly rectangular, spread on his knees, the denim screaming around his crotch.
“It may come as a surprise to you that I was an awkward young man,” he starts, riding up the hem of his t-shirt. His leather belt sits maddeningly at the dent of his hips, perfect alabaster skin of his stomach flashing into view.
“No!? I would never have guessed...” you joke, surprised at your ability to think straight as Loki’s shirt pops over his head. He throws it away, skittering gently across the marble floor. His eyes flash mischievously.
“But I had urges, of course; fucked myself night after night like a demon; elaborate fantasies formed in my head with excruciating detail.” He falls forward against the pillows, the bulge of his shoulders tensing as he cages you.
“I wouldn’t let myself cum until every detail in my head was perfect,” he breathes, letting long tendrils of hair drag against your throat in time with the filth of his dulcet syllables. “Again and again. It was enough to drive a young man to madness.”
“Did you ever have-?” you start, cut off by a pathetic moan as Loki drags his bound cock against your clit.
“Never," he whispers. "This bed is as virginal as myself when I left it.”
The warm glow of his magic pulses from his skin. Loki’s jeans are gone, replaced by a green silk robe open at the waist.
It's Asgardian craftsmanship, that much is obvious. Gold weaving edges the hem, its age betrayed only by the sleeves which are a little too short. The sage shimmer melts into the wave of his hair, and for a second you can’t bring yourself to believe there wasn’t a line forming outside his bedroom every night after he came of age.
He rests back on his haunches between your legs, flipping out the robe at the nip of his taut waist. Loki’s eyes smoulder, waiting for you to ask.
“Which one do you want?” you say. It times perfectly with a twitch of his proud cock as he draws a finger back and forth along its length. His chin dips and a small smile creeps at the corner of his lips.
Loki raises a hand, a theatrical snap of his fingers making the ceiling height door to the chamber swing closed with an almighty clang. Even under normal circumstances, doors don’t close quietly in the palace; it is by design.
“My goddess riding me,” he says, raising his gaze to yours. “Then once I’ve filled her, she crawls to my face; smothers me with her perfect, dripping sex; calls my name so loudly in ecstasy that my brother hears it all the way in the taverns.”
Your brows raise. “That’s quite specific.”
Loki shrugs. “I told you. It needed to be perfect. I spent a lot of time thinking about it.”
You shuffle up on the pillows, curling one side of his silk robe in a fist and pulling his mouth to yours. He manoeuvres around, lying back against the pillows with bright eyes while you crawl on top of him once more.
“Are you my sweet virginal Prince?” you ask, batting your lashes.
Loki snickers. "If you like."
“I do.”
“Aright then,” he sniffs. “Although I should warn you, for a virgin – I am rather an expert.”
“Shhh-” You press a finger to his lips.
"I read a lot of books," he explains with overly-earnest eyes, muffled against your finger.
“Let’s get you some practice, then..” you whisper, rolling your hips up the length of his cock. Loki whimpers, brows slanting. You can't tell if that part is for show.
With a slip of his hand against your ass you feel your dress dissolve, the nip of a breeze through the open arches making your nipples stiffen. Loki’s head leaves the pillow and catches one in his mouth as your hand guides his cock between your legs. You rub the tip against your slit, slipping back and forth as guttural groans roll in his throat.
"My virgin Prince," you coo.
Loki’s head falls back to the pillow, a warning brow rising. But his eyes sparkle. Slowly, you sink down onto his cock; each hard inch of muscle tugging against your walls as you settle to the hilt.
“Every time you do that,” Loki rasps, “it’s everything I ever dreamt of in this bed, I swear.”
You flatten a curl of hair back from his forehead, rocking your hips back and forth. His hands slide up your waist, cupping your breasts as he pants beneath you. A vein in his neck throbs as he grits his teeth to the ceiling. He won’t last, not today. And that’s just fine.
You press his shoulders down, limiting his thrusts. If he wanted to, he could overthrow the touch in an instant. But he wont, not today; not in this bed. Every time you reach the tip of his cock you squeeze and his lips part; every time you sink him deep into your cunt they press together, like he doesn’t trust himself not to howl.
The squelching is louder now. The moaning, too. You and Loki have fucked many times, in many places – in every conceivable position, each time you think you could never be more aroused, he proves you wrong. But something’s different about him here. When his beautiful eyes open, the dark fan of his lashes seem to pop against the vibrant blue ringing blown pupils.
Loki’s fingers sink deep into the plump of your ass. He pulls in time with your rhythm, drawing the flat of his feet up. In seconds, he sits up to meet your mouth; his tongue lapping against yours with quiet desperation. Your fingers run down his abdomen and you feel his stomach clench.
“Fill me, baby-” you whine into his open mouth, “show me what Asgard’s finest cock can give me.”
Loki grunts in pleasured anguish, thrusting in erratic shudders as he erupts inside your heat. The angle is tight. Fresh seed creams at the seal of your slit and wells around the rim of his half-sheathed cock as he comes undone with a ragged exhale of your name.
He captures you in a messy kiss, falling away from your mouth to your chest before collapsing back to the pillows.
He squints with one eye, a lazy hand beckoning.
“You sure?” There’s an unusual shyness in your voice. Loki nods with a wolfish, lopsided grin; drunk on sex.
You shuffle up his abdomen, feeling a thick roll of hot cum settling against your inner thigh. Your fingers curl around the wooden headboard, Loki’s large palms settling on your ass and keeping you high. His head tilts, warm tongue tracing your inner thigh and sucking his seed from your skin. A violent shiver of desire rolls down your spine, making you thrust towards his face.
“I’ll try my best-” he purrs in character from between your legs.
His eyes are all you can see as his tongue outstretches. They disappear as he dips further back, running his warmth between your folds. He tilts his chin up, a white pool collected on his tongue.
Loki of Asgard looks up from bottomless eyes, the planes of his cheekbones sharpened. You shoot down and jam your tongue into his open mouth. His cum swirls within the kiss, mingling with the earthy taste of your own pussy – swallows and moans and filth sliding down your throats. Loki gasps loudly as your kiss breaks with a slurp.
“Was that in your fantasy?” you ask innocently, resuming your position above his head.
“I regret now, that even in the depths of my teenage depravity, it was not,” Loki growled, squeezing your ass-cheeks. He nudges you closer. “Now, finish me,” he orders as he pushes you down against his face.
The flat of Loki’s tongue meets your plump clit. Each flush and fat stripe of the muscle has no pretence – he intends to make you climax; and climax hard. Your nails dig into the headboard, scratching down pristine oak lined with gold. Images of Loki as a virginal youth rear in your mind, thrashing in these sheets, under this very ceiling, twisting and unravelling beneath the beat of his fist.
Your thighs begin to tremble, held steady by his fingertips sinking deep into the curve of your ass.
Loki’s tongue is relentless; it swirls and captures every flush of sparking orgasm and tends it with the next lap of his attentions. Before long, your legs tense – and somehow, one of your hands has tangled in his hairline, pushing him deeper, his nose slotted perfectly at the lip of your mound. The sight is all it takes.
“Loki-” you choke, punctuated by a final devastatingly soft lick of his flat tongue over your sex.
“Mmrph…” he grunts, brow furrowing. You hold your breath as climax shatters you, the exhale a strangled sob of his name that sings around the ceilings and tumbles out the archways.
You collapse on his chest, the two of you panting heavily. A thin sheen of fresh sweat clings to his skin. You trace the angle of his jaw, smiling as a dream-like peace descends on his features.
“Do you think Thor heard?”
“From Midgard? I doubt it,” Loki sighs, letting one of his legs fall open to the side. He’s hard again.
“But I can let that part of the fantasy slide. Everything else was...perfection, my love.”
You prop a fist beneath your chin. “Maybe we just need to try harder.”
“Fuck harder, you mean?” Loki says, a smirk curling the corners of his lips.
“You did promise me a palace tour…” you say, drawing your knuckles up the velvet skin of his cock stretching against his stomach. Loki’s smirk grows wider.
Tags (continued in comments)
@meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @thevillainswhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @icytrickster17 @buttercupcookies-blog
#loki x reader#loki smut#loki laufeyson#loki fanfiction#loki x reader smut#loki x female reader#loki marvel#loki x you#loki odinson#loki odison x reader#lokismut#loki x you smut#loki imagine
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Bésame
Miguel O’Hara x reader
Tags: 18+ ONLY mdni, College AU, roommates to lovers, tooth-rotting love for this man, pussy-devouring, fingering, squirting, I wrote this in one go so you get what ya get
Word count: 2.3k- written in one, prolonged blackout
Notes: I’m fucking back bitches. I missed you, I missed this. I hope I stick around this time. This was supposed to be a blurb about squirting but the melancholy romantic won again.
Cross-posted to Ao3!
There’s something about the smell of crisp summer morning, the feeling of gentle air, humidity whispering across your face. The inescapable heat of late July is hidden from the world in its earliest hours.
“Keep up Mamí, I’m not getting stuck in the rain because you’re daydreaming.”
You pick up the pace, jogging in quick steps to catch up to Miguel. He’s farther ahead than you realized, strong muscles and wispy brown hair outlined by dark storm clouds.
Your breath is heavy, rattling against your ribs while you match the canter of Miguel’s long stride. He’s never gone easy on you, but your labored breathing makes him ease up a bit.
“What’s got your attention this morning? Or were you admiring the view behind me?” Miguel reaches up to adjust the cloth headband keeping his hair out of his face. His arms look like they’re chiseled from marble, strong, tanned skin flexes under the cutoff he wears in some iteration every morning.
Your eyes glaze over, not realizing the intensity of your gawking until Miguel’s eyes find yours. The color is deeper than usual, darker and melting into the black of his pupil. You write it off as the gloomy weather above, but he licks his bottom lip before relinquishing your stare.
You forgot what he asked you, but he doesn’t press the subject any further. Out of character, but appreciated.
“What time is your last class over tonight?” He asks, you fix your eyes on a stop sign ahead to avoid getting lost in his stare again. You see him from the corner of your eye, the angle making it seem that his gaze is focused on the bounce of your chest.
It’s just the angle, you sound even less convincing in your own head.
“Uh- well it’s Monday, so I have lab until 4:30.” You groan out the last part, ruminating on the long day ahead of you.
“My evening class got canceled for today, so I can take care of dinner tonight.”
You hum at him, his offer settles against your shoulders like honey. Something to look forward to at the end of a long day.
Sometimes he almost feels real.
He folded you into his life like melted chocolate. An easy, peaceful affection towards you since you moved in all those months ago. An offer to join his morning runs, filling a thermos of coffee for you to grab before leaving the apartment, coming home to dinner with that casual dismissal that makes your head spin.
“It’s no problem, mamí, that’s what roommates are for.” He’s always been so plain and earnest, smoothing over any objections with a sugary term of endearment and those big brown eyes.
Your heart aches so deeply when you forget that he’s just your roommate. Stabbing and twisting in your breastbone when you think about how much effort he must put in with dates.
You stop abruptly, feet cemented to the sidewalk and chest heaving rapidly. Miguel slows to a stop when he notices you missing from his side.
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re quitting, we’re two blocks from the apartment.” His voice is light, but his eyes fall from amusement to concern when he sees how hard your breath falls from your lungs.
“Whoa, what’s wrong, are you feeling okay?” He paces towards you and another deep inhale fills your senses with his musky scent instead of the rainy morning air you desperately need.
“I- I’m fine,” you struggle against the words, lifting your gaze to see Miguel’s sweat-slicked curls flop against his forehead.
You blame the early hour, or light-headedness, or a moment of delirium as your hand comes up to tuck the stray hair back under his headband.
“You’re so beautiful, Miguel.”
Your words tumble out, breaching the filter in the back of your mouth that keeps you from saying stupid shit to the man you’re stuck in a lease with.
Miguel’s breath hitches, concern falling away and filling its place with an unreadable expression. His eyes pace between your pupils, freezing the blood flowing under your skin. Why does his proximity make you act like a love-sick puppy? The frustration wells up, lining your tear ducts.
“That- I- I’m sorry.” You return his look with an awkward laugh, coughing around the lump in your throat.
Your body moves on autopilot, sidestepping his frame to make a run for it, but Miguel circles your wrist with a large palm. His skin is callused and warm as he pulls you to stand in front of him once again.
He holds you in his stare, burning eyes and the light grip of your wrist is more than enough to keep you in place.
There’s nothing more you can do but stutter around your tattered pride. Racking against your brain to find an excuse for your weird behavior. A possession? A moment of psychosis? You’ll call a priest later, but you first need to get away from Miguel and the sweet smell of cologne and sweat so you can think clearly again.
“Mi hermosa,” your balance is kicked out from under you as he holds both wrists against his chest.
Miguel’s lips dip down to you, you can almost taste his cherry chapstick as he traces his words above your mouth. You feel the first drops of rain as they hit Miguel’s cheek and bounce off your nose. Before you can taste that distinct cherry flavor, the angry crack of thunder pulls your bones from your skin.
“We need to get home,” you see a flash of lightning as it reflects in Miguel’s eyes, it splits the clouds and opens up a swollen reservoir- rain pounding down on the two of you, “we’re getting soaked Mig-“
“Say the word, Mamí,” He interrupts you, barely fazed by the storm that was ripped from your soul and clawed itself into the sky, “Tell me to fuck off and I’ll never try this again.”
Miguel drops his grip on your wrists, moving those eclipsing palms to the juncture of your neck. His lips beg for your touch once again and for the millionth time.
“Bésame.” Your accent is rigid and unpracticed, remedial at best but music to Miguel’s ears. His mouth meets yours in a wide smile, fingers finding purchase on either side of your neck.
His kiss is dripping and desperate, if you’re not careful you could drown right here and sink into the concrete.
All of the times you’ve imagined this moment are nothing compared to the real thing. He’s aggressive and hungry, licking into your mouth and vibrating your tongue with a growl.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Miguel bites at your lip before pulling away, his face is obscured in the pouring rain, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
How wrong he is, you think.
Miguel pulled you through the threshold of your shared apartment as soon as the door was unlocked, the only sense he has left is depleted- used up from keeping his composure while you fumble with your keys. His strong, broad arms circling around your waist to tug you ever closer, keeping your mouth open and whining against his.
Your feet lift from the carpet as Miguel lifts you up with the same effort as a paperweight. The feeling of his hands settling on your ass is the last pull against your unwinding composure. You’re legs wrap around his middle and you grind down hard against his abdomen.
“Fuck, I can feel your pussy through your leggings.” His words make you dizzy, grinding against him with a brainless rhythm.
“We don’t have to,” his lips trace down your neck between each word, “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
The sincerity in his eyes hits you squarely in the chest and moving across your skin like fever.
“Miggy, I need you. Please, anything you give me- I’ll take it.”
Your even tone shocks the both of you, the most confident you’ve sounded all morning.
“Fuck, I almost want to make you regret those words.” His teeth graze the tender spot under your chin.
“But the first thing I want is a taste of that sweet little cunt.” You’re sure your knees would buckle if Miguel wasn’t holding you, the rough tambor of his voice will be the death of you- you’ll take your chances.
Miguel carries you past the small kitchen and living area, you don’t notice where he’s sat you until he pulls his lips away from yours.
His room smells like fresh laundry and pine, the bedspread he’s set you on is tucked neatly on either side and soft under your touch. You’ve sat in this exact spot plenty of times, to study into the late night, to watch reruns of your favorite show on lazy Sunday afternoons- but never like this.
Miguel pushes you lightly so your back hits the mattress, he spreads your legs apart at the knee and you feel the tight fabric of your leggings as it shifts against your pussy.
Your running set is tight against your skin, sweat and rain covering your trembling body so that every inch is sticky and damp.
Miguel’s pointer and middle finger rub against your pussy, memorizing the outline of your plush lips under thin nylon. He’ll tuck the image into the back of his mind in case he needs it later.
“Mmm, no panties this morning,” he muses, pressing his thumb against your clit.
Miguel pulls at the fabric on your pussy, letting it snap back against your skin, you can feel the tight material drenched from your aching pussy. You want to tell him that you can hardly take this teasing, but all that comes out is a wobbly string of please, please, please.
“Don’t worry, Mamí, I’m gonna take care of you.” Your thoughts don’t catch up to him until the chill of open air hits your bare cunt. Your soaked leggings are tossed to the corner of his almost clinically clean room.
Miguel takes a moment to marvel at the sopping wet pussy he’s got trapped against his mattress.
“Que maravilla,” he kisses his words flatly against your puffy lips before coaxing them open with his nose. His face is covered in you already, glistening across his lips and chin. But it’s not enough, it won’t be enough until you drown him.
His tongue laps at you like you’re what’s keeping him alive. He kisses with his mouth open, collecting your offering to him and drinking it down with every flat lashing of his tongue.
You taste tangy and sweet, a heady mix of sweat and pheromones that pulls him in ever closer. Desperate to drink his fill of you. Every long swipe at your sloppy hole is dotted with a kiss, every inch of skin is electric- zapping against your clit with every measured nip.
Miguel’s fingers find their way to rest against your pussy, pushing in gently when he’s satisfied with how well his tongue worked you open.
Once the digits are wettened, Miguel pushes two in to the first knuckle. He groans at the feeling of how welcoming your pussy is, how responsive you are to his touch.
He licks his praises against your soft skin as your muscles relax around the thick intrusion. His vision fuzzy at the edges thinking about how you’ll take his cock. The thought is pushed back for now, lingering on it could break you when he’s just gotten started.
Your hips rock down against him, catching your clit with his wide palm.
Your whimpering emboldens him, cock weeping in the waistband of his shorts. He’s harder than he’s ever been, the frustrating ache in his balls is poured right into the quickening pace of his fingers. He needs you to break- crumble into pieces so he can put them back together.
“Miguel, fuck, I need- you need to slow down or I’m gonna“
Your pleas fall on deaf ears, Miguel is hypnotized at the sight of your pussy spilling over against him. He doesn’t relent even as you cry out and shake under him. He doesn’t miss a beat as your pussy squelches, clear liquid splashing against his chest.
“Oh fuck, you didn’t mention you’re a squirter.” His pace is torturous, pumping against that spot deep inside you that turns you into a puddle.
Once his other hand comes down to circle your clit, you know that you’re done for. The fear of letting loose like this is something that holds your rigid body from completely letting go. No one’s ever pulled you from that damn before, but Miguel has torn it down completely.
“Let go for me, Mamí, need to feel you cum against my fingers, need to see you squirt for me again.” The words drip from his mouth like hot syrup and coat your stiff muscles.
He pulls more out of you with each pump of those skilled fingers, more than you ever thought you had in you, more than you could imagine.
You cry as you cum, tears spilling over your cheeks in fat streams. The feelings you’ve kept inside for Miguel, the schoolgirl crush, the craving, the primal need all splashes against the both of you with the telltale spasm of your cunt against his fingers.
Your mind feels like it’s been dipped in wax, dripping from it’s fixed position to coat your shoulders. He makes quick work of tugging you back down to earth, lying next to your limp body with an anchoring hand on your stomach. He coos you, whispering praise into your hairline.
The sun peeks through Miguel’s window, clouds moving on to the next town and leaving the still early morning to brighten up the sky. Your face feels hot in realization.
You’ve got a long day ahead of you.
* * *
All work is mine blah blah I don’t wanna go find my old copyright thing but I’ll piss in your water supply if you steal this.
#miguel o’hara smut#miguel o’hara x reader#atsv miguel#miguel o’hara#atsv x reader#miguel spiderverse
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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞.
pairing: coriolanus snow x toxic!fem!reader
summary: someone always throw a spanner in her works, to achieve her biggest dream —being coriolanus’ lover, wife and claiming power. luckily, y/n is not on the loser side when it comes to playing.
trigger warnings (overall): mastermind!reader, toxic!reader (for real, she’s doing nasty things), reader’s family is a bit fucked up, reader is obsessed with coriolanus snow, lying, swearing, blood, violence, killing people, hunger games stuff, i just love volumnia gaul, reader hates lucy gray and everybody who’s around coriolanus, mental health problems mentioned such as psychotism, domestic violence mentioned, drugs, mention of sexual fantasies.
trigger warnings (in this part): mastermind!reader, toxic!reader (for real, she’s doing nasty things), reader’s family is a bit fucked up, reader is obsessed with coriolanus snow, lying, swearing, domestic violence mentioned, drugs, mention of sexual fantasies, mentions of gaining weight and wearing a corset (patrick bateman vibes), i really hope it doesn't seem like bodyshaming, reader has problems only with her own body.
prologue.
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐖𝐒.
another day. another chance to win him over.
y/n could be named for many things: a filthy liar, a nepo-baby, a psychopath or simply a crazy girl, but she was never, ever lazy. waking up, she always had the same routine: getting out from the bed, changing into her underwear she wore the day before, making her hair up into a bun, spreading carbon on her teeth to be white as marble. working out, even if it hurt, because how could she be the best wife ever for coriolanus if she was lazy and out of shape? through workout, she thought about who she is. i am y/n y/l/n, youngest member of the house y/l/n. we are noble, i am noble, and i deserve everything what i have now. i am beautiful, clever and nobody can ever drag me down. the people who hate me are only envious of my life, my body and my mind, but they’re all going to soil. i love the life i have, and i will appreciate every single second of the life i will have when i achieve my goals. i have every tool i can use to win, and i will use them to be the woman i want to be. it’s not far away, and everyday is a chance to be closer to the woman i want to be.
after that, taking a bath, scrubbing her body with a sponge, so her skin would always be silky, using her razor to get rid of the unwanted, ugly hair on her body. smearing vanilla and rose oil onto her skin: vanilla for being gentle, and rose for coriolanus. brushing her teeth, washing down the charcoal, washing teeth with the regular toothpaste. sitting in front of her dressing table, picking her eyebrow, putting cosmetic oils and serums on her cleavage, her neck and her face. while letting it dry, picking out the outfit of the day, calling in her maid, hortense to help her with the corset if she felt that she gained too much weight because of the medicine, or was on her period. y/n hated so-called red days, and waited for the day when she could bear her husband’s children. putting her clothes on, sitting at the dressing table again, her maid helped her if she wanted a special hairstyle. checking her manicure, it was now soft pink, it’ll match with her clothes. making her hair, she did her makeup, curling her eyelashes, putting a little chili on her lips to be so full –it hurt like hell, but how could she be perfect if she didn’t put effort in it?, whilst repeating another list in her mind. this was for coriolanus.
be kind with him, but never too kind. be kind and modest with everybody else, so they won’t notice it. agree with him in the things that are important, but also speak your mind if he seems doubtful. speak your feelings to convince him, you are important to him. always accept his help, but don’t make redundant situations, don’t look like the damsel in distress. make him feel special, let him be the man he is, make him feel that you support him and his plans, but never make too big promises. don’t look pathetic, don’t show your emotions too much. never talk about him to others, only if they mention him, talk good about him, and talk bad about others if it’s needed. don’t make a scene if something doesn’t work your way, it will sooner or later. take action when it’s the right time.
applying lipstick as the last step, she was ready to step out from home. y/n knew she had a strict routine, but doing mornings on autopilot let her think about more important things, like her daily plans. first destination was the school where coriolanus was, but first, she needed to get her papers after graduating, after that they’re gonna have lunch together, and then, she’ll look for the letters to see if volumnia gaul accepted her application. probably she will, she knows her entire family, how great they are, and she probably heard about y/n herself too.
“good morning ms. y/l/n, how are you?” lacy, her sister’s maid asked her as she carried the laundry in a big basket through the hallway on the ground floor.
“i slept well, lacy, thank you. where is my sister?”
“your sister, morphia went to arrange the flowers and the cake for her marriage. i am so happy for her, ms. y/l/n!”
y/n couldn’t decide if lacy was truly happy or just acting. but she wasn’t a threat, so y/n didn’t care.
“me too, lacy.”
her father was sitting at the head of the table, reading the tabloids, her mother, lorelei was eating some eggs with meat, some gin in her glass on the side.
“this pheasant is really good, cyril.” she mentioned, looking up to see her youngest child. “oh, my sweet, y/n! good morning.”
“good morning, mommy.” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek, going to her father, she waited until he stopped reading the tabloid and looked at her. her father, cyril y/l/n was really strict, but not as strict as crassus snow. once, after her father made her burn the flowers she tore off from their garden and beat her, her mother stroked her cheek, saying “oh, honey, don’t be sad. your father is a good man, not like crassus snow. i think you should be glad that you don’t have him as your father.” so this way, y/n was happy. or so her mother thought.
“good morning, father.” she told him too, giving him a kiss on the cheek too. she could do that until she was eighteen, after that, only the greeting was acceptable. y/n saw once, when morphia tried to kiss her father when she passed eighteen, she got slapped across the face. but they were happy, weren’t they?
“how’s your application with gaul?” he asked as y/n sat down.
“i handed it in yesterday. probably a letter will wait for me in the afternoon.”
“why, what will you do today?”
“cyril, i already told you that! your butler even wrote it down for you!” her mother whined, looking at her daughter. y/n took a slice of bread, reaching for the butter and the knife.
“don’t mind it, mother. i’m going to the school to get my graduating papers, then have lunch with coriolanus, and then–”
“coriolanus snow? that boy and his family are broke, his father was gullible and got killed by the rebellion. why are you humbling yourself in his presence?”
control. control your face, your hands. y/n’s fist curled around the knife tighter, grabbing it with real force.
“i know, but he has great talent. and he’s gonna be the next president of panem.” she replied calmly, looking at him. sometimes she fantasized about stabbing him there, at the head of the table.
“president of panem? y/n, you are so amusing when you say things like this. but i truly hope your words will become reality someday. crassus wasn’t gullible, everybody was afraid through the first rebellion.” his face softened, just as he spoke to a three year old.
“yes, honey! your father doesn’t doubt you, he’s just amazed at what you are saying.” her mother added, sipping on her gin, batting her lashes. it wasn’t even ten in the morning, as she was already wasted. after eating the slice of bread, y/n stood up, hiding the knife into her sleeve.
“i’m going out, but i’m gonna be here for the letter. please don’t open up before me.” she asked, making her father look up.
“hortense is going to bring it to your room.”
“thank you, father.”
“honey, you didn’t even touch the caviar and the honey, please eat some more!”
kissing her mother’s cheek again, y/n looked at her. she got her eyes, her mother was truly beautiful when she was young, acrimonious lips talked cyril only married lorelei because of her looks. nevertheless, the creed family was also noble, y/n only had to bear festus’ horrible personality twice a year, christmas and the reaping.
“don’t worry mommy, i’ll be fine.”
she could work easily with an empty stomach, getting back to her room, preparing her bag. looking at the medicines, she put the bottle under her clothes. she didn’t need these pills that made her useless, slow and lazy anyway, she needed something else… and she knew her horrible cousin, festus got that white, powdery thing. grabbing the butterknife from under her sleeve, she touched it. it was the worst knife ever, blunt and short, like some of the fighters in the games. y/n loved her father, respected him and counted on his words, but questioning her and laughing at her, it was the exception if it came to love and respect. and if her father is doubting her again, she will–
funk! well, who thought that people could stick butter knives into the wall?
arriving at the school, showing her papers that she was a private student, the secretary gave out her graduation stuff. nodding, the secretary told some things, but her mind was focused on finding festus. going to the main hall, everybody whore red, y/n was the only outstander with her black skirt, soft pink blouse and black blazer. every school uniform was truly awful, the capitol is the wealthiest in all panem, couldn’t they make it a little bit more… pleasant? it’s a shame that every fabric is on their hand, available, and still, they style it horrible. nevermind, festus was there, chatting with that bitch arachne and that fucker pliny harrington.
“hey, festus, hey, everybody. can we talk for a minute?” she turned to her cousin. festus looked at her, smirked, then looked at the others.
“of course. sorry, it’s only a minute.” he said to them, walking to one of the corners with y/n. leaning to one of the marble piles, he dug his hands into his pockets. “so, what do you want?”
“why are you asking me so pitiless?” y/n blinked at him. for some people, formality in family could seem heartless, but she was relieved that she didn't need to waste her time if she didn't want to.
“you talk to me only if you need something.”
“me? don’t be ridiculous, i helped with all your assignments in school, what would your mother say if she heard that?” y/n couldn’t be a big gamer if she didn’t knew the connections in her environment perfectly well. seeing how festus’ face became a little bit rigid, she continued. “anyway, i want from that white dust you gave me last time.”
she couldn’t even carve a wider grin on his face, even if she wanted to.
“so you liked it? it’s better than your stupid pills.” y/n had a poker face, but she wondered how he got to know. “you’re not the only one who knows things in the family.” fucker, you don’t even know everything, yet you still play like you’re the most clever. the funny thing is that it ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble, no. it's what you know for sure that just ain't so.
“i have business somewhere else soon, can i get it or not?”
“it will cost some money, but i am always happy to help my family.” oh, fuck off. y/n reached her hand like she wanted to shake hands with him, and this way, demand and supply met. “if you drink some of it, it’ll be better. you are a crazy bitch y/n, but if snow really will be the president, remember me as one of your biggest supporters.” he smiled. “oh, and volumnia heard some of his great ideas about getting more audience for the games. if you’ll work for her, that ugly power couple thing can be really dangerous.” what ideas? she knew it was a problem that the game wasn't so popular, and he thought that coriolanus wasn’t so interested in that. of course, until now, because big money was at stake, and everybody was prowling around the corner. y/n curled the corner of her lips up under duress, bidding goodbye to festus. she wasn’t gonna take it now, she used it only for emergencies.
now, she could completely focus on coriolanus. where was he? walking to the other long hallway, looking around, he was nowhere despite that they stuck to eleven am yesterday. suddenly, she felt two hands on her shoulder, making her turn.
“there you are!” there he was. y/n could look at him for an eternity, could he look better under eleven hours? everything about him was perfect, from the way he looked to the point he talked, and y/n almost tasted the sweetness when his mind was forming those clever, great thoughts. and his looks? she knew they could have the most precious children; angel blonde hair, blue eyes, chiseled jawline she could kiss a million times, his body was sculpted by the gods who were looking down on them, and she prayed every night to the deities so they could be each other’s one day. in y/n’s mind, coriolanus wasn’t just a boy or a soon-to-be-man. no, he was the base of everything, he had everything that y/n needed, and y/n was raised truly the best way. nobody else could get in the near of the perfection he formed, and y/n could see the future. the future, where they marry, she is in the longest, most beautiful white dress full with gemstones like rubies, sapphires, diamonds and emeralds, vowing endless loyalty to each other, the whole world is envious of the wealth they have. the future, where he becomes the president of panem, leading the nation with a strong hand and making decisions with a strong mind, while y/n helped to make the games more impressive, more dangerous, more cruel, but first of all, supporting him in everything, even if she has to get her hands dirty. the future, where she was pregnant with his children, naming them ancient names so they could mirror the same noble qualities those deities had, raising them the best way so they could even outgrow them, perfect people. “how was your morning?”
the future they could have. the future they WILL have.
“hello, corio. mine was pretty good, got my graduating papers. how was your day so far?”
“it was… good, i guess? this mentoring thing is new for everyone, i spent all night thinking how lucy gray could win.”
that name, again. keep it cool.
“i’m sure you will think it out. shall we go and eat lunch?”
sitting in a gorgeous, golden restaurant, y/n chose a corner for them to sit in. when their food arrived, she waited for him to speak. it seemed like something was itching his mind, and she was one of his best friends, wasn't she? corio looked to the side, then at her, then took a bite from his lunch. let’s break the ice.
“is everything okay, corio?”
“yes, yes, everything’s fine. is it… on my face?”
“well, since i…” don’t make it too personal. “...since we know each other so well, i see worry on your face. you can tell me everything.”
“it’s… it’s gonna be really, really embarrassing for me, but… so, y/n, it’d be my pleasure if… you’d come with me on a date?”
clawing on her thigh, was this reality? was coriolanus really, really asking her out in this glorious place? was she truly worthy of his love? moderating her grin to a smile, she looked at him. he was truly a love-child of an angel and a god, and while y/n was truly a masterpiece herself, it was the biggest honor for her to get into the grace of this guy. now, the idea of the wedding and the best imaginable life wasn’t so far away. did the gods hear her prayers above, and saw the list she created?
“forget it, y/n, i know i’m not–” coriolanus tried to hush the previous idea with an embarrassed look on his face, but y/n shook her head. obviously, her mind wandered for too long.
“no, no! of course i’d go on a date with you. with pleasure.” y/n smiled, slowly reaching for his hand that was on the table. they touched each other frequently before, but not like this. she hated a part of herself, the part that could melt under his touch and got dizzy from only his skin. but truly, she could eat it up if she could.
“oh, okay, well… i just… thought that it’s embarrassing, because you pay for all of this, and–” never let a man’s pride falter. it’s the firewood for the campfire, the pressure for the diamond, the water for the plants. if you feed a man’s ego, he’ll trust and love you.
“corio, dear, please. i’m not with you because of your money, we can’t do anything about our past and families. and you’re gonna win the plinth-prize, so what are we worrying about?”
“but–” y/n hushed him gently, playing her finger in front of her lips.
“i’m sure you will win that prize. why, who else would win it? the daughter of an energy secretary? or a rich, spoiled kid?”
“they are all rich and spoiled.” y/n totally let pass the fact that she was too. but what was the problem with it, really? they couldn’t do anything about it, you can’t decide where you were born. a person can change everything about itself, but not its origin. it always stays with you, clinging onto your ankle, to drag with yourself everywhere. in this life, they got on the winning side of the wheel. and who cares about the next life?
“but no one’s father is a general, except you. and i know that you didn’t like him, but keep the mindset.”
“you are so clever, y/n. thank you for always putting my mind into it’s place.”
“i’m just telling the truth. and… how are things with the game? is it hard?”
“oh, it’s… i still need to figure out some things. but i had some ideas about ways to get people more engaged in the games, like getting them sponsors, or interviewing the tributes so the viewers can get closer to them, pick a favorite, some things like this.”
“it sounds really interesting, did volumnia hear these things?” as much as she hated festus’ bragging, he also mentioned things that she could use. maybe that’s why everybody got rid of her so fast at a big gathering like the graduation two days ago. she never had ‘juicy tea’ or some things like that, only if she wanted to get something. and when she wanted to get something, the chamber of secrets instantly opened.
“yeah, well she came in when we were discussing those things. she said that i need to write it down, and then clemensia interrupted that we’ve always worked and brainstormed together, so we can write that together, too.”
totaling another pen, dovecote? being a tricky bitch, i wasn’t expecting less from you.
“i think volumnia should know that the idea was yours. clemensia is your good friend, but why wasn’t she just cheering that you got the gamemaker’s attention?” plant the seed. maybe not with clemensia, she will do it for herself, but anyway. coriolanus needed to know the truth.
“i will talk with her about this.” he won’t. he’s too kind-hearted for it. “and i’ll write down my ideas. anyway, how’s your application for volumnia gaul? did you hand it in?” y/n nodded at his question, chewing on the potatoes.
“got handed it in yesterday. i really hope if i go home this afternoon, a letter will be waiting for me.” the smile on his face was worth everything. what could that mouth do if there were only the two of them? because she knew what her mouth could do.
“i’m sure she’ll hire you. one of your thesis got onto her table, remember? the one you wrote about the possible content of venom in mono– and dicotyledons. and if she’s not, then she’s a dingbat.” y/n remembered that thesis, her brain always burned out from the three-day long insomnia.
“careful, corio! i hope she doesn’t have ears everywhere.” that woman was the queen on her chess table, it was the side that could never be decided.
all the way home, she thought about coriolanus. y/n gotta hide the grin she was forming with her lips when she was driving home with the chauffeur of the family. all the effort, all the pain… it was worth it. she almost teared up from the joy, but her mascara was really expensive, even her mother thought that it was too rich for their blood.
“is everything alright, miss y/l/n?” helius, their private driver asked, looking into the rear-view mirror. y/n nodded, exhaling and inhaling. big news like this always messed with her head. nodding, everything was perfect.
stepping inside the house, she raced up to her room immediately. there was the letter, persephone slept beside it. picking it up, y/n used her nails to tear it up. she never waited for news like this. the sooner she knew, the sooner she could got suit in the new situation.
dear y/n y/l/n, you got accepted…
throwing it away, she instantly picked up persephone, screaming into her fur. persephone meowed, already used to her owner’s insane habits. anyway, the food was tasty in the house, so why not bear it?
“you hear this, persephone? the lucky star is shining on us.” she whispered to the cat, stroking her head. she couldn't sit back, not now. not when good things, the reward of the hard work could be felt. not when everything worked for her plans. “mother and father will be so happy. and we are happy too, aren't we?”
y/n didn't know happiness, only when her heart got fast and drug-like feeling curled in her blood. but now, she got to be a predator. a predator who sat for hours, days to catch its prey. when news were coming in, things always changed. she had to be patient, but she couldn't get lazy, not now. not when strange news was coming up. news that didn’t match with her expectations, nowhere, never. news that bathed her soul with venom. news that raised her little game onto a new level.
a/n: the prologue got so many notes like my tumblr literally BLEW UP thank you so much girliez 😭 i hope you liked this part, more focus will be on corio i just want to size up reader's mindset
take care of yourself babes, love y'all
luisa
#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow fanfiction#coriolanus snow icons#coriolanus x reader#hunger games x reader#hunger games imagine#hunger games fic#hunger games fanfiction#ballad of songbirds and snakes imagine#ballad of songbirds and snakes
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⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⊹ ࣪ ˖
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; after he returned to the capital, coriolanus snow met you. the one person who broke the rules for him. that fell in his greedy grasp.. but it was a beautiful illusion. now you’ve slowly found yourself going insane. drowning in his obsession. it went from the district songbird, to you.. the capital darling. expect this time, snow isn’t going to let his pretty rose escape, this time, his trophy was in his complete control.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; dark themes, physiological abuse, chocking, chasing
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𝐒𝐨. 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲. 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬
you were trapped, and yet you were running.. as if you come free from this, from him. the pounding in your head seemed to follow the rhythm of your feet. rapid, frantic, afraid. because it was the way for only a moment, his eyes lingered.. they stilled. you searched desperately for that brilliant twinkle in his eyes - yet it was gone, like a shiver along your skin.. and it was fucking terrifying. maybe even more so by the way your eyes, even for a mere second, fluttered in that same darkness. that same hunger for power that lay within him. Began to ignite within you .. you were the monster he created. And that in its self made you utterly his.
you could hear his voice in your pretty head.. white marble blurring around you, racing through your vision like the sounds in your head. No, his voice in your head.. a drug you grasped onto like a pathetic addict
‘𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧.. 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞’
how? how had you let yourself fall into his charms.. into his perfectly crafted manipulation. but you knew how. your angel eyes saw him, that first encounter.. and it felt real. you were a fool. You saw the good in many devils - and Coryo, was the one you saw the terrifyingly deepest.. but it was merely a beautiful illusion. and you fell right into it. And now, you couldn’t get out! and in some twisted way, didn’t want to. that’s why you were running, because you were so desperate to go back. to be his even until you were broken. like the petals he picked from his beloved roses. in a sick way, you were one of them, his beautiful little prize.. and yet thorns of his making hid below.
everything was burning in your mind as you ran through those halls. his menacing voice like a sharp weapon on your back. your legs moved without hesitation, yet your heart lurched in your chest. running from him?! As if you could get away!! you didn’t know if it was his words in your head or behind you that spoke so truthfully. He existed within you. You were truly going insane.
you should have never of loved him. but you did. you loved him so sickly that it boiled like rage in your gut. and it always fucking would. perhaps that’s why this chase was so pathetic? your heart raced as the words emerged in your twisted thoughts. he didn’t care about you, he didn’t love you.. he loved owning you. holding your heart like a rose in his greedy hands. Hands that always needed more.
He was chasing you. that’s as you could think as you stumbled through those halls.. his dark eyes like daggers in your back. But you knew it wasn’t only your back, it was everywhere. Like his gaze was suffocating you, and suddenly you realized.. you didn’t truly know where he was. He was hunting you. like his delicate prey.. but he wasn’t behind you anymore. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And you made the terrible, fool of mistake to advert your eyes behind you, letting them frantically drift to the space you swear he was.. the space you wished he was.
The moment you rounded the angelicly white walled corner, your body met something.. cruel. no, sinfully familiar. your wretched love. He. Had. Caught. You. And just like you knew they always would your eyes met his. And something in your chest broke, so violently you wondered if he heard it
and before you could writhe against his greedy grip, his hand was curling around your delicate throat, and slammed you against the marble wall. once, they had looked so pure to your beaming eyes.. yet now, they looked like suffocating hell. especially as you flared against him, his hold dragging the air from your lungs like everything else he had ever possessed from you.. taking it for his own amusement. twisting it and stealing it from you like everything you ever were, was his. it was his possession
𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 .. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤?
his beautiful face leaned into yours - his maddening breath fanning you ear almost like a threat.. and it was very much that.
“after everything I’ve done for you darling?” his chuckle was like wicked silk against your skin. and just like always, you fell into that consuming darkness. If only you knew, he had said those words once before. yet this time, he wouldn’t lose
𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥..
#coriolanus snow#president snow#tbosas spoilers#coriolanus snow x reader#coriolanus snow x you#coriolanus snow x y/n#snow lands on top#toxic relationship#toxic love#hunger games#The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes#tbosas#tbosbas#ʚcoryoɞ#ʚshey’s fictionɞ
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MIDNIGHT LOVE ✨;✩°𓏲⋆💤.*
steve harrington x fem!reader [4.2K] steve didn’t expect to have fallen madly in love with you, much less for his confession to be whispered in the dead of night after another nightmare renders him sleepless. (16+)
Sleeping was a privilege Steve Harrington lost a long time ago.
Finding himself sitting in his kitchen at half past two, his bruised knuckles tap against the marble countertop in time with the faint ticking of the clock mounted on the wall. It’s a steady sound, one that still lingers with an uneasy sense of worry thanks to a man named Henry Creel, but Steve still tries to keep in time to catch his lost breath.
Steve woke up in a sweat, chest heaving and heart racing after yet another collage of gruesome, disturbing images infiltrated his dreams. The sound of your piercing screams, one so loud that it could shatter glass, the amount of crimson pooling at your stomach and seeping through his fingers, the pain rattling in his chest, the light draining from your pretty eyes.
Even now, after being awake and stumbling aimlessly through his expectantly empty home, Steve’s still not really sure how much of it was real. In any other circumstance, Steve would like to say he’s pretty good at handling the aftermath of the catastrophes in his head, but something about this time felt different.
Steve can’t seem to decide what’s worse; the fact that his dream felt so real because, in some way, there was a significant level of truth to it, or because it hurts him that little — a lot — more since he’s almost certain he’s fallen in love with you.
He wasn’t prepared for that. He isn’t prepared for that.
“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, his voice shot and rugged from what little sleep he managed to get. His hands, ones covered in calluses and surface-level cuts, shake a little as he runs them through his bed-messed hair and down his face. “Fuck.”
Hot and cold flashes shock his body like a lightning strike, goosebumps rising on his uncovered legs and his chest rising with heat beneath his old Hawkins High Phys. Ed sweatshirt. Everything aches. The muscles in his arms and his legs, his head, the gashes and torsions littering his waist.
It’s only been a few days since the world fell apart and got stitched back together and Steve can’t seem to find any peace of mind, can’t even seem to relax for just one, measly second.
The weight of the world crushing his shoulders for the past three years, the physical toll his body has had to endure time and time again, all whilst trying to balance the necessity to protect the people he cherishes like family. It’s a lot to bear at 19. He’s almost certain he’s destined for every good thing in his life to turn to ruins.
“Baby?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve swivels on the kitchen stool at the sound of your voice, warm and doe-eyed. The light of his life, the one thing keeping him sane, his version of heaven. Steve was starting to wonder if tonight would be the first time you didn’t notice the absence of his figure beside you in bed.
What a stupid, stupid fool he is to think you wouldn’t notice.
Steve’s features soften at the sight of you, groggy and sleepy and far too adorable for someone who’d have just woken up. Even though he’s bone-deep tired and still a little shaken up from his nightmare, the boy finds himself smiling faintly at your arrival, anyway. You always manage to make him grin, even without trying.
You're in his shirt, like always, the fabric light against your skin and the hem of it stops just short of your hips. Your sleep shorts are barely visible beneath, the only proof of them being the satin ribbon glinting in the moonlight, the once-tied bow now hanging, unravelled, at your thigh.
Like oxidized copper, day-old bruises stain your skin, shades of yellow and moss-green replacing the once burgundy and deep purple splotches that painted your knees. Scabbed cuts in the shape of a Demobat’s jaw litter the expanse of your calf like a fucked up puzzle, and the no-doubt scars waiting to form make Steve feel terrible all over again.
You’re alive, thank God, but that’s yet to be enough to ease the pain of wishing he could’ve done more.
Shades of blue and indigo paint over you like an oceanic kaleidoscope, a capsize of darkness making your cheekbones, your jaw, the muscles on your biceps and your thighs nothing short of a Goddess-like vision. As you further step into the kitchen, your presence alone makes Steve feel like the entire world has been set on fire and glittered sunshine and warmth.
Fuck. He really might be in love with you.
“Hey, baby.” Steve says a little guiltily and his voice is an octave or two lower than normal, almost like he’s afraid that breaking the silence that once accompanied him might ruin the heavenly sight of you.
“Steve, it’s.. it’s two in the morning,” you chide softly, voice a little raspy but Steve can still hear the worry seeping between your words. Your knuckles rub at your eyes, a weak attempt at knocking away the evidence of sleep and waking yourself up simultaneously. “What’re you doing up?”
It’s closer to three than it is two, and Steve’s been up for much longer than that. But he won’t tell you that. Not when he knows it’d get you even more worried.
“Thirsty,” he says, and the word comes out tougher than he meant it to. His throat honestly feels like sandpaper. “Needed a drink, s’all.”
Steve tilts his head towards the cup of water he’d poured that sits on the counter. However, in retrospect, the boy wishes he hadn’t given it much attention at all because the glass he motioned to is obviously untouched, condensation dripping down the sides and there’s a lack of lip or finger marks.
Your eyes flit between the glass and your tired boyfriend, an unconvinced look lacing your features, and it’s not long before you silently tread towards him. Steve knew it was a weak attempt at getting you back to bed. He knew you wouldn’t. Not without him, anyway.
“What’s wrong?”
Your question comes out more of a grumble than anything, but the concern is still there, still genuine. You know him all too well, and Steve was an absolute idiot in thinking he could get away with such a pathetic lie.
It’s like he’s in a hypnotic state whenever you’re with him because Steve isn’t quick enough to come up with another lie. He just watches you in awe. You draw close like a magnetic force, and the boy’s legs part automatically. In all honesty, he’d be a liar to say he didn’t expect that you’d crowd his space sooner rather than later.
Your hands find his in the dark and your fingers run across the bumps of his knuckles. The glitter in your nail polish catches the light peeking in through the window above the sink and it makes it seem like shooting stars are dancing across his bruises.
You’re so tender with him, he’s come to notice. Like he’s an expensive China doll, or a glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. You always stare at him like you're admiring him, too, even when Steve feels exceptionally unattractive, and you always make him like a teenager all over again.
“Bad dream?” you eventually answer the question Steve had forgotten about after a few moments of comfortable silence, mumbling against his temple.
Earlier on in your relationship, Steve felt nothing short of a burden. He’d keep you up at night, come stumbling upon your front door bloodied and bruised and in need of help, and drag you along on adventures you’d have never signed up for if you knew what they’d entail.
But, even amongst the terror, you never complained, not once, and Steve often thanks the God he doesn’t believe in to have found somebody as patient and understanding as you.
So, Steve can’t see a point in lying anymore. Not when you know him so well— not when you’ve seen him at his worst and stayed.
“Yeah,” Steve admits through a shallow breath, his lungs still constricting themselves even after he’d steadied his breathing maybe ten minutes ago. “Yeah, you could say that.”
Much to his delight, you wrap your arms around his shoulders before pressing yourself into him. Steve returns the favor instantaneously, your body still lingering with warmth from his bed as he slides his hands beneath your shirt and around your torso. If he died in this position, he’d die a happy, grateful man.
Steve basks in your company, his eyes closing briefly, and part of him thinks he could fall asleep like this if you’d let him. His face presses against your collarbone and he lets out a faint, satisfied hum when he feels you place a soft kiss on the top of his head. You’re so soft and warm and Steve practically melts against you.
Another kiss from you, a wordless I’m sorry. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Steve barely shakes his head, but it’s enough for you to notice. “Don’t wanna keep you up.” he says.
You pull away, then — not far, but there’s just enough distance between you both that Steve can glance up at you with ease. You give him a look, one he’s become far too familiar with after being with you for so long; eyes soft, but narrowed.
“I’m already awake, Steve,” you dismiss the boy gently, hand moving to card through his dark locks. You push them out of his face, forcing Steve to meet your intense, but kind gaze. “What happened this time?”
In any other circumstance, Steve would persist in his refusal to talk about his nightmares. He knows that any time somebody had asked, it was out of pure concern, which he appreciates, but it’s just hard. Sometimes Steve thinks talking about it might make it more real, more plausible.
Robin, when he’d shown up with dark circles under his eyes at work and she’d nagged him in her Robin-esque way; Eddie, during their weekly smoke sessions at his trailer in a lazy, off-handed way in hopes to come off as carefree as he’s known to be; Nancy, because once upon a time, she knew him better than anybody.
It’s difficult for Steve to open up to them, because, in his mind, they still harbor this idea that he’s the strong knight in shining armor they expect him to be. Admitting that he’s weak, troubled, and unable to move past the shit he’s dealt with in the last few years would break that façade, and Steve isn’t sure he can handle that kind of disappointment.
But you? You’ve seen it all, even despite his trying to conceal it from you out of everyone, and it’s never phased you. His weakness has slipped through the cracks of his porcelain walls, and you still like him, he thinks. He’ll never understand what he did to deserve your kindness.
“We were at the lake again,” Steve starts reluctantly. It honest to God feels like he’s tugging at an open wound. “You got pulled down, and I chased after you, but the bats..” he exhales sharply and he runs a hand through his already distressed hair, a telltale sign that he’s been restless for a while now. “I didn’t get there in time.”
The thought of you not being here with him stings, and it’s the kind of hurt that’s far worse than any real pain he’s ever endured in his life— though, Steve considers the idea of losing you to be as real as pain could possibly be.
In reality, Steve knows your getting gravely injured couldn’t have happened with the way things went at Lover’s Lake. Not when he insisted on diving for the group, not when he refused to let you go down with him, not when he made Eddie swear on his life to keep you safe if things went sideways. It wasn’t foolproof, not by any margin, but it was enough.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still scare him shitless, though.
“I’m sorry, baby.” you say as you press another kiss to his head, but it’s a little longer than the one you’d given him earlier.
“It’s okay,” Steve dismisses, and when your eyes meet again he tries to force a smile. It’s unconvincing, like always, but you don’t further pry about the nightmare, which he’s ultimately grateful for. He doesn’t want to relive it any more than he already has. “It’s just— shit, I don’t know.. annoying. It’s like my brain loves torturing me, or something. Never wants me to get any fuckin’ sleep.”
“They’re just nightmares, you know,” you remind him with a frown, and Steve wonders if you’ll ever get tired of sounding like a broken record. The amount of times you’ve had to piece him back together after he’d woken up a panicked, broken version of himself is probably in the hundreds, thousands. “They aren’t real. Henry can’t trick you anymore.”
He likes that you call him Henry instead of Vecna. It somehow manages to make his mythical, supernatural powers.. smaller than they seem. Like you aren’t scared of him. Steve wishes he has that kind of confidence.
But they are real, in some way or another. There are hints of truth mixed within the already existing storm of terror causing a riot in his head. Because, regardless of the outcome, Steve’s brain consistently morphs his reality into something far more sinister and tragic.
Sometimes he finds himself so deep within the jungle of contorted memories that he can’t decipher whether you're really sleeping beside him or if it’s another one of Vecna’s tricks.
“Feels pretty goddamn real.” he huffs out an exhausted laugh, one so humorless it’s almost as sharp as a knife’s edge. God, he’s exhausted.
“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize for what feels like the millionth time, and Steve feels guilty you need to fix something you didn’t break. “I wish I could make it better.”
You do. In ways Steve could never replicate. The feeling of your heartbeat rattling against his, the warmth your body provides, the lingering remnants of your floral perfume, the taste of your mint toothpaste against his lips, the sound of your voice and the purity in your laugh; it provides Steve sanctum within a place that hasn’t had any peace or grace in a long, long time.
“We’re okay, you know,” Steve knows you’re not necessarily asking him for an answer, even if it’s framed like a question. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. So are the kids, and Robin, Eddie, Nance.. it’s just your brain’s way of trying to make sense of what happened.”
“Pretty shitty of it to make me relive all that crap.” says Steve, another humorless laugh sneaking past his tongue.
“I know, but they’ll stop eventually,” you murmur, and Steve knows it’s more wishful thinking than anything, but it warms his chest anyway. “It’ll just take time.”
Steve’s grip tightens around your waist and he shudders at the image flashing behind his eyelids. “It’s just scary, y’know?” he breathes out. “Thinkin’ about what.. what could’ve happened because we weren’t careful.”
“We were as careful as we could’ve been, baby,” you tell the boy, and Steve knows that’s somewhat true. It wasn’t like you guys had days to sit and think of the perfect way to defeat an evil, child-murdering guy with tentacles, but it was enough. “You just.. you can’t get stuck on the what-ifs, Steve. It won’t do you any good.”
Steve hums, then, because you’re right, but he doesn’t say much else. He still feels deflated, even in the comfort of your presence.
“Besides,” you start with a little shrug, your body more energized than it had been when you initially found Steve drowning in his own dread. “There are things that are way scarier than what ifs, anyway.”
Yeah, Steve thinks, like how I think I’m falling in love with you.
But instead, the boy exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Mumbling against the material of your — his — shirt, he asks, “Yeah? Like what?”
When living in a shithole like Hawkins, a handful of supernatural things come to mind. The Demogorgon he saved you from in 1983, the Demodogs he was almost eaten by in ‘84, the Russians who almost beat him to a pulp in July of last year, the herd of Demobats you managed to beat up like Sigourney Goddamn Weaver—
“Taxes.” you blurt, and Steve doesn’t even have the chance to register what you’d said before a surprised laugh rumbles from his chest.
Fuck.
Steve's eyes snap up at you, and with wrinkled brows, he manages to half force out, half laugh, “What?”
Fuck.
“Any paperwork, really. Or me trying to cook,” you hum softly, the apples of your cheeks swelling as you let yourself drift back into the countless memories of kitchen mishaps you, and Steve, have shared in this very room. “I mean, you remember how Thanksgiving went. It was a total shitshow.”
One undercooked turkey, a load of burnt potatoes because you forgot to turn the oven down, and pumpkin pie that, oddly enough, had no pumpkin in it. It was a hot mess, really, but it’s probably one of Steve’s fondest memories— even if that's totally and utterly lame to admit.
He’s definitely in love with you.
“That..” Steve’s breath is shaky all of a sudden, and his voice wavers. “Yeah, you trying to cook is pretty scary.”
“Clowns are scary, too,” you add, almost for good measure. Your nose crinkles and Steve feels his chest bloom with heat at the sight of it. “They’re always smiling. It’s.. I mean, what’s scarier than that?”
Steve doesn’t mean to blurt it out, not really, but the compulsion to spill his flourishing feelings for you was far too burdening to ignore. Your hands were twisting in his hair, nails softly scraping at his scalp and you were staring down at him with your God-given smile like he’s a national fucking treasure or something.
If there’s one thing to know about Steve, it’s that he feels a lot. He’s passionate about a lot of things, and a lot of people, and trying to smother and conceal that part of himself only amplifies his emotions until he’s fit to burst. He throws his heart out on the line and lets it teeter like a trapeze artist and hopes that someone, somewhere, is ready and willing to catch it when it falls.
Most of the time it ends in tragedy and heartbreak, but Steve thinks that this time, you could be that someone to pick up the broken pieces with fragile hands and stitch them back together. He really hopes you’re that someone.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Your body stills and your features contort into something Steve can’t decipher. You blink once, twice, before quietly muttering, “What?”
For a long, long time, home was just an idea that Steve was never quite able to grasp. A figure of his wildest, incapable dreams. His house, one that only seemed filled because of the old photos on the mantle and from the light bouncing off the chandelier, was never home. Hell— Hawkins as a whole isn’t home, either. Not anymore.
Steve hadn't known that home could be a person. Not until you.
“I think I love you.” Steve repeats, all his attempts at keeping his composure slowly wilting away with every second that passes.
Your gaze flickers across the expanse of his face, eyes soaking in every scar and every mark, every freckle and mole that litters his sun-kissed skin. One of your hands gently moves to cup the side of his face and your thumb slides almost methodically against his cheek, feather-like grazes across a silver scar he’d gained back in July 1985.
Steve can feel the warmth blooming beneath your angelic touch, a match to his body of flames, and barely above a whisper, you ask, “You think?”
His heartbeat begins to ricochet from his chest and into his now trembling fingertips. Steve’s veins feel like they’re pumping with acid, a new wave of anxiousness coursing through him like he’d been burnt from the inside out. It’s painful, in a way, but it’s a good kind of hurt. The kind he never wants to stop feeling.
So it takes Steve a moment, but he eventually shakes his head, his dark brown eyes flitting down at your lips before meeting your gaze again. He can’t help but notice the aquatic pools filling your lash line.
“I know,” Steve corrects himself, his tongue moving to wet his now dry lips. “I know I love you.”
Your breath hitches, then, and if the world hadn’t become a muted track in Steve’s ears, he might’ve missed it. You’re so, so quiet, all of a sudden, and there’s a large part of Steve that can’t help but start panicking because he’s convinced he’s already fucked this up.
“And that’s scary?” you ask him with a crack in your voice, words wobbling.
in a low voice, he admits, “Terrifying.”
Steve’s driven through heartbreak avenue so many times that his heart is probably more scar tissue than muscle, been dealt a bad set of cards after gambling his love away and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the ghost of his ex-lover clawing at his chest.
He was black and blue most days, the haunting of what he could’ve done better always following him around like a fucked up shadow when he’d finally move on, only for him to just fall back into that same pit of regret he’d become oh so acquainted with.
It sucked, because getting his heart ripped out and stomped on time and time again was worse than any other pain he’s ever experienced in his 20 years of living.
But, what’s so scary, in Steve’s mind, is the fact that he’d do it all over again in a blink of an eye. He would take every punch and every jab, every insult and every ounce of hurt ten times over if he knew it meant that he’d find his way back to you.
Steve isn’t expecting you to say anything, much less do anything, so you can imagine his surprise when your hand is gentle as it cups the side of his face. He can’t help but lean further into your palm, his chocolate brown eyes unable to break away from your glassy ones.
In a soft, almost shaky voice, you tell the boy, “I don’t think you should be scared about that.”
Steve’s heart stops. “You don’t?” he asks, almost unsure because the uncertainty of your answer hangs heavy in the air.
“No. Because I..” you shake your head and lick your lips, too, pretty dream-like eyes darting across his features. And, with a faint, tired smile, you confess, “I love you, too, Steve. More than anything.”
Steve’s heart starts up again, quicker than ever before, because shit, that'd be enough for him.
Then, with unwavering confidence, Steve surges forward and captures you in a hurried kiss. Mouths slotting together in a heavenly disarray, the boy’s hands tighten around your frame and his mind goes entirely blank on everything that isn’t you because you’re his world he’d die orbiting around.
Steve’s kissing you with a level of fervid he didn’t know he had locked within him, and if the two of you were on display, it would seem like he’d been deprived of your admiration entirely. Your hand, the one splayed across his cheek, moves to his jaw and tilts his chin up ever so slightly and you deepen the kiss.
The boy can’t stop himself from trying to pull you impossibly closer, a new wave of determination washing over him as his desire to feel every ounce of you burns hotter. His tongue soothing over the accidental scrape of his teeth, Steve’s hunger only grows when you muffle out a faint moan against his lips.
You’re both panting when you pull away, a soft click sounding at the departure of your lips from Steve’s. Your forehead rests against his and Steve can’t help himself from trying to steal another kiss from you. You pull back, though, your eyelashes tickling his cheeks and Steve forgets entirely about the way the edge of the counter is digging into his spine.
“Can we go back to bed?” you ask him in a faint voice, eyes still closed and your nose bumps against his, your breath shallow against Steve’s face. The boy is left dizzy from your surging kisses, lips still tingling despite the loss of yours, and Steve almost misses the salacious hint in your request.
Almost.
The boy can’t bring himself to speak, but Steve nods, sneaking another kiss from you before he takes your hand in his and leads you back to the safety of his bedroom, socked feet padding against the floor sounding just as loud as the thumping his heart bounces off his ribcage.
And there, between rumbled sheets, Steve proves how much he loves you til the early signs of morning peak through his blinds, slivers of pink and orange rays mixing and painting your features gold.
Gentle kisses and rough hands, crescent moons adding to the constellation of freckles on his back, moans mixing with whispered sweet nothings echoing between his bedroom walls; a faint mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you encompassing you both.
#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fic#steve harrington x reader fluff#steve harrington x reader angst#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington angst#stranger things#stranger things fluff#stranger things angst#hurt/comfort#stevesbabysittingservice
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thinking about icky stepbro!rafe who found himself jerking off in the bathroom after excusing himself from dinner.
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
he was desperate for a release- it’d been weeks since he last got to touch you. you’ve been rambling on and on recently about how it’s “not a good idea, rafe, we’re gonna get caught eventually. as much as i want to, we… we might need to call this little situation quits.” and he knew you were right, it was so wrong. he knew he had a real problem when the entire time you lectured him about it he was imagining sliding his cock between your juicy, glossed lips, shutting you up as his cum drips down your eager throat.
at dinner he thought you were teasing him on purpose- batting your fluffy lashes and touching on his arm when you asked him to pass you a fork. your petite fingers felt like massive weights against his skin, his body hyper aware of the sensation of them dragging away slowly. he watched the way you seemed to eat messy on purpose, letting food dribble down your chin only to bring a finger up to swipe it away, slowly sucking it clean as your eyes locked onto his own.
when he can’t take the tension anymore, he slides his dining chair back from the table with a screech across the floor. he feels the stares of the rest of you sitting at the table, but in true rafe fashion he honestly couldn’t give any less fucks as he strides away to the downstairs bathroom.
his forehead is sticky with sweat as he leans over the sink, his knuckles white as they grip the counter in an effort to hold himself steady. his brain is fuzzy, dazed and swimming with thoughts of your silky legs brushing against his own, the way your little skirt was riding up as you shifted in your seat during conversations with the rest of your family. he could swear he saw a peek of your lacy panties hugging tight around your warm pussy, and, oh, what he’d give to be inside of it right now.
his breath comes out in sharp spurts as he roughly fists his length, jerking up and down while he imagines you bent over the counter, just like that one time last month. he can almost feel it- the way your velvet walls suck him in in a way that shows you need him. each thrust makes you whine and cry, your arms reaching behind you to dig your nails into whatever skin you can grab.
rafe pumps himself until he’s panting and on the edge of release, his strong bicep flexing with every quick motion. he knows he’s been in here a suspicious amount of time, he can hear the rumbling voices reverberating through the walls. his abdomen grows hot and tense, every fiber of his being tingling as he reaches his peak and shoots his load, hot ropes of cum painting the marble sink he imagines you on your knees, tongue out and ready to receive it. he wipes his brow with his sleeve and stands up to his full height to peek at his reflection and fix his disheveled hair.
with a quick swipe across the sink he coats his fingertips in his own sticky release, running the water to rinse the rest down the drain. his footsteps echo steadily down the hall as he makes his way to the table, everyone too engrossed in their meals to acknowledge his return. everyone but you, of course- your doe eyes flick over to him and a smile pulls across your plush lips as he adjusts in his chair.
“you got uh…” he brings his fingers to your chin, swiping away something you both know isn’t there, before slipping his two fingers into your mouth and across your tongue. “you had somethin’ on your face.”
the salty taste is unmistakable, and so are your burning cheeks as you watch your stepbrother return to his meal like nothing had happened.
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
he is so icky gross :(( <3
taglist: @stepbrorafe @bunnycvnts @hewwokitti3 @pinkribboncoco @rafesgiirl @beautifuldisaster88 @mousie101 @laniirackssss @ditzyzombiesblog @brooklynadoresdior
#rafe blurb#stepbro rafe#stepbro!rafe#outerbanks rafe#rafe#rafe cameron#rafe fanfiction#rafe fic#rafe imagine#rafe outer banks#rafe x y/n#rafe x you#obx fanfiction#rafe smut#rafe x reader#rafe obx#1cky br0ther#obx imagine#obx fic#obx x reader#obx smut#obx s2#obx s3#obx#outer banks#tw stepcest
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Relaxation & Revelations
Helloooo. I Hope you enjoy. we're getting into the more serious part now, but it's gotttta be done don't it?
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Warning- age gap/taboo relationship
WC- 3.3k
Previous part
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Y/N liked playing house with Harry.
It was a real problem, actually.
Her own apartment rarely saw her as she had been spending a lot of her time with her lover at his large, fancy and now mostly empty house. Y/N had helped Lia move in with her girlfriend, albeit a little bit fast in her opinion, she wasn’t one to judge. She was quite literally banging her father. All she could do was be supportive.
It was a weird mixed feeling in her chest. On one hand, she saw how fucked up it was. How she was betraying her trust, how she understood how it would disturb her if she had done the same- though no offense to her own, but she was safe in that aspect. It was not the best person to choose to fuck around with, but this aspect may be worse.
Falling in love with your best friend’s father is arguably worse.
Y/N knew it was going to blow up in her face at some point, but ever the optimist, she had decided to try and look at the positives and understand that whenever it came out, she would need to deal with the repercussions like an adult. Take whatever reaction there was and deal with it. It would be valid, regardless.
One of the mixed things was that Lia had caught on about Harry seeing someone. She had wrinkled her nose and told Y/N that she had seen scratch marks on his back with no way he could cause them when she’d went to swim, that he had a hickey (that she had no idea Y/N had sucked onto his skin), and he had been noticeably happier. She had talked about how miserable he had been after the divorce, how for years he had hovered a bit because Lia had been his one focus, but she as glad that he was giving her space to breathe as an adult who was now out of college and supporting from a healthy distance.
“Y’know, I’m just happy he’s smiling again. He was whistling last time I came into his home office, ordering flowers. It’s gross because he’s my dad but cute because he deserves a second chance at love. Just like you!”
Y/N had felt both happy and guilty after that conversation.
Since moving out, Y/N had a steady drawer building in his closet. Her hair ties in a drawer in his bathroom. His room was their safe space considering Harry had built boundaries with Lia about it being his personal space when she got older, needing a room that wasn’t overrun with her stuff and a private place to breathe- just as he promised to stay out of her room. Y/N was free to lounge about his room without a care, use his giant marble bathroom to bathe and giggle with her bath bombs while Harry finished up work calls.
It was a nice little housewife roleplay. One Y/N realized could potentially be a reality if she played her cards right. Harry seemed to be just as into her, but she was still worried. He spoiled the shit out of her with his affection and newly, gifts, but she was always watching to make sure she didn’t overstep.
At some point they needed to have the dreaded ‘what are we’ talk, but right now? She really couldn’t risk messing it up. She was too happy, too comfortable with their slowly developing dynamic.
Sitting in the jacuzzi tub, the bubbles moved about as the jets massaged her back, a book in her hand as she enjoyed her bath. Harry’s bathroom was stupidly gorgeous. It had exquisite white and gray marble walls and floor, adding a touch of elegance to the room. The tub was surrounded by marble steps leading up to it, making getting in and out of the tub easy and safe, the depth of the tub something she hadn’t seen before.
The bathroom also had separate Mr & Missus sinks, each with their own marble countertops and elegant faucets. The Mr sink held a darker marble countertop, while the Missus sink had a lighter, veiny marble countertop. The sink was separated by a wide vanity mirror with those circular light bulbs to give the best possible lighting- though it was a tiny bit unforgiving, she could admit. No one needed to see pores that well. Underneath the vanities included cabinets and shelves for towels and other bathroom essentials- built in, Harry had provided. Made just for this particular bathroom, the black paint shiny and unscuffed.
The bathroom’s large shower with frosted glass entry doors also had a built-in bench. She could sit in the fucking shower! And… do other things. Harry liked that part and had shown her just how useful it could be.The space was complete with touches like gold-accented fixtures, eucalyptus hanging from the shower, monogrammed plushy white towels that probably cost more than her entire room at home, and a cozy, fluffy bathrobe hanging on the door- and he had sneakily brought one for her, too. The thought made her flustered. Harry was a very detail oriented person, and the things he could remember were slightly unsettling. He’d remembered her brand of face wash after seeing it once. One time!
Relaxing here had been a welcome part to her day after her shift. Being on her feet hadn’t done her well today, especially after being berated by entitled customers who thought that the prices were too high- as if Y/N herself made them. Being able to come here and crumble into Harry’s arms, have him wipe her pouty tears and promise her a meal after he finished his work for the day had made it significantly better.
“What’s the pretty girl reading?”
Y/N jumped, almost dropping the book into the foamy water as her heart pounded in her chest. She had been distracted and lost in thought, not hearing him enter in the slightest. “Fuck! You scared the shit out of me.” She squeaked, placing the narrowly saved book down on one of the steps outside the tub, her hand resting over her thundering heart.
“I wasn’t exactly quiet.” Harry laughed, that crooked grin making her want to sink down further into the bubbles. It was unfair that a man could be that devastatingly attractive. “Tripped over one of your shoes.”
Y/N pursed her lips together as she looked up at the ceiling, pretending she knew nothing about said shoe. “I dunno who’s shoe that could have been. Surely it wasn't mine!” Harry had warned her about it prior. Her two true bad habits were leaving her fake eyelashes on his nightstand- which he had once mistaken for a spider and squeaked, making Y/N laugh so hard she snorted- and leaving shoes in the middle of the room.
“Mm… I know I don’t own pink, fuzzy sandals.” He shot her a look. “”But I’ll forgive the discretion for a kiss.” Leaning over the foamy, rose and vanilla scented bathwater, he tilted her chin up and pressed his lips on to her own. The man took a seat on the side of the tub, Plaid trousers paired with a white button up that had the sleeves rolled up. His forearms looked particularly delicious, the vein she usually drooled over showing as he used his arm to hold himself up. Glasses sat in his hair, the reading pair not needed for seeing her face.
“Everything okay?” She chirped, looking at his tired eyes. Harry worked hard, despite having moved a lot of his days to work at home. He preferred it. As charming as he was, he was a homebody, a slight introvert. His work was better when he could stay home and focus.
“Mhm. Now it is.” He let out a sigh, taking one of her dampened hands in his own as he played with her fingers. “Had a long day of calls. Sort of takes the wind out of me. What was it you said- need to charge my what battery?” His eyes squinted as he tried to remember what she had told him a few weeks ago.
“Social battery?” An empathetic smile was given when he nodded. “I understand that. Mine too. We both have tomorrow off, though… So if you can stand seeing my mug for another day, we can sit and watch that show you wanted….” Even after a few months of this developing arrangement? Relationship? She felt a little nervous to invite herself to stay over.
Obviously, Harry did not feel the same. His face lit up at the suggestion, shaking his head at her self-dig. “I always want t’see your face.” He said seriously. “So pretty. My favorite one.” Leaning over, he playfully pinched her cheek to make her smile. “I think that’s a lovely idea. Don't really want to see anyone but you anyways.”
It was a little scary how quickly that had become true. Y/N had become his person very fast and it had happened without his permission.
It was easy with her. Once that tiny hint of awkwardness at the beginning where they didn’t know how to navigate the new development had fallen away, he found himself indulging in her. Spending more time than just the sex they had initially had. There was no way he could just simply fuck her and leave- even though he’s had to in the past- considering he’d always cared about her on at the very least, a human level. It had them planning nights away, Harry renting a hotel room for them for a night here or there, texting each other daily, even just to chat. She’s been so supportive and kind and he was fucked.
Her beaming grin nearly knocked the wind out of him, warm cheek leaning into his hand at his response. He could feel the smile against it, how she was flushed- from more than just from the bath. Harry had that effect on her, had her smiling and blushing and he wanted to make her giggle all over again.
He always wanted to make the woman happy. More than he wanted to make her cum- and that was a fucking lot. This was a potential problem, sure, but he wasn’t about to give her up. He knew the risks that it was taking. Greatly upsetting his daughter, ruining a friendship, hurting his own relationship with her- but he just liked her so, so much.
——-
Y/N was older than Lia by 2 years, having started uni later because she wanted to work for a bit and save up some money for when she went. The girls had clicked immediately when they’d met in their third year. The first time she and Harry met, she had been polite. Sweet. Complimenting his car as she approached it with Lia, looking in interest and offering to help them both carry up her stuff into their apartment. Harry had found them both a good place and Y/N had offered to pay rent to him- but he gave her a very discounted rate. She had said she wasn’t comfortable accepting a free place which he could understand, but she was in uni. He’d feel like shit pocketing any of the money. So instead he had simply used the money to help buy them furniture when it broke, get them meals when it was a special occasion, putting it back into them.
He had seen her quite a few other times after the first meeting. She had begun to pop up all around, coming home with Lia on a break or a long weekend, going on their boat in that first summer, hanging around the house when Harry had worked more at the office. She’d become a fixture for a while. He’d enjoyed their conversations, her energy refreshing and sweet- but he hadn’t had any sort of feelings for her. Y/N had just been a kind girl that he appreciated talking to and being a good influence on his daughter. She’s been beautiful the entire time, sure. But there had been something those few months ago that had just made it all snap into place.
Last summer they hadn’t come over in a long while. Their last year of school had been hard on both of them, and he understood that they hadn’t wanted to take the trips back up to see him as often. He’d sent groceries and care packages for both of them, knowing that he had more than enough money. Y/N didn’t ask, but had become close with his daughter and had her straightened out a little bit. He wanted to treat her as well. The man had turned a blind eye to the credit card charges for clubs and bars because she had been on a straightened path for a while and her grades had improved.
Harry loved his daughter with his entire heart, but he knew that she had been a bit of a difficult friend for Y/N for a while. She had dragged her into things and made her play mother hen quite a few times. Sure, he knew she liked to have a good time out but there had been a period of time where he had gotten a few phone calls from a frantic Y/N asking if he could track Lia’s phone, or if he could see if she used the Uber account. Most of the time she had run off with a guy or girl and Harry had been apologetic those few times when Y/N had been the one to go off and find her. After the 3rd time, Harry had properly told Lia off and scolded her, letting her know that she was lucky to have a friend who cared as much for her as Y/N had and if she continued she would more than likely lose her for her own selfish actions.
Since then she had calmed- for the most part.
Having an empty home now, with Lia now moved in with her girlfriend, would have crushed Harry if it hadn’t been for Y/N. It had been different when she was at school, but knowing she left and didn’t necessarily want to come back except to visit had hurt his heart. He’d been lonely for a while, with the divorce and his daughter going away to school, but he had always counted on her coming back and staying for a while.
The man had a decent arrangement of friends, but only a few people he trusted. He was truly a homebody and kept a very tight knit inner circle, but it hadn’t been the same as having someone with him. Within arms reach. Someone who could lounge around in the living room while he worked and a face to greet him in the kitchen when he came out at lunch to grab a snack. He loved Mitch, but he knew he wouldn’t want to sit in his kitchen and make him a snack just out of the goodness of his heart like Y/N had been doing.
He also knew Mitch was going to be a bit shocked at the revelation of who he had been spending his time with lately as he sat at the bar with him- but he hadn’t expected him to choke on his beer, coughing up a storm as he grabbed at a napkin. His friend was usually calm, cool and collected, someone he thought would never be phased. Turns out, he had been wrong.
“You’ve been seeing who?” He asked once his throat was clear and his nose didn’t burn from the uptick of beer that had gone right up it.
“Y/N.” Harry said, blinking right back at him.
“As in, Y/N your daughter’s best friend? That one? Her old roommate?” He was speaking lowly and monotone, but he knew his friend. He knew he was absolutely shocked.
“Yes, her. Listen, I know it’s not ideal but it just… it happened. And I came to tell you because I’m so fucking happy but equally as terrified. Lia is going to be so upset and I don’t want that to happen, but things are getting deeper with Y/N and I finally-” he was interrupted by his friend cutting him off.
“Yes, Harry. Lia is more than likely going to be upset that her father and best friend are involved. It’s a natural thing. I’m positive she would never expect that.” He stressed. “It will be normal for her to be upset. I’d more than count on it.”
“Gee, thanks for the support.” Harry muttered, raising his glass to the words.
“No. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be happy, H. I’m saying you need to expect that. It’s the reality of the situation. Y/N and Lia are not going to be the same but you need to ask if that’s a risk you’re willing to take.” His face softened a little bit seeing the anxiety written clearly on Harry’s features. It had been so long since he had that little light in his eyes again, and no one would want to ruin it. But he had to be a good friend. “Listen… I want you to be happy, Harry. We all do. But you need to wait and see if this is what you truly want. Don’t jump into telling her yet. In other instances I’d say honesty is the best but… If this doesn't last, if you start to get cold feet, you don’t want to cause an upheaval for no reason.”
Mitch didn’t want to doom the relationship- even though he sort of suspected he had having some sort of midlife crisis, he won’t mention it- but he wanted Harry to think and not get ahead of himself. “Have you guys talked about it yet?”
Harry squirmed slightly in discomfort, eyes falling to the glass of amber liquid in his hands. They hadn’t. It was a lot of reading between the lines. A lot of going off of emotions. He had real feelings, but what if she didn’t? What if this was just a fun fling for her? She was a twenty-something year old. Did she want to settle down? He wasn’t in a rush, but he didn’t have time for games anymore. He was grown. Did Y/N want something serious?
It had progressed over time. At first, it was a bit of dirty, naughty fun. He liked her a lot as a person and the sex had been hot and tickled a taboo part of his fantasies, but it had grown. Evolved. She stayed with him half the week, she slept in his bed, curled up in his arms as she listened to him read the news on the phone in the morning. She made him coffee and brought it to him in his office, sat in his lap while he scrolled through emails. It had gotten to the point where they didn’t even have sex every day. They’d kiss, cuddle, they’d chat, but it felt a lot like a relationship. One he had always wanted when he was younger. Far from innocent, but pure in its own form.
They needed to discuss the emotional aspects of it, but he was scared. Terrified, even, to bring it up and potentially ruin or disturb the lovely routine and vibe they had now. He didn’t want to scare her away, but Mitch was right.
He needed to know if this was real.
#bff dad#bff dadrry#best friends dad harry styles#best friends dad harry#best friends dad#dadrry#jarofstyles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles one shot#harry styles fanfic#harry styles smut#harry writing#harry styles imagine#harry drabble#harry styles blurb#harry styles writing#Harry styles fluff#Harry styles angst#Harry styles au#Harry styles age gap#harry styles oneshots#harry styles fic#harry styles fanfictions#harry styles fanfics
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KISSING IN CARS
you thought breaking up with felix was the hardest thing you've ever done. what was even harder was thinking about a future without him. but second chances won't leave you alone.
PIERCE THE VEIL series
PAIRING lee felix x gn!reader
WC 1.3k
TAGS exes to lovers trope. mutual pining. angst. fluff. right person wrong time, until it's the right time again. kissing.
OMI NOTE this is my first time writing for felix and i'm quivering in my boots idk however i hope that it pleases the audience.
the stupid lego venom keychain that was deserted on your marble countertops was a constant reminder that felix was no longer yours. everything about him was right, but you both were too young, and he had such a gorgeous world in store for him.
reminiscing about waking up next to him in the morning came often. it was the first time you had properly seen love in front of you. tracing the freckles littered on his face, waiting for the deep brown of his eyes to welcome you in the morning.
he was beautiful, so fucking beautiful. each strand of hair falling perfectly against his fair skin, tickling your face whenever you got too close. the feeling of his breath against your lips, warning you before he would close the gap.
then, you thought there was faith in your love. you both were equally as hopeful that things would work out. but when it didn’t, it only made you more aware that while he was the best person for you, it wasn’t the right time.
cards never played out in your favor, hence why you still sat with a broken heart months, almost a year later.
moving on was proved impossible when his face was plastered on every billboard imaginable. the fond smile he never lost as he stood amongst seven other men. you’d be lying if you said that some of his songs weren’t on loop for you, it made everything seem so much more real.
it wasn’t much of therapy, but more or less a desperate plea to not forget about him or his voice. but how could you?
their discography played from your cheap earbuds as you left the house for the first time in maybe a week. your fridge was seemingly getting emptier and emptier, so you figured it was about time you went grocery shopping.
the sound of your shoes against the concrete echoed around you. you took a quick walk down to the parking structure of your apartment building, drowning out any other noise. when your car finally came into view, there was a familiar one parked right next to you.
at first, you didn’t give it much thought. maybe one of your neighbors invested in a new vehicle, probably to impress their significant others.
yet when you walked closer, you saw a blonde headed boy pulling the keys out of the ignition. everything froze for a moment, enabling you to drop your bag on the floor in shock.
he heard the noise, looking behind himself to see where it was coming from. when he saw you in all your glory, visibly shaken up from him being there, his expression softened.
you pinched your arm in the middle of all of this, unable to believe that this was real. but it was, and felix was opening his car door to come see you for the first time since the break up.
“hi, y/n.” he greeted you breathlessly, moving to be face to face with you.
“felix.. what are you doing here i–” your words were interrupted by a hug, the scent of warm floral englufing you.
“i’m going to be in town for the next month for so, and i had to see you.” he told you.
“i don’t understand, i thought i was never going to see you again. we broke up, don’t you remember?” you stutter out.
“how could i forget one of the hardest days of my life? i just want to talk for a bit if.. that’s okay with you.”
“of course felix. but– i don’t think a parking structure is the greatest place to talk.” your lips pull into a slight smile to shield the ache in your heart. you missed him, a lot.
“let’s go to our spot then.”
music played out the windows of a car you remember taking the longest drives in. the ride was barely awkward for the short time it lasted. it felt like you were dancing on clouds in the comfort of his presence. it was something that you valued about him so much, his ability to make anyone feel relaxed by just being there.
every song was something that reminded you of your past relationship with him. all of it was too similar to the past, and part of it scared you. would it be selfish to think that you were running through his mind as well?
the car pulled into a secluded parking lot, shadowed by large trees. there was a long river ahead of you, the sunset glistening across the waters. he always took you to this place when you needed to forget about your troubles.
“i haven’t been to this place in forever, reminds me so much of us.” he mentioned, letting his hand hang out of the window.
“would you believe me if i said that i didn’t come here every day after we split?” you mumble under your breath.
“it always helped get stress off of your mind, i wouldn’t blame you at all.” he laughs lightheartedly, “but i kinda wanted to talk to you about that.”
“about what?”
“about us. i never stopped thinking about you if i’m going to be honest.” he confessed to you.
“not once..?” you asked hesitantly.
“it was impossible, the idea of a second chance wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“you can’t say that to me, felix. it makes it so much harder to get over you. our future together was just a few heartbeats away from disaster.”
“but i don’t want you to, y/n. my schedule has gotten so much more manageable, and i feel like now i’m in a place to give you the love that you deserve.” he looks over to you, resting his hand on top of yours delicately.
“felix, we can’t. you’re too young to be stressing about–”
“there’s no such thing as too young, i had to scream it at the top of my lungs to realize that.” he pleaded with you, “i’m afraid that i threw you away too fast, without even trying to make it work.”
“you’re crazy, sun.” you sigh, letting your fingers intertwine with his and squeezing lightly.
“you haven’t called me sun since we were together.” he smiles bright enough to light up the vehicle.
“maybe i had a hard time letting go as well.”
the sun barely peaked over the horizon, but for what it was, it gingerly highlighted him. he still looked like he had something more to tell you, lips mouthing nothing in particular.
felix leans over the center console to capture a fallen piece of hair, blending it into the rest in an attempt to get his hand on the side of your face. his cold fingertips rested on your neck, with one other finger on your cheek and another on your chin.
you let him hold your face for awhile, basking in the temperature rise to an unbearable heat. he truly was so similar to the sun.
“can i kiss you? please?” he asks gently, scared of making you uncomfortable.
all you respond with is a slight nod, too caught up to use your words. it wasn’t long before his face was mere centimeters from yours, looking up to your eyes, then your lips. and finally, the gap closed to trap you in a kiss that you haven’t felt in awhile.
one of your hands tremble in his, scared that this won’t last forever. scared that he’ll leave again and things won’t work out.
but the way he deepened the kiss made all these worries subside for a little while. it was romantic, and made you feel whole again. red and orange hues from the sunset flashed through the the wind shield. not once did he pull away, scared of losing you in the midst of it all.
you tapped lightly on his adams apple, desperate for some kind of air. when he removed his lips from yours, you recollected yourself.
he looked worried, lips sore and wet from trying to swallow you whole, but you gave him a reassuring smile.
“damn, you kind of took my breath away.” you giggle in between breaths.
“i just didn’t want to let you go.”
“you have me now, felix. we’ll make this work.”
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PIERCE THE VEIL series
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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 7 all chapters
I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in.
–Jane on Mr. Rochester, Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
-It's no real mystery, why you dig out your beloved old copy of Jane Eyre. From the early 1900s, it had seen better days when you’d scored it in the local used book store, many years ago. You’d been a teenager then—and those days were long behind you. It seems you never outgrew your liking of a dark and broody anti-hero.
It’s safer to read about it though, than pursue the real thing.
Lately every time Mr. Wick comes into the shop you feel slightly agitated, as though you don’t quite fit into your own skin. You remember the sensation of his fingertips on yours, like a burn.
Mr. Wick sees you reading your tattered novel on your break, but doesn’t comment. You’ve seen him with old classics in hand and reckon he must be something of an aficionado.
You put it away in your shoulder bag in the back after the break.
The next day, it’s gone.
You know you left it in your bag. Where the fuck could it have gone? Why would someone fucking steal it?
A couple of weeks later, it reappears on the counter by the register you favor.
You hardly recognize it at first, for it has received an encompassing makeover. It has new leather covers with gorgeous embossed gold lettering, and marbled end papers, and the tattered thread of the binding repaired. There are gilded arabesques on the spine and delicately drawn climbing flowers on the cover. You wouldn’t have even thought it the same book, if not for the intricately printed title page unique to your edition, with an old pencil mark in the corner you recognize.
Such a restoration would have cost a fortune.
You knew, because you’d looked into it.
Further compounding the mystery, there is a beautiful jacquard embroidered ribbon bookmark inside. It’s on the page where Rochester has sat Jane down in the arbor, and is telling her that she has rejuvenated him from his unhappy existence without actually admitting anything, asking in the most roundabout way possible if it would be so very bad to take a second wife who would make him a new man, while his first is still living, the big idiot.
“Is the wandering and sinful, but now re-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?”
Jane tells him, of course, that a man shouldn’t base his redemption on another person, but within himself. You are not sure you would have had the strength to speak so frankly to a man you secretly loved.
Well, maybe you would.
You are utterly mystified by the whole thing, to say the least.
But later, you are browsing the local book store, and the owner is reading Anna Karenina in what looks like freshly bound leather. The style looks familiar.
“Did you have that restored?” you ask, feeling like Nancy Drew hot on the trail of a fresh lead.
“Yeah, that new guy in town, John Wick did it for me. He says he’s just a hobbyist, but he does amazing work. Usually you have to send off to Florence for quality like this, seriously. It’s a dying art.”
Darren lets you look at the book, and you are impressed by the craftsmanship.
The spine decoration matches yours. There is a plate in the back that proclaims: Bound by John Wick.
The sneak.
You are touched to the tips of your toes, your heart filled with butterflies. Was the bookmark purposely left on that page, or just a random placement?
You hardly dare hope, and tell yourself it’s an invention of your own fancy. The gift of the book is magnificent enough. No need to further muddle things with secret communications that aren’t really there.
The next day you approach Mr. Wick’s table with hands on your hips, affecting annoyance. “You stole my book.”
He actually has the grace to look sheepish about it, casting those lovely dark eyes downwards.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I really love it.” It’s the understatement of the century.
He looks up through his hair, the surprised sparkle in his eyes taking your breath away. Suddenly, he looks ten years younger.
“Yeah?”
The corners of your mouth twitch. This man speaks like he’s paying five cents per word, you swear. “Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me you bind books?”
He just shrugs, and you cannot help but laugh.
“I’ve never owned anything so fine. Thank you, truly.”
He nods again, and you sense that you’re maybe making him uncomfortable with your gratitude. You suspect it’s not why he did it at all.
“Will you show me sometime? How you do it?”
There is a flash of something dark in his eyes before he turns his attention back down to his own book. It feels like dismissal, but you have no idea what he’s hiding underneath it all.
Still waters run deep.
“Anytime you want,” he offers as you turn to go.
You smile at him over your shoulder as you go back to your station, a secret lightness fluttering in your heart. On your break you flip through your refurbished book once more, taking even more pleasure in it knowing that John poured over every detail of it. You don’t know much about bookbinding or leather work, but you suspect he freehanded the little flowers on the front, and that moves you to your toes.
You flip to one of your favorite scenes because you find it so funny, when Jane puts out the fire that nearly burned Rochester up in his sleep, because undoubtedly he’d drank too much earlier to easily rouse, the lovesick scoundrel. Afterwards he doesn’t want her to leave but can’t outright keep her in his room without behaving an absolute blackguard.
“Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.”
You cannot help but glance up at your tall dark bookworm in the corner, an aching warmth spreading in your heart for the sight of his furrowed brow, his concentration (you think) focused on the tome in his hands.
You know you are a ridiculous thing.
#john wick#john wick x you#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#keanu reeves x reader#keanu reeves#john wick fic#bittersweet john wick imagine#yandere john wick#yandere! john wick#yandere john wick x you#i nerded out so hard on this chapter im soorrryyyyy!!!#jane eyre
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Feeding the Raph stans today. Enjoy ~
The Deal
Pairing: Tav(f) x Raphael
POV: 2nd person (Reader being Tav)
Rating: 18+, Minors DNI
Warnings: SMUT, fingering, overstimulation, spitting, biting, Dom Raph x Sub Tav, bondage, slapping, piv intercourse, GAME SPOILERS - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
You wipe the sweat from your brow and scan the room carefully, the Orphic Hammer weighing heavy on your back. This heist was no small feat, and boy, are you feeling it. Stealing from Raphael was incredibly stupid, and you're sure you'll feel his wrath soon enough, whenever the devil decides to return home. As long as you make it out of the House of Hope, you'll have your back-up. You sigh and shake your head, kicking yourself for telling your team to stay back at the Devil's Fee just in case things in the city went south. In reality, you're the one in real danger. Raphael is not the devil to mess with, surely. You shimmy into the darkness of the hall and make your way towards the portal back to the Lower City. Just a few more steps.
You pant quietly from the heat and swipe the tiny beads of sweat forming on your upper lip now, wiping your hand off on your leathers. "Gods, I can't wait to get out of this.. Hell hole." The final door lies ahead of you. Tall. Daunting. Anything or anyone, could be behind it. You gulp and brace for the worst, reaching for the handle. Giving the door a gentle tug, you crack it just enough to peak inside, spotting the empty portal room. "Fuck yes." Little steps take you towards the portal and you stop. The portal disintegrates to ash before your eyes, leaving nothing but a dusty pile on the lavish marble floor. Time seems to slow around you, the air thickening in your lungs and you gasp for air. Raphael is coming. Hot flames swirl around you and the devil appears, eyebrows knitted together in an expression of pure rage.
"You."
Your heart pounds audibly in your chest and you freeze, eyes fixed on Raphael.
"There are many things I despise from your world. Kittens, the laughter of children, the chaos of it all. Here, in my HOUSE, there is order. There is decorum. You came here uninvited, and you stole from me. You brought the chaos of YOUR world into mine. I will NOT abide it."
His words burn hot like molten metal, searing your ears. You chew your bottom lip for a moment and choose your next words carefully, hands coming to rest on your hips now. A sudden bout of confidence overcomes you and you quirk an eyebrow up at the devil, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning your weight onto one foot. A devilish smirk curves the corner of your lips upward.
"Your house in in complete disarray, Raphael. It was entirely too easy for me to slip past your guards."
Raphael takes a step closer to you, eyes burning like the fires of the very hells surrounding you. You gulp, staring up at him as he towers over you. Confidence gone, you consider running. Your fingers tremble and you pray that Raphael would take pity on you. But you dug your grave. Now you'll have to lie in it.
"You would have been a hero, had you only dealt fairly with me. Instead, you're not so different from the doomed Karsus. Steady over-reaching your limits and burning your world to ash. Your skull will make a fine trophy. Any last words? It will only take a moment to finish you."
You grit your teeth at his words and shake your head, firmly standing your ground against him now. He won't win this. He can't. His expression remains the same. Seething. Ready to tear your limbs off one by one. You ponder your options and move your eyes over Raphael.
"Wait.. I have one more preposition."
"It's too late."
Raphael pauses, lips thinning into a smirk and his eyes travel over your curvy frame, following the lines of your hips and up to your breasts before settling back on your deep eyes. He crosses his arms, drumming his fingers against his forearm, tongue flicking out against his bottom lip to moisten the skin there.
"There is only one thing you can offer me and I doubt you'd be willing to oblige."
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes squinting at the devil. What is his game here?
"Wanna bet?"
The devil steps even closer to you now, leaning in to just barely press his warm lips to your ear. You shudder at the sensation. His fingers reach out to trace your collar bones, little goosebumps raising on the sensitive flesh. His breath coasts along your earlobe.
"A night of pain and pleasure. Ecstasy unimagined. You may not leave here alive, but I suppose that's a risk you're going to have to take isn't it, little mouse? Do we have a deal? Or shall I kill you right here, right now."
Your jaw falls open slightly at the gentle caress of his fingers against your aching skin, shaking hands finding the front of his coat. You crumble at his words. His change of demeanor lights a fire inside of you that you can't control, flames licking deliciously at your core. You groan quietly into his ear and nod. A large hand moves up to your throat, closing its grip tightly around your airway and you grunt at the sudden loss of oxygen.
"Use your words."
"Deal."
Raphael grins and snaps with his free hand, the one grasping your throat tightening ever so slightly. The deal is signed, your soul is his for the taking. He revels in watching you squirm beneath his touch, your eyes rolling back into your head as you fight for consciousness. With a firm shove, he releases your throat and you collapse to your knees, struggling for breaths, your lungs burning. You cough, hands flat on the marble floor for support.
"I expect to find you in my boudoir. Remove your clothes and wait for me on your knees."
...
Raphael's boudoir is as lavish and expensive as you'd expect, perfectly crafted furniture adorned with jewels and gold leaf scattered about the room. A tall, large bed sits neatly made up against the far wall, sheer red tule cascading down and around the sides like a romantic shroud. You step carefully, eyes scanning the opulent paintings of Raphael hanging on the walls. He's so full of himself. What a surprise. With labored breaths, you begin to undress, the devil's words ringing in your ears. "Wait for me on your knees." You slide off the last garment and leave them in a neat pile on the floor, pale skin shivering with anticipation. Sliding to your knees carefully, you place your hands on your plush thighs and lower your head, waiting just as the devil asked you.
Raphael saunters into the room, chalice of red wine in hand, a confident air about his posture. He spots you on the ground and smirks, approaching you slowly.
"Such an obedient slave. You're going to be such a joy to play with."
Your core aches. Arousal coats your inner thighs and you squeeze them together tightly, lest you make a mess on Raphael's nice rug. Your knees burn from the rough surface beneath them and you shift uncomfortably. A small whine escapes you as Raphael moves to the side of you and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back roughly to make you look up at him, his free hand moving the chalice in small circles to swirl the sweet smelling contents inside.
"Hm. Open."
His eyes point at your lips and you obey, opening your mouth for him. He brings the chalice to his still smirking lips and takes a small sip of the wine, swishing it around his mouth. He leans over you and spits the wine into your mouth, little splashes of red landing on your cheeks and chin. You lap at the liquid, swallowing while keeping your eyes on Raphael, your tongue moving around your lips and chin to clean the droplets you can reach. Raphael growls quietly and tightens his grip on your hair.
"Good little mouse. Stand up."
You nod against the tension on the back of your head and carefully shuffle to your feet, thighs still squeezed tightly together. The devil eyes you carefully and releases your hair, beginning to circle around you like an owl bear stalking its prey. He reaches a hand out and presses it between your thighs, moving them apart. He groans at the warmth there and slides his hand upward, collecting your slick on his fingers.
"Already so wet for me. Open up. Now."
Your mouth opens quickly, tongue dropping out and he slides his now wet fingers against the drool covered surface, swiping back and forth. You mewl at your own taste and close your lips around his fingers, sucking them clean. His eyebrows tilt downwards and a moan escapes his gritting teeth. His fingers slide further into your mouth, prodding at the back of your throat now. You gag and he tuts quietly, pushing further. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes. Raphael grins and removes his fingers from your lips with a soft "pop", a string of drool connecting the two of you. You keen at the emptiness in your throat, looking up at the devil with glossy eyes. Your expression twists to one of need. Your eyes are begging. Absolute submission. Something you've never given anyone before, and something you definitely didn't initially plan to give a devil. Raphael made you feel things even the first time you met him. His deep voice makes your head spin. The subtle smell of cherries and smoke that lingers even after he leaves sets fire to your senses and you crave him. He's intoxicating, and you want to get drunk. Raphael considers you his only weakness, your supple curves tempting him regularly. Every visit to you is purely for his enjoyment at this point. He craves you too. Carnally. Cock twitching in his trousers when you disobey him. He often thinks about the way your hips sway when you walk, your voice sweet like honey when you question him. His lust for you goes far beyond depravity. And he intends to show you just that.
"On the bed, little mouse. Get pretty for me."
Climbing carefully on the bed, you sit up on your knees and Raphael shakes his head, following you up onto the silk duvet. He pushes you backwards onto the cloud-like surface, grasping your ankles to spread your legs as far apart as your hips will allow, each foot pointing towards the bottom corners of the bed. Thick leather straps lock onto your ankles first, Raphael humming quietly to himself as little gold padlocks click into place. He gives the restraints a hefty tug to test the integrity. The devil straddles your waist and moves your arms up to the upper corners of the bed, trapping your wrists the same way. His fingers fiddle with the second set of gold padlocks, a proud chuckle leaving his lips as he leans back to admire his work. You chew your lip and stare up at the ceiling, a large gold-framed mirror showing you a glimpse of your pathetic fate. Wet eyes blink up at your reflection and you whine at the tight restraints.
"Shh, this is all very necessary. Wouldn't want you running away now."
Hot lips press sloppy kisses to your thighs, needy fingers following close behind to grope the skin soon after. Your back bows off of the bed, limbs tugging at the restraints holding you down so perfectly. "Gods.." Raphael grins against your skin and squeezes your inner thigh. "None of those here, love." You grind your hips up into the air and cry out as Raphael bites into your sensitive skin suddenly, drawing blood. He laps at the red fluid carefully, his tongue tantalizingly hot. Pulling away, he admires the deep bite marks in your thigh and kisses them sweetly, moving up your thigh to sink his teeth into the skin just beside your dripping cunt. You throw your head back, jaw falling open and you cry his name loudly, tears stinging your eyes. He coos, moving his fingers up the rub the backs of his knuckles against the outside of your folds. Sticky arousal coats his fingers and your skin.
"Such a mess, mouse. Such a sweet mess. You've been so good so far, I think you deserve a reward."
Without warning, Raphael plunges two fingers into your quivering hole, earning a loud moan from you. Your walls tighten around him and he pumps back and forth slowly, ever so slightly curving the tips of his fingers upwards to just miss your g-spot. His thumb rubs clockwise circles into your swollen clit. He watches you carefully, taking inventory of each of your moans, whimpers, and cries. Your legs tremble at the sensation, arousal dripping onto the bed and creating a puddle on the silk each time Raphael slides his fingers almost all the way out of your cunt before roughly plunging them back into your warmth. He hisses, fingers prodding at your cervix. You gasp for air, a delicious mixture of his promised pain and pleasure knocking the wind out of you with each of his harsh thrusts.
"That's it. You're doing so good."
His deep voice sends a shiver down your tight spine. The muscles in your abdomen wind in a ball each time Raphael's fingers scrape your walls, thumb still working furiously on your now aching bundle of nerves. You cry out once more, nearing your end rapidly. His pace quickens and your entire body tenses in response, sweat beading up all over you, your pale skin glistening in the lanternlight of the boudoir. Raphael leans down and licks a long strip from the top of your mound to your sternum, the salty taste of your sweat blurring his vision. He bites into your hip, earning another cry. The rope of pleasure in your belly tightens further and further, little twinges of pain making your eyes roll back into your skull. Jaw falling slack, you ball your hands into fists, your toes curling and and causing your calves to cramp.
"Raphael.. I'm so close.. C-Can I.."
Raphael climbs up near your head, leaning in to nip at the tip of your pointed ear, breath hot against your skin. His fingers quickly slide out of you, your walls fluttering around the emptiness. Whining loudly, you wiggle your hips at your fleeting orgasm, tears freely streaming down the sides of your face and into your ears.
"Aht aht. Not yet. I'm not finished with you."
The devil slinks off of the bed, undressing in front of you slowly. He slides his coat off and tosses it onto the velvet bench at the end of the bed, silk shirt following soon after. He kicks his boots off and reaches for the laces on his trousers, cock straining against the tight fabric. You drool at the sight of him. Gods, he's beautiful. With careful attention to your reactions, Raphael tugs his trousers and underwear down simultaneously, thick cock springing out and upward. You groan, blinking at him with intense need. The need to fill you up with his girth. To hear him moan as he absolutely ruins you. You buck your hips up off of the bed and whine for him, cheeks burning a sweet shade of red. Your face burns hot. Your belly aches, core awaiting his inches. He saunters back to the bed, snapping his fingers and all 4 little padlocks click at the same time, falling to the duvet beneath you. You wiggle your fingers and toes, awaiting your freedom. Gentle hands work at the leather straps to carefully undo them. With close movements, Raphael climbs back onto the bed, warm body sliding carefully up yours before settling on top of you, weight pushing you into the mattress. You hesitate for a moment, blinking up at him.
"M-May I touch you? Please?"
"Since you asked so nicely, you may."
You lower your arms from their previous resting place above your head and carefully run the tips of your fingers down Raphael's sides, his skin breaking out in goosebumps at your feather light touch. He groans quietly, head lowering so his chin rests on your shoulder. You shiver and continue the movement of your fingers to his back, nails digging daringly into his flesh and dragging downward in one long, rough line. He grunts and bucks his hips forward, one hand planting firmly on the bed beside your head, the other grasping your cheeks roughly, squishing your face so your lips pucker open. He sneers, gathering a decent amount of saliva before spitting directly into your mouth. You choke and writhe beneath him, the taste of wine and your own blood still lingering in his spit. He chuckles and sits up on his knees between your thighs, grasping your hips to carefully pull your lower body closer to his, dripping cunt resting against his painfully erect cock. You test the waters once more, rolling your hips upwards against him.
"So impatient, little mouse. You're going to get yourself in trouble acting like that."
Raphael grips his member in his hand, spitting into his palm and giving it a few slow pumps before lining up with your slit, quickly slamming himself inside. You gasp and shriek out loud, arms reaching to push yourself away from him. He expertly grasps your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, the other hand wrapping perfectly around your sore throat, thumb pressing into one side, fingers following suit on the other side. Little black spots float through your vision and he thrusts into you again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix. Your hips twitch beneath him but you do your best to hold still now, your vision going blurry as you fade in and out of consciousness. Raphael holds you in that position, head dizzy from the way your walls grip his cock. His hips find a steady rhythm now. A single finger points upwards towards the large mirror you noticed earlier.
"Look at how pathetic you are. Watch me fuck you. Watch me ruin you."
You mewl when you finally adjust to his size, eyes flicking upwards to the mirror. He releases your throat, hand dropping to grope at your breast. You push your chest up into his touch needily. Gentle fingers stroke back and forth over the tender flesh, flicking a few times over your nipple before rearing back and landing a firm smack. You grunt, a red handprint quickly raising on the skin of your breast. Raphael continues to thrust into you, pausing for a moment to lock one of his legs with yours and flip the two of you over, settling you on top of him. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together.
"Ride. And maybe I'll let you cum tonight."
You nod sheepishly, knees planting firmly on either side of his torso. Your hips roll back and forth with perfect rhythm, hands gripping onto Raphael's tightly for stability. He hisses, head tilting back into the soft pillows beneath him. You lean forward to press a soft kiss to his Adam's apple and giggle at the strained whine he lets out. Making the devil himself crumble under your touch. How brave. Raphael's honey colored eyes meet yours and you smile sweetly down at him, you hips taking on a slight bounce now. The devil grits his teeth and releases your hands, his own moving to your hips to guide you up and down on his weeping cock, his hips thrusting roughly up into you now. Sharp nails find purchase on Raphael's chest, scratching long thin lines into the burning flesh, little droplets of blood dribbling up through the fresh wounds. You throw your head back in ecstasy, Raphael digging his nails into the firm skin of your ass.
"By the Nine Hells, I'm so close.."
His voice is strained, pitch wavering as he nears his end. You double down on your movements.
"Cum for me, Raphael."
His eyes burn bright in the lanternlight and he switches positions again, rolling you over and pulling your ass to him, a large hand gripping the hair on the back of your head to shove your face into the mattress. He shoves his cock into you once more, fucking you into the silk, free hand landing a loud smack against the flesh of your ass. You jolt forward, walls tightening subconsciously around him and he gasps at the sudden change of sensation. He yanks his cock out of you swiftly and begins to pump it with his hand, hot ropes of milky white cum spewing onto your ass and back, making a mess of you. You grin, obediently keeping your face pressed to the bed. "Fucking shit!" Raphael cries out, hand slowing to a stop before letting his cock fall limp against his thigh, still twitching from his earth shattering orgasm. You turn your head slightly to peek up at him, his chest heaving. He swipes his fingers through the mess on your backside, collecting a reasonable amount before shoving his fingers into your mouth. You mewl and swirl your tongue around the digits, sucking and licking them clean.
"You vixen.."
Raphael pulls his fingers away from you, immediately shoving them into your cunt. You jolt forward once more, rocking yourself back and forth on his fingers, desperate for your own release. "P-Please.."
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. You'll have to speak up."
"Please, Raphael.."
He shakes his head, free hand reaching between your legs to rub your clit with his palm, the coverage and friction sending you into a moaning frenzy.
"Louder."
You cry out at the movement of both of his hands, hands grasping for the silk duvet. Your back arches inward, churning belly pressing tightly to the mattress.
"Fuck, please, Raphael! Please let me cum!"
"Much better, mouse."
His hands pick up speed. Your moans and whimpers silence to airless gasps, legs shaking uncontrollably under his touch. His fingers slide carefully out of your cunt, other hand still furiously working your overstimulated clit. He's determined now. The rope in your belly begins to tighten again, winding itself into a big knot before snapping all together, your vision going white as your orgasm nearly knocks you all the way over. You scream the devil's name, along with many other incoherent words, your legs kicking and arms flailing as Raphael continues rubbing. Your clit burns beneath his fingers, your walls fluttering around nothing. Emptiness. Using the edge of the bed as leverage, you pull yourself away from Raphael's fingers, panting heavily as you squeeze your thighs together. "Fuck.. Ow fuck.." Raphael grins down at you, reaching forward to firmly press his palm against your clit again. You sob, trying to squeeze your thighs together to no avail. He palms at your clit roughly, free hand swirling soft circles around your slit. He's torturing you now, relishing in the way he can make you spasm. Tears stream down your cheeks and you wiggle yourself away from him again. Raphael chuckles and sits back, allowing you your small moment to recover.
"I believe we've both delivered what we've promised. You're free to go now."
He motions towards the door of the boudoir, eyes narrowing on you, waiting on a response. You stare at him, blinking the tears away. After a moment of contemplation, you shake your head and climb up towards the pillows at the head of the bed, settling on your side. Your fingers trace little shapes into the sweat soaked silk.
"I don't know.. I think I could get used to this. Staying here, with you. As long as you help my friends and I with this little-"
You point to your temple, illuding to the tadpole that still angrily wriggles behind your eyes.
"-Problem."
Raphael's eyes widen and he ponders for a moment, tired body slinking up to rest next to you. He reaches out and trails a hand over the highs and lows of your curves, licking his lips hungrily.
"I think we could arrange something."
#Raphael bg3#Raphael fanfic#fic request#Raphael smut#Raphael x Tav#house of hope#baldurs gate fanfic
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Eddie couldn't help himself. He stared at Billy Hargrove sometimes; the gorgeous curls and wild grin lit something inside of him the first time Eddie had ever laid eyes on him.
Billy's plush lips sucking in the smoke from his Marlboro reds, broad shoulders, tight jeans. Eddie couldn't help himself from focusing on the way Billy's tongue flashed out to wet his lips as the smoke billowed off into the sky from his nose.
Billy washed into Hawkins and Eddie's life like a hurricane from California. His loud car, crashing music, and Eddie knew just from catching sight of him once that he wanted to know everything about him. He imagined if he got close enough he'd still be able to smell the ocean air on his sun kissed skin. He wanted to know his favorite bands, his thoughts on media, God he'd even sit through talking about cars if it meant Billy would look his way. (It wasn't like he wasn't interested, just that his own knowledge was limited to keeping his dinosaur of a van alive, and he didn't want to sound like an idiot. Not in front of Billy.)
Everything about Billy attracted Eddie to him. Eddie Munson had never considered himself shy. Fuck, he was a bit awkward about social boundaries, but he'd never felt shy before. Then, there were rarely ever new people that came to Hawkins to stay. And Billy made it clear that he had no intention of staying. Hawkins was small, and desperately choking on its shallow gene pool, in Eddie's opinion. Fresh faces were hard to find, especially ones that were willing to look his way, after all.
Billy hadn't been willing. To look his way, that was. He took to the social hierarchy like a wrecking ball, and sent it all asunder. King Steve seemed no more, Tommy and Carol seemed to fight more amongst themselves these days instead of making biting remarks at others. But Billy? He still wouldn't spare a breath on Eddie the Freak Munson.
Eddie had tried once.
He'd been utterly tongue tied in approaching Billy, picking at his sleeve. The two stood awkwardly behind the school dumpsters as they had their smoke break. Eddie's hand shook as he rolled his wrist, searching for the right words that refused to come.
"I really— I mean... fuck— sorry. Hold on. Uh—"
Billy's cool gaze slid up from where his zippo burned the cherry of his cigarette. He flicked his wrist to close his lighter before he tucked it away, utterly unimpressed. Eddie would probably be unimpressed with himself too. But damn; Billy Hargrove was a God carved of marble and gold, blessed by California sun. Eddie was a home grown weed from an Indiana backyard. His brown hair frizzy, unkempt, and his skin a touch oily from his aversion to water. It wasn't like he skipped showers because he wanted to. But in that moment Eddie felt painfully aware that Billy Hargrove was miles out of his league.
"Beat it," Billy grumbled at him. "I'm not in the business of making friends with people like you," he hissed. Those beautiful blues steeling into something dangerous that made Eddie's insides go cold. He swallowed back his words and the shaking in his hand seemed to intensify.
"No um... no that's. Fair. People like me?" Eddie inquired, head tipping a bit. He wanted to know just what part of his stigma had reached Billy first. He'd seen the saints necklace dangling in the open neck of his shirt. "The Satan worshipper? The freak?"
"Queers," Billy snapped. He looked at Eddie like a hostile and wild animal. Like his smiles were more reflective of the animal kingdom than the humanity he bore to charm others. Eddie swallowed dry air and dropped his gaze? Putting his cigarette out under his shoe.
"Right," Eddie affirmed. Billy had seen the way the guy looked at him. It was impossible to miss those dark, chocolate doe eyes when they lingered on him. It tickled the inside of Billy's ribs something real funny when he noticed Eddie in class. Distracted, but gazing his way like he was looking at art in a museum.
Billy was used to people lusting after him. He was hot, and god he knew it. He utilized it more often than he probably should have, but his good genetics in the physical appearance department had gotten him into, and out of a lot of trouble.
But Eddie wasn't lusting.
Eddie looked like he was trying to figure him out. Wondering at him. And that was dangerous. Because Billy had caught himself wondering too. What calloused hands would feel like holding down his wrists, or what those pouty lips would feel like stealing the breath off his. Thoughts like that were what had led to them having to leave California. Thoughts that turned to action, action that had made Neil so angry that he gave Billy two options:
Leave California, and the boy behind...
Or go to Summer Camp.
The two seemed like impossible evils to wrestle with. And in the end, with defeat, Billy had chosen to leave his home behind. It had hurt more that the boy had moved on before Billy could even explain himself. He swore, man or woman, he wouldn't date. Dating just brought trouble. Laying roots was dangerous. Ripping them free just hurt more.
So, he broke Eddie's heart before it had the chance to bloom. So he thought.
Nearing the beginning of November, Billy struggled one morning to light his cigarette. Shivering from the cold, and possibly the pain in his ribs. The pain that curled up through him and reminded him that defiance tasted like iron and copper on every breath in.
"Here—" the voice was steeped in sweet honey. Eddie lit his cigarette for him, and Billy flicked his eyes up to meet with Eddie's.
Eddie cupped his hands around Billy's while the cigarette dangled from his lips. Eddie rubbed his rough hands over Billy's to warm them, breathing softly over them to fight away the frost and chill in the air. Billy stood stiff and still like the early frost had taken root in him.
Eddie gazed up at Billy and offered him a smile, almost sheepish as he stepped away. He mourned the loss of that warmth as soon as it was gone, the fleeting action stirring something inside that Billy didn't want to fan the flames of.
"Shit, sorry," Eddie snorted. "I'm kind of a touchy guy, and uh. Social boundaries? Not my strong suit."
Billy chuffed, shaking his head before he took his cigarette loosely between two fingers and spat onto the pavement.
"Don't fucking touch me, freak," he hissed to Eddie. His frustration sizzling as his voice lacked the ire he wanted it to have. He wanted Eddie to flinch and run. But he didn't. Instead he just... shrugged his shoulders, unbothered, and turned away to smoke his own cigarette.
The next time Billy had contact with Eddie, it happened so quickly that Eddie wasn't even sure what had happened. It was just something small. Something... simple. But as they passed in the hall, Tommy had shoulder checked Eddie hard enough to knock him on his ass, laughing like he was looking for Billy's approval. That was not what happened.
The loud crash against the lockers had startled Eddie back to himself from the position he was in on the floor.
Billy had Tommy pinned to the lockers, speaking to him in a low and deeply venomous tone.
"Hands off, Hagan. The only person who gets to mess with the freak is me," he snarled.
Eddie wondered what that meant, but it felt like stepping closer to a warm fire in a way. He knew Damm well it might be dangerous to get too close. But Eddie didn't mind the way Billy burned. He wanted to be caught in the rush of Billy's storm.
Eddie had held that warm feeling in his chest for a while. It felt like a glow, and it was something that made him look Billy's way, even when he was shoved against lockers, shoulder checked in the hall, or had his books knocked out of his hands. Eddie always caught it.
The smile that wasn't mocking, even when Billy would insult him. It was like he couldn't put the same vitriol in it that he used to.
"Freak" felt more like a term of endearment. "Loser" felt like an invitation to squabble. And God did Eddie take every chance to bicker with Billy Hargrove.
Mid December, their words had turned into a tussle.
"You wouldn't dare—" Eddie had invited, grinning at Billy who had every intention of dumping Eddie into a snowbank.
"I think you need to cool it," Billy had snarked back, looking less than threatening with his red beanie on his head, puff ball and all. It had been Eddie's. The beanie. But Eddie hadn't said a word about the gloves, scarf, and hat he'd left in Billy's locker after he had noticed that the boy from California didn't have clothes suited for Indiana winter.
"Don't do it, Billy," Eddie laughed.
"Do what? I don't have any idea what you're talking about," Billy said back, casual as he took a step closer.
It happened, in a crash of flailing limbs and shrieking laughter. Billy saw Eddie for the first time. He saw the bright smile that was punctuated by dimples on either side. He saw the way Eddie's fuzzy hair fanned out in the snow as he was dumped into the snow bank, and god he couldn't help but notice the way flakes stuck in his eyelashes. His cheeks and ears red from the cold; Eddie wasn't wearing gloves, a hat, or a scarf. He'd given up his warm clothes to keep Billy warm.
And that sure made something inside Billy warmer than the sun in California ever could.
It was mid January when a knock resonated number 12 at the forest hills trailer park. It brought Eddie out of dozing. The alarm clock read an ugly 2am back at him that made him groan.
He pulled himself up and out of bed as the knock grew more irritated and insistent, swiping his hands down over his tired face.
"Jesus christ, I'm coming! Fucking relax!" He bellowed. Eddie shoved his feet into his slippers and shuffled to the front door, ripping it open.
"My hours end at 11 pm on week... nights..." the irritation in Eddie's voice gave way to a shocked whisper as he was met with a ghastly sight before him.
Billy Hargrove standing on his porch, braced against the side of the trailer to stop any swaying. It looked like he had bruises littering half of his face, and Eddie imagined it was worse, with the way the bruises on his neck seemed to bloom down under his jacket.
"Hey," Eddie whispered, unsure if he could say more. When he reached to push a curl out of Billy's face, the man flinched like Eddie was about to put a knife to his throat.
Instead, Eddie put his hand on Billy's shoulder and guided him to come inside.
That was the night that Eddie learned about Neil Hargrove. It was the same night that Eddie slept, curled around Billy. Like he could protect him.
Billy slept with his nose pressed against Eddie's collarbone, sinking into the scents of cinnamon and cigarette smoke. Eddie was warm, and even though he was more elbows and knees than plush and soft... Billy felt like he fit perfectly with his head tucked under Eddie's chin. Eddie gave good hugs. Great hugs even. Enough of them that Billy felt drunk on the scent of cinnamon and the comfort of his best friend's arms.
They continued as best friends for a long time. Until the Tragedy of Starcourt. Nobody called Eddie. Nobody had thought to at first, really. With the chaos and the news of Russians under the mall— not to mention how the last week or two, Billy had been avoiding Eddie like he was a Germ.
"Get the fuck away from me—"
"Stay away from me Munson."
"Get the fuck out of my face."
"I won't warn you again, if you come near me, I'll break your fucking neck."
Eddie had been sulking about it. Well. More than sulking if he was honest. Had he cried on Wayne's shoulder? Absolutely. Did he get a speeding ticket on his way to the hospital once Max had called him? Absolutely.
Eddie stood in the doorway of Billy's hospital room, looking in on his best friend like the universe had put a knife through his heart. Billy looked barely alive. Fragile.
Eddie was one of the very few visitors that Billy got. Neil Hargrove hadn't shown his face once. Max had told him in a hushed voice that he had packed his things to leave town. Billy was a hero for saving so many people in the mall fire, and Neil still hated him. Didn't want a disabled son.
Billy woke up alone. He wasn't surprised to wake up alone, in a hospital room without a single card on his bedside. Sure, he wasn't surprised... but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. It hurt like being cracked open from the inside out. A glaring statement that told Billy Hargrove:
'You don't matter.'
Even alone, Billy stifled his sobs so he wouldn't be noticed.
"Easy tough guy," the gentle voice came from the doorway, making Billy's heart jump up into his throat. Eddie came in with the nurses, who checked his vitals and pain levels. But Billy barely noticed them. He was focused on the boy whose smile cleansed the tar clinging to his heart.
"Thought I told you to piss off," Billy snorted through his tears, managing a shaky smile.
"I've never been good at listening," Eddie replied, rubbing his hand through Billy's bed messy curls. "Can't shake me that easy, sweetheart. I thought you'd have learned that by now. That grouchy bullshit isn't gonna shake me," he assured. Eddie was determined enough to stick out the hurricane.
"You're annoying," Billy spat at him, pushing his hand away.
"And I'm determined to continue to be," Eddie replied as he snatched Billy's wrist. He slid his hand up to lace their fingers and squeeze.
"Give it time," Billy said, seemingly unimpressed. He refused to look at Eddie, only because the idiot was gazing at him like he was someone precious.
"I've got time," Eddie replied, unshaken.
"Jesus, Munson, why don't you just— just leave me the hell alone?! Why are you always," Billy's breath hitched as his voice broke. Eddie was always there. Like a balm to his wounds. He didn't flinch when Neil beat him. He opened the door or answered the call no matter how late. Eddie Munson was a rock in the hurricane, ready to weather his storm.
Billy thought back to the memories El had shown him in that pit of darkness. His mother, the beach, the waves... and the snowy December day that Billy had fallen in love with Eddie Munson.
Billy didn't resist when Eddie placed his hand on his neck, thumbing his jaw like he was brittle. Fragile. And Billy supposed he was.
"God damn," Eddie whispered, smiling at Billy with tender eyes.
"What? Quit fucking looking at me like that. Like— like... pity. Jesus or like I'm gonna break. I don't need your bullshit sympathies, or your God damn coddling, Munson."
Billy felt like a wild animal, backed into the corner of a cage. Snapping and growling at the tender hands that wanted to hold him. Especially if that monster still lurked inside him somewhere. Ready to hurt.
That fear washed away when Eddie kissed Billy's knuckles, something soft. Endearing. Billy could only hitch a sob as his forehead thudded in to rest on Eddie's collarbone. He squeezed Eddie's hand, and to his relief... Eddie squeezed back. It felt a whole lot like someone saying:
'You matter. I love you.'
And for once, Billy wasn't afraid of it being a lie.
#mungrove#billy hargrove#eddie munson#mentions of abuse#abuse tw#neil hargrove is his own trigger warning#hurt/comfort#Billy Lives
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ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
(Rebel Angel who somehow doesn’t know who Lucifer is)
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
It seemed that the Almighty had reached his limit. His breaking point. His last straw. You exhausted him- worried him- pushed him too far and he had had enough. Too many broken rules. Too many annoyances. Too many thises and thatses and one or the other. So many complaints… so many arguments… so many accounts of general public disruption…
God never allowed insolence. God never allowed anything less than perfection.
And you were terribly flawed.
That was the reason- surely- as to why you found yourself waking up on a dark cold marble floor instead of in the cool holy waters of your ivory bath.
The wings at your back ached and something in your chest was bruised, swiftly gathering atoms of divinity to weave the pain away. Too, your hands were red when you turned them over - stinging with the remnants of a hard fall. And your knees were skinned; epidermis peeled back and raw. It looked as though you’d been brought to the pearly gates and pushed off of the silver city’s edge. It felt like you’d been brought to the pearly gates and pushed off of the silver city’s edge.
“Stuck up- bastards-,” you grunted, pulling yourself up onto your hands and knees.
The fucking lot of them - every other single fucking angel up there in those clouds… they were morons. Idiots. None of them knew how to have a good time. None of them knew how to have fun. There were no parties in Heaven. There were no parties in paradise. There was no difficulty in Nirvana. And you loathed that. Hated that. For years you sat on your ass, from childhood to adulthood, watching with wide bright eyes as the world went on around you. Your parents made you the way you were, keeping you sheltered and happy and strong while the other little angels played outside and were born with glowing lights around their bodies. They learned all sorts of things out there - mingling in the ‘real world’ - watching as guardians.
But your human died one day after being born - and you had no one to guard. And God sort of looked at you after that and thought ‘Meh. Do what you want with her.’ and that was the end of it. From that point on you were just- there. A distraction for the others. A nuisance for most. A good time for few. But it seemed God decided you’d fucked around for the last time - and he cast you to-
…well. You weren’t exactly sure where you were.
Unlike Eden, the place you were in was dark. Desolate. Lit with something… unsettling. The air smelled of sulfur and burn - and you swore you could see ash float about in the nonexistent wind. There were no clouds either, and no subliminal gentle hum that typically played on a loop within the city - meant to carry the angels and souls through their hours. Inspiring joy. Happiness. Obedience. The tune was bloody annoying was what it was - you’d always held some type of disdain for it. But there, surrounded by a very sudden eerie quiet, you wished you could hear the choir singing again. It would, perhaps, only slightly lessen the sudden feeling of being entirely out of place. The metal bowls of flame fixed between long marble columns… the strange fire-pit you faced upon standing on your feet and shakily turning around… the- oh… the color of the sky… no such phenomenons existed in Heaven. Flames were rarely seen. And the sky was never- well you would have remembered if it were ever red. Or a weird mix of fiery orange and black. Or even grey. But it wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. There were no silver pathways leading from this place to the other; and there was no distinct shine to the universe itself. No… divinity. No divinity at all.
So where in the Lord’s name were you?
“How peculiar…” a voice purred, “…an Angel? In my realm?… It appears you have fallen quite a long way.”
You turned, body tensing with discomfort. You didn’t know anyone else would be present. You hadn’t even heard them come in. Yet when you looked around, searching and curious, having to do a complete 360, you found there was someone present.
Something present.
The fire in the great pit that separated you had grown into an inferno. You could barely make out the creature’s face through the heated disruption. The blonde curls, you saw. The way they fell just so across a pale forehead. And the wings… by God, the wings. You were drawn to them almost instantly. A set far different from your own, laying poised behind the thing’s strong back. Dark, you noticed. And sharp. Leathery? Yes - definitely. Nearly… bat-like… and powerful, without a doubt. You squinted, trying to see through the flames, but it was to no use. The stranger was tall but drowned in shadow. Hidden, almost - even though you could see the midnight color of their silk robe.
How intriguing… You blinked, wondering if there was a chance that you were possibly hallucinating (and ignoring the fact that angels couldn’t hallucinate), but you weren’t. It was real. And it was silent. And you were staring.
“Who are you?” The volume of your tone made you wince. In Heaven, everyone had to raise their voices over the soft din of the choir, eventually giving them the natural disposition of talking loudly. But in the silence of that strange land, it sounded like the ‘gunshot’ some humans described when first stepping into the silver city. Noisy, booming, and honestly embarrassing.
Though the creature didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they didn’t seem to care. Not at all. Instead, you noticed the slightest shift in the robe’s sleeve and could just barely make out the velvet outline of long fingers floating delicately through the ashen air before the fire in front of you- the fire separating you- the only thing keeping you strangers and safe- disappeared. Went out. Settled into heated coals and sizzling sounds. And thus, revealed the monster.
The very… very… very… very attractive monster. The handsomest of monsters. The most beautiful monster. With shining crystal eyes, blue like the holy water you rested in during times of sleep, and soft pink lips, putting human flower petals and sunsets to shame. And with a pale pallet, nearly… nearly glowing…
“I am in no mood for games, little Angel,” the pretty monster hummed, tilting its head as it began moving.
Slow step by slow step, you watched in awe as it grew closer… and taller… and more glorious. You’d never seen anyone like them. No soul, no divine thing, no creature in the silver city looked like that. Looked so- so- well you didn’t even have words. Literally and figuratively. Your mouth dropped open and you floundered, searching for something to say, trying to find your sense as each thought in your mind began fraying - destroyed by their proximity. Destroyed by the soft hard line of their jaw and the curve of their chin and bridge of their nose. So glorious… so holy…
“I-” your voice croaked, “I don’t- I don’t know… who you are,” you confessed, voice softening into something innocent.
It was the truth - the honest truth! - but for some reason you felt… stupid. For not knowing what it was or who they were. From a young age, angels were expected to know everyone and everything. Nearly every other angel’s name by heart; every religion and each God; every world and all things in between. Including greater entities. Anomalies. Beings with great power - like Dream of the Endless and his friend, Desire. And most angels did know such things. Most angels did retain such information. But of course, as it goes in any walk or form of life, one must always slip through the cracks. And that was you. There were many things you didn’t know and many things you didn’t care to know. But standing there in front of them, below them, looking up to see the way some stray beacon of light made their fair curls shimmer, you realized you probably ought to know them. Their presence felt so… intoxicating… it was hard to understand how you hadn’t come across anything like that before. Especially when you felt your hands shake as you realized just how much they loomed over you… Like Azrael. But they- it?- was not Death. You knew Death. You had tea with Death once… before trying to poison them. Just to see what would happen of course! Just to know. (Nothing happened, unfortunately. They just sort of blinked and gave you an exasperated look and told you to go away. There was no more tea after that.) But despite not being Death, they still held that air about them. That distinct aura of doom. Of glorious defeat. It swelled in the pits of those icy eyes.
And such glorious icy eyes they were. So beautiful. So intense. You felt frozen beneath them, any hint of scorn directed at the Almighty suddenly gone in the face of the new creature. Entirely overshadowed by morbid curiosity… and the tiniest hint of fear. You’d never really felt fear before. But the rushing in your heart, and the sound of golden blood in your ears, and the whimper that nestled in the depths of your throat could only mean terror, couldn’t they? You watched realization slowly dawn on the creature’s face. You watched their brows furrow slightly, then you looked down to see those peach lips parting - slowly, softly, god-like.
“Intriguing…,” their breath smelled of wine and dying stars, “…you really have no idea, do you?”
Their tone was lilting; their accent sublime. So pronounced, so gentle, sounding almost like a song within the crackling silence of the fires going on around you. It had you leaning closer, drawn like a foolish sailor to a siren’s whims. Just utterly transcendent. Just inexplicably marvelous. It had a weight to it that you’d only seen in God… but the creature before you was most certainly not God. Not in any religion. No, it was something else. Something more abstract. Something darker. But you couldn’t place even a single fingertip on it.
“No, no clue.” You sounded breathless.
Hearing that seemed to please the creature in some odd way. There was a glimmer to their eye that wasn’t there before - and they appeared… delighted?
“Well,” it sighed, sculpted pale hands poised in front of a soft abdomen. “I believe that calls for an introduction.” And then there was a pause. An ominous, strange pause - as if the being was silently telling you that you had one last chance to be honest; coaxing you into admitting a truth that you didn’t know nor understand. But when you just blinked at them, hanging onto their words for dear non-life, quite unsure of what they wanted, they seemed to finally accept reality and internally concede.
“Lucifer,” they cooed, voice ringing and smirk evil, “Morningstar.”
Morningstar…
…The Morningstar.
The one whispered about… the one gossiped about… the name passed from one seraphic mouth to another… the occasional ‘talk of the town.’ Everyone seemed to know about them but you. They were formidable, yes, but that was the extent of your knowledge. Their origins were unknown. Their story was a shot in the dark. Perhaps that’s why you felt so odd within their presence - like a sweating blushing thing that wasn’t sure of its place in the Heavens. Or in any realm, for that matter.
You sort of felt the need to bow. It tingled in your shoulder blades, wormed beneath your ribcage, but refused the instinct. You were an Angel. You bowed to no one but God, and even then you rarely did so. Everyone in the clouds knew you to shirk such an honor. A brave few even murmured about the Morningstar and how you’d ‘fall’ just like them. At the time you ignored them, having no clue what they were talking about. But looking around you then, feeling the weight of the burning air, you knew you were a long way from Heaven. Perhaps in its very antithesis, though you had no name for that just yet. Did everyone in that realm have a figure like Lucifer’s? Did all of their hair shine like that? Were all of them fair-skinned and untouchable? Was it Heaven reversed?
You couldn’t control the way your eyes slid over to their wings. They were far larger up close… and taloned, you noted. Was there a chance they were soft? They looked soft. Leathery and strange, with skin stretched over bone, but soft nonetheless. And as if sparked by your thinking, they twitched, flaring for just a moment before relaxing once again. You looked back up into Lucifer’s eyes, not at all surprised to see the lingerings of malice. They did not look like they wanted to kill you, but they did not exactly look welcoming either. No, there was no warmth there. Just curiosity. And openness. You were no threat to this being… and that irritated you. Every religion knew to respect the angels. Every religion knew to understand that they did the bidding of God. Every religion knew to welcome them with open hands and a smile.
But you were not welcome. Not with open hands and certainly not with a smile.
So how dare they? How dare it? How dare this- this- Lucifer? You felt your back straighten, renewed with energy as you found your mental footing. The ache in your body was gone, whatever wounds you’d sustained just faded memories of some minutes. That’s right - you were angelic. Divine. This Lucifer had no idea who it was speaking to.
“And I am Y/n,” your voice was hard, “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it doesn’t feel like it.”
You were expecting bared teeth. A growl, maybe. Perhaps the full extension of those glorious wings. A hand around your neck would have done enough all on its own. But the only response you inspired was the slightest twitch in the Morningstar’s right cheek. It tugged at the corner of their lip, making them smirk and sneer all at the same time - but only for a moment. A very quick moment that wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t been watching. And just as swiftly, they were back to neutral; a pleasant little expression on their face as their eyes suddenly ran over your body - from top to bottom and back again. You were grateful that you were still wearing your toga; pristine and white, draped over your one shoulder and tucked under your other arm, tied tightly at the waist with a thin golden band - divine in nature and very handy. Your feet, on the other hand, were bare. And the golden cuffs that usually graced your wrists were gone. You felt disheveled. You felt less than pristine. You looked… exactly as you had always felt. Like a mess. Like a bright glimmering mess. Like a pile of abstract art that existed among the carefully carved statues of Heaven. You felt… you looked… far more beautiful than you ever had before.
It was hard to tell if Lucifer agreed.
“No I suppose it doesn’t,” they hummed, referring to your earlier response. “Though I should hope you know that’s the point.” The Morningstar spoke nonchalantly- as if they weren’t the most strangely intriguing thing you’d ever come across.
Their words, on the other hand, were confusing.
“No. I don’t know where I am,” you glanced around for a moment, still stuck without a clue, “so I wouldn’t know. Care to enlighten me, Morningstar?”
“You will address me as ‘Your Majesty’ or you will lose your tongue,” they replied quicker than light, voice deep and sharp enough to cut.
It felt like the air changed then, becoming nearly suffocating in its depth. It crawled into your lungs, into your veins, making you swallow around a sudden lump in your throat while your eyes started to water. Clearly, Lucifer was powerful. Not someone to be messed with. And not nearly as patient- nor ‘kind’- as God. At the brief thought of him, you glanced up; like you’d suddenly see the city gates open again and you’d be welcomed back and lightly chastised before being sent on your way around the clouds; like you’d somehow be saved. But there was no reckoning. There was no call. There was no miracle. There was only Lucifer.
“Do you wish to return to the silvery city, little Angel?” You turned back to those calm frozen eyes, resisting the urge to get lost in them.
“Yes, of course,” you said as though your answer was obvious (which it was).
“Interesting,” they hummed, tilting their head to the side slowly - like a hungry snake, “…I felt that way once, too.”
You frowned. Just what in Heaven’s name was the Morningstar talking about? No, you’d never heard of angels being cast from Eden, but you assumed that it was maybe like a one time thing? Like a mini punishment and you’d be summoned in any coming minute? For a second there you even considered the dark marble and flames and strange domed ceiling and weird cave walls were all part of an odd dream. But the sincerity in the Morningstar’s hushed tone said otherwise. Like they- like it was the truth. Like they truly had done what you did (though many more times) and looked to the sky in hopes to hear the choir once more. Like the weight of whatever happened to them would become a similar weight for you. Their words sent your head in circles.
“What do you mean?” You finally demanded, crossing your arms over your chest.
That seemed to amuse them as they smirked, eyelashes fluttering slightly. “I fell too. Once upon a time,” they paused, watching your eyes for any understanding. When they didn’t find it, they continued. “Right after succumbing to defeat.” A flicker of something dark rushed through their gaze. It unsettled you.
And sparked more outrage.
“What- what are you talking about?!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up in clear exasperation.
What ‘defeat’? What ‘fall’? How long ago was all of that? What even happened? How did they get those wings? Who were they really and what were they capable of? And honestly, dear God, would someone just tell you where the fuck you were?!
“Ah,” they pursed their pretty lips, “It’s no surprise you’re here now. Angels are not meant to be so foolish,” the Morningstar declared, still lilting and song-like and beautiful and terribly insincere.
Their insult had your blood boiling. Who the fuck were they to say that? They were no Angel. They didn’t understand a damned thing. They didn’t know you and they didn’t deserve to know you. No matter how sublime a creature - such glory only existed on the outside.
“You wouldn’t know a fuckin thing,” you spat, giving them the best glare you could, “you’re no Angel.” A sneer painted your face.
“Foolish and blind, it seems…,” they mused as they began walking around you, lining your arms up at one point before continuing their small trek around the round bowl of the fire pit.
They paid you virtually no attention as they went, keeping their eyes trained on what appeared to be a balcony a few feet away. Interestingly enough, although their realm was warm, they seemed to be ice cold. There was not an ounce of heat that passed through the silk of their robe when they brushed past you. The proximity to something so powerful again had that feeling of needing to kneel traveling up your spine, but you pushed it down and worked on keeping the Morningstar in your sight. If you stopped looking at them, it was only a wonder as to how easily they could catch you by surprise.
“But you don’t look very…,” you trailed off, knowing you were going to say ‘angelic’, but realizing that you were… well you were wrong. Quite wrong.
Lucifer kept walking, not caring to stop for your reconsideration. But you didn’t need long. Those curls actually seemed rather… familiar. The way they surrounded the head, covered the ears, accentuated the cherubic features, glowed despite there being no light; and the willowy glide of their body, slow, methodical, full of undeniable beautiful grace; and their voice, distinct and delicate and precious and captivating; and their height- and their jaw- and their lips- and eyes- and proud nose- and perfect posture- and heavy wings- and… well… every bit of them seemed almost… holy.
Seemed almost like… like… like something you’d seen before. Briefly. In a painting and in a scroll. Only once or twice.
“Samael.”
It came out as a whisper but the monster still heard. And it made them stop in their tracks, wings swaying while the world paused.
You sucked in a heavy breath, feeling a very small shot of fear run down the curve of your neck.
They were Samael. Or they used to be Samael. God’s favorite. God’s best creation. The wisest, handsomest, strongest, most glorious Angel to ever be. The staple of divinity. The most beloved and the most cherished. There was a time once where you walked past an elder and heard them murmur about Samael. They had called you the antithesis. They had called you, in short, the most un-divine angel. If the fallen Samael was the best, you were the worst. And though you did not fully understand the story, though you did not know how they fell or when they fell or why they fell, you knew that their power had changed. The light had gone out and made room for the dark. Their wings shed their feathers and their skin lost its warmth. And they changed. They rebelled.
You frowned, feeling a tug in your heart at the sight of them standing there - glorious and tall and never beaten down. Never one to be truly defeated. They chose that risk - they knew of the consequences. But you? You? You were young. You were not wise, no, but you were clever. Smart. Hot-headed. Wasn’t Samael hot-headed once too? Wasn’t Samael flawed once too? Your small pathetic acts of rebellion were nothing in comparison to all that the Morningstar did.
So why did you wake up in their realm? What did God mean to say?
“Things have changed, little Angel,” their voice grasped you by the throat and brought you back to the present, “dwelling on the past reaps no benefits.”
“But I-” you swallowed, looking around wildly, finding that the gravity of what happened had begun to sink in. “No. No no no, I don’t belong here. I didn’t- I didn’t choose this. I don’t belong here!”
“Why shout when he has closed his ears to you?” The Morningstar asked, turning to face you with curious innocent eyes. “Why fret when you know what you’ve done?”
You squinted, confused, finding yourself taking panicked steps backward.
“That’s the thing, I didn’t do anything!” You insisted, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at your sides. “I didn’t lead a- a- a fucking rebellion against God! I didn’t hurt him! I’m- I’m pure! I want to go home!”
Lucifer stared at you, face blank.
“…This is your home now.”
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:) - Ripley x
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A Rugged Muse | Chapter 1
pairing: eventual daryl dixon x f!reader
wc: 3.1k
warnings: swearing, violence, slight depiction of gore, vomiting
summary: reader has a shit day. basically the day of the outbreak.
A/N: FIRST CHAPTER WOOOO i am clearly not an art major…. im in the different arts. so apologies to you visual artists im going off from my lack of knowledge from my hobby lol. i really hope you guys enjoy this series because i am EXCITED to write it.
a rugged muse masterlist |regular masterlist
“Fuck,” you groaned, slamming your forehead onto the desk in front of you. A few heads turned to look at you in the library, you cursed under your breath and looked up again after a moment. Adjusting the glasses askew on your face before looking at the paper on the desk. The paper before you was worn with erased pencil marks, slightly wrinkled. Art block was the worst, you’d rather be ten feet under than stuck with art block.
You sighed, it’s been months since your last project and even that was a fail. It didn't help that you only worked at a fucking minimum wage job, maybe you should've listened to your parents and became a doctor or something. It wasn't like it was always like this, no… art school was a breeze. You had hosted real galleries where people came to see your art, and now look at you. Moping around in a library, desperately trying to find something to draw.
After tapping your pencil against the table which by the way, earned many dirty looks, you scooted closer to the table. Picking up your old sketchbook and frantically flipping through it to find…. so many god damn drawings of, him. Your god forsaken ex boyfriend, but he was gorgeous.
You met him ironically enough in art class, way back in high school. He was there by choice, you were not. Yet everything about him was just so captivating that you couldn't help but not switch out of the class, thank god you didn't. You enjoyed the class more than you expected, painting being one of your favourite forms of art, oils being your preferred medium. You painted and sketched every moment of the day, not putting down that brush for one second. Your ex boyfriend was your inspiration, every detail on that stupid face was engraved in your mind like a marble statue. His beautiful plump lips and the beauty marks that scattered over his face being two of your favourite features.
Art was everything to you, and so was he. He was all you drew, he made life seem prettier and happier. But then he dumped you for some random chick he met in a bar, that was six months ago.
Since then you've had no motivation and no inspiration for your projects. Flowers no longer had their charm, abstracts looked dumb to you again, oils looked muddy. Nothing worked.
You picked up your pencil and started at the paper again, pushing your glasses up before hesitantly sketching out lines. Your mind wandered back to him, you still couldn’t believe it. After years of being together he’d just leave like that? Those years of pure, innocent love where you’d make breakfast with him, take baths together, even paint each other for fun. Date nights that were full of giggles and messily painting on each others skin, his fingertips grazing over your eyelids and nose as he sculpted you out of clay. He threw that all away for a woman he’s known for one night.
Your pencil moved furiously against the paper, scarring it like he scarred you. When you looked back down at it you noticed it was him, those hostile eyes from that night staring right through you. Those words of heartbreak echoing through your mind, words that came from lips that used to kiss you every morning. You huffed angrily, no matter how much you hated him, he always came back. He was always in your mind, plaguing your thoughts like venom. Slamming your pencil down you stood up, ripping the paper furiously.
Now there were whispers, people looked at you weirdly. After remembering your place in the world, you picked up your things and packed up quickly, aching to get back home to your bed. While in your haste, you dropped something. You already were in an irritable mood so you took a deep breath before causing a scene over a dropped item, crouching down to pick up just to notice it was the painting knife he had gifted you months before you broke up. The words ”To the love of my life…” engraved on it. After shoving the painting knife back into your bag angrily you quickly got back on your feet and headed towards the door, not before throwing half your sketches into the bin. As if you couldn’t get any more frustrated, someone bumped into you which caused you to whip around. Though no words came out of your mouth as you took in the sight of the person.
They were sickly pale, sweating profusely and trembling. Their eyes were bloodshot, matching the… bite wound on their forearm? They shook looking at you, mumbling a meek apology and pushing their sleeve down over their arm before walking away. Weird. Anyway.
You turned back around, must be some weird prank or something. Whatever, you were extremely tired and needed to get back to your apartment asap. As you left the library the humid August air hit you like a truck, not helping your heated mood at all. Grumbling to yourself you tried not to let it affect you, instead pushing your hair behind your shoulders, what a convenient day to forget your hair tie. Nothing was going your way, it was like the world was against you. A scream broke your thoughts, it came from somewhere ahead of you. Great, someone probably got mugged and now you were next. Just another thing to keep you moody.
A woman turned the corner, running towards you. You braced yourself for the mugging but to your surprise, it never came. The woman’s face was drained, it was as if she saw a ghost. She didn’t stop running, she was terrified and stuff was falling out of her purse but she didn’t even bother to pick them up. You watched as she ran past you without batting as eye, what is going on today? Shrugging, you picked up the stuff she dropped, finders keepers. Gum, tissues, tampons, condoms, and… her wallet. You almost jumped in joy, you could really use the money right now.
Finally out of your mood you practically skipped down the street, looking through the wallet and counting the cash. $10… $28… $48… $130… $135— oh wait that’s a Canadian $5 what the fuck— $140. One hundred forty fucking dollars in cash, that woman must’ve been loaded to carry this much cash. Well, now you carried it.
Another scream broke your daze, but this time it was closer. You looked up and saw another terrified woman running towards you, this time knocking into you which caused you to crash onto the floor, the cash scattering across the pavement. Back in your mood.
“What the fuck is your problem!?” You yelled, watching the woman continue running and not even look back. Is there a goddamn marathon you didn’t know about or what? You fiercely picked up the scattered cash, shoving them into your bag immediately before crossing your arms and continuing your walk back to your apartment. Fixing your glasses you saw a man get tackled to the ground by another man a street in front of you, was this happening to everyone???
Much to your horror you watched as the man on top mauled into the other’s neck, tearing through the skin and splattering blood everywhere. You froze, feeling your blood run cold at the sight. You watched as the man kept eating away at the now, dead person. The man’s head turned slightly to grab at more of the bloodied flesh, you now noticing the cloudy eyes and gray skin. This man was already dead, so how was he…
You snapped out of it, turning the other way to avoid whatever was happening. This had to be a sick joke. Your heart was beating in your ears, weaving through the back lanes to find a different path to your home. Hair stood at the back of your neck as your senses were now alert, if whatever that was is real, you had to be way more careful. It was quiet in the alley, calm. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Stopping for a second to catch your breath and recollect your thoughts, bending over slightly and placing your hands on your knees.
“Jesus christ,” you muttered. You couldn’t get the visual out of your head, that man was murdered right in front of you. His eyes bulging out of his head when he couldn’t even scream for help, that… monster ripping his throat out and devouring him in broad daylight. You shook your head, running your fingers through your hair frantically as you tried to rid your brain of that image.
A low groaning filled your ears and before you could register it you were falling to the ground, a grunt escaping you as you quickly turned onto your back. One of those things were falling over you, your quick reflexes holding them up by their shoulders. You got a clear view of what they looked like, their eyes were clouded over, veins more visible under their pale skin, their lips and chin dribbling with blood. You grimaced, trying to scream but nothing came out, nothing but a flow of air. They were strong, jaw snapping closer and closer to you. If you didn’t do anything now you’d end up like that guy on that street. No fucking way you were going to die like that.
Struggling a little, you lifted your legs under them and kicked from their stomach. Throwing the thing off of you, grunting you scrambled to your feet. The thing quickly following, their leg twisted as they got up from the position you flung them in. Surely it would’ve hurt if it were you, but unlike you, they weren’t living. You opened your bag and shoved your hand in, cursing yourself in your head for shoving everything in there. You held out your other arm protectively while stepping backwards from the thing. The hand in your bag searched wildly for something to defend yourself with, something to kill with. Could you even kill them?
Your back hit the wall, panic filling your body as the thing got closer. Before it could get any closer you tucked your forearm under their chin to hold them back, a loud cry escaping you as you fought to hold them back. When you were starting to give up, the hand in your bag finally found something metal. Ripping it out you immediately swung at it with the item, sinking it into their head which was surprisingly easy. Adrenaline probably. The thing fell to the ground, dead again.
You let out a heavy sigh, sliding down the wall. You looked down at your hands, bloodied with what you could only hope wasn’t your own blood. You were shaking profusely, your breathing uneven. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pressed your knees to your chest, the heel of your palm placed on your forehead. You stayed like this for a moment, you don’t know how long. But once you were ready you let out one last shaky breath before opening your eyes again, and glancing down at the thing on the ground in front of you.
You almost laughed as you realized you used the painting knife to end the thing, but you didn’t. You silently reached over and pulled it out, swallowing as it made a gross squelch sound. Looking down at your painting knife which was now covered in its blood, you wiped it off on their shirt. Taking a closer look at the body and noticing a bite mark on their shoulder, much like the person in the library. Your lip quivered as you imagined what had happened to them, what might’ve happened to you if you stayed. There was a low pit in your stomach as you stood up, your mouth suddenly filling with saliva before hunching over and vomiting. Your eyes filled with tears just realizing how close to death you were, throwing up your lunch.
You coughed, wiping your mouth on your sleeve before shoving the painting knife back into your bag. You had to get home, now. Your feet moved quickly, not stopping for even a second. There were barely anyone on the streets and you wondered if your home was even safe. Stop, your feet stopped. Don’t think like that. With a heavy breath you took off again, walking even faster towards your apartment building. Please, please, please….
You jolted suddenly as your phone started ringing, you grabbed it but didn’t stop walking. Answering without even checking the caller ID.
“Hello?” You said almost too quietly, still shaken up from your encounter with the thing.
“(Y/N)?? (Y/N), are you okay!?” The anxious voice yelled, it was your older brother, Glenn. You almost cried in happiness, walking even faster now.
“Yes Glenn, yes I’m fine…” you mumbled into the phone, breathing a sigh of relief that your brother was alive. “What is going on?”
“God, I don’t know. All I know is people are dying and coming back to life and eating each other and dying and coming back to—”
“Yeah, yeah I get it!” you cut him off, “I almost—” you stopped, deciding not to tell him about your fight. He was anxious enough, he always was but you didn’t want to worry him even more.
“Almost what?? You didn’t get bit did you!?” He yelled which caused you to pull your phone away from your ear in discomfort.
“No I didn’t, stop yelling.” You replied irritated, you heard him sigh on the other end. Hearing distant voices in the background. “Where are you?”
“I was at work when I saw everything go down, I drove back to the pizza place immediately.” He said more calmer, “but we’re gonna move out soon.”
You furrowed your brows in confusion, “wait why? Isn’t it safe there? Why not wait for help?”
“You didn’t hear? I thought you were always on your phone,” you scoffed in annoyance at his probe. “They’re setting up camps, courtesy of the military I think.”
You chest filled with hope, you were going to be safe. “Oh thank god, okay wait I’m going back to my place to grab some things. Where is the camp?”
When Glenn responded his end was filled with feedback, static. “It’s gonna. Arou— Ta—”
“Glenn?? You’re… you’re cutting off.” You said nervously, nearing your apartment.
“A— Yo— I’m—” And the call failed.
Dread filled your body once again, now you really were going to cry. You shakily walked through the apartment building, keeping guard for potential things around. Opting for the stairs, you walked swiftly up them. Out of breath by the time you reached your room, fortunately there was nothing to stop you.
Once you got in you immediately dropped everything, locking the door and collapsing to the floor. Tears filled your eyes once more and you let some of them escape and trickle down your cheeks, you were scared. Scared of those things roaming around, they could kill, you’ve seen it. You removed your glasses momentarily to wipe your face. You shook your head you took a deep breath and stood up, you had to pack and leave immediately. You didn’t know where you were going but you had to leave, you had to find Glenn.
Putting your glasses back on, you crawled over and rummaged through your closet carelessly, trying to find a backpack that was big enough to carry all your necessities. Your apartment was already a mess so you didn’t bother being slow and careful right now, which might have been a bad idea as you snagged your finger on a stray box cutter.
“Shit,” you muttered while pulling your hand back, a cut dragged along your index finger. You rushed over to the sink, washing it quickly before throwing a bandage over the cut. While doing so you heard a police siren drive by, the sound dying off as it drove farther and farther away. You sighed before returning to the closet, grabbing a big enough backpack and shoving as much clothes you could get while also leaving room for extra things.
You stood up and looked around your small apartment, your bed looked so inviting. You were exhausted beyond help, your body aching with the need to rest. I shouldn’t. You thought and continued scrambling for items to take with you, the amount of scattered pages of sketches filled the space that was your floor. Your heart broke at the thought of leaving your things behind but you knew it’d be useless to take with you, but you couldn’t take nothing.
You grabbed a few pencils and brushes, along with a small paint palette and placed them carefully into your bag, an empty sketchbook joining them. While searching you opened your desk drawer, three daggers which you made in a welding class a couple years ago. They were sturdy and well sharp enough, thank god you were good at making things. You took them and put them into a sheath to prevent stabbing yourself. You grabbed a few more things like a lighter, some bandaids, and batteries. You frowned at the lack of supplies you had on hand, but you tried to convince yourself that you’d be taken care of at the camps.
You moved over to your small kitchen and grabbed a water bottle which you filled, also grabbing a couple snacks that would keep you full for a few days at best. You heard a few distant screams outside, some screams of pain which caused you to wince. The sudden thought of living in an apocalypse dawned over you, a feeling of dread rushing through you. You couldn’t shake the feeling off but you chose to ignore it. You did not want to go into a panic right now, you had to have a clear and positive mind if you wanted to live.
You pulled your bag over your shoulders and walked over to your mirror to take a look at yourself, grounding yourself for the world outside. You wanted so badly to sleep but you knew you had to get a move on if you wanted to get to a camp safely.
“I can do this..” you whispered under your breath, clutching at the handle of one of your daggers, turning to the door. You just had to get to a camp, but more importantly you had to find Glenn.
★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★★○★○★○★○★○★○
more a/n: for the sake of having glenn as reader's older brother im having him be around 24-27 years old right now, reader being like 23 ish. and daryl will be like 32….??? i dunno im trying to make this as canon as possible BUT UGH IT IS SO $&£”*^%*£ so yeah there will be a little bit of an age gap between reader and daryl but i hope that wont be too much of a problem for you guys…. probably not. and do not quote me if i get settings or the timeline wrong like twd is confusing enough for me……….. again im also like rewatching and making sure to make everything as close to the show as possible, but theres also the possibility of me altering the timeline (muehehehe). anyways tysm for reading and stay tuned! ★
#daryl dixon#the walking dead#daryl x reader#twd daryl#daryl x y/n#norman reedus#mrdixonposts#a rugged muse series
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The Hollywood Hedonist Method
pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x reader
rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), pinv, unprotected sex, light dirty talk (a little degrading), sex in public place (?), soft dom!reader, soft dom!dieter
tags: references to drugs, talk of suicide (not serious), a self pitying dieter bravo
word count: 2.9k+
summary: dieter's movie is bad and he looks to you for a quick fix to a long problem.
a/n: is this the most inspired piece i ever wrote? probably not but i did have a lot of fun writing it. i wouldn't say this is my usual writing style, but i'm trying something new on here and i hope you like it. if you'd like to be updated on when i post my writing, follow my writing updates blog @belovedinfidels
He fingers you on the black marble countertop, his mess of crushed ambitions transformed suddenly into a hardy joie de vivre as you accept his tongue into your mouth. Salacious stories be damned: this is better than any page six bullshit could cover, his strong body settled between your widened legs, his long fingers curled in the warm comforts of your body. He breathes you in, drinks you up.
Your whiskey soaked tactlessness is divine tonight. It offers a heady respite from the impending dark cloud of his self doubt. He doesn’t even mind that you don’t realize how gloomy this shit makes him. He feels like one of those goddamn characters in Sunset Boulevard, switching between the dead bloodied man floating in the pool of his own ambition, and the frenzied, forgotten actress with the warm gun of delusion in her hands. He hates that he’s miserable over his fucking shitty movie, and he’s so hard it’s embarrassing, and a little confusing, and you’re beginning to squirm and he wonders if maybe his tongue might make you shake and—-
“Dieter!”
You dig crescent shaped imprints on the pale, freckled skin of his shoulders. His tongue makes you shout–better than he could’ve ever hoped for. It’s the ego boost he needs. Plus, you’re so goddamn wet that it’s coating his chin and he’s only just got on his knees. That’s nice, too.
He licks up to your swollen clit, tonguing it until you let out delightful little mewls and writhe beneath him. When you close your legs around his head, he lets out a moan. You taste like the closest thing to penitence he’ll ever get. He could eat your pussy all night if you let him. Really. There’s some things he knows for certain, some things even bad fucking movies and a deflating ego can’t rob him of, and his love for this is one of them. The act of spreading a woman apart and eating her like she’s ripe pickings from the Garden of Eden almost drives him to romanticism sometimes. He is sure he could write poetry about this. He bets your pussy’d look so pretty on a canvas. He’s never drawn a pussy from memory, but he’s gonna try it tomorrow and—
“Are you okay?” you rasp, looking down at him with a frown.
Well, maybe it can rob me of this, he thinks bitterly.
Your grip turns more forgiving in his hair, your fingers sympathetically pushing his locks back from his face. He comes up, his slick-glistened lips forming into what you suspect is meant to be a reassuring grin. It looks more like a grimace. You run a thumb affectionately over his cheek and he groans, pushing it off with his shoulder. He positions himself back between your legs. When you pull at his hair again, trying to get him to look at you, he winces sharply.
“Dammit,” he mutters, dark eyes deep wells of glazed frustration. “If I don’t make you cum I’m going to jump out of the window,” he deadpans.
You’ve always hated the kind of people who make you wonder what’s a joke and what’s not, because it’s a constant commotion of miscommunication. Life becomes a bad joke, a joke that is in constant need of explaining, and you’ve never liked that. Dieter is the sort that seems to be hanging on the edge of I don’t know, the kind who seems to be supplanting real answers for half funny, half serious ones. The uncertainty he posits is a product of the uncertainty he feels - you can tell already - but you’re not exactly enthused to decipher him for the rest of your life.
You frown. You’d only met him under strobe lights not even two months ago, shouting over the music to get to know one another. He had tasted of stale cigarettes and early morning remorse, and he’d taken you in the women’s bathroom, pressed you against the bathroom stall, and fucked you with bruising intensity. Then he had written his number on the palm of your hand, and kissed you chastely on the mouth after it was all over. There’s no future here. You won’t be deciphering anything.
“Sit on my face,” he implores. Dieter delivers the sentence like he’s asking you if he can hold your hand. His fingers grip at your thighs and his breath grazes the inside of your legs. When he presses his lips to the side of your cunt, you close your eyes against the sensation. He tongues the spot, laughing shakily as you ease underneath him. Your hips press forward and he takes it as acceptance. “Or don’t,” he says. His tongue teases at your lips, and you can hear the grin in his tone when he says, “I’ll eat you out like this. That’s just fine, too.” His tongue nudges into your opening and you gasp. Your hand finds his hair again. “But tell me you want it.”
His lips press to the side of your pussy again. You gush involuntarily at the sound of a husky voice, at the way he hovers over you with the promise of more.
“Mm.” You look down your body at him, making eye contact as he presses kisses closer and closer to your glistening clit. He nods his head at you, encouraging you as he begins twirling his tongue around the area. “Actors are so goddamn self absorbed,” you say. He nods wordlessly again, smiling against your skin. He doesn’t tongue your clit, though. You want him badly to take it into his mouth. To suck—
“Fuck, please,” you plead. “I want it.”
His eyes glimmer. You feel his hot breath all over you, and can hardly stand the sensation of it. You want to ride his face, make him bring you to orgasm your own way. You nearly forget his sad, petulant attitude in your impatience.
He takes your clit in his mouth, sucks eagerly as you stroke your nipple through the thin cotton of your dress. Dieter is greedy even in his giving, taking as much of you as you’ll let him. He enters a finger into you—a finger that goes in with an embarrassing ease—and then another when you moan lewdly into the enclosed air of this someone else’s bathroom. His face moves with your hips, letting you rock against the rhythm his own fingers set. You moan his name and he goes faster, and you feel on the brink of imploding.
Your eyes close and you focus on his mouth, and the fury with which he works at your swollen clit, and you think of his fingers, and the way your cunt clenches around them, large as they are. As you cum against his mouth with an unapologetically guttural moan, he surprises you with the seriousness of his intent—how he does not look up at you or smirk against you, but works devoutly at building another orgasm up. You grip the edge of the sink and your head thuds against the mirror as it lolls back. The glass reverberates but neither of you care; your ass is gradually rising off the counter and his body is rising up, one of his legs kneeled on the ground and the other one hovering. He makes you cum again in a matter of seconds.
In between your second and third orgasm, his belt buckle jingles open and he’s risen all the way up. He comes up for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and then he kisses you on the mouth. He’s wet with your juices down to his chin and he’s not afraid to spread the taste of you against your tongue. There’s a drop of pre-cum wetting the blue of his tight boxer shorts. You grab onto his jean loops and jostle him closer. He comes without protest.
“You shouldn’t ask a man how he feels when he’s eating you out,” he tells you. His head is pressed against your chest and he’s looking down at himself, at the way his cock is strained in his boxers. He’s hard as hell. He looks back up at you with intense eyes. “It’s likely he feels pretty fucking good.”
“Shut up,” you groan. You stuff your hand down the front of his open jeans and his neutrality fades into a smirk. His hips jerk as you palm him and he whimpers, desperate as ever. You fist his hair, driving his neck back so you can kiss along the column of his throat. “The movie wasn’t even that fucking bad,” you tell him. He laughs and you feel his Adam’s apple bob against your lips. You suck at the skin there. If he minds, he doesn’t say. His eye lashes flutter against his cheeks and he happily grinds against your hand. You think you could make him beg, if you wanted. You think maybe he wants to.
You withdraw your touch suddenly and he whimpers, pupils blown wide with desire. He goes from confused to uncertain. “What?—“
“Ground,” you command. He nods curtly.
He peels off his jeans and underwear on his way down to the cold, sterile tile, making no qualms about being bare ass naked on his employer’s bathroom floor. They are downstairs and they’re partying, and even if they weren’t he wouldn’t give a damn anyway. That’s the appeal of him, isn't it? It’s why the public buys the magazines and watches the movies he’s in. Dieter is a brilliant train wreck and they want to see.
That movie they put him in was so goddamn commercial and so heartless, and so contrived. He hopes he gets cum on the black shower mat because of what they’ve done to him.
“I’ve got no condom,” he tells you suddenly, remembering. This had been so spur of the moment. A hand on your knee under the table turned to a hand in your underwear and suddenly you were both up here. His face scrunches up, waiting for rejection.
He supposes he could make do, maybe just ask you to talk to him while he masturbates this hard-on away. Are you into that sort of thing? He supposes it’s a little exhibitionist, and he knows that’s not everyone’s cup of tea but—
You don’t seem to give a shit. You straddle his hips and look down at him. You’re still a little loopy from your orgasms but confident in your approach-confident that he wants this badly as you think he does and goddamnit if you’re not right. He ought to be responsible and ask you the slew of questions responsible people ask before they bury their cocks into nice women such as yourself. Birth control? Have you fucked anyone else and do you think they might’ve given you something? When’s your birthday? Middle name? But he doesn’t. He breathes steadily beneath you, excited and so fucking worked up he’s afraid the first heavenly push into you might be the last one if you’re not careful with him.
He doesn’t even know if you won’t tell the paps about this. Maybe you will. Maybe the price of this will be a magazine spread featuring a bad airport photo of him and the headline “DIETER BRAVO OUT OF CONTROL: L.A. FLING TELLS ALL.” And this L.A. fling will know all, will have everything to tell. In a matter of seconds he tries to decide what kind of person you are. He softens a bit, and you notice immediately, and that fresh Hollywood self pity is back and he softens some more.
Before you can ask if he’s okay again, he heaves a telling sigh. “Too much or not enough drugs,” is his response. It was good while it lasted. What’s the worst that can tell them now? That he eats pussy to make up for his drug induced impotence on bad days?
You look confused, maybe even a little wounded. No, you are wounded. He squeezes your hip as if to say “You did your best” and this hurt flashes more visibly across your face. Well.
“Coward,” you tell him. His eyebrows raise to his hairline.
“Hm?” he answers.
You lean down, whisper it to him. “You’re a self pitying coward. It’s not the drugs. You’re making yourself miserable.”
“Listen—“ he starts indignantly, but you shake your head. Oddly, he’s getting stiff again. This has been the most embarrassing night of his whole fucking life—and perhaps the most telling.
You look down between your bodies, pleased. “My theory was right.”
“Please,” he groans, “no more or I’m going to kill myself for real.”
You laugh and it’s so genuine and that he laughs too, despite himself. You might be laughing at him for all he knows but it doesn’t feel like it. He decides once and for all, looking at you, watching you, that you won’t tell about this or about anything. If you wanted to, you would’ve already. And most importantly, he simply doesn’t want to believe you could be someone like that. He isn’t a coward. Not all the time. He takes a chance on you, here, now.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks. You nod your head. “Have you been tested lately?” You nod your head again. He smiles. “Do you like me? Check yes or no.”
You check yes — or at least he thinks. You kiss him tenderly, more tenderly than is good for him, and you both fall back into your hurried, lust riddled motions. You take his growing hard on in your hand and guide him into you. You lean your forehead on his and let him sheath himself inside of you. He goes slowly, wincing against the warmth of you squeezing around him. It feels so fucking good—dangerously good. He forgets about the stupid movie and the bosses down stairs and all that miserable shit about ruining their rugs.
“Do you like it when I’m mean to you?” you whisper, once he’s fully inside. He looks at you, amused, and shrugs his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Seems like it.”
“Do you think you’d like if…If I was controlling?”
He hums against your shoulder, bringing your body closer to his. “How so?” he asks. He begins guiding your hips, lifting you gently off his cock and slowly back down.
“Make you beg,” you say quietly. “Maybe call you names, if you want. Maybe tell you how good you are when I think you’re good.”He twitches inside of you and you smile. He smiles too.
“Actors are so self absorbed,” he jokes.
“Your movie wasn’t bad,” you assure again, more kindly. He doesn’t respond. He kisses the place between your neck and your shoulder. You quicken the pace that you ride him in and he nods gratefully, sighing softly. His knees draw up and you reposition slightly, feeling him more deeply inside of you as you grind back down into him.
“Do you want to cum?” you ask him. You drive your hips up, gripping onto the hands he has on your hips, making him move in your slow, teasing pace once again. He bites at his bottom lip and doesn’t respond. You stop moving. He flashes his eyes up at you, annoyed and aroused and vaguely infatuated. “Of course,” he breathes out.
“Tell me,” you taunt back. You resist when he tries to move you back down and he groans, but you feel him twitch in you again.
“I know you want me to fuck you too,” he counters.
“Sure,” you nod, “But remember: I’ve already cum three times and you’ve cum none. I think I can withhold far longer than you.”
He can’t help but smirk. That’s not good enough for you. You want him far gone for you, incoherent practically. You rise off his cock completely and he lurches forward, groaning. “No!” he says. “I want to cum!” he says, pawing at you. “Please!”
You hover over his glistening cock and pout. “Didn’t seem like it,” you taunt, moving your hips over him but not touching. His lips part but no words come out. “I want it to seem like it. You’re a big boy, Bravo and you can use your words, can’t you? I hate a man who can’t use his words—who’s afraid to.” You lean down, close to his ear. “I hate a coward.”
“I—I can use my words,” he stutters. His fingers brush against your hips. “Please, just climb back on me and keep riding me. I—I need that.”
“Tell me.”
“Fuck,” he grunts. “I need it so bad.”
You grab his cock, stroke it lazily. “Again,” you say. His face twists up in what could be either pleasure or pain and he says, “Please. I need it. Need you.”
He’s as hard and desperate as he was before. You kiss him hard on the mouth and allow him to take over again, guiding you down onto him this time. He flips you over, lays you down against the ground, and drives into you. You gasp and he smiles like he’s won a prize.
“Can I—“ he fills you to the hilt. “—is it alright if I…Can I cum in you?”
You nod your head. He looks at you and you understand he wants more than just a nod. “Yes,” you answer.
It doesn’t take much more than that. He gathers up your legs, drives into you with one or two more inspired thrusts, and then he’s growing rigid against your body, hot spurts of his cum filling you. He exhales softly into your neck. You think he might apologize for a moment but he doesn’t. Instead he thanks you.
“Feel better?” you ask. He nods.
“Much,” he says. “Hell—I might really be starting to think that the movie wasn’t so bad.” When he looks at you, you can tell he’s kidding.
“Well,” you joke back, “At least even the bad movies get you fucked, huh?”
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x female reader#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo smut#the bubble#the bubble fanfic#pedro pascal fanfic
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Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 1 of 27)
Summary: Not every adventurer wields a weapon. You, a hearth witch living near the banks of River Chionthar, are witness to a craft falling from the sky, and wondering if anyone needed assistance, ran down to find survivors. That was your first mistake. Going along with the survivors on their crazy adventure? That was your second mistake. Will you survive your next mistake of letting a hungry vampire bite you?
Author’s Notes: Full disclosure: at this point, I’ve only played through act 2 without romancing Astarion. So why the fuck am I writing some wholesome Astarion x F!Reader? Because I’m dumb and got spoiled on Youtube, and now I can’t stop thinking about the poor guy. Also this is heavily influenced by a couple of wholesome manga (“Life in Another World as a Housekeeping Mage” and “The Forsaken Saintess and her Foodie Roadtrip in Another World”), but I won’t be writing an isekai. You (reader) are from Faerun like everyone else. I’m just here to have some wholesome feels and hurt/comfort. Let’s go go go.
Tags: wholesome, cozy camp time, Astarion x F!Reader, slow burn, good alignment, BG3 Spoilers
Chapter Word Count: 1,843
Ao3 Link here, Darling.
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Act I, Chapter 1 - The Beginning
You are a hearth witch, living on the banks of the River Chionthar, making potions and herbal remedies for the small villages nearby. For the past three years, you’d been happier than you’d ever been in your life. You loved helping people, but you made sure not to reveal your real name, nor why you always wore long sleeves and gloves, even in the middle of summer.
But the nearby villages had been emptying as of late. News of the goblin camp that recently appeared nearby had first scared off the traveling merchants, and then the locals. You realized that you too should leave, otherwise you’d either have no more customers or goblins on your doorstep. You only had a dagger and a few spells that did little in ways of actual damage, so defending yourself against a horde of enemies was out of the question. So you began to pack up, figuring out what you could bring with you, and what needed to be repurchased once you reached your new home, wherever that might be.
On a warm sunny day, you decided that this would be your last day here. Your pack was filled, your cottage cleaned out. Tomorrow morning, you would take off to the east, following the river to the next closest town. For now, you decided to grab a few more ingredients for the road, and so, you were out by the river bank, gathering fresh herbs and mushrooms.
A booming sound followed a strong gust of wind that whipped around you, twigs and grass flying everywhere. Then you saw a ship crash nearby, the land and water being torn asunder, debris flung in all directions. After the chaos died down a bit, you went to go check for survivors. You couldn’t, in good conscience, walk away if someone might need help.
That was a poor decision on your part.
The first survivor you found was a young, dark-haired woman, passed out on the shore. She seemed standoffish, but after helping her up and giving her a drink from your waterskin, you convinced her that the best thing to do was to get out of the area and rest at your cottage while she regained her bearings.
A little while later, the two of you came upon the strange sight of a single arm, sticking out of a glowing purple rune. You and the young woman, Shadowheart, pulled the poor man out. He introduced himself as Gale, and also joined your party.
As the three of you continued back to your cottage, you came across another stranger. Skin as pale as marble and hair to match. Had some scars on his neck. Perhaps he got them on the ship? He seemed harmless enough. Another escapee of the craft that fell from the sky.
That is, until he tricked you into looking for something in the bushes.
If only he hadn’t touched your exposed neck with his bare hand. Then you wouldn’t have felt the fear, underlined by a desperation you knew all too well.
The leash is cut.
It made you empathize. And that was one rule that had been burned into your mind at a young age.
Do not empathize with the enemy.
Fortunately, Gale and Shadowheart talked him down from stabbing you. The man even apologized to you, though it seemed more for show than for sincerity.
Astarion was his name. He introduced himself with aplomb and decorum, and your hackles raised at the sight. A noble.
After a bit more conversation, they agreed that their shared affliction was enough of a reason to travel together and find a cure.
Swallowing down your general prejudice against nobles, you ignored him and made small talk with the others as you led them back to your cottage.
***
Your cottage had only one room, enough space for your bed, some storage for herbs and tools, and a work table for your alchemy. Most of your things were packed, but you pulled out enough to take care of your guests.
The yard to the side of the building was set up as a small campground for travelers to rest. You had figured out a couple years ago that for a small fee, traveling merchants would gladly rest on your land where it was safe, while you made them fresh, nourishing meals and cast spells on their bedrolls to make them feel warm and comfortable. You even managed to get a small tub built in the back to provide a warm bath for an extra fee.
It had been a lucrative idea, one that made you enough money to be quite comfortable out here in the sticks.
You may only know a few cantrips, but you had manipulated them beyond what most people did. Your mending cantrip could fix whole swaths of cloth, your prestidigitation cantrip could keep bedrolls warm all night, or baths hot for hours. It was why you had several repeat customers, traveling merchants who would alter their routes to come to your place to rest.
You told them of the surrounding area and cooked a meal for them, a simple stew with seasonal vegetables and herbs.
The noble said he wasn’t hungry. You supposed your poor peasant food wasn’t to his taste.
He can suit himself.
While the others were eating, you set up the campground. While you were quietly casting the comfort cantrip on each bedroll, you sensed someone watching you.
“Yes?” you asked, biting the inside of your mouth to keep from being snippy.
Astarion stepped closer to you. He remained standing, looking down on your kneeling form. “What an interesting way to use prestidigitation.”
You shrugged. You had nothing to say to a noble. You finished your spell and started to shuffle over to the next bedroll, but he remained standing in your way.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all, darling.” He didn’t budge.
You let out a short huff and crawled around him. One bedroll left. Ignoring the man, you began the cantrip.
By the time you finished, you looked up to see all three of them watching you.
“What?” you asked, a little disturbed by the attention.
“I hadn’t thought to use that cantrip like this before,” Gale said as he knelt down to touch the bedroll. “How long does it last?”
“All night,” you responded, feeling a little proud of yourself.
Shadowheart was already crawling into the bedroll. “This feels amazing.” She buried herself into the cloth. “It feels like I’m sleeping on a warm cloud.”
Gale shrugged and followed suit. “Gods, you’re right.” He sat up and looked at you. “I don’t know how you manipulated that spell, but it’s absolutely brilliant.”
You felt a zing of joy. Your little custom cantrip impressed a wizard!
The noble watched you for a few more moments before he too, crawled into a bedroll. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh. My, this is rather comfortable.”
You jutted out your chin, but refrained from being too catty about it. Instead, you switched to being polite.
“Sweet dreams,” you said to everyone, and went about cleaning up around camp. By the time you were done, the three of them were fast asleep.
***
The motley crew thanked you and took off in the morning to explore the area, seemingly never to return.
You looked around at your unpacked things, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to start off tomorrow morning instead.
Your plans were sidetracked once more, however, when the group returned that evening with a fourth member, grouchy and prickly as a threatened porcupine. After a couple of bowls of your herbal soup, she became a little bit less prickly. Lae'zel was her name, and she punctuated her Common speech with her Githyanki tongue. You found it a bit endearing, the way one finds a stray animal that always hisses at you endearing.
You cast a warming spell on their bed rolls once more, burned incense to keep the insects away, and made sure they were all comfortable in your little camp area outside of your cottage before going to bed.
The next morning, you got up early to make breakfast for them before they left to explore the ruins that they had found the day before. As you checked your rabbit traps, you noticed one of them was tripped, but the rabbit within was a mere husk, as if it had been dehydrated.
Curious.
You reset your trap and returned to camp.
“What’s that?” Shadowheart asked when she saw the husk of a corpse in your hand.
“A dried up rabbit.”
“That doesn’t sound appetizing,” Lae’zel remarked.
You shrugged. “I can at least sell the pelt later. Sorry, you’ll have to make do with another vegetable stew tonight.” You furrowed your eyebrows. “That is, if you’re coming back here.”
The four adventurers looked at each other.
“I think we’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough,” Gale said. We’ll start heading west from here.”
***
The group had finally left, and you had finished packing. You had been delayed by their arrival, but no longer. They truly seemed gone now, with the sun setting and no sign of their return. Tomorrow for sure. Tomorrow, early in the morning, you would set off—
You heard your name being called. Off in the distance, you could see Gale, waving sheepishly at you, followed by the others.
You sighed. Biting back your annoyance, you smiled and waved back. A customer was a customer. At least this group was entertaining, and quite generous with their gold. And this time, they brought you back some boar meat.
There was one new face, a man with a stone eye. He introduced himself as the Blade of the Frontiers, Wyll. He seemed nice, charismatic even. Someone who had the manners of a noble but the heart of a commoner.
They set up camp once more in your yard, and you unpacked just enough of your supplies to make them a meal.
"You look like you're ready to go on a journey," Gale commented as you all sat around the campfire, eating a boar roast with herbed potatoes.
"I'm moving. Many people have moved away because of the increase in goblins in the area, and a lot of my business has dried up. And having goblins this close doesn't make me feel all too safe."
“Any plans on where?”
You shrugged. “Not really. I was just going to travel until I found a place to settle.”
"Well, why don't you come with us?"
Everyone looked at Gale in shock, but then they all looked at you.
"You do make camp much more comfortable," Shadowheart finally said.
“And one of us would be standing guard at camp as well, so you would be safe,” Wyll added.
You saw no reason to decline. You liked most of them, save for one snotty noble. A constant flow of income would be nice, for once. You negotiated a decent wage and agreed to head out with them at first light.
That, dear hearth witch, was your second poor decision.
--------
Chapter End Notes:
Yeah, I basically made up a “hearth witch” class as a combo of druid, wizard, and cleric, but hey, welcome to Dungeons & Dragons, where homebrew classes happen all the time. Hope you enjoyed the fic! I'm actively working on the next chapter!
Update 4/4/24: All chapters are here!
Act I - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12
Act II - Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 |
Act III - Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 (18+) | Part 28 (END)
#bg3#bg3 fanfic#astarion#astarion x F!Reader#slow burn#female reader#baldur's gate 3#your hearth is my home
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