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13atoms · 1 month

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Handsome and a Genius (Spencer Reid x F!Bau!Reader)

Inspired by that one scene in x files where mulder stands like a himbo looking handsome and being the future of beauty. you know the one I mean

Summary: Spencer’s overactive brain draws more attention than it ought to on a case, and you see him in a new light. 3k words.

Contains: hostile witnesses, spencer being clueless (but an absolute babe), friends to lovers. (No offence to Florida im sure it’s very nice, reader is having a bad day, and I am far too British for that kind of heat)

The sticky Florida air had long since plastered your clothes to your skin, leaving you short of breath and with the unpleasant feeling of damp hair against your scalp. The whole team had groaned at the revelation their next case would be in the outskirts of Miami, and as soon as the plane door opened you understood why.

You were hot, and grumpy. The salty, swampy air made you feel disgusting as you approached witness after witness. There was a serial killer operating in and around mobile home parks in the area, with the two most recent murders taking place in Royal Biscayne Trailer Park, both over a week ago. While the rest the team spread out across the other crime scenes, you and your partner had been dispatched to this one.

It was a world away from Quantico: sun-bleached, dense, full of plastic and palms instead of concrete and maples. Nonetheless, the principles remained the same no matter where you were. Take everything in, speak to everyone, suspect everyone. Stepping in and out of trailers gave you very little relief from the heat, although respite from the sun pounding down on you was a welcome break.

Dr Spencer Reid stood a short distance away, shielding his eyes with his hand as he contemplated the sea of trailers around him. He’d stared around as you drove into the park, something faraway in his eyes as he memorised every detail from the safety of the SUV.

Now he stood close to you, heads inches apart as he whispered so that only you could hear. He faced one way, you the other, and you could focus on his words knowing that Spencer was watching your back.

“These things all come equipped with the same locks, at least each model does. If you recognise the trailer home, you know how to pick it. It’s fairly trivial, for someone with some basic industry knowledge.”

You hummed through pursed lips, surveying the small crowd who had gathered to gawk at a pair of FBI officers on their turf.

“And that would be true of all of the trailer parks… we know he’s got a common MO.”

“Exactly.”

“You reckon someone in the industry, then? A salesman? Maintenance guy?”

Spencer rolled his neck, stared up at the sky for a moment. His curls were long at the moment, damp at the name of his neck, a little frizzy in the humidity.

“Not necessarily.”

“It’s quite specific,” you agreed, “anyone operating as a common thief around here would have the knowledge too. We could be talking about a classic escalation – burglar to home invader to murderer?”

His eyes snapped from you to his phone.

“I’ve asked Garcia to check out any patterns in robberies, home invasions… the locks are hardly scratched. We know he wears gloves, cleans his tools. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

You nodded, surveying the street again. The sun was glinting off of white plastic, making you squint. You worried for Spencer, the heat and the light wouldn’t be doing his headaches any good.

“You want me to take that?” Spencer was saying, and you snapped your attention in the direction he was gestured.

There was middle-aged man a little way forward of the crowd, shoulders hunched, hands entwined. Nervous. He had the tan of someone who lived here year-round, not a big believer in suncream, with tanlines when he removed his hat and glasses to speak to you.

“I’ve got it,” you murmured, and Spencer nodded.

It was an unspoken part of your partnership, that Spencer liked when you started conversations with witnesses. You liked that he trusted you, trusted your skills, never questioned whether you’d done the right thing when you spoke to people.

Instead he remained a short distance away, climbing up the front steps of someone’s home for a higher vantage point to survey the place.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. You said you’re with the FBI?”

The man had a tip, and it was an interesting one. A rumour spread throughout the HOA about someone trying the locks at night, the sound of metal against the doorways, silhouettes against frosted glass. A few people even had security camera footage, though nothing identifiable. It was great. You gave him your card, told him to get the footage to you asap.

It must be terrifying, you realised, to hear that kind of noise in the night. To be so close to danger, after a neighbour had been killed. The local sheriff’s department seemed frustrated by the interest the case was garnering – frankly you were amazed the story wasn’t bigger. There was no small amount of comforting involved in the conversation you had with the witness, and soon enough a few more people stepped forwards from the crowd. All seemed middle-aged, likely transplants to the sunshine state, and equally shaken.

When everyone’s stories had finished, they stood in silence for a moment. You frowned, noticing their gazes slightly misaligned.

Spencer.

He was stood at your shoulder, sharp gaze flickering across each face of the gathered residents.

“This is my colleague, Dr Reid. A few of you have already met, I believe.”

“You know,” he began, “the socio-economic factors influencing the way we think about crime in mobile home communities are fascinating. Often trailer parks are stereotyped negatively in the media, and because they are generally cheaper to live in than traditional housing estates, and that can foster a sense of shame or isolation for residents. Transient populations can also make community policing and security difficult, and anomalies in the patterns of everyday life become more difficult for people to subconsciously spot.”

You held your breath, and tried not to look worried at the reaction of the small crowd. Instead, you focused on Spencer. He was speaking with his hands a lot today.

“But I think the assumptions we tend to make about trailer parks completely overlook the very nature of living so close to your neighbours. There is a sense of community in living so closely, as evidenced by the conversations we’ve been having today. I’m not sure whether the killer understands that, or is exploiting the former theory that places like this allow for more deviations from the way we implement traditional security in communities. An unsub might hold some sort of resentment towards trailer parks, or some specific resident in his past, or perhaps he’s simply exploiting how incredibly easy it is to simply walk up to a mobile home and slip the lock open with a humble mass-produced lock pick.”

He was greeted with a sea of blank faces, littered with the occasional frown. Finally he looked to you. You caught the furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders hunched into himself, the clutching of his elbows to his body.

Oh, Spencer.

“That’s really interesting!” you tried to say, but Spencer was already backing away.

“Anyway, I’ll, um, leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Dr Reid,” you called after him, as he fled, disappearing into the shade of a nearby trailer.

Your heart ached for him a bit, but you pushed that aside. Instead, you had a sea of potentially offended retirees to keep on side.

“God, what I’d give for a brain like that,” your witness laughed, his linen shirt straining under the movement.

You couldn’t help smiling, a little relieved the tension had broken.

“It’s not often someone has a face like that and a good head on their shoulders,” one of the older ladies piped up.

You found yourself looking over your shoulder at Spencer, his profile sharp as he looked down the road, deep in thought.

“He’s certainly a rare breed,” you agreed fondly.

A number of the crowd were following your gaze, and someone in you wanted to snap them out of it. Stop them from staring.

“He actually has an eidetic memory. Once he’s seen or heard something, he remembers it perfectly, forever. It’s incredible.”

“Oh, my goodness! I can hardly remember my own email password!”

“I wouldn’t mind if he hung around me and talked like that all day, even if I didn’t understand a word of it. Though perhaps he could use a haircut…”

There was a chorus of agreement and various coo-ing which seemed to occupy the entire scale from grandmotherly to entirely inappropriate. You couldn’t help staring at Spencer a moment longer, wondering if he was truly oblivious, or simply pretending to be.

A rare breed.

You were certain you’d never met anyone else like him. Certain you felt like a better version of yourself in his company. That you’d trust him with your life, that you searched every room you entered until you saw him. Watched the elevator doors each time they opened, all morning, until Spencer walked in.

You were certain you’d felt giddy the first time Spencer insisted the two of you would work together, alone.

“Imagine knowing that he’d remember everything, forever…” one of the women was saying, her eyebrows raised in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy.

You cleared your throat, and hooked one hand over the badge at your waist.

“Unless anyone has any further leads, we’d better be on our way…”

The group silenced, and watched you dutifully. You passed out a few more cards, reiterated how dedicated the team was to stopping this killer, and gave out a few promises that there would be a police presence after dark throughout the trailer park.

When the request for any further questions was met with more glances towards Spencer, you thanked your witness, and made a beeline for the car. After only a few seconds Spencer was beside you, jogging to catch up.

“All done?” he asked, and you smiled at the question.

“I think so.”

You started the engine and both waited with the doors open for the car to cool down. The department’s penchant for black SUVs was not helpful when the sun was so vicious. Feeling the heat themselves, the group of residents had dispersed into a few groups, wandering into one another’s homes to continue gossiping.

“God, I’m disgusting,” you lamented, “sorry for the sweat-smell. I might actually take a cold shower when we get to the hotel.”

Spencer was already waving you off, leaning into the car to mess with the AC. Through the open door you saw him groan at the heat, swiping a curl from his face.

“I’m afraid to raise my arms. It’s so humid, I’m not sure why anyone would retire here. High humidity aggravates a number of chronic conditions, especially respiratory ones, which are common in older people. Not to mention the skin cancer…”

“And it ruins your hair,” you teased.

Spencer faked a gasp, and reached for a damp, limp section of his hair.

“I mean, look at it!”

You laughed, and rolled your eyes at him, nothing but fondness settling warm and tight in your chest.

Surveying the road in front of you for one final time you saw a few curtain-twitchers, but no new faces. You climbed into the car, wincing at the heat. The seatbelt buckle was burning hot, and you swore as it burned your fingers.

“I always forget about that,” you grumbled, slamming the car door closed.

“You know, if you fasten your seatbelt after you get out, it stops the metal getting hot and burning you,” Reid offered, and you rolled your eyes at him again.

“Gosh, doesn’t it get exhausting being right about everything?”

Spencer went quiet, and all you heard was the click of his own belt. After a few moments the car was cool and bearable, and your lungs felt like they could finally move again. The sat-nav happily talked away, and you started stealing worried looks at your partner once you’d returned to properly-maintained roads.

“What you said out there was really good, do you mind if we go over it again once we get to the station? I think it’s worth exploring.”

“I shouldn’t have said it in front of them.”

He was right, but you didn’t have to heart to say anything. That was the thing which made your heart twinge about Spencer – he was so insecure, and yet so self-aware, it was the worst of both worlds. Being an expert in body language was a double-edged sword.

“I don’t think they minded. Did you hear those old ladies talking about your big brain?”

Spencer didn’t laugh. He turned himself towards the window, curled up with his hand beneath his jaw.

“They were very impressed. So was I, for what it’s worth. I think we’ll make some really good progress on this profile tonight.”

He hummed agreement. Watched a vista of blurred blue and green and white going past the window. The radio was turned down to a low hum, you could hardly hear it. Silence pierced its way through and sound of mumbled songs and road noise.

“Are you okay?” you asked finally.

“I’m okay.”

You sighed. Tapped the steering wheel. Sped a little to get through an intersection on amber.

“Spencer…”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin that for you I just… sometimes I think of things and it’s like I have to tell you.

“Spencer I’m not mad at you! Not at all! I think we’re both just tired, and too warm…”

He didn’t say anything.

“Honestly, I was worried you’d heard what those ladies were saying about you and gotten upset. It was inappropriate of them…”

“I didn’t hear anything. What did they say?”

Your gaze was focused on the road, but you met Spencer’s eye in the rear-view mirror as he watched your face.

“Just that you were a handsome young man. And that they wanted you to get a haircut, which I firmly disagree with…” you teased.

Spencer touched his hair self-consciously. He was still quite curled up, leaning away from you despite his interest in the conversation.

“That’s nice of them, I suppose.”

“‘Nice’ is an interesting way of putting it, but I’m glad you’re not upset about it.”

“When I was a kid, I read a book at the library about how to tell if you’re attractive. It was for women, all about makeup and stuff, but there was a section about what made guys hot. I could never figure it out, I just always thought I looked like an alien.”

The sudden change made you sit up straight, heart in your mouth as you rolled to a stop behind a queue of traffic.

“I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Being a teenager is really hard.”

“I… yeah. I suppose so.”

“I always felt so jealous of the people who walked around looking perfect every day, confident that they were not. It just never came naturally to me.”

“Really? I assumed you were one of those girls in school who I’d be too afraid to talk to.”

You scoffed, and for a moment were struck by how little you really knew about one another. The way Spencer looked at you, looked it everyone, it felt as though he had an x-ray into every tiny detail of your life. How could he know, though?

“Of course not,” you laughed nervously.

You weren’t sure if you’d prefer Spencer knew the truth, or kept believing whatever he’d made up ini his head. You weren’t sure what any of this conversation meant. Traffic was moving. The precinct was two turns away.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

He was teasing you. Finally he leant back in his seat, shoulders square to it, legs stretched out in the passenger footwell.

“Either way, I’m glad you can talk to me now. I’d miss it if you didn’t.”

“You might be the only person on this planet with that opinion.”

You took a moment to glance across the car at him, and caught a flash of a smile. He was joking. You released tension from your shoulders you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re a handsome genius, just like Barbara said.”

“Her name was Barbara?” Reid laughed.

You shrugged, and took the final turn into the precinct parking lot.

“I’ve got no idea.”

Even with the SUV in park, the aircon no longer blasting away, neither of you moved. Not for a moment, at least. A moment of peace before the chaos all began again. Just the two of you. Wherever you were, with Spencer was your favourite place to be.

“You’re the same, you know. A genius. And handsome…”

You frowned.

“Pretty! Beautiful. You know what I mean.”

“Handsome?”

In truth, you didn’t care about the words. Not at all. Not when your heart was pounding at the realisation Spencer had his gaze fixed on your lips, his eyes soft and pupils blown wide.

“Beautiful,” Spencer repeated, “You know, in a lot of languages, handsome can be translated for men and women. The word itself doesn’t have a gender. Guapa, for example, in Spanish…”

You let him talk, on and on. You decided you wouldn’t kiss him yet, while your hair was matted in sweat and Spencer’s face was brushed with sunburn and embarrassment.

“Bella is more popular in South America, though, or bonita. My favourite is Japanese, though. Kirei. To be beautiful both inside and out…”

Only a few more moments passed before Morgan arrived and banged on the glass with a wide grin and a sweat-beaded brow, announcing a break in the case. You were sorry for the interruption.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #fluff #fic #13atoms #im so sorry if this is ooc

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thelikesoffinn · 7 months

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„Astarion ending as the Vampire Ascendant is the correct ending for him, because it is what he wants.”

That is a claim I’ve been seeing pop up more and more often these days. And I think it’s both a very bold and a very odd claim to make.

But first things first: Hello, I’m a licensed social worker! So far, I’ve worked with children, refugees and youths with behavioural issues stemming from bullying and or abuse.

Please be aware that I will be mentioning different kinds of abuse, coping mechanisms, and victim/abuser relationships. If any of this is difficult for you, don’t force yourself through it. My jabbering about a traumatised vampire is not worth your wellbeing, not ever.

I will, however try to stick to Astarion and not use other examples. If, in any case, I do use a non-Astarion example, I’ll add a warning beforehand so that you can skip the part. And I’ll make it clear what will be discussed in the next bit, so that you have a chance to skip it entirely.

This is an effort to make this as accessible as possible for everyone that wants to indulge on a mad woman’s rambling – and I know there’s a few people that like this sort of stuff!

And, uh, there's obviously spoilers for all three acts. Serious spoilers, even.

Before I can get into the whole ‘why Astarion didn’t really want to ascend,’ we need to understand him a little more. And to understand this pretty boy’s brain, we first need to understand the gist of what we’re talking about when we throw around the word ‘abuse.’

“Abuse” is when someone is treated with cruelty, violence, or neglect – often to bad effect – on a regular basis. Repetitively. Check’s out for Astarion, I’d say, but we all knew that already. I mean, if one thing was obvious, it was this.

1. Astarions Abuse

Next we need to look at what kind of abuse Astarion faced over his long years of torment, seeing as different types of abuse will have different effects on the victim.

Not that that is anything we have to worry about with him – Astarion won the abuse lottery, to put it bluntly. In a horrible game of fate, he got everything. He himself indirectly mentions all the types of abuse he faced, albeit never using the correct terms.

The first we properly notice – fitting, seeing as it is often the most obvious form of abuse – is the physical abuse. Astarions scars are probably the biggest tell Larian could shove down our throats, only underlined by Astarion’s tale about the night itself. About how Cazador ‘misspelled something’ every time he flinched or screamed and had to do ‘many corrections. On top of this, Cazador locked Astarion up for months on end and tortured him – or had him tortured – on a regular basis both as a rite and as a punishment.

Next up, we have the fact that Astarion was forced to basically prostitute himself repeatedly. This is what we call sexual exploitation.

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master.” – Act 2

Two hundred years is a long time, filled with great many people. Now, we don’t know how many of those people actually tapped into the sexual exploitation and how many he could just lure back with other means, but the fact that it happened a lot is undeniable.

Next we have a form of abuse that we often disregard in adults: Neglect. It sounds odd, I know, saying that a fully grown adult was neglected. They can care for themselves, can they not?

Well. Yes and no.

Adult neglect is proceeded by the condition that one adult has to lean on another adult to fulfil their needs for whatever reason. This could be anything, from disability to income-based issues.

Seeing as Astarion had absolutely nothing, while Cazador had everything, we can assume this was the case. Cazador had the house, the money, the power. Astarion owns but one pair of clothes, assumedly, that he has fixes over and over again. Fair to say, that’s pretty neglectful. (And it’s one more reason to shower the guy in pretty armour and camp clothes. Go ham, people.)

Last we have the form of abuse we actually get to witness later in the game – emotional abuse.

Once again, it’s undeniable that this happened. Especially since we’re all seeing it in the flesh upon meeting Cazador in his crypt.

“Have you no respect for yourself?”

“I strove for perfection in all things. Even those as imperfect as you.”

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.”

“A pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

All Act 3, Crypt

Here we have just a few examples of things Cazador throws in his face. It’s like reading a textbook on emotional abuse, this one (and it’s definitely a reason to throw hands).

Blaming the victim, keeping their sense of self and their self-worth as tiny as possible to make them cower and flee. A true classic.

This pretty much shows that Astarion suffered all forms of abuse we commonly see and it is implied – once again by Astarion himself – that at least a few of those instances were ritualistic.

Now, what does that mean exactly? Well, I fear I need to use a real example here, so please skip the next paragraph.

Ritualistic doesn’t refer to a proper ritual – it can, but that’s mostly a thing for those in a cult. So, we’re not necessarily talking about a ‘Vampire Ascendent Ritual’. A husband, beating his wife every evening after his third bottle of beer is also called ritual abuse. It happens regularly. It is part of a routine. Both parties know what will happen.

I can’t find the exact quote, so I’m working of my memory here, but at one point he said that when Cazador invited him to eat and he said yes, he would be served a putrid rat. If he said no, he’d be beaten.

The way it was phrased made it clear that it happened more than once and that Astarion clearly knew what would happen. So, this can be classified as ritualistic abuse.

2. A Note on Conditioning and Compliance

By default, abuse victims are conditioned to behave a certain way or in a certain fashion. This is a natural response to avoid further abuse.

In Astarion, the thing we see most often is his inherent need to please. Not literally, he doesn’t mind being an arsehole. But he initially feels the need to follow Tav’s orders, even if they go against his own wishes.

This can be clearly seen in the conversation with Araj Oblodra. Astarion very clearly doesn’t want to bite her. He doesn’t. But he will do so, if Tav tells him to. This behaviour is not conscious – he doesn’t know why he does it, he just does – and it is to be expected. This is how he kept himself save for two centuries, so of course he will fall back into his usual pattern when the pressure is high.

This goes hand in hand with the fact that most abuse victims don’t fight. Maybe initially, but not after long term abuse. Especially not after two fucking centuries.

This is true in Astarion – offered by his ‘siblings’ during act 3 and unhappily acquiesced by the man himself. Astarion stopped fighting and, once again implied, cowered, and did as he was told in order to survive.

3. The Astarion we know and love

Obviously, all that abuse does have an impact on our vampire boyfriend. He shows various common signs of abuse and just like with the forms of abuse, Astarion raked every coping mechanism he could find. (Not really, but it feels like it.) It’s also important to note that nearly all of the following things happen inwardly. Astarion is not one of the victims, that tries to rationalise and minimise the actions of his abuser. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’ll note from the beginning, that rationalisation will not be covered in this bit, as most examples will be important later on. But he definitely does it.

One of his biggest skills is to hide every ounce of fear or hurt behind sarcasm and snarky theatrics. He doesn’t seem to hide his anger much, though, so that’s something! Our boy is cool with anger, not so much with being afraid.

“Ahahaha, now that you mention it….I might have done…that.” – Act 3, regarding the Gur children

“The thing that will decide my fate forever more? Yeees, it’s been on my miiiind. Why?” – Act 2, regarding the Ritual

And there’s many more instances that prove this. Honestly, half his dialogue is sarcasm, so it would really be too long to get into and we all know what I mean, right? We have alltalked to the guy before. It’s obvious that he’s sarcastic to a fault.

This goes hand in hand with his penchant for defensiveness. I would personally state that he’s simply not really good with guilt. When talking about fear, he usually just opts for sarcasm or avoids the topic completely, but guilt especially has his defences going up. This is also when he’s most likely to shove all the blame off to Cazador.

“Don’t look at me like that. Cazadors orders.” – Act 3, Crypt

“I just did what I had to!” – Act 3, Crypt

And don’t get me wrong, he does that anyway. And with good reason. Astarion didn’t have a choice for the most part, but he’s still easy to shove things off.

This kind of connects to his penchant for denial.

Astarion doesn’t really like to talk about most things. He firmly believes he is an ‘action’ sort of person that just does instead of plans, which invertedly just means he’s great at pushing the thinking stuff away. He also likes to get rid of stuff, so that he doesn’t need to face it ever again.

“I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn’t need to know my shame.” – Act 3, about the children

And yes, this partly rings true. He’s probably ashamed and doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s done. But it’s also very clear that he himself simply doesn’t want to face his own actions, something that is just underlined by his extreme willingness to red rid of the other spawn.

As mentioned by Astarion himself, he’s big on manipulation. I mean, I don’t think there is much explaining necessary. The guy is willing to do a whole lot in order to get what he desires – which mostly revolves around safety and survival, to be honest – and he’s not really shy about it either. And that’s despite the fact that he doesn’t really like intimacy – especially in form of sex.

It’s not a secret that Astarion is not big on sex and anything surrounding it. This goes far enough for people to consider him either ace or ace coded.

A claim that, personally, I’m not super in line with.

Now, it’s not entirely wrong and if this is your head cannon I’m surely not going to stand in your way – but on a larger spectrum, I think he’s more traumatised than ace. And while those go hand in hand sometimes, it’s a bit difficult for the ace community if you attach traumatised characters to them because it can fuel a whole lot of stigma that is honestly neither needed nor wanted. But I digress!

If it comes to his own behaviour, he’s great at minimising his mistakes. Honestly, he’s a master of minimisation. A very obvious and famous example would be:

“’Killed’ feels like a…strong word. Not many corpses have your vigour.” – Act 1, after killing Tav

Astarion. You literally sucked poor Tav dry and left them flopping around, cold, and dead. Killed is exactly the right word and we all know it.

“Quite the deviation from my usual routine. Capture, not lure. I didn’t bring them in with sweet rolls or anything.” – Act 3, Gur Children

This is another attempt at minimising what he did, if a bit less obvious because at this point there isn’t much he can say. But at least he didn’t sexualise the gur children, right? They’re still spawn but whoo, at least that didn’t happen.

The next point would be dissociation, which is extremely common in abuse victims – of all forms of abuse.

Astarion himself mentioned certain moments that could be classified as dissociation over course of the story, which is probably the coping mechanism I personally expected the most.

The pale elf has a penchant for violence, but he’s not entirely shameless or abhorrently vile, which gets clearer the more the story progresses. So, two hundred years of forced prostitution, torture and doing whatever other horrible things? Yeah, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t dissociate.

Examples of that would be:

“A moment of disgust to push myself through and then I could’ve carried on, just like before.” – Act 2, after Araj

“I felt nothing the moment I handed them over.” – Act 3, Gur Children

“Did you enjoy it? It felt like you weren’t fully there.” – Act 1, Tav after Sex

The latter is generally more of an assumption than actual prove, but with context it does make sense.

The last common sign of abuse we find in our boyfriend would be his low self-worth. It’s a consistent trait that stays over the course of all three acts, noticeable in many different conversations.

We can see it in his reaction to wanting to break up before finishing his story. We can see it in his genuine surprise when Tav picks him over any of the other characters. We see it in his insecurity whenever Tav asks to sleep with another character. He’s fine with it, but he still worries their decision to sleep with someone else is based on something he did.

It eases up ever so slightly after Cazador is dead, but even then he’s still struggling which is once again perfectly illustrated if you try to break up with him.

“Oh shit. I- Did I do something wrong?”

That is the first thing he asks and I think it speaks for itself. He genuinely doesn’t believe he has much to offer and for Astarion, it’s likely that Astarion will always be the problem.

4. "Oh, I tried them all none of them answered.”

Another big thing that’s important to note, is that Astarion was never saved. No one came to save him from Cazador. There was no darling boy on a white steed riding into that castle to rescue him and princess carry him away. Not even the gods answered his desperate calls.

So, he never received any kindness or luck. To him, the world seems as cruel and horrid as before because he didn’t have the chance to experience goodness in two centuries.

But worse than that, he didn’t even get to save himself. Astarion didn’t stand up to Cazador, he didn’t run out of his own might.

He was beaten to near death and ‘saved’ by Cazador, who would become his abuser.

He tried to save someone and, in turn, was locked up and starved for an entire year.

He was abducted by mind flayers, i.e., saved from Cazador, only to end up tadpoled and on the cusp of getting a fancy, squiddy beard.

Anything that’s good, any kindness, any selfless action…it all came with a ginormous price tag.

5. Over the Course of the Story

Astarions behaviour changes a whole lot over the course of three acts – which is important once we talk about his quests climax – so let’s review what we’re working with!

Act 1 Astarion is guarded as fuck. The man has walls around him that are so high, even the gods can touch them.

A lot of his behaviour in act 1 revolves around staying save and staying liked. He lies, manipulates, and flutters his lashes in order to get what he wants and needs. Instead of asking, like Wyll, Karlach and Gale do, Astarion uses all he has to offer to get by. He is still very much in survival mode and tries to weasel his way through an unfamiliar situation with familiar methods.

On top of that, and most notably, he’s absolutely not fond of kindness or selflessness.

#I saved a child and now my boyfriend is mad

Here, we are most likely to gain disapproval for doing the decent thing – unless you sent him outside for a minute whenever you’re being a good person.

And I’d assume that this is because of two things.

First: The very traditional ‘Why not me?’

As I mentioned before, Astarion wasn’t saved. He hasn’t experienced kindness in a very long time so seeing that the world is literally filled with kind people is hurtful. Why didn’t anyone save him? Why was he left to his own devices for so long? Why should he care about others when it’s so clear that no one ever cared about him? No, dead to all of them. If he didn’t get it, neither will they.

“And what am I owed? What about the injustices I suffered? Am I not entitled to anything?” – Act 3, Crypt

“I was in the prime of my life when I was turned. Everything was taken from me too.” – Act 3, Crypt

And secondly is the fact that, as I mentioned, goodness always has a price. And it’s one most people won’t be willing to pay. That’s how his life has been, so why would theirs be different?

This is precisely why Astarion may disapprove of kind actions, but he mostly neither approves nor disapproves if Tav asks for payment. That’s just how the world works.

Once you venture out into act 2, after getting to know him a whole lot more, he starts to mellow a bit – if only towards Tav.

“He’s afraid, so afraid, of everyone but you, who she should fear the most.” – Sceleritas about Astarion

His approval is a lot easier to gain – or at least keep! – and he tends to approve of some more proper actions. He doesn’t throw a fit if you promise to find Mol, he approves of Tav being kind to His Majesty, of saving Aylin and he even approves of Durge apologising to Isobel after threatening to rip her to pieces.

He's slowly starting to open up, allowing Tav to see some parts of him he previously kept hidden. He accepts their offer to help, if hesitantly and, by god, the man starts experimenting with boundaries.

The social worker in me is shedding tears at this. It’s my favourite thing to see in my clients and it’s no different here. Yay to saying no!

Of course, it’s still a bit hit or miss. If Tav urges him to bite Araj, for example, he will only to later notice that he didn’t fucking have to. He recognises this on his own and he calls Tav out on it. Just like he calls them out on not helping him with his Orthon quest.

Good job, chap. Good fucking job.

And the growth-train won’t stop going even as we reach act 3.

In act 3, there’s not many things he disapproves as of right now – those he does, mostly have to do with how Tav treats him and not with anyone else. In fact, he’s more likely to approve good behaviour now, like giving Yenna food or money.

And yes, we need to consider that this could simply be because he gets used to Tav’s behaviour and just learns to roll with it. But it’s also highly likely that he notices that there’s truly good people around. At least one person. And that person is not only good, no, they’re in the process of helping him break free once and for all.

They’re helping him save himself.

By act 3, he has learned that he can absolutely say his piece where Tav is concerned and he’s more likely to disagree with them on certain things. It’s seen during a lot of small dialogue that he’s no longer terribly afraid to be honest with them, willing to listen and talk and he’ll ask for help if he needs it.

“I can do this. But I need your help.” – Act 3, Crypt

Something that can be viewed both positively and negatively is that he’s definitely loyal to a fault. He will stick by Tav’s side, no matter what.

“I really hoped we could avoid being pawns for a dark god, but here we are, I suppose. I’m with you, my dear, wherever this might lead.” – Act 3, After Jaheira confronts durge

As I said, this can be both positive and negative. On one count, it’s a recipe for disaster, seeing as he could be waltzing into a really bad situation for Tav alone.

But on the other side…this is a man who only cared about himself because that is the only person he could afford to care about. He needed to survive. He now has enough room to breathe and the capacity to care for someone else and I’d be inclined to count that as a good thing.

6. The Crypt

All the progress he made in act 2 and 3 is nearly tossed into the wind as soon as the crew enters Cazadors castle.

It’s not an immediate thing, of course.

At first, Astarion tries to stay light and simple and he hides behind flippant tones and relaxed faces. The way he recounts this is almost comically disinterested and the façade is actually quite good.

It’s start’s cracking after we meet Godie, one of the people who tortured him on more than one account, but he mostly manages to remain as upbeat as one can honestly expect for the first half of the journey.

All that, however, is done for the very moment we meet Sebastian. His mask not only slips, no, it full on shatters and there’s none of his apparent lightness left.

Which, of course it does.

The man is suddenly faced with years and years and years of victims. Innocent, unlucky people he lured back to his master over two centuries. People he liked, people he pitied.

“It’s sickening, seeing them again.”

It’s basically a room filled with guilt, exclusively for Astarion. And, as we mentioned before…Astarion is not great with guilt.

The guilt, however, is not where it ends.

No, he’s also faced with reflections of his own past. The spawn pose as reminders of what he did, sure, but also as reminders of what he was.

Weak, desperate, hungry.

There’s an abundance of images of his worst moments, reflected back at him in the thousands. It’s probably like staring into a funhouse mirror, but instead of seeing yourself in a funky way he just sees everything he so desperately doesn’t want to be.

“It should be [who I am]! I don’t want to be like them. They’re pathetic, horrible…”

He’s forcefully made aware of how darn weak he can be, which claws at all the wounds he’s barely had time to close. Something, he of course won’t admit if asked.

“THEY DO NOT [remind me of myself]. That weakness in me is dead, IT’S DEAD. I have a higher purpose.”

The high pressure of the moment brings out all of his act 1 traits in but a few moments. You can pretty much watch how he starts to shut down mid conversation, one of his old walls snapping back into place to remove himself from the situation.

Thing is though, walls usually become a bit brittle after disuse. Especially when talking to a person you don’t usually want to wall out.

Or, in his case, when talking to Tav.

After meeting Sebastian, Astarion shows extreme reactions to Tav nudging any of his weak spots. His reaction varies on whatever choice you make, but it ranges from aggression to defensiveness, to denial and even to downright begging Tav.

“Don’t hate me. I just did what I had to. I swear I did what I had to.”

This probably the most shocking out of all of them, since that is not something we got to witness before. The begging is likely a mixture of intense fear of losing Tav, his low self-esteem and pre-Tav behaviour, since we can assume that Cazador made him beg more than once.

Another old coat he puts back on would also be the least surprising of them all.

Manipulation.

He falls right back into it, using Tav’s affection to get what he want if we trigger the right action.

“If they die and I ascend, I won't have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I'll be free. Truly completely free. Isn't that what you want?”

This, to me, was probably the biggest tell that Astarion was back in survival mode. He’s panicking, for fucks sake, and who can blame the guy? He’s back. He’s about to face down his abuser.

Of course he’s fucking panicking.

Panic leads to an increased craving for safety and, in his case, power. This is why he clings to Tav, why he begs them to love him still. And this is why he jumps head first into the rationalisation pool.

“I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual. - [You can save them.] – What’s the point? They're as good as dead! I thought they were dead. If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. […] They must die. Better they serve a purpose.”

Another textbook example.

They must die anyway. They’re basically dead. No need to save them now. They’re dangerous, I’m doing the right thing by sacrificing them. I already thought they were dead, so it’s not changing anything for me. They’re a lost cause and I deserve all this power. I deserve it, because I suffered and nothing will change if they die.

So, seeing as we already spoke about his usual behaviour in act 3 – behaviour he showed after we allowed him to breathe and be himself for a while – I think we can fairly easily conclude he’s not thinking straight.

Astarion is right back in survival mode, where all that matters is he himself. If it weren’t for the seven thousand spawns, he might have moved through this more gracefully, but seeing those tipped the scales and Astarion is absolutely losing it.

Remember that for the last section, per favore.

7. The Ascension

“Astarion wants to ascend and Tav manipulates him into doing what they want.”

That is basically the essence of what people often claim and I can’t help but shake my head at such a blatant disregard of everything he has become. This is completely ignoring the change and growth he has gone through over the course of their journey.

Astarion wants to be free. He wants to be safe. That does not mean he wants to ascend.

And the claim that Tav manipulates him into doing anything is even more baffling. We are all aware that Tav is not manipulative by nature, yes? That is entirely on you. You decide who your Tav is.

And then let’s remember: Astarion is panicked. He’s afraid and he’s not thinking straight. His abuser is on his knees before him and he still feels so weak. And there’s seven thousand spawns that need handling.

Astarion is very much not okay right now.

In fact, reading his thoughts just proves this theory.

“You can see the fear in his eyes but also the hunger. The thick smell of blood in the air and the promise of power being so close is intoxicating to him. All he can see is the power of the ritual and the freedom that power brings. The freedom to do anything. To be anything.”

Tav, however, has none of those problems. They can actually see beyond the current situation and they are fully aware what the consequences are. Astarion is not. As we previously established, Astarion is a doer. Not a thinker. He didn’t think this through, not at all.

The only thing Tav is doing – the persuasion roll – is reminding him of the very real consequences he is facing. The consequences he hasn’t thought about before.

"I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador."

And that is the kindest thing Tav could do in this situation. They’re not bodily dragging him away from Cazador. They’re not even telling him to not do it. They’re just offering him the truth. He can do with that information whatever he desires.

“Astarion cries when he doesn’t ascend, that just shows that it was the wrong choice.”

A hare-brained point that I thankfully have only seen once so far.

That crying? That is healthy crying.

That is him, crumbling under the stress that suddenly dissipates. That is him mourning two hundred years of torment. That’s him letting out feelings he hasn’t been able to for centuries.

And, for the love of god, try to put yourself in his shoes.

Two hundred years of torment, ended in but a moment.

Astarion was abused and tortured for so long, afraid for so long only to see his tormentor die just like that.

Cazador died within a moment and all Astarion needed was a darn blade. Of course he fucking cries.

Seeing how pathetic a being the very core of your life’s misery actually is hurts. It hurts like hell because not only are you finally free – free! – no, you’re faced with the fact that this pile of nothing, the thing that’s bleeding out right in front of you…this was what tortured for so long.

This thing hurt you so much. That guy took everything from you, everything you once were, and broke it again and again and again over years.

You were so scared of this thing.

And yet he has the gall and the gumption to die just like that.

It was so easy.

And yet you suffered for so long.

8. Evil Playthrough?

An evil playthrough is really a different setting altogether.

All of this, as you can probably tell, is really only applicable on a good playthrough. Realistically speaking. I’m not sure how the game mechanics handle it.

On an evil path, Astarion never really gets to experience kindness and goodness. Evil Tav will just prove him right in his believe that the world is a vile and cold place, meaning that he realistically would be more inclined to actually want to ascend.

9. Final Conclusion

I think all of this should be enough to make it clear that no, ascended Astarion is not the best ending for the guy. In fact, it is probably the worst. Because it’s just him, running away. He’s running into a lonely and cold state of being, where cruelty and power lord over everything else and he’s running because he’s terrified of being hurt again. He’s running despite desperately wanting to stop running.

“I'll spend the rest of my life running watching the shadows, never feeling safe…no, this has to happen. Here and now.”

And, the worst part is: Nothing about Astarion is left after he ascends. Even his tone of speaking gradually changes, his theatrics fading. He’s slowly losing himself, until there’s nothing but an evil caricature left.

So, in the end, ascension will have proven him right.

That version of him is dead.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate #baldurs gate #bg3 #astarion #the dark urge #tav #astarion romance #astarion ancunin #astarion and tav #bg3 act 1 #bg3 act 2 #bg3 act 3 #act 3 #act 2 #act 1 #araj oblodra

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fashion-runways · 2 months

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hi!! new pinned post, because the last one had gotten long again-- if you want to read previous posts, here's the first one, here's the second one. the tl;dr from those is that my dad got wrongfully imprisoned abruptly, our place was raided, the cops broke a bunch of shit and took a bunch of our things and still haven't returned them, they left all the broken things for us to spend money in repairing, we had to spend money on a lawyer, trips to visit him, new clothes, medicine and food for him in jail, etc. it was a mess, way more details in both posts. he's back home now, with an ankle monitor because technically his case isn't being investigated yet, they haven't done anything about it at all, the case hasn't moved one ounce lmao it's great, always trust the judicial system and cops!! ugh, anyway!

we found a therapist for my dad who can help her deal with all the stuff he had to deal with while in prison, all the bullying, the depression, the starving, the separation, etc. he needs to get a bunch of other medical appointments, has to get surgery, among other things, but for now things are much better on that front. that being said, he did lose his job and my old redbubble account got suspended without a warning months ago, plus argentina's economy is... really bad right now. food prices rise every day, public transportation prices went up like a 200% in a couple of weeks, salaries are low and stuck there, subsidies are gone, the local peso keeps falling, we have an absolute psychopath as a president who spends more time insulting or threatening anyone who oppose him than caring about people. it's a disaster. for updates on argentina in english, this person on twitter makes very good informative threads if you're interested.

anyway, i used to make around 30/40 dollars a month in redbubble, and that used to help adding up to the donations i got here, and it got suspended, so now i make like 1/2 dollars on teepublic monthly. so... it's a huge loss. there's a lot of things me and my mom are in charge of paying-- groceries, power and water and gas, medicine (she's diabetic, i have some sort of chronic sinusitis), our dog and cat's food and medicines, wifi, phone bills, public transportation, healthcare, my dad's new therapist... so, you know, i really need anything people can donate. even if it's just a single dollar, literally any amount helps. i love fashion so much and i love this blog, i work really hard on it even when my brain says no, and i really appreciate how much you guys love it too. i love seeing people discover new styles, new designers, new things to be inspired by. so, yeah... i'm never going anywhere, but i do need help to basically stay afloat.

as usual, my kofi link is this one: https://ko-fi.com/fashionrunways and my teepublic link is this one: https://www.teepublic.com/user/dinah-lance. thanks for being around and sharing and reblogging my posts, thanks for asking questions about fashion, and of course thanks for helping to the ones who can, and thanks to the ones who can't too, i know how that feels like, don't worry about it. love you 💖

#text posts

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endlessthxxghts · 5 months

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Need You

Husband!Frankie Morales x wife!afab!reader || W/C: ≈5k

Summary: Tío Santi comes to the rescue when Frankie confides in him about how the two of you have been way too busy for one another.

Warnings: Crazy events of Triple Frontier don't happen; let's just give these guys some happiness. Instead of coke, Frankie’s drug is you (LMAOOO). No “y/n.” No physical descriptions of reader (besides clothing choices), she looks like you😏 and big strong man Frankie can carry you <333. Reader knows a bit of Spanish. SMUT 18+ MDNI. Oral sex (f receiving). Unprotected P in V sex. Slow and sloppy😵‍💫. Breeding kink. Domestic kink (they get really spurred on calling each other husband and wife/esposo y esposa). Possessive kink. Daddy kink (but in the sense that reader just loves seeing Frankie as a Dad and wants to give more babies to parent!!!). Pussy slapping... Cum play/eating. Vaginal fingering/fucking. Squirting. Slight Dom!Frankie (he just really wants to hear his wife beg for his cum!!). Mentions of shower ✨activities✨. A lot of love basically — physically and emotionally. Extra warning for the parents who can’t leave their child with other people — Tío Santi takes their baby out to eat and get treats; she’s in good hands, I promise!!!

A/N: Husband Frankie is rotting my brain bad. Especially girl dad!Frankie. My ovaries are screaming. So here's this little 5k bad boy I whipped up. This is very much a porn with a bit of (yummy domestic) plot. Hope y’all enjoy. Thank you to my sweet sweet bae @javierpena-inatacvest for proof-reading this and hyping me up since it’s my first Frankie story to be posted! I love you so much 🥹🥹💚 (edit: someone had a comment about why Isa is amorcito instead of amorcita, so in case you had that question as well, read my explanation here!)

MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG

“Querida, I��m home!” Frankie called out.

“In Isa’s room, baby!” you responded.

Santi tagged along on his treck home today, offering to take Isa out for lunch and sweets after Frankie told him how both of you have been crazy busy lately. He helps himself to the kitchen while Frankie makes his way to you.

Frankie lightly knocks on the door before entering, gasping out in delight to earn a bubbly reaction from his three year old daughter. “Ay, mi esposa (my wife),” he exclaims, giving you a soft kiss to your lips. He looks to his daughter and grabs her from you, “y mi amorcito (and my little love),” he says, throwing her up in the air, coaxing a few more giggles out of her.

He sets her back down to play with her toys, and Frankie turns to you, pulling you in for a proper hello. Your lips slot against each other in a needy embrace, still as reserved as you two can be with your child in the room. He pulls away first, arms not leaving your waist. “Hi, mama,” he says with an adoring smile. “Hi, honey,” you respond, heart still skipping a few beats as if it’s your first time meeting him. He guides you to outside the doorway, closing Isa’s room ajar, so you both are out of her view.

“Santi’s here,” he tells you. “He offered to, uh, take Isa out to get food and some dessert,” he adds nonchalantly, trying to gauge your reaction. It’s been three years since your baby was born, and still you’re always reluctant to leave her with others. It’s not that you don’t trust the people you leave her with, it’s the fact that if anything were to happen — Gods forbid — you wouldn’t be able to be there, to comfort and protect her.

Your eyebrow raises in response. He squeezes you tighter into him, ducking closer to your ear. “And I was thinking,” he kisses the sweet spot near your pulse point, “we could take some time for ourselves?” He continues kissing and nipping at your neck, uttering a small please baby as he makes his way back to your lips.

Little did Frankie know, you didn’t need any convincing at all. You were just about ready to drop her off at your parents as soon as he got home from work today. You don’t tell him though. You like hearing him be a little desperate for you.

His hand skates lower to your ass, the other hand making its way to cup your front. “It’s been weeks, baby, I need to taste her,” he says, damn near a whine.

You grab both sides of his face and pull him into a searing kiss. “Go pack her bag,” you whisper as you pull away from his grasp, making your way to Santi to give him the rundown.

In record time, Frankie packs Isa’s go bag in under five minutes: diapers, extra change of clothes, baby wipes, baby Benadryl, and some of her comfort snacks just in case she’s extra picky today. He picks up his baby, assessing if she needs a diaper change — she’s dry — and heads to the kitchen. “Wanna hang with Tío Santi today, mi amor?”

Her face lights up, and she squeals, “yes, daddy, pleeeeaaase!”

He chuckles, his heart warming at how much she loves his best friend, his brother.

He and Isa enter the kitchen to you giving Santi the rundown on her allergies.

“We exposed her to all the major allergens already and no reactions, except for peanuts — she gets a little red, so just watch out for that. There’ll be Benadryl in her pack just in case.”

Santi gives you a salute, “Sir, yes, sir.”

You playfully roll your eyes at his antics. “One more thing,” you say as you go to kiss your baby goodbye. “Usually I’d ask if you could send pictures throughout the time you’re gone…” you look at Frankie.

Santi smirks, knowing where this is headed.

“But you don’t have to. At least for today,” your face remains composed, but the heat spreading across your cheeks exposes you.

“Got it. No peanuts,” Santi says, reaching for the bag off Frankie’s shoulder and the keys from his pocket, “and no interruptions,” he winks at you both. “Let me know when you guys are ready for us to come back,” he looks to his beautiful niece in her mother’s arms, peppering her with goodbye kisses.

“Vamanos (let’s go), mija!” Santi says, prying her out of your arms. Frankie reaches to give her one last kiss on her forehead, and they’re out the door.

As soon as the front door clicks shut, Frankie is on you in an instant, too riled up to wait until you’re in the bedroom. He needs you badly, and he needs you now. He’s caging you in between his body and the kitchen counter, lips on you like he’ll die tonight if he doesn’t touch you. Your lungs are burning for air, yet you don’t pull away. You can’t. He’s too addicting. Too much time has passed without the pleasure you two bring one another, so you’ll sacrifice one survival need for another.

Before you know it, his hands are at the base of your ass, lifting you to the kitchen counter, and his lips are dragging down your jaw, your neck, and into your cleavage, nipping every little exposed place your cropped tank allows him. His hands are at the waistband of your sweats, pulling them down as he brings himself to his knees.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he takes a deep breath in. His eyes are impossibly darker, demeanor turning animalistic as he feels just your sweats alone and no underwear. He gets a view of your already glistening pussy, and he can’t help the growl that leaves his throat.

He settles his hands under the globe of your ass and scoots you to the edge, your thighs finding solace on his shoulders. You immediately lean back on your elbows, knowing the moment his mouth is on you, your body will go weak at his touch.

Without any warning, his tongue licks the entirety of your leaking seam, hands automatically gripping you tighter as the taste of you hits his tongue. The sound that leaves you sends shivers down his spine, his cock painfully hard and leaking in his jeans. He licks you a few more times, letting his drool drip down his tongue and spread all over you, making you a soaking mess of your arousal and his spit.

Once you’re drenched to his liking, he dives right in, face completely flushed against your sex, sloppily sucking and licking into you, hitting all the right buttons to make you see fucking stars. By his hands or his tongue, he still knows how to steer you in the direction of the most beautiful constellations, even if they are behind your eyelids.

“Frankie, fuck-!” you yell out, your inhibitions automatically down with the fact that the house is left to the two of you. Frankie’s hips involuntarily buck into nothing at your moans, missing the sounds you always made for him. Ever since Isa was born, both of you made a conscious effort to work on your noise levels — especially you. You were the most vocal he’s ever been with, and fuck if it didn’t make him all the more whipped. He almost forgot what your sounds do to him. Almost. But now that you’ve given him a taste again after so long, he needs more.

He circles your clit a few times and sucks it, hard. He pulls off with a lewd pop, his dominant hand leaving your ass and making its way to your entrance. You’re such a fucking mess that his two fingers slide right in, giving you the extra push Frankie needed to pull more heavenly moans and whimpers out of you. “Let me hear you, mama,” he says, tongue circling your clit as his fingers work you to the edge. “Sing for me, baby,” and with what little strength you have, you force your head forward to watch his ministrations, and the sight is what sends you falling first. Frankie’s mouth is wrapped around the entirety of you, eyes dark and on yours, his hooked nose rubbing against all the right places while his arm muscles ripple as he fucks his fingers in and out of you.

“Shit- oh, fuck-” you whine out, your head like a bobble head, too heavy to maintain upright. Frankie curls his fingers just right, and-

“Oh my God, Francisco, oh my God!” Your hips are bucking into his face, his own strength unable to keep your hips down with how hard your orgasm is hitting you. He lets you ride out your wave on his face, drinking every last drop coming out of you.

His fingers are out of you now, Frankie immediately cleaning them in his mouth, not wanting to Iet any of your sweet syrup go to waste. Your chest is heaving, eyes clamped shut, and your body is entirely limp. Frankie stands to his full height, and he’s pulling you up to sit up straight, his hands guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. He chuckles a little. “Still with me?”

Your torso loses its strength momentarily, and you almost fall back. His arms immediately wrap around you, supporting you to maintain your upright position. You laugh at yourself, a blissed out smile gracing your face. He feels his heart flutter, just as strong as when he first met you. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here, you monster,” you lightly laugh, resting your head on him. “God, I love you,” your voice slightly muffled from burrowing yourself into his chest.

His one hand leaves your back and wraps itself around your jaw, bringing your lips up to his. You can taste yourself on him, and you can already feel another fire being lit deep in your core, your arousal dripping onto the kitchen counter as your lips continue with his.

You pull away, breathless, ready for more. “Take me to bed, baby.”

“You sure you’re ready now?” He smirks.

“Keep teasing, and I won’t let you cum inside of me, big boy.”

His lips find yours again in a bruising manner, a growl leaves him as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. “Last I checked, you were the one begging for me to fuck my cum so deep inside you that it had no other option but to latch on. If that’s what you want again, baby, all you gotta do is ask.”

You whimper in response, your spurt of dominance dissipating immediately.

“That what you want, baby? Come on, tell me. I wanna hear it.”

Your eyes are glossing over, too pent up with a fertile need to get your brain to come up with any kind of response. His grasp on your jaw tightens, his lips ghosting yours as he talks. “Tell me you want my cum, baby. Tell me you want me to fill you up so fucking full of me.”

“Yes, baby, fuck, I need you. I need you inside of me, I need you to fill me. Please, you’re such a good daddy, I wanna give you more, please,” you ramble on. His mouth is on you again in a sloppy embrace as he picks you up and guides you two to your bedroom.

He sets you down at the edge of the bed. He guides your shirt off, then his. He pulls back for a second and shucks his bottoms off, giving you a complete view of his tanned and toned naked body, his little tummy a little soft around the edges. Your pussy is crying at the sight.

You don’t waste anymore time as you settle yourself to the center of your bed, your legs already falling open with muscle memory. Frankie licks his lips at the sight. Part of him just wants to go down on you again, but the way his cock is screaming at him for release and your pussy is clenching on nothing—yeah, his oral fixation can wait.

He settles himself in between your legs. His hands are grounded into the pillow beside your head as your legs automatically hook around his waist. He rubs his length across your wetness, you mewl for him as he lets his tip drag across your clit.

“Baby, please,” you whine.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

His tip breaches your entrance. God, you’ve missed him so much, and you tell him exactly that.

His lips are on yours, never really satiated with the amount of kisses he takes from you, “I fuckin’ missed you so much.” He pushes deeper in. “God, my beautiful wife, I love you so much,” he breathes out as his lips graze your temple.

His hips are flushed with yours, your hands secure themselves around his neck. “Please, baby, let’s never go this long again, I need you so bad,” he rasps. He’s pulling out again, his head kissing your core. “Need you always,” he says as he pushes back in, maintaining a slow but hard rhythm.

You pull him impossibly closer into you, your hands grasping and feeling him anywhere you can reach. You rock your hips to meet every push and pull of his own, lips ghosting each other with each movement, your eyes threatening to roll back at how entirely full you feel.

He’s taking his fucking time with you tonight, fucking you slowly into the mattress, harder with each thrust, reveling in sound of your pussy each time he pushes in, and he can’t help the way he smiles into the sloppy kisses and shared breaths.

You’re a complete mess, tears falling from your eyes at how addicting he feels mixed with the pure love you have for this man. You really don’t even register what you’re babbling about, but that doesn’t matter. Frankie’s in heaven listening to a mixture of your drawn out moans, the occasional Lord’s name in vain, and the repeated I love you, baby, I love you so much.

One of his hands drag down to your clit, rubbing clumsy yet perfect circles, forcing your dam to finally break. He’s completely soaked in you and so are your thighs and the bedsheets. Your fall is slow but all-consuming. Your back arches into him, your nipples rubbing deliciously against his chest, and the feeling is the final push that sends him painting your walls white.

His hand leaves your swollen clit and wraps itself around your lower back, helping you maintain your arch form as he continues rocking himself into you well into his softened state. He can feel your body start to tense out of overstimulation, so he finally pulls out of you, leaving you a leaking mess of both your and his cum. He sits back on his hunches, his fingers drawing circles on your inner thighs, just admiring the sight until his cock begins to stir again.

“Jesus, Morales,” you giggle breathily as you clocked the jump of his length.

He leans over you again, giving you a sweet, lengthy kiss as he begins to slide himself off the bed. “What can I say, baby? I’m insatiable with you,” he gives you a mischievous smirk.

He heads to the kitchen, returning to the bedroom with a chilled glass of water for you. “Drink up,” he says.

Before he makes it to the en suite bathroom, he adds, “I’m not done with you yet, mama.”

Despite the sensitivity down there, your pussy flutters at his words, craving him down there in any way shape or form.

He returns with a warm cloth, cleaning you up as best as he can with your second round of slick and his endless load of cum pouring from you. He sets the cloth down somewhere on the floor and situates himself up against the headboard. He wordlessly guides you to lay between his legs, your chest resting against his.

“Wanna check on Isa?” Frankie asks, albeit a little shy. You smirk a little, knowing you’re usually the one to cave first. You make grabby hands at your phone on the nightstand, nudging Frankie to grab it since his wingspan is much larger than yours. He hands it to you, and you immediately dial Santi, hitting the speaker button as it rings.

“Hey, Santi.”

“Hey, Mrs. Fish,” you can hear him laugh at his name for you. Frankie also gives a little laugh. He thought it was the funniest thing he’s ever said during your guys’ wedding reception. He calls you that more than your own name now.

“How’s it going?” you try to ask in an unconcerned fashion. Santi knows you both all too well to know that isn’t the case.

“You know you two didn’t have to quit just to check on her, right? Tío Santi knows how to distract! Also, tío Santi knows how to put her down for a nap!” He says proudly.

“I believe you, Santi, don’t worry. Just checking. Frankie just kept bugging-”

Before you could continue your sentence, Frankie’s hands immediately go to your sides, hitting all your ticklish spots. You scream out, a loud stream of giggles leaving you.

“Coño, por favor, not while I’m on the phone!” You hear Santi say. “Sorry, Sorry,” you say, still out of breath from Frankie’s merciless attack.

“Actually, Santi, can I ask another favor?”

Frankie looks at you confused. You smirk at him. “Is tío Santi prepared for his first sleepover?” His confusion fades and immediately his eyes are consumed with pure lust, his soft brown eyes turning black.

Santi is silent for a moment. “You two are downright feral, you know that, right?”

You stifle a laugh. “Ay Dios mío (oh my God),” Frankie mutters.

“As long as I get another niece — or nephew, I really have no preference — in nine months time…” Santi trails off in thought. “Then I’d dedicate every damn weekend to her,” he says.

You turn your head around and up to meet Frankie’s eyes, both of you in shock at Santi’s silent invitation, silence fills the air for a moment before you finally bring yourself to speak.

“Oh? Alright, then,” you softly say. “Thank you, Santi, you’re the best. We’ll text you, okay? Bye,” you hang up, not giving Santi any chances to return the call-ending formalities. You and Frankie are still looking at each other, eyes wild at the proposition before you.

“Every weekend, huh?” Frankie says, breaking the tension first. His head dips down to place a kiss where your neck and shoulder meet.

You suck in a breath, arousal forming faster than a strike of lightning. “Mhm,” you barely get out. His hands are roaming your body now, your phone thrown haphazardly somewhere in the room, long forgotten. He places his hands on the insides of your thighs, spreading you open and keeping them atop his own legs, so he can hold you open. His one hand is spread largely over your lower belly while his other hand is already teasing your core.

His finger circles directly on your clit, you yelp in response, your body twitching. “Every weekend, I’m gonna get to fuck my wife, huh?” Frankie says into your ear. “Gonna fill her full of me?” Your hips buck at the huskiness of his voice, of his possessiveness over you. Your response is incoherent, more of a moan than anything. Next thing you know, your room reverberates with the noise of a wet slap.

He spanked your pussy. The sound that escapes your throat is beyond arousing, Frankie’s cock back to life, dripping on your lower back. “Answer me properly, baby,” he says again, softly. His fingers are circling your clit again, forcing more of your wetness out of you, his cum from earlier still seeking its place on your bedsheets.

“Mmm, fuck-” you breathe, “Yes, yes, every weekend, baby,” you’re nodding your head frantically as you try to keep your eyes trained on his actions down below. “Every weekend you’re gonna make me so full,” you whimper, “Gonna fuck a baby into me, daddy, I need you so bad.”

He slides two of his fingers into you at your words, his hips grind into your back at the feel of your warmth, of his spend keeping you nice and wet. His fingers pump in and out of you at a languid pace, his fingers arching in a come-here motion to beckon more of his cum onto his fingers. He pulls out of you momentarily, analyzing the mess he’s made. “Open, querida,” he whispers, likely in a trance at the sight.

You open your mouth, tongue out and ready. He sticks his fingers into your mouth, and you lap up his salty spend greedily, as if it were the sweetest of syrups. You taste a distinct tanginess on his fingers, most likely the product of your own arousal. Your eyes fall shut at your taste, eyes feeling heavy and too blissed out to stay open. He pulls out of your mouth with a pop and grabs your chin, turning your face to his. He pulls you in for an open-mouthed kiss, wet and hot. His hand leaves your face and returns to your core. His fingers are back inside you, pushing in and out as his palm grinds perfectly into your clit. Your hips are moving in tandem, providing you with the perfect rhythm to soak him all over again. His lips never break from your own, tongues dancing in a way only you two get to know.

Your hand seeks purchase at the back of his neck, tugging at the base of his curls, taking away his opportunity to break away from you. He moans into your mouth at the sharp sensation, your lower back a sticky mess from how much he’s leaking onto you.

Finally, you break away, lips still connected by the thinnest of spit lines. “Baby, I- I’m gonna cum, shit-”

Frankie lets out a growl, desperate to have you fall apart on him. He maintains his same pace, adding a bit more pressure of his palm to your clit, his other hand pushing harder down into your belly, knowing how crazy the stimulation drives you. “Give it to me,” he mumbles in your ear, his heavy breathing fanning across your cheek. “Need it, baby. Need you,” he whines.

“Fuck-!” you yell out, head pushing harder into his shoulder, eyes clamping shut and forming white, blinding fireworks beneath your eyelids. He fucks his fingers in you as you ride out your high, tears letting loose as your pussy squirts into his hand and all over both your bottom halves.

The sight transforms him into a cumming mess, the only stimulation being the friction from your backside as he rutted into you. You don’t notice the warm wetness between your bodies until your body falls completely limp against him, breathing still heavy but slowly returning to normal. Frankie bejewels your face with sweet kisses — from your temples to the edge of your shoulder that he can reach — as you slowly come back to Earth.

You look up at him now, a soft smile spread across your face. His heart stutters at the sight. You shift your back a little. “Did you…?”

“Yes, I did,” Frankie admits way too quickly, embarrassment flooding his face.

You pull him into one more kiss before you start to get up. “Come on. Shower and then we eat,” you tell him. “You didn’t get to settle yourself down after work,” you add, slightly scolding him for his impatience yet also silently thanking him.

“I can always eat in the shower,” Frankie adds suggestively, his eyes giving your body a once over as you stand beside the bed, waiting for him to get a move on.

“Morales!” you gasp out. “Bad,” you say, shaking your head from side to side.

“You know it’s gonna happen, mi amor (my love),” he says as he stands, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him, seeking your warmth.

And it does happen. He makes you fall apart on his tongue twice, and you pay him back by reducing him down to jelly legs as you fuck his cum down your throat. By the time you two actually start your shower, the water is completely cold, not one drop of hot water available.

Post-shower, you two cook a fast, simple meal, too eager to be on each other again, but too aware of how important it is to give your body sustenance in order to continue with your feral behavior. You only get a few hours of sleep that night. Falling asleep after each round only to wake back up a horny, dripping mess just to fuck again. You don’t remember the last time you two did something like this, but damn were you two needing it. You made a mental note to thank Santi for his much needed offer.

The next morning you wake up at seven, the first sensation you feel for the day is your sore pussy, red and puffy as she begs you to give her a break. You look at the knocked out man beside you, give him a kiss on the forehead and break away from his hold, bringing yourself to the bathroom. You take your phone with you.

[07:13] Just woke up. Drop Isabela off whenever you’re ready.

[07:15] God, no wonder she’s up already. She’s got your early ass schedule.

You laugh to yourself, picturing Santi a half asleep man child as your daughter crawls all over him, forcing him to get up, too. What Santi didn’t know was that it was actually Isa’s schedule that you were on.

[07:16] Pobrecito (poor thing). :(

[07:16] She’ll probably be asking for Frankie soon. She always cuddles him in the morning.

[07:17] Yep, she just did. I’ll feed her some breakfast now, then we’ll be on our way. That good, Mrs. Fish?

[07:18] If it’s good with little Fish, then it’s good with me.

He sends you a thumbs up, and you set your phone down. You wash up and get ready for the day.

After you brush your teeth and wash your face, you head to Frankie’s side of the closet and grab one of his soft, cotton tees to throw on.

You head to the kitchen, your first course of action being to fire up the espresso machine. Espresso is the only form of coffee you drink, and soon enough, Frankie followed in your footsteps. Just as you suspected, as soon as the smell of the beans filled the air, Frankie appeared in the kitchen. His sleepy eyes and sexed out hair on display nearly cause your knees to buckle, your aching pussy betraying your want for a lazy morning.

He makes his way to you and kisses you, soft and slow, probably needing a lazy morning just as much as you. “Good morning, mi esposa (my wife),” he says, voice still raspy from sleep.

“Mmm, good morning, mi esposo (my husband),” you smile up at him. “Sleep well?”

“With the sleep that I did get, I’d say yeah,” he says. “You really tired me out, hermosa (beautiful),” he adds.

You pull him down for another kiss. You’ll never tire of the feeling. “Waffles?”

His eyes light up, a boyish grin on his face. “Yes, please.”

Around 8:30 as you and Frankie finish your waffles, the front door is unlocking. A little girl with crazy hair comes busting in, running straight for the both of you to pull you guys into a tight group hug.

“Mommy! Daddy!” she screams.

“Mi amorcito,” Frankie responds, matching her energy. “Mi niña loca (my crazy girl),” you squeal. “I missed you so much!” you add.

You and Frankie kiss each of her cheeks, sandwiching her little face.

“Did you have fun with tío Santi?” you ask.

“So much fun, mommy! We had ice cream for break-”

Before she could finish, Santi chimes in. “O-o-okayyyyy, Isa!” he claps his hand once. “Why don’t you bring this to your room,” he hands her a tiny gift bag — probably the product of some shopping they did — “while I talk to mommy and daddy?”

“Okay, tío Santi!” She takes the bag and makes her way to her room.

Your eyebrows are raised in mock scolding as you wait for Santi to explain himself. “Hey! In my defense, those puppy dog eyes are a killer. I couldn’t say no.”

The three of you break out into laughter, Frankie going in for a hug, clapping Santi on the back as he releases him.

“Waffles?” you offer Santi. He graciously accepts, making his way to the other side of the kitchen counter, helping himself.

“So-” you and Frankie say at the same time. Santi pauses his actions mid-bite.

Frankie nudges you to speak first. You clear your throat to ease the awkwardness in the room.

“So,” you start again. “Were you, uh… were you serious about watching Isa?” you ask?

“Every weekend?” Frankie adds.

You giggle, nodding an affirmative at your husband. “Yes, every weekend?”

Santi finishes the bite he paused on, and sets his waffle down. “You dirty dogs!” he says.

“Pope, come on,” Frankie’s palms go over his cheeks that are currently turning red at Santi’s teasing.

He lets out a laugh. “Sí, cabrón (yes, asshole),” Santi says, slapping Frankie’s shoulder. “Of course I’m serious. I’d do anything for both of you, and especially that demon of a little girl.”

Your heart warms at Santi’s sentiment. You’re beyond grateful Frankie has a best friend like him.

“On one condition,” Santi adds, his eyebrow quirked up.

“Anything,” you say eagerly. Frankie nods his head in agreement with you.

“I also wasn’t kidding when I said I’d need another sobrino (niece/nephew).”

You and Frankie look at each other, your stares saying everything they needed to. Yeah, Santi didn’t need to worry about that.

And you were right when the next Saturday morning, a month and four tío Santi sleepovers later, you and Frankie presented Santi with your pregnancy test displaying two pink lines.

End note: Thank you all so much for reading! Likes, comments, reblogs, etc, — all your support means the absolute world to me. I wouldn’t be able to do this without all of you. Thank you so so so much. There are genuinely not enough words to express my gratitude. As always feedback for my stories (at a technical sense) is also super super helpful whether it is constructive or positive! Anything helps me to be the best writer that I can be. All my love! Xo

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miyacults · 3 months

Note

begging on my hands and knees for a sequel to the daddy gojo fic but w sugu please please please

a/n: my dear nonnie this is less than u actually deserve but i hope it fuels the stsg daddy agenda im pushing here.

violet, blue, green, red to keep me out… i win.

( ft. suguru geto. )

Suguru’s nowhere near salvation—soul too damned to expect something else—yet his heart aches, breaks, and cries blood at the mere thought of not deserving you. He might have made a path down the cursed side of being a Sorcerer with Satoru next to him, making the best of his efforts on keeping you away from that devilish facade of his you haven’t seen yet, and although he’s the one to blame when you finally do, well—he can’t hide anymore. That’s the price that comes with being one of the Strongests.

< part one.

wc: 3k (proofread? probably not)

cw: [ 18+ explicit content minors dni ] technically this is part two of a gojo fic (linked above) but can be read individually so no biggie. fem reader (female bodied). teacher!suguru meaning he did not deflect here okay, we’re living a happy life away from the pain. first one was gojo action so this is for geto action only but poly satosugu is clearly implied, that’s the whole point of this basically hehe. daddy kink and daddy dynamic so be very careful! minimal to no prep. unprotected sex. p in v sex. mentions of blood. mentions of death. these two pamper reader too much so reader’s a little spoiled but in the good way. geto is a sweet pretty much. if i forgot anything to put here lemme know. enjoy! <3~

From time to time, Suguru wonders about his soul in genuine distress. Perhaps out of guilt and worry and only in moments like these—well past midnight with bloodied nuckles and heavy footsteps echoing through thin walls, dragging himself up the stairs of the palatial home he and Satoru bought together, with nothing but a familiar sense of anxiety building in his chest. But it’s not like his personal cup of remorse is filled with all the haunting thoughts of the bad things he has done and seen in his life thanks to his sinister line of work, or as if such awful thoughts could actually pull some strings within his untainted heart—because that’s far from being the case.

It’s just—it’s just who he is. The blessing and the curse of being a Sorcerer, of swallowing venom as a whole to save the lives of those who live an ignorant bliss.

White marble stains in scarlet as he approaches his bedroom in silence, mind reflecting on the fact that things should be good now, that everything’s fine and danger has been erased. Any man in love would have handled the situation in the exact way he did, wouldn’t they? He wonders about this, too, quite frequently, and he hates to admit that the question lingers on his brain for far too long for his own liking. It makes him dread the fact that he’s not doing a good job in taking care of you.

Yet it doesn’t matter, as Suguru already knows the answer better than anyone—and he doesn’t qualify much for the kind-hearted-person term (or so he’s been thinking since the last blossom of his youth and the tragedies that showered his naive teen years catches him off guard). But he really doesn’t want to either, because then that would mean that he can’t successfully protect the thing he cares about the most in the world. And he can’t let that happen.

But the look Satoru shoots at him as soon as he opens his bedroom door and finds him sitting comfortably in the wide couch—awaiting his return, as usual—has him breathing correctly again, mind turning back from unwanted ideas that bother him to no end.

“You got busy tonight, huh,” Satoru murmurs quietly, head lolling to the side while scanning his best friend’s tired figure.

“I took care of the scum,”

“And didn’t invite?”

Suguru’s lips turn into a devious smirk, heavy body finally falling between the many soft pillows his large bed has.

“Princess was so upset, needed you to stay by her side,” he resolves quite calmly, dried blood forcing a horrid contrast to his charming features. “If I’m not there to hold her, then you must,”

There’s a silent warning to his words, and Satoru doesn’t have to make an effort to catch it immediately. He already knows it by heart, he always has—he always will.

“She couldn’t stop crying for over an hour anyway,” he ends up retorting sharply instead, hoarse voice weighing a tone of suppressed anger. “Hope you gave the bastard a merciless death,”

How couldn’t he after what he did to you?

The day had started quiet, tranquil—the week itself abnormally peaceful for them. Maybe it was the fleeing summer coercing the unpleasant job of Sorcerers into days of calm, long work hours slowing down and making them believe they couldn’t relax a little bit. So they decided that it would be a good idea to take you to that new coffee shop in Shinjuku you were dying to go lately. And it was fine, of course, you were incredible happy to be outside the walls of home as you hold hands with both them in a sea of smiley people.

Until it wasn’t.

That desolated look on your face when you found yourself trapped into the arms of some Curse User seeking vengeance towards them—Suguru memorized it, because it caused him some undescribable pain he couldn’t possibly explain even if he tried to. His heart shattered into a million tiny pieces at the sight of gleaming tears drying in your cheeks and the sound of broken sobs, garbled whimpers of their names coming out of parted lips as you held onto nothing for balance, unable to stop yourself from breaking down at the fear, the horror, the trepidation it forced your body into a shock.

He couldn’t prevent what happened after they took you back and he tried to calm you down by placing you in Satoru’s lap, hurriedly murmuring something about making it right. It’s gonna be okay, princess, you’re gonna be okay. He won’t hurt you ever again. I’m here to protect you.

Maybe—just maybe—you heard the strained tone that bathed his words in that moment. And maybe you didn’t understand it right away, or maybe you didn’t want to.

Because Suguru has always been there to make things right, and nothing else has to matter when he and Satoru are there to protect you from the dangers of the world.

Like they have devoted themselves to do.

Suguru doesn’t remember the exact time you came into his life—he doesn’t really care to, because he knows you’ve pretty much always been there. He has no idea where do his memories begin or end at, but the teary-doe look of your face has been plaguing the tissues of his brain for so long now he can’t find himself to remember a time where it hasn’t been there.

He remembers his first day at Jujutsu High, during the spring of him being fifteen and you a little less than that, when he saw you adverting everyone’s gaze as you walked behind your mother (an assistant director, of all things) towards the offices in silence—floral dress wrinkly as you seated in some chair and patiently waited for your mom to finish off her work. No complaints but with a huge pout, bored to death.

He remembers the first time Satoru made you cry by telling you you were a weak nuisance (and how he shortly laughed at that), and he remembers the sickening feeling of nausea that infected his stomach shortly after—and he remembers how it didn’t disappeared until he handed you a beverage from the machines and you smiled at him like none of them ever harmed you in the first place.

He remembers you admiring your mother’s ivory dress the day she married principal Yaga, and he remembers the way he took your hand into his to give you a little bit of courage as you and Satoru walked down the aisle side by side, carrying the rings of the newlyweds.

He remembers the winter of Satoru’s eighteenth birthday, when the white-haired man accidentally dropped a box full of the school’s Christmas decorations over you, making you trip down the stairs and hurt your ankle. He remembers the tears that stained his posh pajama pants when you shouted at him—immediately, instantly—crying out his name and seeking comfort. He also remembers the way Satoru moved around you like a lighting bolt, reaching and lifting you up in his arms before Suguru could arrive. Soothing sweet words into your ear, kissing your cheek as he darted a glare in his direction.

He remembers that they both shared the same thought at that moment, even though it was never vocalized.

He remembers how you have always made him feel this sick—as if you’re infesting his body and refusing to let him cure himself off you at all. He remembers because the feeling doesn’t really stops, never has, probably never will, and he has now grow a little too familiar with the lingering explosion of things that do make him feel alive bubbling in his chest. He’s now used to you setting his soul on fire and making him sick.

But it’s special, nonetheless. A sugary sweet method of inflicting pain—as Satoru likes to say.

Because Suguru Geto is not exactly a good person by his own perspective—but he likes to believe he’s a good man to both you and Satoru, for selfish that could be. The kind of man that puts your safety and well-being on top of anything else, the one that ensures both of your happiness above his own. He’s the type of man that allows some of his darkest desires to die in a fire, following what he believes is the right thing to do.

“Sugu?”

He can hear it clearly, so vivid and bright and sweet it makes him terribly sick all of a sudden. Singsong and gently voice, coated in saccharine sugar echoing through his ears as the most enthralling tone wraps around his name like a prayer, the deliberately long uttering of ‘Sugu’ forcing the curves of his lips to fall abruptly, his heart stopping without notice and an invisible punch to the guts knocking all the air out of his lungs.

“‘Toru, Daddy, where are you?”

Suguru waits—pretends he doesn’t really care as your footsteps sound closer, closer, closer, and his posture maintains, seemingly calm, apparently unbothered, somewhat bored. But, oh, Satoru knows.

Satoru knows as he sits by his side on the obsidian sectional sofa, with legs crossed and arms splayed over the border, that his best friend’s mind is going on a haze, a brand new sense of anxiety crawling under his skin like a thousand bugs eating him alive. Satoru’s almost certain, he’s sure that if he gets a little closer, the violent sounds of Suguru’s heart pounding in alarming violence against his ribs would cause him physical pain. It puts him on edge; the mere thought of his best friend’s reaction at what’s about to happen now.

If it were him, he wouldn’t care. He hadn’t care in the past, actually. Satoru has always been more than happy to let you near the side of him that glows closer to hell than heaven itself.

But Suguru is different, he thinks.

“She’s supposed to be sleeping,” Suguru stares at him blankly, a hint of irritation in his voice. “It’s long past midnight, and she gets all cranky in the morning every time she stays up,”

“She was sleeping,” Satoru stands up, a sigh sliding past his lips while moving to the bedroom door. “But you already know how she gets if she wakes up for water and is all alone in bed. She gets all needy,”

Suguru raises an eyebrow.

“And who’s fault is that, huh?”

“It’s not polite to finger-point, Suguru.”

Both of them stay silent for a bit, carefully paying attention to your sounds. Suguru tuts his tongue when he hears you calling his name near the bathroom hall.

“I’m too bloodied for her to see me like this,”

“Clearly. Just stay there, lemme—,” Satoru scoffs, opening the door and then closing it behind him swiftly before you can catch a glimpse of the inside. “Oi, sweets, what do you think you’re doing out of bed?”

“But ‘Toru,” you complain in a hushed whine. “You left me alone, you know I don’t like that. It didn’t felt warm anymore,”

Suguru can’t see you—all he has is a muffled sound of your distorted voice, and he swears he knows exactly the way your lips are pushing the loveliest pout to ever exist, the way you’re looking at Satoru through sleepy eyelashes as you put your little complaint out.

And he also knows Satoru might have rolled his eyes playfully at the sight, pulling you closer to steal a kiss from your frowned lips.

“So needy, my baby is so needy,”

“Is Suguru not home yet?” you ask slowly, perhaps setting your groggy eyes into Satoru, staring at him with that enamored look they both know too well.

“Do you want Daddy?”

“Yeah, I do,” you snort.

“I’m your Daddy and I’m home, so,”

“I want both,” you giggle softly, so sweetly Suguru can feel his insides melt at the sound of your bubbling laugh.

He’s sure Satoru has you entangled in a hug, probably sneaking his hands all over your body and tickling your sides to pull a smile.

“Oh, your dumb Daddy, too. Alright. I dunno where he is, sweets,” Satoru states, as if.

“How mean, ‘Toru.”

“Excuse me? What did you just call me?”

“Mean. You’re lying to me.”

Suguru smirks at that. He stands up from the bed and walks towards the door to open it and find you both in the exact position he predicted.

And the look you shoot his way, the frown that forms in your face and your pretty features contract in sudden worry when his frame appears in front of you—it all has his heart pounding like crazy, he feels so loved, he feels so full of you. He feels insatiable.

“Oh,” you let out a little squeal as you shift from Satoru’s embrace and into his, “Sugu, you—”

“Don’t worry much about this, princess,” he mumbles, catching you inside his arms like the world depends on it. “I’m okay.”

But he’s sure you’re crying anyway.

And you don’t even stop to think about the blood. You don’t even care that he reeks of death and violence and Curses as you hold onto him for dear life, with arms that wrap tightly around him and pull him closer, closer, even closer; as lips caress the skin of his neck and little mewls echoe softly against his throat. Pants of I love you, I don’t want anything bad happening to you, I love you, fueling his mind like a bomb ready to launch.

Satoru laughs it off with a devious smile.

“Poor baby, you have her worried sick, Suguru,” he falsely chides. “Guess you gotta make it up to her.”

“Uh-huh,” Suguru nods. “My poor princess, do you want Daddy to make it alright?”

You nod in between heavy breaths, head still buried in his neck. Satoru gives a soft slap to your ass whimsically.

“So needy,” the Strongest murmurs, but he rapidly turns away and aims for the stairs. “I’m gonna go find a snack though, I’m starving. And then I’m gonna prepare a bath so you both can meet me there in a bit,”

Suguru nods.

“Go on. Let me take this princess to bed in the mean time, then we meet you in the bathtub,”

Suguru takes you to his large bed and places you in the middle of many soft pillows cooing in your ear to wash the concern out of you, but you’re reluctant. You cup his face and scan him looking for wounds, soon realizing the ugly streaks of scarlet that stain his face are, in fact, not his. But even then you don’t flinch. Instead, you let your hands wander all over his chest—desperate to pull him into you, to merge your bodies and never letting him go, never separated.

“Oh?” Suguru smiles at your scattered words. There’s still blinks of sleep tugging at your tired eyes, and he can’t help but fondle your face cautiously. “Are we merging with Satoru too, hm?”

You nod, sulky little look fighting sleepiness with all you got.

“Of course, Daddy, always with ‘Toru,”

“That’s right, princess. Always with Satoru,”

You inhale a deep breath. It’s easy for Suguru to notice every little thing about you, so he caught up on your train of thoughts before yourself. You were struggling with some words, biting your lip, eyelashes fluttering, thinking hard about something.

“What is it, baby?” He wonders carefully, hot breath colliding with your face, nose caressing the soft skin of your cheeks as he inhales your scent.

“Did you do a bad thing, Sugu?”

The question lingers on his brain for a few seconds, mind resisting on reflecting such thoughts. Yet his expression doesn’t change, he maintains serenity as the brush of skin above yours doesn’t stop. He holds you like a priced possession, like your mere existence could ever absolve the decaying all Sorcerers are damned to. Like you could kiss him and save him, like you could hug him and guard him—as if you could turn blood into holy water or death into salvation.

Maybe you can.

“Will you still love me if I did?” He asks, not dreading the answer.

“I will never stop loving you, Daddy,”

It ignites his body. Fire burns at his fists and he kisses you deeply, mouths meeting around a new heat, with tongues slipping and teeth clashing desperately. He has no intention of letting you catch a break, mouth falling to your neck where he bites at the sensitive skin and causes you to mewl.

“Ow, Suguru, that’s mean,” you grumble, but you part your bare legs anyway when his hands drop and brush at your thighs.

“Can’t help it, princess,” he press a chaste kiss to your lips once more. “You gonna let me play a little with this pretty pussy, yeah?” The words flee his throat in a raspy tone, and his hands don’t stop. He hikes up that oversized cashmere sweater, that can only belong to Satoru, barely above the line of your lacey black panties, enough for him graze it and get a glimpse of your puffy lips against the fabric, awaiting for him. Suguru traces a finger along your cunt, causing you to shiver at the cold digits. “How gorgeous,”

You pant. “But—The bath, Sugu,”

“He can wait a little,” he says into your mouth “Gonna make you feel really good, princess,” he breathes heavily, rocking his hip a little as a thumb strikes tenderly your cunt through your panties.

And he notices right away—in the way you shiver under his touch when he hovers completely above you, how a breathless sigh escapes past your parted lips and your fists grab a handful of his shoulders to attach yourself onto him and make his bulge nudge your cunt. He repeats the motion a few times, mouth leaving stray kisses in your neck and already throbbing cock humping your covered pussy through his pants.

“Sugu,” you whine at one particularly hard thrust of his hips, involuntary loud moan reverberating from the back of your throat. “‘Toru,”

“Shh, princess,”

Suguru is fast at parting your panties to the side, and he says there’s no need for prepping you tonight, says it’s gonna be real quick so you can both go back to Satoru—with his cock an angry shade of red as its released free from his trousers and it aims for your tiny hole fast, thrusting in one go. You’re whimpering at how fast it happens, cunt burning at the sudden intrusion since he is usually the one that takes his time to properly prep you to take his cock.

You guess he’s feeling off, so you happily comply if that’ll help him.

“Want you, Sugu, I need you,”

“Ah-ah, my good girl,” he grunts lightly, hands steadying you by the ass as he finally bottoms out. “Can you keep doing that for me? Can you be a good girl?”

A loud hiss vibrates through clenched teeth as you wrap your legs around his hips, head nodding many forms of yes as you inch closer to him in distress.

“That’s it baby, take it pretty,”

“H-Hurts a little, Sugu,” you murmur softly, eyes glued to where he’s slowly sliding in and out.

“I know princess,” he pants. “Give it a minute,” He’s practically caging you shortly after, thrusting up roughly as stretched out walls wrap him and suck him deeply. You’re not given a chance to recover or adjust properly, but the burning does start to fade away. Discomfort grows into pleasure and whimpers turn into soft moans as you bury your face on his neck and his hot breath collides sharply against the shell of your ear. “You’re so brave, my good girl. So pretty, my princess,”

You lift your hips to meet his thrusts, dainty fingers digging the flesh of his shoulders when he grunts. And it doesn’t take long for tears to collect in your eyes as heat floods your body once again, the familiar throb of your clit making you aggravate the hump of your hips so your swollen bud finds a little bit of friction. Suguru doesn’t fail to turn you into a needy mess, strong hand coming to cover the cries emitting from your mouth.

Muffled chants of Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, alongside his hoarse grunts and the lewd slap of skin against skin are the only sounds that fly the room when he cums—bruising fingers grasping your flesh harshly as he paints your walls white, and nearly immediately you’re creaming all over the tip of his sensitive cock firmly pressed against your cervix.

“Not leaving you baby,” he pants out. “Not leaving you at all.”

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