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say-al0e · 24 days

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What Are Friends For

Rating: M | This is smut, no one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: A conversation with friends reminds you that you're about to begin college as a virgin. It bothers you more than you care to admit so you consult your best friend, Eddie; is virginity really that much of a turn off? (Or, best friend!Eddie takes your virginity) Warnings: virgin!reader, PinV, some nerves about virginity and first times. Pairing: Eddie x fem!Reader Word Count: 7.2k

Eddie sat on his bedroom floor, one knee bent with an elbow resting atop it, in a rare display of quiet contemplation. With his back pressed to the dresser, cigarette in one hand and a pen in the other, he scribbled in the notebook he used to write lyrics and, occasionally, plan campaigns.

Rain pattered against the roof of the trailer, heavy and loud and easily drowning out the tape Eddie had playing to fill the quiet. From your perch on his bed, yellowed paperback held open in your hands, you could see it falling in sheets outside the window. With the weather so dreary, there was little you could do other than sit inside - bored, miserable, rereading a book borrowed from Eddie’s shelf that you could practically recite in your sleep - and with him otherwise occupied, you were left alone with thoughts you preferred not to dwell on.

Though you’d read the book in hand a dozen times, could recite the notes Eddie’d scribbled in the margins by heart, if he asked, it would be impossible to relay where in the plot you’d stopped. The words that usually captivated you blurred into one, a mess of nonsensical characters in fading ink, so you dropped it into the sheets with a quiet sigh and rolled onto your side to glance at Eddie in hopes of finding a distraction.

The dark curls you loved were tamed into a low bun, hair swept away from his neck to provide some sort of relief from the oppressive summer heat, with a few strands framing his face. The plush of his lips were swollen, bitten in concentration over the course of the day as he stared intently at the paper. Those dark eyes were narrowed in concentration as he scribbled relentlessly and you could see the tip of his tongue as he pressed it between his lips.

Eddie’s leather jacket and battle vest were replaced by a cutoff Metallica shirt, cropped at the bottom to expose his lower stomach - the band of his shorts, the missing band of his underwear, the dark smattering of hair just beneath his navel between splotches of ink trailing into the band of his shorts - every time he shifted. Most of his tattoos were on display, save for the ones near his collarbones, and you wondered if he realized you could draw most of them from memory.

It would’ve been nice to be able to say that you were struck, just in that moment, by how attractive Eddie was. To confess that you’d never noticed how achingly beautiful your best friend was would’ve been a lie as his beauty was something you’d always seen.

Few things baffled you more than how people - closed-minded classmates, shallow girls who sought out pigheaded jocks - saw Eddie as anything other than breathtakingly beautiful. His personality was enough, a kind heart and a brilliant mind, but personality aside, you always thought he looked like someone out of a magazine. He was a rockstar stuck in tiny little Hawkins, a figure from your wildest fantasies brought to life.

The wild curl of his hair, the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the bright glimmer of his eyes; it all made you giddy, a little lovesick in a way only Nikki Sixx had so far managed. With every glimpse of Eddie that you stole, you grew a little more enamored and as a conversation you’d had earlier that morning simmered at the forefront of your mind, you wondered if that was part of the problem.

A conversation with friends, the majority of whom rarely pressed about your love life - mostly because they knew there was nothing to share, in part due to your feelings for Eddie - that began as excited chatter about college, classes, and, ultimately, boys, sent you spiraling.

Somehow, the conversation went from playful fun to pressing for details about your lack of dates and, finally, a shared certainty that college would change things for you. However, an off-handed comment about inexperience being a turn-off made you question whether college would change anything at all.

Pulling yourself back to reality, reminding yourself that the only opinion that mattered was your own, proved impossible. Every thought that crossed your mind centered on your inexperience, a trait your friends acknowledged and giggled at, and you couldn’t stop yourself from calling out.

“Eddie?”

If he noticed the tremor in your voice - and, this time, he likely didn’t - he said nothing. Instead, he hummed his acknowledgement. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

The pet name was casual, something that slipped off his tongue easily, just as it had done a thousand times before without a second thought, but it never failed to set fire to your skin. There was something about the way his voice wrapped around the word, a little rough around the edges but dripping honey - a little darker, a little deeper - in a tone you’d never been privy to, that had your heart hammering in your chest. The thud of it was loud, drowned out the music and the rain, and you wondered if Eddie could hear it, too, as he glanced up at you for the first time in an hour.

Whatever expression you thought you’d hidden, however careful you imagined you’d been, Eddie saw right through you. With only a tentative glance at your face, his lips pulled into a frown as he dropped his composition book into a pile of laundry before shuffling closer to you. When he sat with his back pressed to the bed, arm lifting to rest on the mattress as his hand sought yours, you could see the concern clouding his eyes. “You alright?”

A brief thought of brushing him off, of pretending that you were fine - bored, or maybe tired, just for an excuse to have sought his attention - but Eddie knew you well. He’d seen your face, caught the glimpse of upset in your eyes, and wouldn’t settle for anything less than a real answer.

With a sigh, you wrapped your arms around your knees and spared him a sideways glance. “I… You know how I’ve never…”

An annoyed huff, bothered by how difficult it seemed to be just to say the words, escaped as you shook your head. Eddie tipped his to get a better look at your face and the weight of his gaze burning into your skin made it difficult to concentrate. Regardless of the knowledge that this was Eddie - someone who loved you, someone who wouldn’t judge you or laugh at you, despite how objectively stupid you imagined you were being - it was still difficult to string together a coherent sentence.

“Can you not look at me, please? I can’t think with you looking at me.”

Eddie was unfazed by your request. It was one he’d grown used to over the years, one you threw at him every time you wanted to discuss something serious - or embarrassing or simply vulnerable - and couldn’t find the nerve. So, instead of questioning you, he simply pushed himself up and climbed onto the bed to join you. He shifted his body to press his back to the wall, stretched his legs across the mattress, and held out a hand.

“Alright, c’mere.”

When you placed your hand in his, shifted onto your knees to shuffle a little closer, Eddie twined his fingers with yours and tugged. With little effort, he hauled you onto his lap. A soft hand pressed to the back of your head and guided your face to hide in the crook of his neck - a position you’d been in a thousand times before, a position that made you feel safe to bare your soul.

This time, however, you felt your heart begin to hammer against your ribcage as you grew overwhelmingly aware of the heat of Eddie’s body pressed to yours. Everything seemed too clear, too loud, too real; the green apple scent of his shampoo, the herbal hint of weed that always seemed to linger, the softness of his skin as your hand rested against his bicep, the firm press of his body as he held you in place, the callous of his fingers as his hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt to brush at the bare skin of your back.

It was almost too much.

Rather than comforting, you felt Eddie’s touch set your skin alight. It needled at your nerve endings, hastened the pace of your already spiraling thoughts, and you nearly lost your train of thought as he hummed to regain your attention.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

The rasp of his voice in your ear, warm and soft and concerned in a way he only ever seemed to be for you, cut clear through the hammering of your heart. It filled your chest with a sticky warmth and you inhaled as deep as you could in an effort to steel yourself for the conversation you weren’t certain you wanted to have.

“You know how I had breakfast with my friends this morning?” Eddie hummed, acknowledging the plans you’d had before the day devolved into rain and quiet. “We were talking and I know it’s stupid, but I just… I started thinking about it and I couldn’t stop.”

Eddie hummed, acknowledging and encouraging you to continue, as he waited patiently. “I’ve never really been on a date and guys don’t really like me. That’s fine, I guess. I mean, it’s not,” you amended, huffing slightly as you traced his tattoo idly. “But there’s not a lot I can do to change it. Anyway, they were kind of laughing about it. They were talking about college changing things and then Amanda said it would be a major turnoff and I… Well, she’s right. I don’t want to go to college a virgin who’s never even held hands with someone romantically. It’s not a major deal but I haven’t even had my first kiss yet and I really don’t want to have some cute college guy ask me to make out and have to tell him that I’ve never done that and him think I’m a total loser and lose interest in me.”

The entire confession spilled past your lips in a rushed whisper, mumbled against Eddie’s skin in a hurried huff as you wasted no time thinking. Thinking about it, agonizing over how to express your concern, would only make it harder and you knew that getting it all out in the open would be the easiest option.

Still, that did little to calm your racing heart as Eddie’s hands stilled against your skin.

“Sweetheart.” He sighed, understanding and just a little gentler than you were accustomed to, as he lifted one hand to cup your cheek. “Look at me, please.” With great effort, you allowed him to tip your head so that he could search your face. After a beat of silence, he assured you. “There’s nothing wrong with still being a virgin and it’s not a turnoff. If some asshole college guy thinks any different of you, that’s his loss. Just means he’s not the one for you.”

Rationally, you knew that.

That was something you’d told yourself a thousand times over, a reminder repeated every time the topic arose. But rationality had little place in the whirlwind of emotion the conversation drudged up.

“I know,” you promised him, dipping your head to focus on the fading letters of his t-shirt. Tracing the nearly destroyed ink, you hummed. “I just… I don’t want to be pressured into it and I don’t want it to be a bad memory. I know it’s not going to be perfect but I just want it to be good. I want it to be like something from a movie.” Though you didn’t really want to know, though you knew it would only curdle the already sour thoughts in the pit of your stomach, you allowed yourself to ask. “How was yours?”

Eddie laughed quietly as he resumed his soft stroking of your skin. “Nothing is like the movies,” he declared, pausing only when you huffed. “Not to rain on your parade or anything,” he teased. “But all of my firsts were pretty shitty. My first kiss was under the bleachers in junior high and she laughed at me after because it was just a dare. And my first time was over in, like, three seconds. I was high and horny and came the second she let me inside. I’m just glad she never told anyone. But shit happens, sweetheart. It gets better, easier. Just find someone you trust.”

Without thinking, you said, “I trust you.” For a split second, it felt as if the world stopped spinning. You willed a hole to open in the floor and swallow you whole as you immediately lifted your hand to cover your mouth. “I don’t… I don’t know why I just said that. Fuck, I’m sorry, Eddie. I-“

Instead of allowing you to pull away, to put a considerable amount of space between you both, Eddie held you tight to his chest as he tipped your head once more. “It’s okay,” he assured you, dipping his head to meet your eyes. There was no hint of anger - no disgust or annoyance, no amusement; none of the negativity you imagined you’d see - and you swallowed your rising panic as he urged, “Calm down, sweetheart. Take a breath.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” you repeated.

“For what?” Eddie’s question was honest, uncertain as to why you were apologizing, and you could only shrug as you withered beneath the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know. I just… felt like I needed to?”

A beat of silence passed as Eddie studied your face. You weren’t quite sure what he was looking for but he seemed to find it as his thumb brushed your cheekbone.

“Complete honesty, alright?” It was a request Eddie made rarely as he always trusted you to be honest. It was only made in moments like this - moments of unrivaled vulnerability, moments that saw you both struggling to speak normally - and you granted it readily.

“Alright.”

“Is this… Do you want me to be your first?” The question was blunt - maybe more so than Eddie intended - but you appreciated his directness even as you inhaled sharply.

“I think so,” you admitted, unable to shift your gaze even as his warm brown eyes set your skin alight. “I mean, I trust you, more than anyone else. You’re… You’re Eddie,” you pointed out, smiling softly. “You’re my best friend. I don’t think there’s anyone better.”

“This isn’t something you have to do, sweetheart. You don’t have to lose it right now,” he reminded you, soft but certain. “There’s no shame in being a virgin. Whoever you end up choosing, if they’re the right person, they won’t mind. I know you trust me but you don’t have to choose me just because you want to get it over with.”

“That’s not why I’m choosing you.” Eddie tipped his head, an uncertainty few others were allowed to see flickering across his face as he awaited your elaboration. “I know that this will change everything,” you admitted, voice a whisper behind the rain.

“It doesn’t have to,” Eddie interjected, voice as quiet as you’d ever heard it. “Whatever happens, or doesn’t, is entirely up to you.”

“But I want it to!” He blinked, surprised by the conviction in your voice, but kept quiet as you continued. “The reason I’ve had so much trouble finding someone else, someone I want, is because I want you. I have for a long time.”

Though you’d known how you felt about Eddie for a long while - swallowed it down, hid it for fear of ruining the best friendship you’d ever had - admitting the words aloud felt final. It felt heavy, sinking to the pit of your stomach like a stone, but you knew that the only way out was through.

There were only two options. The first, Eddie would reject you - never harshly, soft and sweet in the way he seemed to only be with you - seemed most likely to you. But the second, that was the option you wished for.

Eddie returning your feelings, wanting you just as you wanted him, seemed plausible some days. When he held your hand in crowds, when he lounged in his bed and spent hours discussing books and movies and music with you, when he threw an arm around your shoulders and grinned brighter than the sun every time you made it to one of his shows; you saw a future in which he loved you, too.

But insecurity, irrational and loud, told you that you were imagining the softness of his touch or the gentle tone of his voice. It made you uneasy, kept you from admitting your feelings for fear of the worst, and you nearly wished you’d allowed the insecurity to win as silence stretched around you.

Until Eddie spoke and destroyed any remaining shred of insecurity.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while, sweetheart.”

Soft fingers brushed across your cheek, tracing the slope lightly as Eddie watched you blink owlishly. There was a moment of stunned silence, a beat in which you wondered if your dalliances with the supernatural had damaged your hearing more significantly than you’d realized, before you inhaled deeply.

“Are you… are you sure?”

The soft smile on Eddie’s face was reassuring. “Very sure. Remember when we first met?” A spark of memory - a flash of the past, the moment you nearly bowled him over on your way to find Steve before facing yet another supernatural threat - as your brows furrowed. “I started going to history after that, just ‘cause I knew you were in that class.”

“That’s been a while.” It hadn’t, not really - not in the grand scheme of the misery of Hawkins - but it felt like forever as Eddie shrugged.

“Time flies,” he declared with a half-shrug. The soft brush of Eddie’s fingers across your rapidly heating skin continued, easily mapping the features you occasionally caught him studying with an intensity you now recognized as love, and he smiled as you inhaled a shaking breath.

“I don’t know if I remember a time before falling in love with you.”

The admission was quiet, a whisper in the still of Eddie’s room, but it felt as if you’d shouted it. Vulnerability was not new, not with Eddie, though baring your soul so completely was terrifying. He accepted it easily, however, and smiled as he cradled your jaw.

“You don’t have to butter me up, sweetheart,” he teased - an effort to lighten the mood, not downplay your emotions, and ease the deafening thundering of your heart. “I’m already yours.”

With that, he leaned in and bumped your nose with his own. He waited, giving you the final choice - whether you truly wanted to take that step or not - and allowed you to make the first move.

Though you knew Eddie would never make fun of you - not for something serious, something that meant so much to you, anyway - there was still a sense of hesitance as you studied him. Up close, you could see the tiny imperfections, the little lines and freckles and spots that made him, him, and you knew that this was what you wanted.

Before he could reassure you, tell you that it was fine if you weren’t sure, if you needed more time, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss itself was not perfect. It was not something out of a film, with fireworks and an immediate, instinctual understanding of what to do. It was clumsy, a little tentative, and curious, but it was good. The warmth of Eddie’s palm bleeding into your skin, the brush of his curls as his bangs tickled your forehead, the soft exhale he released as you pressed closer, just a touch relieved you felt comfortable enough to trust him with this; all elements you would’ve never considered important before the moment at hand.

But all too soon, it was over.

In what felt like the blink of an eye, Eddie broke the embrace, pulled away just enough to allow you to draw in a deep breath, and smiled. “You gotta breathe, sweetheart,” he teased, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he took in the sight of you - glazed eyes, parted lips. “Don’t want you passing out on me.”

With anyone else, it would’ve felt like a slight - a jab, rude and mean-spirited - but you knew Eddie. You knew that it was light, fond, and rolled your eyes in response. “Breathe, got it,” you nodded, serious in your study. “Any other notes?”

“Nah. For a first kiss, it wasn’t too bad,” he hummed, after pausing a moment in faux thought. There was a dramatic air of seriousness, though you could tell he was still teasing. “Technique could use a little work, though.”

There was a twinkle in his eyes, a glittering mirth that told you he wasn’t poking fun at you - not really, not maliciously - and you couldn’t help but smile as you nodded. “I suppose someone will have to teach me,” you reasoned, fingers twisting in his curls when he hummed as if it was the most rational thought. “I learn through experience.”

That grin returned, bright - pleased that you seemed to have relaxed; and, truly, you had, as there was nothing to fear in Eddie’s embrace. He’d proven that time and time again. “Lucky for you,” he hummed, tipping his head to brush your lips with his own, “I’m an excellent teacher. Very committed. Willing to spend all night here, if that’s what it takes.”

Then, his lips were on yours once again.

This kiss was more certain, a little more eager, as Eddie took the reins and guided you. He used the hand cradling your jaw to tip your head, to turn it just the way he wanted, and hummed encouragingly as you melted into him. It was still a little clumsy, still exploratory in a way you’d never experienced, but to you, it was perfect.

And as Eddie’s free hand began to drift down your shoulder, careful not to move too fast, you broke from him just long enough to speak.

“It’s okay,” you promised him, breathless - chest heaving, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. “You can touch me. I want you to.”

With that, you returned your mouth to his.

Every press of Eddie’s mouth to yours, every swipe of his fingers over your heated skin, should’ve made you more nervous. This was farther than you’d ever gone, a complete deviation from the norm in which you were overlooked - only heard about experiences such as this from friends - and you worried there would be an overwhelming anxiety in the pit of your stomach as you attempted to gain some of that experience.

However, as Eddie’s hands began to wander and his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you found that it was the exact opposite.

Eddie made you comfortable, set you completely at ease.

The idea that this would be the culmination of every experience you’d dreamt of having didn’t make you nervous. The rapid thundering of your heart was not from fear but an excitement, a gratitude that your firsts were being taken by someone you’d loved for so long.

There was an eagerness, not to get it over with but to experience it - to understand you’d been missing. And Eddie seemed to realize that as his hands began to dip beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he urged, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes - grinning when you blinked slowly, attempting to regain your sense of reality. “How’d you imagine your first time? Bet it was romantic, maybe some candles or something. Not here, with Metallica playing in the background.”

“Sometimes,” you admitted, fingers playing with the strands fallen from his low bun. “But other times it was quick, in someone’s backseat with the radio playing, just to get it over with, I think. But, lately…” Eddie hummed, urging you to continue, as his hands drifted higher - fingers brushing the underside of your breasts, dragging back down your stomach and stealing your focus. “Lately, it’s been you and it’s been here and Metallica’s been playing in the background. You’re in my head but you’re prettier in real life.”

“Flattery, sweetheart,” he teased, grin bright as he tipped his head to nose at your jaw, though you could see the emotion glittering in his eyes. “You know, I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, hands lifting higher - cupping your breasts, earning a gasp from you at the warmth of his palms against your skin. “‘Bout you, here. What you’d look like, what you’d sound like,” he hummed, appreciative when you sighed contentedly as he began to knead the soft flesh. “Think I like the real thing more.”

From your position on his lap, you could feel him growing harder, pressed to your thigh as you shifted. He hid it well, his own desire, but you heard the sharp inhale he released as you reached for the scrunchie holding his hair back and brushed the tent in his shorts.

“Can I take this off?” The question was breathed against your skin, nearly lost to the heavy thud of your heart, but you managed to nod as Eddie’s hands fell to the hem of your top.

Eddie had seen you in a bathing suit before, had seen you in just a bra after a torrential downpour left you both soaked and shivering, but this was different. Soon, he would see you completely and though you felt a bit of nerves, you knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t judge. So, you shifted and worked to get rid of the soft fabric.

When your shirt joined a handful of others on his floor, he made no effort to ogle you - though you imagined that would come later, when he knew you were well and truly relaxed. Instead, he returned his mouth to yours and his hands to cup your breasts.

With you sufficiently distracted, Eddie easily maneuvered the pair of you so that you were on your back, lying pliant beneath him. When you hummed, laughed slightly at the bounce as you both settled into the mattress, he broke the kiss and pressed his mouth to your rapidly overheating skin. He started at the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, before beginning to trail a path down your throat.

“If you change your mind,” he hummed, voice muffled against your skin, “just tell me. Tell me everything, okay? Don’t worry about being too loud. No such thing.”

“Not gonna change my mind,” you assured him, voice pitching higher as his teeth scraped over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “Want this, want you.”

At that, Eddie continued his descent. His lips left a trail of fire in their wake and you gave in to his urging to not worry about your volume. With each brush of his mouth, each tickle of his hair against your skin, you made no effort to hide the soft noises of pleasure. And with each one, Eddie seemed to grow more and more eager.

Those wide eyes lifted to meet yours as he reached your chest, one hand kneading soft flesh as he nipped at the sensitive skin of the opposite breast. He sucked a bruise into the skin, shooting you a wink as he did so, before dipping lower and capturing your nipple between his lips. And when you gasped, hands flying to his hair, he hummed in approval.

Eddie spent a few moments focusing on your breasts, moments in which you realized you couldn’t have chosen a better first partner - someone who loved you, someone who was more interested in making the moment good for you than he was in the act itself - before he began to dip lower.

“I’m totally down to eat you out,” he offered, glancing up at you with those wide eyes, “but if you’re not up for it yet, that’s okay. It’s up to you, sweetheart.”

For a moment, you considered his offer. The press of his body to yours, the weight of him atop you, the warmth of his hands and mouth; it was all overwhelming, in the most beautiful way. Still, you weren’t sure if that was something you wanted in that moment. It sounded fun, and he seemed very serious about his offer, but you weren’t sure how much you wanted so soon. So, you decided to decline his offer, for the time being.

“Next time,” you promised, fingers carding through his curls as he pressed soft kisses to your stomach. “I… Sounds nice, but feels like too much this time,” you admitted, not ashamed but almost.

Eddie, however, easily accepted your answer. “Might be,” he agreed, with an easy grin. “I’m pretty good with my mouth.” It was teasing, accompanied by another wink, and made you roll your eyes.

“You’re pretty good at never closing it,” you countered, squealing when he nipped your skin.

“We’ll revisit this conversation when you’re comfortable,” he teased, grinning as he shifted up and pressed his mouth to yours once more.

As he distracted you with a kiss - this one messier, more eager than the last - his hands continued to wander. They trailed down your stomach, traced the same path as his lips, before dipping beneath the band of your shorts. His fingers brushed the warm skin, earning a sharp gasp.

“Still okay?” The question was breathed against your lips, and you nodded.

“Yeah,” you assured him, though your heart felt as if it might beat out of your chest. “Still okay.”

Calloused fingers dipped lower, brushed over the fabric of your panties, and slipped between your spread thighs. There wasn’t a ton of room for him to move, and you realized that he was at least trying to get you used to the sensation as his fingers brushed the fabric covering your folds. If he felt the damp patch - he did, you could tell by the pleased grin he wore - he said nothing. He would tease you for it later. This time, he simply returned his mouth to yours.

Eddie gave you a few moments to adjust to his touch, his fingers brushing the fabric - teasing, soft - before he nudged the now soaked fabric aside and allowed his fingers to drag through the slick gathered there. His touch was light, not hesitant but conscious, careful, waiting in case you changed your mind.

It should’ve made you nervous, should’ve set you on edge, but there was only pleasure as you melted into his embrace and tugged at the curls framing his face as his thumb found your clit.

The touch was electric, filled your veins with a blistering warmth that seemed all encompassing, and you began to understand why your friends made such a big deal of it all. The touch itself was good, better than your own fingers, but knowing that it was Eddie, with his wide eyes and pretty smile, made it that much better.

Every press of his fingers grew more experimental, dragging through your folds and coating his fingers in slick. He teased, brushed lightly and swallowed every sigh and soft moan you released. And after a few long, torturous moments, he finally pressed a finger to your entrance and pulled away just enough to catch sight of your face.

“I’m okay,” you promised him, before he could ask. He hummed, acknowledging, and slowly began to pump his finger, getting you used to the motion. “I kinda get it,” you hummed, gasping as his thumb brushed your clit.

“Mm, get what?”

Eddie pressed a second finger in, then, and his fingers were larger than yours. It was a bit of a stretch, a little more than you were used to, but it was nice and you told him as much as you leaned in to nip his jaw. “Why people like this, why my friends talk about it all the time.”

A quiet laugh filled your ears as he began to work you open, careful to prepare you. “Good. Glad this hasn’t put you totally off sex forever,” he teased, before he brushed his thumb over your clit and earned himself another moan. “Glad you’re not totally questioning why the fuck you thought trusting me with this was a good idea,” he laughed.

“I trust you with everything,” you promised, gasping as he began to work his fingers a touch faster and pressed a spot that made your head spin. “Oh, fuck.”

“There?” Eddie grinned, pleased to have found that spot, and made certain to pay special attention to it as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. “C’mon,” he urged, “make some noise for me, sweetheart.”

With Eddie’s encouragement, and with the quickening press of his fingers into you, you found it easier and easier to make the noise he was hoping to hear. Though his space was limited, he made the most of it. He paid close attention to what made you gasp, what made you sigh, what made you moan. And with each swipe of his fingers, with every brush of his thumb over your clit, you felt yourself falling deeper and deeper into him as the fire burning in your veins threatened to consume you entirely.

Though your friends warned you that much of it was over quick, you hadn’t quite anticipated just how fast Edie would be able to push you over the edge. But after only a few moments of his eager ministrations, the press of his fingers and his thumb and the brush of his mouth over your heated skin, you found yourself falling over the edge with a cry of his name.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice tight as he lifted his head to watch you - the part of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the heave of your chest. “Look pretty, coming for me. Wanna make you do it again.”

The gravel in his voice, a rasp you’d never heard, made your head spin and your chest ache in a pleasant way as his fingers continued pressing, pushing you through the aftershocks. All that existed in your mind was him; Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Despite the difficulty you felt in catching your breath, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was pulling him close and pressing your mouth to his.

Eddie easily gave in, allowed you to take your fill of him, and only removed his hand from between your thighs when you grasped his forearm. However, he didn’t pull away entirely. He simply slipped his fingers beneath the band on either side and began to nudge the fabric down.

Without breaking the kiss, you shimmied out of the fabric - no longer caring about being entirely exposed, only caring about having him closer. In the midst of the kiss, Eddie shifted, arm reaching out blindly and swiping at his nightstand. He caught a few stray items, knocked them from the table with a clatter, and you laughed as you broke the kiss.

“What’re you looking for, Eds?”

With a bit of space between you, he eagerly pulled away just enough to tug his own shirt off - up, over his head, joining the fabric on the floor - before shoving his shorts down his thighs. He wasn’t wearing any boxers and you felt hesitant to glance down, despite the permission he gave you. No matter how comfortable he made you, some things still felt like too much for the first time, especially when you’d been half-certain you would lose your virginity in some dark room and now you could see Eddie all too well.

“Condom,” he answered, grinning when you flustered. “Don’t suppose you have one in your bag, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say I do. Wasn’t exactly expecting… this.” In fact, it was the last thing you’d been expecting from your visit to Eddie’s. However, you weren’t going to complain.

“Good unexpected?” He turned his full attention to the nightstand, then, shuffling through drawers and you laughed as you hummed your agreement.

“Totally.”

A metallic jingle caught your attention and as Eddie shuffled through the items in the nightstand in search of a condom, you searched for the source of the sound. A pair of silver hoops, hanging on a hook near the bed, caught your eye and you inhaled a shaking breath.

“…are those handcuffs?”

Eddie laughed, the noise quickly covered with a triumphant hum as he found the foil packet, before his full attention returned to you. There was an easy amusement in his eyes, warm and bright, as he leaned in to press a kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry about those right now, sweetheart,” he urged. “Eyes on me, yeah?"

“Can I worry about them later?” The question was teasing, tinged with only a touch of nerves as Eddie settled between your spread thighs and allowed one large hand to softly grip the plush flesh.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already thinking about next time,” he teased with a grin. “I’m creating a monster.”

“Your monster.”

That brilliant smile remained, bright and wide, as he leaned in to press his lips to yours. “My monster,” he agreed, words mumbled against your lips. He kissed you, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving you boneless beneath him, before he breathed a gentle reminder. Those soft eyes met yours as he said, “We don’t have to do this. If you’ve changed your mind, if you wanna wait, that’s okay.”

“I want this. No one I’d rather do this with.”

Eddie shifted closer, then, rested more of his weight atop you and shifted so that the tip of his cock bumped your aching clit. When you inhaled sharply, fingers pressing harshly into his shoulders, Eddie shifted his hips and notched the head of his cock at your entrance. And with a final nod of your head, he pressed forward.

The immediate experience was almost expected - your friends told you that it would hurt, that the first time wasn’t much fun. Only, it wasn’t so much pain as it was discomfort. There was no blinding pain, no tears, just an odd sensation that made you squirm. There was a sharp pinch, a sensation you’d never felt before, but it was bearable.

And you told Eddie as much when he lifted a hand to your cheek and asked, “How you doin’, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” you assured him, still a touch breathless as he pressed closer. “Doesn’t feel good yet but it doesn’t hurt.”

Eddie leaned in, pressed a kiss to your cheek - to your nose, to your jaw, to your forehead - before pressing a kiss to your lips. “Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “It’ll feel good in a minute, when you get used to it.”

As difficult as it seemed, you believed him. You knew that he was right, and that he would do his best to make sure you were comfortable, so you simply tangled your fingers in his hair and buried your face in the crook of his neck to leave soft, open-mouthed kisses against the heated skin.

After a moment, Eddie was fully sheathed inside, body pressed to yours as he waited for you to give him the okay to move. As you adjusted, the kiss grew more heated and his hands wandered, returning to your core as his thumb found your aching clit.

When you jolted, clenched around him, Eddie broke the kiss. “Fuck me,” he laughed, tipping his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “Promise I’m not always ready to blow this quick. You’re just so fucking tight.”

“Flattery,” you teased, breathless as you tugged playfully at his hair. “’S’okay. You can move.”

With your permission, Eddie began to experimentally shift his hips. He moved slowly at first, pulling out only an inch or two, before he began to move in earnest.

The pace was slow, easy, but with every shift of his hips, the better it got. The discomfort began to fade, giving way to a fullness that was more pleasant than you expected. And with his thumb brushing your clit, gathering the slick, you felt yourself enjoying it more and more.

“You know,” he hummed, lips brushing your skin as he continued shifting his hips almost experimentally, “it’s kinda hot, how much you trust me. ’S’like you’re in love with me or something.”

“Unfortunately, I am.” It was so soft, so fond, that Eddie couldn’t seem to find a teasing reply. The words were accompanied by a sticky warmth in your chest, so glad to have your feelings out in the open and returned.

The way Eddie treated you made the warmth that much more pleasant. He made your enjoyment a priority, eyes on your face as he watched for any signs of discomfort. Even as his pace grew faster, hips snapping into yours - driving deeper, pulling out farther - now that you’d adjusted, he still kept his full attention on you.

And when you felt yourself beginning to fall over the edge for the second time, he hummed in encouragement. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathed, only just beginning to show how affected he was, voice wavering and breath a little labored. “Come for me. Sound so pretty when you do.”

After a few more snaps of his hips, you fell over the edge and Eddie was quick to follow with a low curse.

The high was unlike any you’d ever felt. It flooded your veins with fire, scorched you from within, and you swore you saw stars as you rode out your high. Eddie buried his face in the crook of your neck to catch his breath and, after a moment of desperately attempting to catch your own, you carded your fingers through his disheveled curls. He remained atop you - weight not quite fully pressed into you but enough for you to feel - for a few long moments before pulling out and tying off the condom. He stood, disappeared into the bathroom to toss it into the trash, before he returned and fell back into bed beside you.

“So,” he hummed, bouncing onto the mattress with a laugh and tugging you into his side. “First time. Not some frat guy in the backseat of some fancy car, or in some shitty dorm room but, not bad?”

“No,” you agreed, tipping your head to press a kiss to his collarbone. “Not bad. Not some frat guy but I think this was better.”

“You think?” Eddie scoffed with faux outrage. “Okay, well, clearly we’re gonna have to do this again and again and again until you know that this was better.”

Though the night began with an insecurity, in that wonderful way of his, Eddie managed to turn it into a beautiful moment. And though you were starting college in the fall, you knew that you wouldn’t be starting a virgin or searching for some frat boy to help you gain the experiences your friends so often spoke of. You would be starting college with a boyfriend and the knowledge that your love was requited. And you loved the idea that Eddie would be with you for every next step.

After all, what are boyfriends for?

__________________________________________________________

Author's Note: Slowly but surely going through the WIPs I have had for months. :)

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff, @valthevalkyrie-main, @crying-caro, @inglourious-imagines

#stranger things smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #v's fics

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zincbot · 1 year

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i love drawing intense facial expressions so much. add lines to that bitch

#i drew a crying face recently and like. yea tears all over the place #scrunch that nose. line those brows #my style is weird and not detail-oriented but i love drawing intense facial expressions. mostly negative ones but yanno #i feel like i got complimented once on my scrunchy expressions. feels good #i'm working on a new animatic rn and i'm using it mostly for some practice?#i'm taking more time and putting (a little bit) more effort into less intense things #still tryna learn how to draw. this animatic feels more like 'drawing' and less like. i dunno #just getting something thrown together enough to make a cool edit out of #this animatic barely has any editing is what i'm saying. so i really have to lean on the art #(scary)

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murdrdocs · 11 months

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miguel is (was) a father which means i am legally obliged to fantasize abt being his babysitter ! fem!reader

just being a college student, young, ambitious, trying to get by in the final stretch and needing just a little money from the outside to support you in the present, and future endeavors. it takes loads of searching around, and the job comes from a friend in the end. your friends mom to be exact, who swears that miguel o'hara is a nice man who looks stretched a little thin and the daycare that he frequents isn't what he needs.

you don't understand how a college student with minimal experience is any better, but he's interviewing you, asking you questions you barely stumble over, and suddenly you're the babysitter of gabriella o'hara, a sweet seven year old who just happens to have a smoking hot dad.

you try to keep things professional, and you succeed ... mostly. nothing but a few lingering glances and picking your best clothes and wearing enough makeup to look presentable. but in the end, it's him who crosses the thinly drawn line.

a night where he comes home from work earlier than expected, but he invites you to stay for dinner instead of going back to your place. your roommates are all out partying, and you aren't in the mood to be alone, so you're suddenly entertaining gabriella and helping her shower, then joining the small family at the table, trying to politely devour an amazing home cooked meal.

the night draws to a close, gabriella’s tucked into bed, first by yourself then by miguel, and you're standing at the top of the staircase, shoes in hand, purse in the other, a small smile on your lips.

"goodnight, mr. o'hara," you tell him, lifting a finger to wave best as you can as your sock-clad foot reaches out to find the first stair on the way down. but the floor creaks and you look up to see miguel approaching you until he's a half step away.

his large palms lift, they cup your cheeks, and his pink lips part as he speaks. "why don't you stay for a while longer?"

and the implications are there. they're practically written out for you. the breath is knocked from you, you take a large inhale through your nose to try and overcompensate, and just as you nod, miguel's lips are on yours. your sneakers and purse thud against the hardwood as you drop them in favor of holding onto miguel's waist, and you're incredibly thankful that gabriella is a heavy sleeper.

that night, miguel takes you into his room, the door closed and locked for the first time in a while, and you lay back on his bed, taking in the bedroom as best as you can with his head between your legs and quiet moans of his name slipping past your lips. in this most intimate moment, he treats you with the same respect that he has throughout your entire time working for him, just with an added bonus.

he still asks you if you're okay, but his praises have gone from telling you you're a great babysitter, to calling you a good girl, telling you that you're good for him. his polite touches on your shoulders in passing have turned to caressing your inner and outer thighs, or sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

it's something you've dreamt of, and never anticipated to become true, but you're extremely thankful that it did, and as you come on his tongue, you hope that it doesn't end here, even if the ordeal is messy and a little wrong.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara smut #celeste writes mcu #miguel ohara #spider man: across the spider verse #miguelsworld!

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urfavlarry · 24 days

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now... can we get that jealous Aiden but with Tyler?

Thank you❤

Jealous!Tyler Hernández x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, bad grammar, kinda short

summary: you got to a basketball court with Tyler, his teammates coming along as well when one of them decides to be a bit too touchy

A/N: i know he plays baseball but I made him play basketball for this fic haha

｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ⋆ ˚⋆⋆ ｡

You sat in the shade on the bleachers, watching Tyler and his teammates practice for an upcoming match with another school. You believed in them since they played with that school before and to say they were kinda bad was an understatement. You take some photos of Tyler in secret, and smile down at your phone. “How is he always so effortlessly pretty?” You think to yourself and put your phone away and decide to draw. You weren’t half bad at drawing, mostly drawing backgrounds and clothing designs. You were in your own world, lost in your thought when you feel a presence next to you. You look up to see one of Tylers teammates who was watching you with a smile. You smile awkwardly and wave; “Hey..?” You say hesitantly and close your sketchbook. “Hey, you’re Y/N right?” You nod and pray for this awkward interaction to end. “Yep, that’s.. uh.. that’s me.” You say and fiddle with your fingers, eying Tyler who was on the other side of the court.

The guy inches closer to you, putting an arm around your waist and your whole body stiffens. Your mind goes blank and every muscle in your body is as stiff as a rock. “Why are you here all alone? Why not come and play with us?” He asks and smiles at you, this fake, eerie smile. “Oh, I don’t really know how to play.” You quickly answer and try to keep distance between you but this guy really didn’t know what personal space is. “I could teach you..” He grabs your wrists and puts his chin on your shoulder. “When you wanna shoot for the hoop you put one arm here.” He guides your arm down and puts the other higher than the other. “Then when you want to throw it you do..” He gets cut off by someone yelling his name and he lifts his chin up to look in that direction. He doesn’t let go of your wrists and you just look down, feeling humiliated. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?” You hear an oh so familiar voice that you love so much and thank the gods that sent this angel to your rescue aka Tyler. “Hey, I was just teaching them how to play man, what are you so mad about hm? You’re acting like they’re your partner.” Tyler looks at him with a pissed of expression, pushing him off of you.

“Hey the fuck?!” The guy yells as you quickly gather your things and get off the bleachers. The guy was quite aggressive and pushed Tyler back, earning another push from Tyler. That seemed to even worsen the situation and the guy punched Tyler right in the nose. “Oh hell no.” Tyler says and throws the guy down, punching him repeatedly. There was blood everywhere, Tyler finally stopping after he heard a satisfying crack from the guys nose.

Tyler rubs the blood off his nose and grabs your wrist and leaves the court. You walk with him, staying quiet the whole way to his house. He unlocks the door and walks upstairs into the bathroom. “Sit.” You tell him and he looks at you and softens his expression, still kinda annoyed. You grab the first aid kit and grab bandages and some rubbing alcohol. You clean his bruised knuckles and wrap them in some bandages and clean his bloody nose, handing him a tissue to stop the bleeding.

You sit on the counter where the sink is and just quietly stay there, letting him collect his thoughts. It was an awkward silence so you finally decide to say something; “Hey i’m—” “Are you—” You both say at the same time and you shut your mouth so he can tell what he wants to say. He rubs his neck and waves you over so you come over, standing between his legs as he looks up at you. “Hey, I’m sorry for lashing out, I didn’t mean to make a scene.” He says and frowns a bit. You smile and kiss his forehead, bringing him into an embrace. You breath in his scent and relax under his touch. “No, it’s fine really, i’m grateful that you protected me. Another second with him and I swear he would be dead.” You say and hear a low chuckle escape his lips as he plays with your hair. You stay like that for a bit until he picks you up and walks with you to his room. He closes the door behind him and lays you down on the bed, laying down on top of you. He mumbles sweet nothings into your ear, kissing your neck. You rub his back look up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Tyler notices that you were a bit too quiet and looks up; “Hey you okay amor?” You nod and simply smile, still not looking at him. “I’m fine, just thinking about how lucky I am to have you as a boyfriend.” He smiles and peppers your face with kisses, making you giggle. “And I’m lucky to have the best partner in the world.”

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#tyler hernandez x you #tyler hernandez x y/n #tyler sbg x reader #sbg tyler x reader #sbg tyler #tyler hernandez x reader #tyler hernandez #tyler sbg #sbg x reader #sbg fanfic #sbg #sbg (webtoon)#school bus graveyard requests #school bus graveyard x y/n #school bus graveyard fanfiction #school bus graveyard x reader #school bus graveyard

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orionremastered · 3 months

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hi! I was wondering how the bats would be with a reader who is disabled or has prosthetics? they're all just very protective of people they care about since...everything, and how maybe that could start to feel sufacating at some point? Or something, idk dude

(also-the way you write is realy cute and sweet for all of them, makes them feel a lot less heavy when they have someone to hold them <33)

Masterlist

Batboys with a Disabled S/O

Dick Grayson [Fully Deaf]

A gentle touch on your shoulder prompts you to slowly turn around, a smile stretching across your face when you realise your boyfriend's back from work.

You pull him into your arms, threading your fingers through his hair. Pulling away reluctantly, you give him a kiss on the tip of his nose.

But he's not smiling; only a sad smile that makes you tilt your head in a silent question.

Don't worry about it, he signs. Have a good day?

You nod, though your frown remains when he moves to the kitchen, always adamant that he cooks whenever he's home. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, frowning at the caller ID and puts the phone on speaker as he begins cooking.

Dick gets more and more angry as the conversation goes on, his hands waving wildly around the small kitchen, only stopping to return to the cooking.

Finally, he hangs up. You tap him on the shoulder and he turns, watching as you sign;

Who was that?

Dick's shoulders raise and drop. A case I'm working on. I'll figure it out.

You nod slowly, satisfied with his response.

Jason Todd [Fully Blind]

Mornings with Jason always start like this. They always start with you gently running your fingers across his face, mapping it out and imagining it in your head. Over his nose, his lips, his stubble.

"Did you clean the apartment?" you ask, lying on top of him as your guide dog sits next to you on the mattress. "I almost knocked one of your guns off the counter yesterday."

"I did," he murmurs. You rest your fingers on his lips and feel that they're stretched into a smile. "I'm sorry for letting it get messy."

"That's okay," you reply quietly, "Ollie picked it up before it hit the floor."

Ollie, your guide dog, makes a huffing sound beside you, causing you both to chuckle.

"Good boy," Jason says proudly, feeling him shift underneath you, mostly likely to pat Ollie.

"You're both good. Too good, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jason asks.

"Hmm."

Tim Drake [Classical Ehlers-Danlos syndrome]

"Love? Can we go for a camping trip on the weekend with my friends?"

Tim turns his head slowly as he sits in his study chair. He taps the pen he's holding against his lips. "What happens if you get exhausted?"

"We can go back to the tent and rest."

"You can get bruises. A lot of bruises," he frowns, gesturing for you to walk to him. You comply.

"That's fine, they're just bruises," you respond, sitting on his lap. He begins gently drawing shapes on the bare skin of your thighs.

"You could dislocate something," he says to you, quieter now.

"You know how to put it back. You do it for me all the time."

Tim's brow furrows at the reminder of having to put back in dislocated joints more often than he'd like. "Fine. But if you even start to get a little tired, you tell me. Okay?"

You rest your forehead against his and murmur, "Okay."

Damian Wayne [Prosthetic Arm]

"I'll take those—"

"Damian, I love you, but I can put shopping bags into the car just fine." This and many similar conversations have been going on practically since the start of your relationship. And while you do find it endearing that he cares, sometimes you just want him to treat you like you didn't lose your right arm in an accident.

The man scowls. "But—"

"I'm not going to hurt myself, really."

He watches you warily, weighing the outcomes of the situation. "Fine. Only the lighter ones."

You suppose it's better than not being able to do any of them. Still, he watches you like a hawk as you put the lighter ones in the back of the car he bought you (you protested but that man has the most selective hearing).

He closes the trunk/boot after the bags are inside.

"Can I drive?" you ask, hoping you'll get luck there too.

"No."

"I know how."

"No."

#batfamily x reader #damian wayne x reader #batfam #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader

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hey-august · 3 months

Text

Word count: Just under 1k Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, mentions of masturbation, sex, and oral.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing.

Buggy who doodles all the time. Ugly little caricatures of people who piss him off. Goofy scribbles of bits that make him laugh. Potential skits.

Buggy who scrawls on the margins of paper, the corner of napkins, anywhere he can relieve the itch in his hands.

Buggy who designs costumes for his crew. Colored pencils and oil pastels bring the flashy couture to life.

Buggy who carries a small sketchbook in his coat. Deckle edged paper wrapped in leather, perfect for practicing pencil sketches and graphite drawings as he observes the crew.

Buggy who doesn’t share the drawings in his sketchbook, though. Some had to learn the hard way not to look over his shoulder.

Buggy who realizes too late that you are overtaking his personal pages. What started as small forms to study pose and movement grew larger, capturing more of your essence.

Buggy who becomes obsessed with capturing the small details. How your nose crinkles when you laugh. The sneer in your lips when you’re pissed. The way you rake your fingers through your hair when you try to calm yourself.

Buggy who gets curious late one night. Curious and desperate.

Buggy who draws you from memory and fueled by his filthy imagination. The soft sound of pencil scraping along the paper is comforting.

Buggy who fills a page with you in compromising positions. The lewd expressions you might wear. What he thinks you’d look like split on his cock. Or mouth open, begging to have your face fucked. His hands gripping your plush thighs.

Buggy who fucks himself to the hand-drawn porn and cums all over the page.

Buggy who feels guilty and burns the soggy drawings, as best he can. It takes a few frustrating tries and he panics, even though no one is around.

Buggy who tries to ignore those feelings. Trying to draw anything except you. But everything looks like shit now. Proportions are off. He presses too hard when sketching, unable to erase the stark lines. Even his doodles lack life.

Buggy who gives in and scribbles you in the corner of his sketchbook before moving on to something else. And it works. His movements flow better. A weight is lifted off his chest.

Buggy who eventually caves to the nighttime muse once more. Filling another perverted page with the obscene images flooding his mind. This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire.

Buggy who revisits that page frequently. Adds to that page. Convinces himself that it’s okay, it’s not hurting anyone. In fact, it helps him by taking away other urges.

Buggy who eventually manages to misplace his sketchbook. He fucking lost it.

Buggy who doesn’t want to bring attention to his lost treasure. If he says it’s missing, some freaks might find it and look through the pages. They’ll realize what a pathetic loser he is.

Buggy who frantically retraces his footsteps, barking orders to keep everyone away from him.

Buggy who finally finds it in the hallway just outside his room. The book must have fallen out of his pocket and laid mostly out of sight with the brown leather blending into the wooden floor.

Buggy who is relieved. It doesn’t look like the book had been touched or moved. Even the leather string is still wound around the sketchbook tightly.

Buggy who needs to get back to other duties after sloughing them off most of the day. He’s still on edge, reading into everyone’s interactions. No one acts differently, adding to the relief that no one knows about his perversions.

Buggy who doesn’t open the sketchbook until the end of a very long day. Who waits until he’s alone and in his room.

Buggy whose stomach lurches at the note peeking out of one of the pages. A page devoted to your smile. A note with your handwriting. “This is so impressive! I look so happy”

Buggy who slams the sketchbook shut and starts to pace around the room. Fuck. Did you find it first? Did you look through it? Why? What else did you see? What else did you see?

Buggy who freezes at the thought. Who stares at the awful book, as if it would pipe up and tell him in a fluttery voice.

Buggy who grabs the book and roughly throws it into a drawer, ready to lock up his feelings. Ready to deal with his unhealthy actions with more unhealthy actions.

Buggy who tries to go to bed but can’t sleep. He lays in bed surrounded by a carousel of thoughts. Of fear. And anxiety.

Buggy who sends over a hand to retrieve the damn book. He has to know. He’ll die if he doesn’t find out.

Buggy who can feel his hands shake with each heartbeat as he thumbs through the book, looking for more notes.

Buggy who feels both calmed and excited as he finds your commentary on a few more innocuous pages. Praises for his skill and appreciation for scenes he captured.

Buggy who finally flips to the page. That one.

Buggy who’s afraid to read the note you left there. But he does. “Want to collaborate one day?”

Buggy whose stomach and heart are in knots.

Buggy who keeps reading. “I’d like to see what you look like too.”

Buggy who shows up at your door, panting and red faced. Sketchbook in hand.

Buggy who trails his fingers along your face as he fucks into you, commiting each detail to memory. The shape of your mouth with each moan. Your lust-filled eyes. The little teeth marks left after you bite your lips.

Buggy who can’t help but stare at your sex-tired body. Chest heaving. Glistening.

Buggy who still wants to taste you. To taste himself on you. Who uses his mouth and tongue to memorize more of your body.

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing and collaborating.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

A/N: Just want to highlight this line bc I love it "This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire."

#buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #buggy the clown #buggy the clown smut #one piece smut #buggy x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader

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konigbabe · 10 months

Text

MELTING

Pairing: Choso Kamo x fem!reader Word count: 1.5k Tags/warnings: no y/n; one bed trope; mutual pining; manga spoilers (Culling Game Arc); smut; soft!choso; p-in-v sex; unprotected sex; female gendered anatomy Summary: You and Choso stay behind and protect Tengen during the upcoming Culling Games. There’s just one problem – Tengen only provided one bed. Part of my JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

Choso feels speechless.

You are rather taken aback.

“We should take turns,” he suggests first, “it’s better if one of us is awake anyway.”

Standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with eyes fixated on the empty bed in front of you, you simply nod. It might be better this way. More appropriate, practical. A way to ensure one of you stays vigilant.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want appropriate.

Especially not with this man, lithe frame adorned in a snug-fitting vest, its fabric caressing the curves of his body like a second skin, shape emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders against his slender waist. It’d be wrong to assume that for a few months old Cursed Womb, there's not an undeniable attractiveness about him.

But Christ – having to share a bed with him has to be some sort of punishment. A tempting torture.

You don’t know when things started to take a turn for you. It could be his constant, obvious glances towards you that you catch even from your peripheral vision.

The soft touch when his thumb and index finger lift your chin. Your face yields to his grasp, a vulnerable flower leaning toward the sun's caress, as he tilts it slightly to one side and then to another, checking for injuries with profound tenderness. It’s hard to miss how his eyes, pools of amaranthine depths, catch glimmers of light, reflecting a mesmerizing, twilight hue.

Or the way his hand always finds its place on your shoulder, on the expanse of your back; a pat on your thigh when you’re sitting side by side.

Why, of all the people, Choso had to be the one to volunteer to stay with you and Tengen. Now you’re stuck here alone.

He lightly touches your side. Nudges your shoulder with his elbow, drawing your gaze towards him.

“What you think,” he pulls you back.

Lashes fluttering, lips parted slightly, eyes following the straight bloody line on the bridge of his nose before finally reaching his own–

“Yeah, let’s do it this way.”

–he knows. Many people might have him for nothing more than a curse. He mostly feels like nothing more than a cursed spirit but Choso has eyes. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, pupils tracing the planes of his cheeks, how your eyes flicker between his eyes and lips when you talk. And stay on the later longer than deemed necessary.

Even back in Shibuya. Back when he stood opposite you. Your determination, desire to fight a battle you had no chance of winning. Choso fought for his brothers, his fallen family. He had a solid, concrete cause in his eyes. You–you fought for the goodness of your heart; met most of the sorcerers you fought side by side mere months before, being dragged into that whole mess by someone else. You had every right to turn back, to go away. You had no reason to be there. Yet you stayed, fought and almost lost your life just because of the light in yourself.

It compelled him; you enchanted him.

The first few days work well. You barely meet Choso; he sleeps during the nighttime, you take the bed during the day. And even without being by his side at those times, you found out more about him–he has a favorite side of the bed, the dip always prominent after his muscular frame even after he leaves.

In the embrace of loneliness, you reluctantly confess the truth to yourself: you purposefully sleep on the same side of the bed, seeking solace in the lingering remnants of his presence. The mattress still bears the faint imprint of his form, a ghostly echo of his touch.

The fading warmth of his body, once pressed against the sheets, now offers comfort to your restless soul. The air carries the scent of him, a heady concoction of subtle muskiness and something uniquely Choso.

As the time shortens, it’s time to discuss tactics. Create a defense plan for the upcoming fight. The shadow of Kenjaku creeps nearer, and Tengen senses it too. The plan you have crafted, driven by Choso’s unwavering resolve, seems daring and reckless, an audacious gambit with little chance of survival, to put it mildly.

Emotions run high, tangled in a web of desperation.

So you make up your mind.

Tonight.

That’s how you end up in bed. Together; the delicate touch of your hand melding with Choso’s rugged grasp, each finger finding its place amidst the roughness of his calloused palm as he pushes the back of your hand into the solid mattress.

Rising a hand to scrape the back of his neck. Feel the trickle of sweat against the pads of your fingers, pushing his head closer to you. Eyes darkened, the tendrils of pleasure swirling in the hue of his pupils, breath hot against your jawline. Lips grazing the soft contour of your cheek. Hushed moans in your ear, shooting straight into your core; make your pussy grip his cock, suck him in.

You want to get lost in the moment, to savor the ecstasy surging and undulating, gently rippling across your skin each time he bottoms out inside you. His touch is tender, hand sliding down your side, stopping at the curve of your hip.

You cup his face, relishing the wetness of his lips on yours; tongue swirling with yours, passionate and desperate. Choso moves away from your mouth, leaves you whimpering, whining. Kisses trailing down your chin, neck, over the curve of your clavicle with his hand kneading the supple flesh of your breast.

He’s caressing your body as if he’s mapping out the geography of your desire, learning the secrets and contours that his fingers can work in tandem to bring you to the brink. Choso’s lips are supple against your flesh, fingertips tingling with a tantalizing touch–

(We could die tomorrow.

Does it scare you? Death?

It terrifies me.)

–it goes in contrast to his thrusts. Short, sharp. Hard.

Choso shifts down; the strain in your legs feels painfully blissful as he keeps both legs over his shoulders. Opens you up for him. Cock gliding against your gummy walls, head kissing the innermost parts of you.

Your hand glides over his arm, untamed canvas slick with the sheen of sweat. So warm, burning beneath your naked palm. Trace the ripples curving along his bicep, sink your nails into the landscape of his shoulder blade.

Body tensing, melting against yours with each thrust; ankles crossing over the back of his neck, you lock him in. Entrap him within your grasp, feeling the slide of his cock as he pulls back before coming back in.

“Christ–right there,” your head falls backward, eyes fluttering closed, “s–good.”

Choso’s eyes sparkle down at you. Hand cradling your cheek, thumb running over the swell of your lower lip as he continues to drive himself deeper inside. He utters soft endearments, your name spoken in a whisper of desire as his hips drive into you with an unfolding intensity.

He pauses when your back arches, body writhing in immense pleasure that he’s giving you. He pulls back completely, feeling his own high reaching way too soon. He takes a moment, breathing in the sweet smell of your skin, the musky scent of your arousal filling his senses, before slowly pulling back. Taking care to let you feel the full extent of his presence and allowing himself to relish the tightness that grips around his cock as he slides out.

(He has to pull back. Has to stop himself from spilling over. It can’t be over so soon.)

You shudder at how empty you feel without him.; then he jams himself deep again. Wants to make you swallow him whole. Taking your hands in his, fingers curling around your wrists, pushing your arms over your head; drinking in the sight of your blissed face and heavy eyes as he moves.

The blooming of pleasure radiates within you, out from your core, intensified with every plunge of his cock. With each drag. You cry out, calling his name; the sound of your voice urging him on.

His movements become more frantic as his body rebels against the desire for release. He can’t contain himself any longer. Choso shudders inside your walls; abdomen contracting, spasming as he grunts, body tensing. Painting your walls in pearlescent colors, your name a strained breath from his chest.

Your body quivers in pleasure, feeling the warmth of his release deep within. Legs untangling, moving along the contour of his naked body, feeling the muscles contracting underneath your calves before landing on the mattress; still spread apart, to accommodate Choso’s wide body.

Eyes closing, a satisfied smile on your lips, as a blissful wave of pleasure passes through you. Choso’s palm returns to cradle your face; watching you, his breathing still ragged, body trembling with the aftermath of his climax.

He doesn’t even notice the corners of his lips turning upwards.

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diaryofaprettyprincess · 2 years

Note

Yandere!Eddie gets jealous and angry because Steve starts to baby bimbo!reader like he does. He can tell he likes her too. (:

please he'd get so mad!!!

ʚ♡⃛ɞ

CW: possessive!eddie munson, yandere!eddie munson, bimbo!reader, power dynamic, jealousy, jealous!eddie, eddie and reader aren't dating yet, flirty!steve harrington, babying, mentions of stalker!eddie, crying (from reader), cursing (from reader), manipulation, toxic!eddie, slightly toxic!steve, steve harrington hate (from eddie) dw steve is one of my fav characters i love him sm <333, crybaby!reader (hints of), mentions of hickeys, hickey-giving, kissing (reader thinks that the kisses she shares with eddie are platonic.. even if she is in love with him or whatever screwed up version of love they have lol. eddie just takes adavantage of her..dumbness (lol sorry))

ʚ♡⃛ɞ

basically all of hellfire club along with steve are at eddie's trailer celebrating their campaign being over. steve's only there because 1) he knew you would be wherever eddie was (and vice versa) and 2) he was dustin's ride home. so, he decided to stay.

everyone's just drinking either juice or alcohol and listening to some of eddie's metal music on his boombox, talking about the campaign, school, girls, eddie's band, or whatever. everyone's just relaxing.. well, mostly everyone.

eddie sees you sitting on steve 'the hair' harrington's lap.

steve's lap.

you're giggling and blushing at whatever the fuck he's saying and it's needless to say eddie is fuming.

you're his, for crying out loud!

sure, you two weren't official, and maybe you didn't quite know it....yet, but there were lots of things you didn't know. like basic things and the fact that eddie would watch you sleep and take pictures of you showering or.. pleasing yourself and then he would jack off to it later on in his bed, moaning your name while he holds a pair of your panties he stole from your laundry basket a long time ago up to his nose to finish himself off.

how he had a secret compartment in his closet filled with your things.. but it was only because he loved you! only because he knew what was best for you! and he knew that steve fucking harrington was not the one for you. eddie was.

he protected you and cherished you and loved you relentlessly. he bought you gifts because he liked seeing your face light up. he bought you things with all of the money he earned from selling weed instead of the things that he really needed. like food, for example. he would starve himself till the day he died if it meant seeing you happy.

happy because of him.

so when he saw steve harrington, hawkins' 'golden boy', spoon-feeding you ice cream from a plastic bowl and kissing your cheek and neck every fucking second (just like how eddie would feed you lunch everyday!), he was sure that he was going to fucking kill him.

but, he knew that if he did that he would be seperated from you, his one true love, and he could not have that! so, putting out the cigarette he was smoking on the coffee table's ashtray and getting up from his chair, he made his way over to you and steve.

he could hear steve mutter a soft, "good girl," and "you're such a pretty baby," everytime you swallowed the strawberry icecream.

that should be him.

it usually was.

how could you betray him like this?

you looked up from your spot on steve's lap, eyes wide and glimmering softly.

eddie's heart practically melted.

steve looked up, however his reaction was more so filled with distaste.

"eddie!" you squealed, reaching your hands up and making grabby hands to let eddie know you wanted to be picked up. usually, that made his heart swell, but instead he just held onto your hands with his own; his large hand engulfing yours. you pouted softly, slightly confused.

steve rolled his eyes, annoyed that eddie ruined his fun.

"what do you want, man?" steve asked, his hands still resting on your hips, drawing lazy circles with his thumbs.

eddie felt his body heat up with anger.

the fuck do you think, Hairball?

eddie smiled, cheshire cat-like. "oh, i just need to talk to y/n.."

"mm, sure you do," steve rolled his eyes, "but we're busy right now..isn't that right, baby?" he looked at you so sweetly it made your heart swell.

"y-yeah," you giggled.

eddie's smile dropped, his hands squeezing so tight with anger it began to crush yours. you yelped, pulling your hands away from his.

why are you doing this to him?

"owie! eddie that hurt!" you whined, and steve just pouted, cooing and kissing your knuckles softly. you blushed.

eddie felt like he was going to be sick.

"y/n." eddie said sternly, causing you to whip your head around and look at him, your bottom lip jutted out, tears forming in your eyes.

normally, eddie would feel bad for making you upset...but the anger took over.

"I need to talk to you...alone. in private."

you nodded, getting off of steve's lap as if you followed eddie around like a lapdog. which to be fair, you always did.

steve just scoffed, not at you, but at eddie's rudeness. he knew eddie was obsessed with you. when would you stop complying with whatever that metal-head wanted?

when would that.. freak get over you?

the answer: never.

you followed eddie to his room, sniffling softly.

was he mad at you?

once you make it to his room he slams the door, cornering you against his wall.

"what the fuck was that, y/n?" he spat, and you gazed up at him, confused.

"w-what was what, eds?" you asked softly, trembling at the fact that he was using your real name and not a cute little nickname like "princess", "sweetheart", "baby", or "bunny".

"God, do you have to be so fucking dense all the time?!" he lashed out, and that's when you started to cry.

"E-Eddie, i don' like it when you yell.."

Eddie just rolled his eyes, annoyed.

Again, if he had you crying (negatively) in any other situation he would be on his knees kissing your feet and begging for your forgiveness (which he has done before). But in this situation, he was more mad at steve than you and he unfortunately took most of his anger out on you.

"i wouldn't 've had to yell if you weren't out there all over steve fucking harrington! I mean.. what the fuck was that?"

he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, the silver of his rings glittering in the yellow lamp-light in his room, the pretty sparkly- look almost distracting you.

Almost.

"H-he was jus' feedin' me some ice cream!" you reason, fiddling with the bottom hem of your skirt.

"No, he was all over you! H-he was kissing you, and--and babying you!" he got up closer to you. "I'm the only one that can do that, baby, you know that.." You nodded softly, sniffling again.

He held your chin with this thumb, making sure you looked at him.

"I-I didn't wanna make you cry, but... baby, you drive me fucking insane! I mean--the things we do, y/n, they are things that only you and I can do... do you understand, baby? Hm?" he used his thumb then back of his hand to wipe off your fallen salty tears from your face.

"I-I understand, eddie.. didn' know! 'm sorry," you whimpered, and eddie smiled softly again, pulling you into a tight hug.

"It's okay, baby.. just- whenever you wanna be held or fed or whatever, come to me, sweetheart. okay?"

you nodded against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head.

pulling you away from his chest you mewled a soft, "kissie?" with your lips pouted. his heart skipped a beat, and he swore to God that he might die. And if he did die, he would go happy.

"'f course, baby," he sealed his lips over yours, kissing you for a moment or two and then passionately kissing you before pulling away. "you're my good girl, I love you so much." he admitted, and you giggled.

"I love you more, eds."

"impossible." he whispered, wiggling his fingers around on your waist to get you to laugh again.

However, what he said was true. It was impossible for you to love him more than he loved you.

"Now, I do believe we are expected to go back to the party at some point..Shall we?" he held his hand out and you took it, giggling more than ever.

For the rest of the night you sat on eddie's lap, snuggling into his neck and exchanging kisses with him.

He spoon fed you ice cream, and held the water bottle for you to help you drink.

He whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

He sucked on your neck and left hickey's on the supple skin.

Steve left early.

btw i didnt re-read it for any mistakes so ignore if there are any! thank you anon! <33

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fettuccinealfred0 · 4 months

Text

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 4

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 7.6k

(CW: general vampirism, very light descriptions of injury)

Summary:

Astarion’s cold hand reaches out to catch your own as you move to drop it back to your side and he presses your palm against his cheek. His skin is like silk and you can hardly stop yourself from softly running your thumb over his beautiful cheekbone.

He leans in closer, lips just a breath away from yours. You hope he will lean down and kiss you. That he will wrap you in his arms and never let you go. You close your eyes and tilt your head up in anticipation.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

Read on ao3 here

“What are you reading?” Astarion asks, flopping himself onto the settee next to you.

You lift the book up so he can see the cover. Bram Stroker’s Dracula. “I’m doing research on vampires.”

“Very funny,” Astarion says with a sour face. It makes you giggle as you turn back to your book.

Astarion watches you for a moment before he lets out a frustrated huff that you know is meant to draw your attention back to him.

“Why are you spending all your time surrounded by dusty old books when you could ask me, a real vampire?” He does a self-important flourish with his hand that causes you to snort out another laugh.

It seems too harsh to say ‘because I still don’t know if I can trust a word that comes out of your mouth.’ And really, you do mostly trust him now. You just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something bigger going on around here.

You see Astarion whispering with Shadowheart and Gale in dark corners. You see the weird visitors- the giant, friendly woman, the stern looking warrior-woman, and the man with two different colored eyes- that Astarion always immediately rushes into his study. You had tried listening at the door the last time they came, but you still couldn’t hear anything.

Astarion couldn’t necessarily be called paranoid because, yeah, you were listening at the door. But to be fair, his actions were definitely suspicious. And what were you supposed to do- not try to solve this puzzle which had so wonderfully presented itself to you?

“Come, little flower, ask me anything. I promise there’s plenty of juicy details that are far too scandalous for your books to mention,” Astarion lightly pulls your attention back to him when he notices you chewing on your lip as you think.

He’s hooked you there and he knows it- you never could resist the opportunity to indulge your curiosity. You curl up your feet so Astarion can settle more comfortably next to you and he slings his arm over the back of the settee. Perhaps you imagined it, but you could swear you caught his eyes darting down to your bare calf when you shifted, before you could adjust your skirts to cover yourself.

“What happens if you come into contact with garlic?”

“Aside from bad breath?” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “It’s not deadly or anything, it just reeks. No sane vampire would ever go near the stuff.”

“What about silver?”

“A very pretty metal, though I’m partial to gold,” He answers, gesturing down to his waistcoat, which is made of a shimmery golden silk with swirling floral patterns. Your husband never was one for minimalism.

“What about running water?” You ask, practically having to rip your eyes away from his waistcoat. For under his waistcoat, lay his chest. And the idea of that lovely expanse of alabaster skin had quickly become an image which plagued you in the dark of night.

“Should I be growing concerned about this line of questioning? You seem to only want to know about things that can harm me. I thought your questions would be much more fun.”

You smirk at him. “Please. If I wanted to hurt you, I already would have.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all, you feisty little devil,” Astarion says with a wicked grin. His red eyes flicker dangerously, like fire. “As for running water- I do love a bath. Though, it would be all the more delightful if you decided to join me. I could make it… very worth your while.”

His eyes rake over you and you struggle in vain to ignore the familiar flames of heat licking at your cheeks. You can’t decide if the cause is embarrassment or arousal, or both.

“Do you remember what color your eyes were?” You ask, figuring you’ve teased him enough with your initial questions.. Astarion looks genuinely shocked for a moment before his forehead creases a bit. “You know, I’m not sure I do. It’s been so long.”

“How long?” you ask cautiously, like you’re approaching a wild animal. You expect him to skitter away at this line of questioning. Astarion doesn’t like deeply personal questions. He likes wordplay and teasing and, occasionally, dropping the odd fact about himself if you listened closely enough.

“A couple hundred years,” he answers. It breaks your heart to hear that. To know he’s spent so long like this. He couldn’t have been older than his thirties when he was turned, which means he had been a vampire many lifetimes longer than he was alive. Does he even remember what it was like?

“I think they were gray. Or maybe green?” Astarion is still thinking, lost in his own little world. He sits for another moment. “Whatever. You have to admit that the red suits me, doesn’t it, darling?”

He shoots you a wink, said red eyes glinting playfully. You almost have whiplash from how quickly he was able to fall back into his flirtatious performance. By now, you have spent enough time with Astarion to know this act is what he reverts back to when he wants to reestablish control in a conversation, when he wants to stop himself from settling into uncomfortable emotions.

“Your eyes were blue,” you tell him and he looks at you warily. “I ran across the portrait of your family one day. You looked so much like your mother.”

You don’t tell him of all the hours you had spent studying the painting, turning the image over and over in your mind trying to figure out how this piece fit into the puzzle.

“Why would you tell me that?”

And to your surprise, he’s angry at your words. You note this reaction in your mind- that bringing up his past will warrant anger and leave you without any useful information.

“So you could reclaim a part of yourself that was either stolen from you or that you forgot,” you say softly. Astarion’s eyebrows bunch together and he looks deep in thought. It’s making the room too heavy, his thoughts seem too dark.

“How were you turned?” You ask, trying to distract him while also trying to get more of your questions answered.

When he speaks, his tone seems too measured, too rehearsed. “Someone is turned when a vampire drains them dry and buries their body. It’s a rite of passage to dig yourself out of your grave. Of course, the body has to be buried almost immediately or the ritual won’t work and the person will just be dead. It’s a… delicate balance.”

He technically did answer your question, but the story of his turning is noticeably missing.

“Have you ever turned someone?”

“No, I didn’t have that ability for a long time. And now, I don’t really care to.” He’s trying to feign nonchalance, but you see the way his fist is clenched so tightly in his lap that his nails are digging painfully into his palms. He’s hiding something.

“But you’re a vampire?” Your own brow furrows in confusion, because it doesn’t make sense that he would be a vampire but not be able to turn someone.

“Am I?” Astarion asks sarcastically, examining his skin. “I hadn’t noticed. Thank you for that astute observation.”

You nudge him with your foot. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, but it’s just so fun to tease you, pet. I simply can’t resist.”

He’s trying to get himself out of this line of questioning by baiting you with teasing. But the way he’s still holding his shoulders so tightly, you know there’s still valuable information to be gained.

“So, you’re not a ‘real’ vampire?” you ask again, trying to coax him back on track.

“Now I am.” Astarion takes a deep breath in and out. “For a long time, I was just a vampire spawn.”

“How’s that any different?” You had read a bit about vampires and vampire spawn while doing your vampire research in the library, but the accounts were so varied that it was hard to discern what was true or false. From what you could gather, a vampire spawn serves a vampire lord. And it is rather strange that Astarion doesn’t seem to have any running around the manor.

Astarion is still quiet, so you rephrase the question. “What’s the story behind how you were turned, then?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Astarion finally snaps, shooting you a glare.

“You said I could ask you anything.” You remind him, sure to keep your tone calm and measured.

“I said you could ask, I didn’t say that I would answer,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s so tense, jaw tight and shoulders nearly up to his ears.

You pout and he softens a bit, lowering his arm from the back of the settee to graze his fingertips gently over the back of your hand.

“There are some stories that only serve to harm when they are told, little flower,” he says quietly and the pained look on his face sends a twinge to your heart that makes you drop the subject entirely.

In moments like this, you must remind yourself that his beauty is a shield- a defense mechanism meant to amplify his pain and provoke a response from you. Even though you are aware of this, the way Astarion looks when he’s in pain has you nearly falling to your knees and begging forgiveness for ever daring to hurt him..

“What happens if you drink the blood of someone who’s drunk?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood after the heavy turn.

You know he’ll welcome a silly question like that. And the radiant smile that lights up Astarion’s face is worth dropping your real line of question. You could ask another time. Right now, you would do just about anything to keep him smiling like this in front of you.

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask! You can get drunk from them, but you have to drink a lot and the effects fade far too quickly. I much prefer wine for a quick buzz.”

“Makes sense with that cellar I found downstairs,” you tease. Though, cellar was a bit of an understatement. Grand network of caverns filled with more wine than you could ever conceive of existing was a more apt description.

“Darling, you should know by now that I collect and cherish the things I enjoy,” Astarion says in a deep, husky voice, eyes looking up at you sinfully from underneath his pale lashes.

The image of him cherishing you fills your mind and sets your face aflame. It would be so easy for his hand to reach out, to tilt your chin up and present your face to his. All he would have to do is lean over, just a little bit closer, and his pretty pink lips would press against yours. They would be soft and cool against your burning skin.

No. Stay focused. This was the time for getting some much needed answers out of Astarion, not the time for silly romantic fantasies.

“Do you like being a vampire?” you ask after clearing your throat. You take great care to keep your voice as calm as possible, afraid you might again be leading Astarion into tumultuous waters.

Astarion takes a moment before he speaks and you can watch his thoughts play out on his face. The slight frown when he first processes your question, the way his eyes dart around the room as if he will think up some witty response to distract you, the gentle furrow in his brow as he tries to think of a genuine response.

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.” He’s trying hard to keep his own voice measured and controlled when he speaks. “It’s… complicated. I certainly don’t regret being turned. Not anymore, at least.”

Not anymore. So, he did regret being turned at some point. But why? What horrors has he witnessed that were so unspeakable? Was his turning really that traumatic?

Perhaps he had been in a war? You had read many stories that portrayed war as the worst of what humanity could do to one another. But no, that’s ridiculous. Astarion is nobility, he practiced law. And Astarion isn’t the type to involve himself in other’s petty squabbles, anyway.

But the faraway, pained look in Astarion’s eye has you thinking that whatever he had suffered must have been akin to the worst of war.

“Would you ever want to be a vampire?” He surprises you by turning the question back on you. You curl your arms around your knees, pulling them closer to your chest. Your reaction isn’t an immediate no, which surprises you a bit.

“I don’t know. Depends on the circumstances, I think,” you tell him.

What you really mean is that it depends on if eternity would look like this. If eternity would involve reading in the gardens or Astarion and you sitting next to each other on a settee and talking. Those might be terms you could agree to.

“I think I would really miss the sunlight,” you give Astarion a sad smile.

No sunlight means no gardens during the day, no talking strolls in the forest, no swimming in a river and sunbathing on a rock to dry yourself off. The life of a vampire is cold and dark and lonely. Only, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so lonely for you?

“A small price to pay for eternal life,” Astarion says with what you have come to understand is his hollow performance voice. Meant to dazzle an audience and distract people from the fact that his real feelings contradict what he is saying.

You watch him carefully as he settles deeper into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to tamper whatever melancholy had been brewing inside him.

“Come on then, darling, read to me,” he says, giving you a wicked grin, “I can tell you what they got wrong in your little book.”

You read aloud and Astarion chimes in with little quips like ‘that’s not right,’ and ‘what do you think about me taking two more brides like this Dracula fellow, pet?’ and ‘good gods, just skip over the parts about Renfield, he’s a disgusting, pathetic character.’

But as you continue to read, Astarion slowly lets his head rest against the back of the couch and his eyes grow heavy before they eventually fall closed. The frequency of his interruptions slows until he’s just giving little hums of acknowledgement when you read something especially shocking or profound.

When you make it over two pages without a single interruption, you pause to look over at him. His deep, even breaths lead you to think he might have fallen asleep. With a smile, you turn back to the book and keep reading, perfectly content to never let this moment end, even if the number of remaining pages was starting to dwindle.

—---------

The longer you spent around Astarion, the more you realize that he did occasionally sprinkle the truth into his words- for even the best charlatans use truth to make their facades seem more real. Astarion wasn’t unique in that regard.

As such, you were determined to find the flakes of truth in Astarion’s story, determined to piece together the puzzle of the man you called your husband. It would be your most challenging and most rewarding prize yet.

So, you study him. You watch and you learn every tiny expression on his face. Astarion might be a masterful performer, but there were involuntary reactions even he could not control- a slight furrow of the brow, an inhale, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. And sometimes, there were flashes of something in his eyes- joy, wonder, terror, despair- so quick that a lesser trained eye might have missed them completely.

You notice these details because they are important to your cause. And yet, they stick around in your head for hours, repeating like some terribly wonderful time loop.

And you find yourself craving his company. You tell yourself that it’s not because you particularly enjoy his presence, but because every interaction gives you more information, gets you one step closer to discovering the truth beneath the mask. And yes, he was beautiful and wonderful to look at, but you only gazed upon him so often because you were collecting valuable data.

Though… it was remarkable how he seemingly had no bad angles. How the candlelight bent to his whim, following him around and dancing against his skin.

And gods damn him, Astarion can be funny, when he wants to be. He’s well-read and full of little tales and salacious secrets about the other nobles and their ancestors. In another life, you would have thought the gods crafted him especially for you- your perfect conversation partner.

Although Astarion will never love you, never desire you in the way that you secretly know you will always want him, you think he has come to find some enjoyment in your companionship, too. Some of his smiles seem a bit too real, some of his laughs a little too wild to be rehearsed. You imagine he regards you as a sort of… pet. Or, if you really dare to dream, perhaps a friend.

You must constantly remind yourself that his flirtations are empty, practiced phrases that are meant to disarm you. They do not show you he cares for you or that he wants you. You try to ignore that deep, viscous part of you that calls out to him, that wants him to think of you fondly, that hopes that you are driving him as mad with your presence as he drives you.

Over the past month, you’ve become semi-nocturnal. You find Astarion is much more active once the sun has gone down and the later you stay awake, the more time you get to spend with him. It’s unsettling how naturally your life seems to shift to accommodate him.

When you do make your way out to the garden in the late afternoons, Halsin happily congratulates you in his friendly, over-the-top way on the state of your marriage and how you and Astarion have managed to grow together despite your initial difficulties. You know he means it sincerely, but the words leave you a stuttering, embarrassed mess. You didn’t think you were being so obvious about your growing… affection for Astarion.

So, you start reading in the library more often than the garden, now that the air has started to turn crisp in the autumn nights.

Or at least, you’ve convinced yourself that’s the reason why and not because you secretly hope that Astarion will come join you.

And he does join you, some days. He’ll stride in with a book or some papers and take up residence on the couch across from you. On the really good days, he’ll sit on the couch beside you and ask you to read aloud and you get to lean against him while you read to him.

Tonight, he decided to accompany you to the library after dinner. He’s sitting in a chair across from your favorite settee and he’s only wearing a flowing white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You keep sneaking peeks up at him, mesmerized by the blue veins in his arms and how the lean muscles move when he turns a page. You’re trying really hard to be subtle- only letting yourself glance up for a moment every couple of minutes.

But, gods, it’s so difficult to focus on the words in front of you with that expanse of skin teasing you.

“You haven’t turned a page in a very long time, darling,” Astarion says without even looking up from his own book.

“And how attentive are you to your own reading if you’ve been listening for me to turn the page?” You shoot back.

“Oh, I’ve been finished for ages. I just couldn’t stand to leave you.” He gives you that devilish, tantalizing grin where one corner of his mouth curves up more than the other. It sends your heart fluttering like a hummingbird in your chest.

“Well,” you sigh, shutting your book and attempting to act casual, as if your formerly self-declared enemy hadn’t just caught you gawking at his forearms. “I suppose I’m not going to get any more of this finished tonight.”

“I apologize, I know my presence is entirely too distracting,” Astarion says, and the arrogant look on his face makes you roll your eyes. He’s not wrong, but he'd be entirely too pleased with himself the rest of the evening if you admitted it out loud.

“Yes, how does anyone get anything done with you around?” you say sarcastically instead.

“I haven’t the faintest idea how,” Astarion lets out a suffering sigh, as if his beauty is too much for the world to handle (it is). You can’t let yourself think about it too long or you’ll devolve in idle fantasies about what it might feel like to trace those beautiful veins in his arms all the way up to his chest.

You snap your book shut, “Want to join me on a walk around the gardens?”

You need to get out of here, where the stifling air and Astarion’s flowy white shirt are clouding your mind. But you don’t want this night to end yet. Not just yet. In truth, you gladly and greedily take as much time as Astarion’s willing to give you.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be in the world.”

He says it with that easy, flirtatious tone and you know he probably doesn’t really mean it. But that deep part of you that feeds on Astarion’s praise still preens.

The cool air is refreshing when you step outside and your head finally begins to clear. Astarion holds his arm out for you and you let your fingers brush against the skin of his forearm as you tuck yourself into his side.

When you turn to look at him, he’s practically luminescent. The moonlight was made for him, bouncing off his white curls and casting a gentle glow over his pale skin. As the moon reflected the sun’s light, Astarion seemed to reflect the moon’s. You were simply lucky to bask in his presence.

Arm in arm, you wander through the garden, pointing out your favorite flowers to Astarion and checking in on the blooms. It’s reached that part of autumn where some perennials have started to sleep, ready to reawaken in the spring. The sunflowers, always one of your favorites, are drooping for the night, waiting to chase after the sun again tomorrow, and you frown a bit when you see them.

“It’s a shame you never get to see the gardens during the day. The colors, the blooming flowers. It’s truly one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen in my life,” you say, as you and Astarion move into the rose garden. Everything new you find out about vampirism makes it sound like an isolating, dreary existence. You make a mental note that Astarion could use some cut flowers in his study every now and then, though it feels like a poor substitute for the splendor of the full gardens.

Because it is your mission to study Astarion, you don’t miss the fleeting, pained look that passes over his face, the look he always gets when you dig a bit too close to a truth he’d rather keep buried.

You used to push him on these, but you quickly found that got you nowhere. No, Astarion responded far better to a gentle touch rather than provocation and name calling. You were coming to realize that he would tell you in time, in his own way. And you had started to find that you didn’t mind waiting for answers if it kept you in his company that much longer.

And oh, how rewarding those answers were when he gifted them to you in the dark of the night, offering up little pieces of himself like Tara delivering you a dead mouse.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be prattling on- '' you try to backtrack, to apologize for the sadness that you have caused to enter his eyes.

You sometimes wonder what his eyes would look like if they were still blue- would they be pale blue like soft ocean waves or rich and deep like the blue flowers in the garden?

With his red eyes in front of you, his sadness is akin to pain, all blood and gore and unspoken horrors. No, you decide, if Astarion had blue eyes they must look like dark rain clouds when he is sad. For if Astarion weeped, would the heavens themselves not cry for him?

“Nonsense,” Astarion cuts you off and you’re acutely aware of how your husband has been studying you just as intently as you were watching him. Admittedly, the two of you were remarkably similar underneath it all. All sharp teeth and claws masking scared and fragile hearts.

He gives your hand a little squeeze where it rests on his forearm. “It’s wonderful to see the world through your eyes.”

He says it so casually, like he hasn’t caused your knees to buckle and your soul to leave your body. Occasionally, he slips in sentiments like that, with no regard for your poor heart. You’re dangerously close to having hope that he actually means them.

But no, you remind yourself. There was no way Astarion’s words could be trusted. He said things, he did things to get a reaction out of you because he grew bored and because he knew how badly you wanted him, how badly everyone wanted him. There was no reason to hope. He had entertained you at the ball because he was hungry, he had married you to tie up loose ends, and he spent time with you now because he had very little other company up here in his lonely manor.

You do not mean as much to him as he does to you.

You distract yourself from that thought spiral by talking, amazed at how easy and willing you are to offer up information to him now, “I used to have a book with flowers drawn in it as a little girl that I would stare at all day. There were so many that I’d never thought I’d get to see in real life, until I came here. And there were some flowers that I didn’t even know existed until I saw them here for the first time. These gardens are everything I could have ever dreamed of.”

Astarion gives you a smile that lights up his whole face and he seems so proud, like the whole purpose of his life is to make you happy. Your heart sings again and you shush her immediately.

Astarion’s beauty was not something you would ever grow used to. And in the lighting tonight, his profile sent a cold shock through your body. You had never felt so alive. You had never yearned for death more.

“My mother used to love the gardens here. She used to always try to get me to help her plant things. I wish…” He trails off, reaching out to stroke a delicate rose petal with his fingers. “Well, I wish I would have appreciated that more when I was younger. You never realize as a child how precious those memories will one day become.”

“And I wish you could have seen it then,” he says, letting out a wistful sigh. “You would have loved it. The gardens were even grander and more vast than what they are now. When I returned, they were in such disrepair that it pained me to look at them for ages. I hired Halsin to help restore them and he did a wonderful job, of course, but it’s just…”

He continues to stare at the flower he holds in his hand, unable to find the words to finish his sentence.

“Not the same?” you complete the thought for him and he nods.

And although his words fill you with a deep sadness, you rejoice for a moment. Astarion offers up information about himself so rarely that his words tonight are practically a feast. You tuck away that little piece of his backstory in your mind to analyze later. Though, as usual, he leaves you with more questions than answers.

Where had he returned from? Where was it that he had spent most of his vampiric life? And you still don’t know the circumstances of how he was turned into a vampire or how that plays into creating the man standing before you.

You let your fingers rub in circles against his forearm as you think.

Astarion’s rests his hand over yours. “Your hands are cold, little flower. And we both know a pretty thing like you blooms better in the daytime. I think it’s time to get you back inside.”

You try to protest but a yawn escapes you and Astarion gives you a knowing look that forces you to roll your eyes and allow him to start guiding you back toward the manor. His footsteps are slow, as if he’s trying to prolong your time together.

“Thank you, Astarion,” you say quietly, when you reach your room.

Facing him, the low, flowing neckline on his shirt has the lines of his collarbone perfectly in your sight and you’re scared you won’t be able to resist reaching out and touching them if you have to look at that for much longer.

Astarion seems unable to resist touching you, either, and his hand reaches out to tug on the chain of your necklace which holds your wedding ring. It must have snaked its way out from under the collar of your dress at some point during the night. He rolls the gold band between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

“You’re wearing your ring,” Astarion states the obvious, his voice low and husky with some emotion you can’t decipher.

“Yes,” you whisper. It’s not embarrassing, per say, but it does feel a bit like Astarion has broken his way past your ribcage and is staring directly at your beating heart.

“When did you start doing that?”

He tilts his head and one, single white curl dislodges itself from his meticulously styled hair. You watch it fall gently, like a feather floating through the air.

“About a week after…” you trail off. It was still weird to admit it out loud. About a week after you were married. It had been a couple months since that day and everything after has felt like a feverish dream.

You can’t focus when Astarion is looking at you like this- eyes all warm and rich and red like the fading embers of a fire. And the loose curl that caresses the skin of his ear is just taunting you so sweetly. Your hand moves almost of its own accord, reaching out to brush it back into place and ghosting over the shell of Astarion’s ear. You catch his slight shiver.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

Wife.

He called you that so rarely and combined with the rosemary and bergamot lingering in the air after him, you feel a bit dizzy.

Oh, it’s the first time he’s called you that without a hint of teasing or sarcasm. No, tonight he said it almost with reverence- as if you were a gift to him. He had said it like a true husband might. That silly sense of hope thrums again in your veins.

But hope for what? That this marriage built on deception and hatred might turn itself around into something based in love? You chastise yourself for feeding into girlish fantasies. You needed to stop reading so many romance books.

No, you were just relieved that Astarion and you had managed to grow into something that could be considered a friendship. That he respected you enough to give you back the control that so many husbands wielded viciously over their wives. You were content since you were safe, and never pressured into uncomfortable circumstances, and spent your days doing whatever you wished.

You did not really want Astarion to kiss you.

It is the baser, lonely part of you that wants him to kiss you, that wants to hold him, that cries out for his touch. You would want to kiss anyone after taking a midnight stroll in a romantic garden. Astarion just happened to make it especially confusing by being the most beautiful man in the world.

And yet, you still yearn for his attention, you long for his smiles like a flower chases after the sun. And was his smile not capable of rivaling the sun? The pure joy, the pure energy surging beneath the surface.

No, when Astarion smiled, the sun itself bowed her head in surrender to his beauty.

—------------------

Gale might have been right, though you were loath to admit it.

You really did have a hard time sitting still for your portrait. It was only a couple hours each day in the afternoon, but all the sitting and doing nothing felt like torture. You could have done it if you had been allowed a book, but the stupid artist needed to be able to see your stupid face.

On the second afternoon, Astarion wanders in, inspecting the painting critically, eyes narrowed and a hand held up to his chin as he scrutinizes it.

“The shade of her eyes is all wrong,” he finally says with a displeased frown.

“I’m sorry, my lord, the painting isn’t finished yet.” The artist attempts to defend himself but you can tell he quickly sets to work correcting the ‘mistake.’

Astarion comes in the next day, and the next, and the next and just watches over the artist’s shoulder. The poor man is sweating so bad he’s creating a small puddle on the floor. It’s rather amusing. You have to refrain from laughing the whole time.

The man can’t seem to be able to paint a single detail without Astarion critiquing his choices and giving corrections. It’s a flurry of ‘see how her mouth moves up in the corner when she smiles,’ and ‘no, look again at how the candlelight moves against her skin,’ and ‘her hair doesn’t curl around her face like that, you’ve made her look like a poodle.’

You’ve come to think that Gale was wrong and perhaps Astarion is the worst kind of fine art snob who believes they could do everything better than the actual artists. And granted, he probably could- Astarion was also the annoying type of person who was preternaturally gifted at everything they tried.

When Astarion finally deigns the painting satisfactory after many, many days of nit-picking, you’re allowed to see the final product. It truly is a marvelous piece. You are sure you have never looked more beautiful- not even at the ball where you met Astarion or on your wedding night. No, in this painting, you can only be described as ethereal, a small scrap of the heavens that created Astarion.

It feels as if you are seeing yourself anew, through the eyes of someone who loves you.

“I expect nothing less than perfection when it comes to you, my love,” Astarion says, a gentle hand on your waist as he stands behind you and keenly observes your reaction.

But the painting is not what has pulled the air from your lungs.

My Love.

That's new. In your time as a married woman, you had grown accustomed to the endearments that Astarion loved to dole out and had deciphered his uses for each. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against calling you by your name.

Darling was for emphasis and dramatic effect. Dearest was a bit sarcastic and typically saved for use around others. Pet was for when he really wanted to be a condescending asshole or a teasing little shit.

Little flower was perhaps the closest thing to a real endearment that Astarion had in his vocabulary, saved for the soft moments when the mood between the two of you could perhaps be considered friendly.

But my love was unprecedented, uncharted territory.

And with the way Astarion is looking at you, with eyes so open that his soul is practically bleeding out of them, you wonder if for the first time he actually means what he is saying. That maybe some part of his heart does hold affection for you. It seems impossible.

He spends the rest of the evening peppering darlings and my dears in nearly every sentence, like he’s overcompensating for the slip up earlier.

Your portrait is hung next to his in the gallery. And you do have to admit that the two of you look wonderful together.

—----------------------

You don’t like when Astarion leaves on trips. Especially since he never wants to take you with him. Apparently, you had annoyed Astarion so much about the issue that he now resorted to not even telling you when he was going to leave.

Instead, you awoke one afternoon to Shadowheart informing you that he was away on business for the next few days. You’re fairly certain he’s lying- that whatever he’s out doing involved those maps and papers you found on his desk when you had broken into his study.

You’re a bit peeved that he didn’t even bother to leave you a goodbye note but mostly, you want him to come back.

You know he will arrive home with a flourish and an extravagant gift. His last trips had awarded you with a lovely new silk dress, a newly released book, and a tiara, of all things. Out of the three, the book was the only item that was really useful and you had spent a few nights reading it to Astarion while his head rested in your lap. Though, you did wear the dress and tiara to dinner after you had received each and the pleased mood it put Astarion in was worth dressing up for no reason.

This time, Astarion has been gone for two days and you feel as if you are going to lose your mind with how desperately you need him to come back.

You’re pacing the length of the drawing room, working your lip between your teeth and focusing on how you want Astarion back so you can yell at him for leaving without telling you and not because you miss the little grins he gives you when you see him in the hallway. Or the way he’s started tracing patterns on the inside of your palm when you sit together after you read. Or how he sometimes stares at you with such awe you feel as though he is looking at your very soul.

You do not miss Astarion. It just… feels wrong when he isn’t around.

You’re still pacing and deeply rationalizing how much you definitely do not miss him when you hear the front door open. Your body begins moving before your brain could even register what you were doing.

The sight before you is a nightmare. Astarion’s arm is wrapped around a woman’s shoulder and she’s supporting most of his weight as she drags him through the door. You recognize her instantly due to her imposing frame. You had seen her around the manor from time to time when she would visit for those secret meetings that she, and the mean-looking woman, and two-color eyed man had with Astarion.

She had always been kind to you when you had seen her around, always quick to offer up a smile. But not now. Her forehead is creased deeply with worry and you faintly register her yelling for help over the ringing in your ears.

Astarion looks bad, which is a word you never thought could be used to describe him. His skin is already so pale, but now, he looks nearly white and there’s blood splattered across his face. His free hand is clutching at his side in a way that implies he’s been badly wounded.

You’re frozen in fear. What could you possibly do to help?

Shadowheart, who must have been on her way to bring you tea as you paced, immediately shoves the tray onto the first surface she can find.

“What happened?” Her voice is grim and she’s rushing forward, helping to support Astarion’s weight on the other side. He lets out a pitiful groan of pain as they settle him on a couch.

“Got ambushed on the way back. Too many of them, we couldn’t fight them off,” the tall woman answers.

But her explanation seems… off. Astarion’s carriage is grand, sure, and robbers like to target the wealthy, especially in the dead of night. But you had a hard time believing this woman would be incapable of fighting off a couple street thugs. An attack that would warrant this level of injury seems much more organized.

No. Something else is going on. What sort of business was Astarion tangled up in?

Shadowheart is a blur as she bustles around, collecting herbs, cloth bandages, and a needle and thread. You never knew she was a healer. Was everyone around here keeping secrets from you?

And you’re just standing there, uselessly, incapable of doing anything other than watch as your own heart bleeds out in front of you.

Your feet do manage to carry you to Astarion’s side and you try to stay out of Shadowheart’s way as she works, but all you want right now is to pull him into your arms and soothe the pain on his face.

“Astarion?” you call his name, your shaky hand reaching out to move a stray curl away from his face. It looks all wrong- his white hair drenched with red blood. His eyes crack open and a dreamy smile spreads across his face when he sees you.

“Come to grace your dying husband with a kiss, sweet wife?” Astarion’s eyes are hazy, but you can still detect a teasing sparkle in them. You’re relieved for a moment, because his condition surely can’t be that bad if he’s still managing to tease you.

You let out a laugh. “Leave it to you to be flirting on your deathbed.”

Shadowheart’s worried voice breaks you out of your momentary comfort. “He needs blood, desperately.”

“We need to get someone from the village,” you say, making a motion to get up and go call for someone, but Astarion’s hand is wrapping gently around your wrist. His grip is worryingly loose and you can tell it’s all the strength he’s able to muster right now.

“Not enough time,” Shadowheart shakes her head. Her voice is fraught with anxiety and it sends a needle of ice through you. Shadowheart didn’t scare easily. “He needs blood now.”

“Can you?” you ask and she shakes her head again.

“My blood’s no good and neither is Karlach’s,” Shadowheart nods her chin up at the tall woman.

“Is there anyone here who can give him blood?” You cry out. Someone had to be able to help- Gale, Halsin, another servant.

“Just you.”

When you look down at Astarion, there’s a cold hand squeezing at your heart and you realize that you don’t have a choice. You grab the dagger that’s strapped to Astarion’s belt- which, why did he have a dagger if he was going on a normal business trip? You glide the sharp edge along your palm, ignoring the sting of pain as you cut it open.

His eyes are closed as you squeeze your palm shut to help the blood pool and drip onto his lips. Almost immediately, his eyes are shooting open and he’s dragging your palm to his mouth.

It’s obscene to watch him- he lets out a groan as his soft tongue swirls and sucks against your skin. In another time, in another circumstance, there would be that familiar desire pooling deep within you as you watched him.

Suddenly, the idea of Astarion drinking anyone else’s blood ever again fills you with a jealousy so deep that you’re scared of what you might do if you get your hands on that unlucky soul.

A bit of color returns to his face and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, seemingly as thanks. Later that night, as you sit at his bedside as he recovers, you’ll be pressing your own lips to the same spot, as if that silly act could imitate the feel of his lips against your own.

Astarion’s eyes are still hazy and unfocused as he purrs, “Delicious, of course. I can only think of one other way I could devour you that would be better than that.”

The fact that he loses consciousness immediately after saying that probably has the opposite effect than he intended. You’ll have to tease him about that after he wakes up. And he will wake up. Because you can’t bear with the thought of a life without him.

---------------

Notes:

Okay, I fully recognize that Dracula didn't come out until 1897 and I did say this was a regency AU, but we are simply ignoring inconvenient facts for the sake of a bad joke. Sorry, I get make to the rules around here!

This chapter was so much fun to write because I'm a slut for yearning but I can't even describe how excited I am to share chapter 5 next week!!!!!! It's a doozy! We finally get a peak into Astarion's smooth little brain and well… I did promise eventual smut. I hope you all know how much I appreciate everyone who reads this little story and I hope everyone is having as much fun with this as I am!

As always, thanks to AliensNSuch on ao3 for beta-reading! She is my live studio audience cheering in the comments of the absurdly long google doc where I keep this fic and, for that, I love her.

Taglist: @idkbrodontaskme @ayselluna @maruichio @fanfic-share

Just let me know in the comments or by shooting me a message if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist!

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #x reader #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #til death do us part

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