When Lucifer Falls In Love

when lucifer falls in love

content + warnings: minor s1 of og! game spoilers, discussions of death, nightmares, hurt/comfort, lucifer's regretting the past again // [masterlist]

word count: ~1.2k

it’s the dead of the devildom night. not a single creature dares to stir in the house of lamentation, to interrupt the heavy darkness that lays claim to the kingdom like a siege, like a thick blanket over a fragile child. the night is oppressive at this hour. hell freezes over each night– sizzling temperatures plummet to biting cold, a violent swing that dares all to be prepared for any weather. 

it starts as uncharacteristic shuffles. tossing and turning at an hour he should usually be asleep, shifting from one side to another without waking. sweat peppers his hairline. his fingers twitch once, twice, eyelids fluttering restlessly. something’s going wrong. where there should be peace, there’s chaos, his dreams infested with something dark and unpleasant. 

lucifer morningstar wakes violently with a nightmare. 

his body jerks in panic, rising to a seated position before he can even fathom what’s going on. adrenaline floods his veins. fear grips him hard, and his labored breathing is the only sound that fills his senses for several long moments. 

memories swirl together at the top of his consciousness, a glossy oil slick of tangible emotion and thought. 

the great celestial war. bloodshed. the violent division of his family, of heaven itself, at the folly of his own pride. he can feel lilith’s body limp in his arms, chest rising with strained effort, her own blood soiling the angelic robes she once wore. she was beautiful. so innocent and pure. her only folly was falling victim to a love that should have never existed. a love he should have stopped earlier on, should have reigned in before things continued to deteriorate. his fault. it’s his fault that everything went down the way it did. 

the sound of your breathing finally catches his attention when his own begins to steady out. you’re fast asleep next to him– it’s a nice indication that he was able to hold in the cry that burned his throat as to not disturb your peaceful slumber. humans need their rest, after all. 

lucifer slips from his spot in his bed next to you. the bed shifts silently like a willing accomplice, letting his exit go unnoticed. a quick glance over his shoulder– you’re still unconscious, blissfully unaware of his departure– and he stumbles out into his office. 

he flicks his wrist haphazardly and the fireplace sparks to life. tired feet carry him to a nearby chair and he slumps, defeated into the cushions. 

in the dead of night, when he’s alone, his mind wanders to his mistakes. some nights, like tonight, they creep into his dreams– regret, uncertainty, moments of tranquility ruined by the stormcloud of war creeping into the foreground. was he wrong to fight against his Father? did his pride, his actions– have his siblings all been damned in ways they wouldn’t have had he discouraged them from following him? if he had stopped lilith from falling in love with that human in the first place, would his brothers be happier? would lilith still be alive?

that’s the thing about hindsight. he doesn’t know what the best decision was. in another life, maybe lilith lived– but he’ll never know. 

“lucifer?”

his name is garbled and groggy as it falls from your lips. he’s surprised to see you in the doorway– were you not asleep just a few minutes ago?

“yes, my love?”

“what are you doing up? i–” a yawn interrupts you, and you shift on your feet uncomfortably. “-- i missed you.”

an awkward lump settles in his throat. he didn’t realize that you’d noticed his absence. your expression shifts from exhaustion to concern, rubbing your eyes with your fingertips to adjust to the light. 

“i– couldn’t sleep.” he rasps the lie with ease. he doesn’t have the willpower to explain what was really going through his mind.

your bare feet pad quietly across the hardwood floors, steady and lethargic, as you make your way to his side. he watches each step carefully. you still next to him and press a soft, warm kiss to his forehead. 

you’re sweet. that’s the first thing he thinks when your lips find his skin, now tacky from cooling sweat as he reels in his own panic. it’s hard to be so upset when he’s next to you. your hands find the sides of his face and cradle him oh-so-delicately, like too rough a touch will make him scurry off into the darkness. 

“do you want to talk about it?”

he shakes his head. 

“alright,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head and taking a step back. your fingers linger on the side of his face a moment longer before they fall to your sides. “just– don’t stay up too late, alright?”

he nods, watching you shuffle off to the bedroom once again. his heart beats rapidly in his chest from the lingering panic, but it starts to calm as his thoughts wander to you. 

when did disdain become affection? when did suspicious looks turn into forehead kisses? lucifer couldn’t remember a turning point when you became so important to him– it was a slow march with his eyes closed, blind to the storm raging inside of him until push came to shove and his lips met yours. 

now you spend your nights in his bed. he can hardly lull himself to sleep when you’re not there. funny how things change. 

when the panic finally settles, he creeps back into his bedroom. the rhythmic lull of your breathing reassures him. there is no danger here. no death, no war, no mistakes. only you. 

his movements are hesitant as he crawls back in bed. it’s an attempt not to wake you– a failed one. you immediately reach for him in a state of half-consciousness, tucking yourself into his chest as he settles back in his original spot. your hands are smooth against his broad chest, lazily brushing across the skin before winding around him. 

“i got you, luci.”

four little words. barely audible amongst the shuffling of changing positions, but enough to make his heart pound against his ribcage. four little words conveying the depths of the care you have for the demon in your arms. 

oh, how lucifer morningstar loves you so. 

in the darkness of his bedroom, the flush of his cheeks does not announce its presence– yet it’s there, warm and fuzzy like the feeling in his chest, reminding the avatar of pride that he is nothing more than a man. a simple man. he loves his family and his home, the life he lives. and you. by god, he loves you so much that it makes his breath catch in his throat and his fingers tremble against your back. his arms wind around you to return the affection in any way he can. 

he’ll wait to tell you he loves you another day– soon, surely, so he won’t have to carry this burden for long– when he can muster up all the romance and passion you deserve. would dinner be a more appropriate place, or would that be seen as too gaudy? maybe he’ll find a time at him, when the two of you are alone in each other’s arms again. lucifer will iron out the details with time. 

sleep comes for him rather quickly. somewhere in your arms his mind is finally laid to rest, and he drifts off to sleep with the quiet comfort of knowing tomorrow will be a better day.

the nightmares do not return again tonight.

taglist for this series: @deepseafragments // @darkflowerav // @annoying-and-upset // @katerinaval // @lurkingsnails // @chirikoheina // @all-mights-wife // @notareum // @ollieoven

AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over. 

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you. 

Pitch Black (Astarion x Reader)

TW - panic attack, claustrophobia, themes of death/rotting

I based this off some sad lore I found out about him yesterday :(

Recommended Song: Rainy Day Loop - SALES

There's a lot of things Astarion hasn't told you. You don't mind, because a lot of those things are hard to relive. Everything he tells you comes with a price, but he does it mostly out of necessity. There are times you know something lies deeper, and yet you don't pry. It will come to light if he decides it needs to.

However, he never told you about one of the first truly cruel things Cazador did. How one day he refused him, told him no for once. He woke up buried six feet under, starving in undeath for an entire year until his master dug him up again. That was the last time he disobeyed.

This led to a fear he never told you about, claustrophobia, that terrifying feeling of being unable to escape small spaces. He doesn't like closets, this you knew, but you assumed it was because they're dark and sad, not because they're small rooms.

One morning you're sleeping, peaceful, arms wrapped around him tight. He wakes up before you, calm at first. When he realizes his discomfort at feeling trapped in your arms, he gently tries to move you off of him, but you grab back in your slumber, not knowing what's going on beyond the barrier of sleep. That first wave of panic sets in as you wrap yourself tighter than before, and he freezes up, remembering the smell of musty dirt and bones. He tries to scoot away, and you unknowingly pull him in again. That second time is enough for him to feel fully trapped, and without thinking he bites down hard on your arm.

"GODS!"

You bolt up out of your sleep, holding your arm, realizing it was Astarion who caused the sudden alarm. He sits at the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, still trying to ground himself. You try to ask him things, why the hell he'd do that to you, but he can't hear your questions. The worms, the beetles, at some point you become accustomed to the tiniest sounds. He wondered if they'd start to eat away at him, if vampires were like corpses, if he would slowly decompose in the ground. You go to touch his hand and he yanks it away, standing up.

"Astarion!"

And he finally turns to see you on the bed, your arm bleeding badly, how concerned you look. He can't speak though. Footsteps, people passing by, unable to scream because of how tightly packed the sediment is. You try anyways.

"Aster, listen to me. I need you to listen to me, okay?"

You're panicking. You haven't seen him this bad in a while. He's not there, at least not truly there. To be knocked out, only to wake up in pitch black, what a horror.

"I think you're having a panic attack my love, can you try to focus on one thing in the room?"

A painting, a landscape of a graveyard. He was put in a graveyard, some kind of cruel joke. His eyes wander to the frame, golden, like thread. He remembers stitching little phrases and stories into his clothes, he remembers the first time he did such a craft for you. The breathing starts to settle, still shaking, he sits back down next to you, and just starts sobbing. You go to hug him and he flinches.

"No!"

You are almost taken aback, but you remember that it's not your fault.

"Okay, that's okay. I'll just sit here with you."

He just cries for a while, and you let him. Clearly something startled him badly, badly enough that he bit you. You forgot until now that you were bleeding. Not only did his fangs pierce, but many of the rest of his teeth got through the skin. As you're analyzing your wound, you take part of the blanket and press it into your arm, trying to stop the bleeding. Astarion notices the movement, and you see guilt overcome his face immediately. You interrupt before he can speak.

"It's okay darling, I know you didn't mean it."

He wipes at his tears, finally coming back to reality, truly grounding himself.

"I... I'm sorry."

"I know, it's okay."

He stares at a crack in the floorboards.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He nods, mainly because he hates it when you're confused.

"So... a long time ago, Cazador decided it would be fun to bury me alive."

He almost laughs at how ridiculous it is, how someone could even think to do that. You just listen.

"And I stayed there for an entire year. And I don't know how it happened, but you tried to hug me tighter while you were asleep, and I- I just panicked, I felt so trapped and it just reminded me so much of-"

He can't even bring himself to say it again.

"I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

He scoffs.

"Yeah, you were asleep, and I freaked out like a monster and bit you."

He gazes down at the wound, wincing at what he's done.

"Hey, look at me. Wounds heal, I'll be okay. What matters is that you're okay."

"I... I think I'm okay now. Just, feel miserable."

"That's okay, you're allowed to feel however you want."

"I know. Thank you my sweet."

He picks your hand up off the bed, holding it to his face. It takes weeks after for him to be hugged again, especially being the little spoon, but you don't mind. You'll go through every phase of his, good and bad. This one just happens to be bad, and that's okay. He'll be okay. You'll both be okay.

You Hate Me

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Sooooo I wrote this one morning when even just laying down had my knees hurting and I was like,, well what if Tav had that too? Also inspired by the fact I get to campus an hour early and still try to rush to the (empty) classroom instead of, ya know, taking advantage of the huge time buffer I give myself

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of joint pain, insecurity, crying, possibly OOC, clown mention

Word Count: 1,545

Masterlist

AO3

Just a bit further. A little further and then you could rest. If you make it to that tree - make it to that tree and you can sit down. Just a bit left to go.

It started almost a week ago. Unable to cope with all the traveling, your right knee started bothering you. With every step you could feel your kneecap shifting back and forth with a dull click. Then, it started to hurt. Nothing serious. If you walked slow enough, you could avoid it. But now every step sent shocks of pain up your entire leg. Your left knee joined the party this morning, removing any sense of relief you had while walking. Even sitting down didn't remove the pain, but you couldn't afford a day off.

Your companions noticed the changes, despite your best effort not to show any outward discomfort. You moved slower, the occasional grimace slipped through, they weren't traveling quite as far. You consider asking Shadowheart for anything that could ease the pain, but you already knew there was little she could do to help. So you grit your teeth and kept going.

Your foot stepped on uneven ground and you nearly dropped from the agony that shot through your whole body. Karlach worried you might actually just collapse. But you kept going.

Astarion couldn't bear it. None of them could - they hated seeing their intrepid leader fight their own body just to go a few more feet - but your struggle settled like a boulder in his stomach. Every time your face scrunched up, every hiss of your sharp inhales, felt like someone had stabbed a knife in his chest and was twisting it ever deeper. He hated the feeling.

With only a few long strides, he slipped from the back of the group to the front, walking alongside you. He had to change his normal gait just so he didn't surpass you. "Darling," he hummed quietly, just loud enough to keep the conversation between you two, "you should rest."

You shook your head. You didn't even spare him a glance. Your eyes didn't shift from the tree. "We're almost there," you dismiss. It's slightly breathless. Despite needing to walk slow to avoid the pain, you were pushing to go faster.

He tsked. "And how far do we still have left to go?" He tilted his head as he looked at you, already knowing whatever distance you said would be too far.

You nodded to a tree dead ahead. "Once we reach that birch, we can rest."

"That birch?" He pointed. "The birch tree that's nearly half a mile away?"

He could feel you bristle with his incredulous tone, but you didn't say anything.

He scoffed. "My dear, I can be stubborn at the best of times, but this is ridiculous! You're barely staying upright as it is."

"I'm fine-"

"No, you're not," he sharply cuts you off. He grabs your arm and pulls you to a stop, holding you there with enough force that you wouldn't slip out and keep going. You refuse to look at him even now. "You're wincing, your hands have been clenched for the last mile, and you keep stumbling. The tree will still be there if you just sit down for a minute."

The rest of the party watches from a distance. Far enough away they can just make out what Astarion's saying, especially as his voice rises in pitch the more frustrated he gets.

Standing still hurts. It's hard to say if it hurts more or less than walking; it just hurts. Your face is pinched as sharp jolts run up through your joints, like someone is poking you with a sewing needle. Walking, you decide, must be better than this.

"It's not that far," you insist, voice low. "And when we get there, we can-"

"Gods above, you're impossible! Fine. Fine! You want to get to that tree, fine." He lets go of your arm.

Before you can even take a step, he's sweeping you into his arms, supporting you with one arm under your back and the other hooked under your knees. The pressure hurts for a moment, but it quickly fades away. The lingering aches are from pushing yourself too hard. He begins marching once more toward your end goal.

You want to shout, to demand he put you down. But when you look up at his face, his eyes are sharper than usual, lips pulled into a tight frown and crease forming between his eyebrows. He's angry.

He's angry with you.

The words die in your throat. You hate being so dependent. You were the leader - you needed to be strong and fearless and without weakness. To receive help feels like someone plunging their hand between your ribs and stealing away a chunk of your worth. But seeing Astarion upset, upset with you, that stings far worse.

You avoid looking over his shoulder. You could just imagine their faces. How Lae'zel would scowl at you for being weak. How Gale's face would turn somber when he realizes you're not as capable as he thought. You couldn't bear it. So you press your forehead to Astarion's neck and stare at your lap.

There's an unwelcome burn at the back of your eyes. Shame floods your chest and crawls up your throat until it chokes you. Water pools along your lower lids and blurs your vision. You can't walk and now you're going to cry. Just how fucking pathetic can you be?

Astarion's head shifts and you can tell he's trying to look down at you. He's trying to see your face. Because he can feel you shaking in his arms. He can hear your lungs quivering as your breaths become uneven and choppy. You press your closed eyes against his throat and he can feel the hot tears against his skin.

His frown softens, though you can't see it. He slows down to a stop and tells the others to go on ahead, to the birch tree just there, and start working on setting up camp, but all you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears. Their faces become fraught with worry; Karlach is the last to go. She still looks back once or twice. Astarion finds a suitable rock and he sits.

"Shh, sweet thing," he cooes, voice no louder than a whisper. His arm around your back pulls you into his shoulder, hand tangling in your hair as he cradles you. His other hand rubs soothing circles along your thigh. You gasp around a sob, body curling further into itself, into him, as you release your emotions. "It's alright."

You strangle out an apology. It's wet and croaky and painful.

"Whatever for?" he asks.

"You're mad at me," you whimper.

He huffs. The frustration from before rises in him again just thinking about it. "Yes, I am."

He feels your breath catch in your throat, and the heaving breath you take after. "You hate me."

Astarion laughs, short and sharp. "Why would I hate you, dear? Because you're too stubborn for your own good?" You don't have a response for him. He kisses your head, wherever he can reach. "I'm mad because you put yourself out trying to solve all of our issues, but the moment you have one of your own, you refuse any help. You're going to tear yourself apart."

He sighs and rests his cheek atop your head. His fingers rub the nape of your neck, gently tugging at the hair there. You carry so much tension, it's a wonder your muscles haven't locked up from the stress.

Time passes slowly in his arms. It seems to take forever before you start to calm down, and even longer before your eyes have dried. He does nothing to speed the process aside from gently hush you when you try to choke out apologies.

You sniffle quietly. Your eyes are raw, and you're all too aware of the stain of water you've left on the vampire's neck. When you speak, it's a painful creak in your vocal chords. "You don't hate me?"

He presses another kiss to your head. "No, love, I don't hate you. Not unless you've done something truly horrific, like invite a clown to show up at camp in the middle of the night." You chuckle weakly. It's such sweet music. "Gods forbid you start donating to charity." You laugh this time, and Astarion's chuckle vibrates against your ear.

His fingers detangle themselves from your hair with one last gentle tug, and his arm wraps around your back once more. As though you weigh no more than one of his pillows, he stands once more with you in his safe grasp, and begins heading for camp. He can see Karlach up ahead light up when she sees you're finally on your way.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I just feel so... useless, like this."

"Please, stop apologizing," he begs, dramatically. "Just say 'thank you' and we can move on."

You peel your face from his skin, dried tears sticking you together. You wince at how disgusting this must be for him. You lean up and kiss his cheek. He smiles at the affection. "Thank you."

Softer, he says, "Of course, my love."

Restlessness

Summary:

She usually only lets Astarion feed on her while she is asleep. Not that she has any problem with Astarion, the case just is that him feeding from her while she is still conscious is profoundly intimate and she can’t really be sure if Astarion has noticed or even if he particularly cares, about how quickly her heart races when he does it. So while she is asleep is better, it's much better. But she can't get to sleep tonight, so she is just going to have to make do.

Contains: Fem Unnamed Tav, Explicit Sexual Content, Blood stuff (comes with the territory) Word Count: 5,143 Read on AO3

Astarion has been feeding on her almost every night for the past month now. Most nights while she is still asleep, though he is always surprisingly insistent about obtaining direct consent before she moves to her tent for the evening, by this point she has just assumed that the agreement is mutual and that there is little need for him to keep asking. Though she doesn't have it in her to be upset about the courtesy. 

She generally prefers that he drinks while she is sleeping, only knowing that it happened when she wakes up the next morning with a dull throb in her neck and Astarion giving her a knowing smirk from across the camp. 

Not that she has any problem with Astarion, the case just is that him feeding from her while she is still conscious is profoundly intimate and she can’t really be sure if Astarion has noticed or even if he particularly cares, about how quickly her heart races when he does it. So while she is asleep is better, it's much better. 

Being the vampire’s resident midnight snack does occasionally earn her some uncomfortable looks from other members of their little group. Especially after one of the few nights she had been awake for the ordeal and the feeling of his hand moving to her hip caused her body to jolt so intensely that Astarion accidentally tore her throat up with his fangs. Shadowheart dutifully healed it, but gave her a stare so oppressive that even a slight uptick of the half-elf’s judgemental eyebrow would surely have killed her on the spot. 

Astarion did apologize, but then quickly switched to insisting that she needed to let him know next time she decided to experiment with interpretive dance while he was firmly latched to her throat. 

That was the night they both agreed, it might be better if he only feeds while she is out cold. 

This night, however. Sleep will not come. She knows that it has been nearly a day and a half since Astarion has last eaten, any and all the fighting that took place today in the dark remains of Shar’s gauntlet were against foes severely lacking in the blood department, and tomorrow will likely be the same. To be honest, they were lucky at all, to find somewhere safe and quiet enough to camp in this miserable place. 

She rubs her eyes, still sitting upright in her tent despite all efforts to lull herself to sleep. She sighs heavily, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, usually a long day like this tires her out completely, and she is a very heavy sleeper, but today’s journey has left her so exhausted that even sleep evades her. 

The rustling of her tent flap nearly has her topping over with shock, hardly expecting any visitors after the terrible day they had all endured. The realization hits her when Astarion climbs in.

“Oh.” He says, freezing halfway into the tent, “Apologies, you are not usually so…well, conscious, at this time of night.” She had agreed to him feeding on her again this evening, assuming that she would be well asleep by now like usual. She sighs and gives him a wan smile, “Sorry, I can’t sleep.” “I suppose dinner is off the table then, isn't it?” He replies, wearing a smile that seems far tighter than his usual lazy smirk. 

“No!” She says quickly, “Gods no, there’s nothing else for you to eat down here and it’s been almost two days.” Astarion frowns, suddenly becoming very interested in his fingernails, “I can always go back to eating rats if I must, there is certainly no lack of them in this miserable place.” He tries to maintain a casual air, but there is venom behind those words. His voice does return to being playful when he says, “Or, should the situation become incredibly dire, I’m sure that our resident hero would let me have a bite if I asked very nicely.” For some reason, the thought of Astarion feeding on Wyll instead of her causes a thick cloud of jealousy to build behind her ribs. She ignores it, “Just come inside, we’ll figure something out.” she says, shuffling backward a little to give him more room, “And close the front of the tent, please.” 

When he turns back to her and takes a seat on the hard ground, she can’t help but notice just how etherial he looks in the soft orange glow of her lantern. Even on the nights when she does sleep, she prefers to keep the lantern on, both because the darkness makes her uneasy, and because (even though she knows he can see in the dark) it feels like common courtesy to leave a light on for Astarion. 

“So.” He says

“So…” she replies

Astarion sighs, “Look, darling. If you are simply too delicate for me to have my meal while you are awake, I’m sure that I can find a way to occupy myself for now.” He levels his gaze with her, “Something more entertaining than just staring at each other.”

She bristles, “I’m not delicate, I’m just-” she can’t finish the sentence. She’s just what? Too shy, embarrassed maybe, certainly nervous, “I’m fidgety.” she lies, “and I don’t want to cause another…incident.” He laughs, “Oh yes, not willing to suffer another of Shadowheart’s glares, are you?” “No.” She begins, averting her eyes as she feels her cheeks burning, “Not at present.”

“Then what do you suggest? Since you don’t seem to be planning on getting your beauty sleep anytime soon.” She chews on a knuckle, mulling it over. There’s no way she could handle him leaning over her like that again, his scent surrounding her, one of his hands cradling the back of her head as he finally sinks his teeth into the side of her- 

“It might be better, if i’m sitting upright.” She offers. Astarion blinks, “Upright?” “Maybe. I think.” 

It would at the very least, be far less intimate, more clinical. Astarion hums to himself, “As you know, i don’t have all that much experience in the matter, but i can hardly see how you would expect to stay upright and the last thing we need is you cracking your skull open on the ground.”

“Then I would just need something to lean against.” She says quickly, “I just think I would be far better at sitting still this way, that's all.”

“Well, I’m right here, darling.” He says, almost dismissively, upset that she wouldn’t consider it herself, “You could always lean against me.” 

Her eyes widen. That would defeat the purpose of this whole exercise, but she can’t very well tell him that. 

“As long as it wouldn’t make things more difficult for you.” She begins, choosing her words slowly and carefully, “I would at least be happy to try.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” He says, leaning backward a little and letting his thighs fall open, “The last thing this could possibly be for me is difficult.” She stares down at him, eyes wide as she realizes that she has only managed to make this situation worse. 

“Oh….kay” She says, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. In the end she opts to face away from him, sitting cross legged between his legs and shimmying backward until she feels his chest pressed up against her back. She sucks a difficult breath in through her teeth and though he isn’t warm, he might as well be, the way she immediately breaks out in a nervous sweat. 

“Come come, my dear.” He says, his tone hushed as he carefully draws her hair away from her throat, “I’ve had plenty of time to practice being gentle all those nights you were asleep, no need to be so nervous.” She’s more than a little embarrassed at how instinctively she tilts her head to the side for him, almost beckoning him to bite down. It’s not that part that makes her nervous, not at all. It’s that she recalls a conversation, brief and quickly dismissed, that the two had by a campfire many nights ago. A mention of disgust, words spat like bile about the man who forced him to use himself night after night. A disgust of her own, when she remembered how many days she’d spend staring at him, nights under his body as he fed, wishing and wanting for him to touch her. 

She had been far too forward that night, prodding where she shouldn't. Astarion had just laughed, dismissed her concern and refused to elaborate. 

“I trust you.” She whispers when she feels the ghost of his breath on her neck.

Astarion tenses behind her, and she closes her eyes as he descends, waiting for the bite that never comes. His lips press against the side of her throat, softly, lightly, the way a lover might kiss. She gasps aloud, and quickly covers her mouth with a hand, trying to hide the sound. 

One of his hands wraps around hers, gently removing it from her mouth, “No.” he says, pressing another kiss to the cut of her jaw, “Let me hear you.” 

A whimper climbs its way up her throat when he wraps a possessive arm around her, his thumb gently brushing across the lower swell of her breast. She feels his teeth against her neck, not biting, gentle and tantalizing. 

This is what she had been afraid of, that she would encourage something like this and then lack the restraint to tell him no. Her head inclines backwards, resting on his shoulder and releasing a keening moan when he sucks on her pulsepoint. 

“Astarion-” she tries, breaking off into a moan when he slides his hand up and squeezes her breast in his palm. 

He chuckles against her throat, “I do so love hearing you say my name like that.” he croons into her ear, his hand sliding down the collar of her loose linen shirt to cup her breast directly, “Say it again for me, would you?”

“W-Wait, please” She forces out, trying to ignore the growing warmth between her thighs, and the cool press of his palm against her breast. 

At her words, Astarion freezes completely. She can barely even feel him breathing anymore. 

“Yes, of course.” He says quickly, too quickly, there’s something that sounds like panic in his voice, “I- well, I hope i didn’t misread the situation.” “No! That’s- that’s not what I meant, it’s just-” She reaches her hand up backwards until she finds his face, cupping his cheek in her palm, “Astarion…you don’t have to if-“ if you don’t want to, if it doesn’t mean anything, if it hurts too much, or Gods forbid if you think you owe me something. 

He stays still for long enough that she begins to worry she said something wrong, that she overstepped a boundary and he was just going to laugh dismissively again. Instead, he turns his head so he can lightly kiss the palm of her hand. 

“I know.” He breathes, and it somehow soothes all her worries at once, “I know I don’t have to, but I do want to.” She can almost hear his smile when he says, “That is, of course, provided that you don’t want me to stop.”

“Gods no…” she exhales, leaning back against him, “That’s the last thing I want.”

“Good.” He nearly moans, his hand jumping to the laces at the front of her shirt and quickly undoing them until it hangs wide open all the way down to her sternum. It surprises her a moment, how familiar he seems with undoing her clothes, but then she remembers each morning, waking up with a bite at the join between her shoulder and neck. A courtesy, so none of the others would see it, but he would only be able to reach that low by loosening her shirt. 

She feels herself growing warm at the thought, smirking when she asks, “You’ve undressed me before, have you?”

Astarion huffs, licking a stripe up the side of her neck, “Nothing more than was necessary to get at your shoulder, darling.” his cold hands grab both her breasts at once, and he groans, “I was trying to save you from any judgemental stares.” 

Her head lolls backward and she moves her hand to his hair, tangling her fingers in tight. His hands are cold against her bare skin, but she is already so warm all over that any reprieve from the heat is a welcome one. 

“Is this why you could never sit still while I was feeding on you?” Astarion breathes, one of his hands sliding down the front of her torso to rub over the front of her woolen breeches, “Because you couldn’t stop imaging this?” his hand slips beneath her breeches and into her smalls, “Gods…” he hisses through his teeth, “You’re so wet and I’ve barely even touched you.” 

“Don’t act so coy.” She replies, gasping aloud when his talented fingers dip inside her just enough that she is quivering in anticipation for more, and when his thumb reaches up to circle her clit, she whimpers desperately, “You have all the clarification you need right here.”

“Do I?” He asks slowly, fully removing his fingers from her cunt and resting his hand on her hip, “What if I want to hear you admit it?”

She whines, missing his touch already, “Please…” “No no no, you know what you have to do.” He murmurs, breath ghosting across her neck as he presses another kiss to her skin, “You did lie to me about it earlier, don’t I deserve to hear the truth from your delectable lips?” “F-Fine.” She mutters, shame dissolving into something far more sinful as she finally confesses what she is certain he already knew, “The real reason I asked you to only feed while I was asleep, was because I-” his free hand joins the other on her hips, slowly edging her breeches and smalls down over her thighs, “Because I didn’t think I could control myself.”

He laughs warmly against her skin, fingers just barely skirting around the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, “My my, with talk like that, you’d think that it is I who should be afraid of you.”

“Maybe you should.” She says, trying and failing to maintain a casual air even as his fingers slowly descend, “After all, who knows that I might- nhg!” “Hm? Sorry, what was that?” Astarion asks, two of his fingers now knuckle deep inside of her. 

“I’m h-hardly in a state to offer much witty banter, Astarion.” She stammers, barely even able to speak as his fingers start moving, slow and precise, like he is savoring it. 

“But I do so love when you try.” He smiles against her neck, a third finger easily wriggling in alongside the other two. She goes practically boneless against him, unable to keep her hips still as he curls his fingers upward just right and when his thumb teases another utterly devious circle around her clit she feels herself tightening around his fingers. Astarion groans, hiding his face in her shoulder and grinding himself against her lower back, “Hells, darling, you are perfect.”

One of her hands moves to his thigh, struggling to find purchase as she completely loses herself to the pleasure. If the full weight of her body essentially collapsed against him gives Astarion pause, he doesn’t show it, his fingers never falter. The pace he maintains is utterly languid, slow and warm and wet, fast enough that she wouldn’t call it teasing but like he wants to work for it, to enjoy the luxury of taking his time with her. 

She moans when his other hand returns to her breast, rubbing addictive circles around her nipple with his thumb. Everything starts to turn hazy at the edges, her body is twitching and desperate. 

“Gods…” She hisses through her teeth. Astarion chuckles against her throat, “Come now, darling. There’s only one god here.” she feels the light graze of his sharp teeth, “and he’d much prefer you call him by his name.” “Astarion…” she tries, “Please.” He exhales a shaky breath, but otherwise maintains his composure, “Please what, my sweet?”

She’s on the exhilarating precipice of her climax, barely even able to speak, her body feels so hot that Astarion’s hands nearly burn in their coolness and she can scarcely imagine a world where she doesnt have them pressed against her. Whimpering and mewling under his touch and so unsure of what it is she even wants until: “Bite me!” comes bursting out from her mouth.

Astarion chokes on a breath, and she feels the soft lick of her tongue over his pulsepoint, “Are you sure?” “Yes!” She hisses, practicaly fucking herself on his fingers now, “Gods yes.” She feels more than hears the rumble of his moan, “Do try to stay still.” he purrs, and then sinks his fangs into her throat. The immediate pain feels almost electric jumping from her throat, to her fingertips, to her toes, a quick sharp jolt that is near instantly replaced with a nauseating bliss. 

Her head lolls to the side, relishing in the feeling as he begins devouring her. The beat of her heart is loud in her ears, and the pump of his fingers is no longer so tender, with each movement his thumb brushes firmly against her clit and her whole body tenses. He curls his fingers upward, and her hips cant forward violently. 

Unlike last time, Astarion is quick to pull his fangs from her throat, before any real damage can occur, “You really can’t sit still, can you?” He groans in her ear, his voice void of any of its usual musicality as he grinds himself up against her in time with his fingers. A bubbling laugh escapes her mouth as she revels in the feeling of his length pressed firmly against her lower back, at the way his own hips don’t seem to want to stop moving, “N-Neither can you.” she says through her moans. “What can I say?” He murmurs, mouth slowly returning to the open wound on her neck, “You are positively delicious.” He does not bite again, instead lapping and sucking at the blood as it flows freely out of her. She can barely breathe, lost in utter exhilaration as the lightheadedness takes hold, his fingers curl and thrust inside of her, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat as she finds herself completely unable to hold back her whimpers and moans. 

Astarion completely covers the bite mark with his mouth, sucking with true fervor now as she teeters closer and closer to her climax. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she frantically grinds herself against his awaiting fingers, the warmth builds and builds in her belly until she feels like she is about to turn to lightning in his arms. 

“A-Astarion, I-” Her words collapse into a desperate, aching moan as she tumbles over the edge, the world turning white behind her eyes and the heat rushing out from her core all the way to her fingertips. The euphoria is so encompassing that she nearly sobs as his fingers begin to slow their movements within her. 

He has the sense not to say anything, at least for a moment, and she can scarcely imagine how she looks right now. Her hair clings to her forehead with sweat, tears are beading in her eyes and- oh gods had she been drooling? She quickly raises a hand to wipe her mouth, and as she is doing so, she turns her head to look at him and oh.

Astarion blinks down at her, and the look in his eyes is heady and lust drunk, but there is something else to it as well, bordering on reverence. His cheeks are flushed, and she knows that can only happen when he has just fed. She swallows thickly at the red colouring of his lips, where her own blood is currently spread. Curiosity does something sinister to her, and she wants to taste it herself. 

His eyes go wide when she kisses him, and wider again when she darts out her tongue lick over his teeth. Astarion’s chest is heaving when she pulls back, his red eyes watching cautiously, as though unsure of her next move. She reaches out and takes his cheek in her palm, his skin is warmer than it was before.

“Your turn.” She whispers, trailing her hand from his cheek, down his sternum to the waistband of his breeches. She looks up at him quickly and is emboldened by the desire she still sees in his eyes, untucking his shirt and pulling it up over his head. He’s all perfect, smooth, porcelain skin, but her eyes can’t help being drawn to the way her rough undressing has left his hair disheveled. She tangles her fingers in it, smiling at how boyishly handsome he looks with his hair in disarray. 

“If it’s all the same to you, my dear.” He breathes, beginning to sound impatient, “I’ve waited for you long enough.” She laughs, edging his breeches and undergarments down over his hips, “So impatient for someone with your lifespan.”

He frowns at her, but she is surprised to find how easily she can tell he doesn’t mean it, “If anything, that should speak to just how much I crave you.” He croons as she swings one leg over his hips, hoving just over his lap, “You should be flattered.” “I am.” She replies with not a hint of irony, “I consider myself incredibly lucky.” Astarion reaches up to her face and tucks some of her hair behind her ear, “As do I.”

She wraps her arms around his shoulders to steady herself as she slowly lowers herself down, stutting a gasp when the head of his cock meets her entrance. It’s as cold as the rest of him, and she has to bite down on her lower lip to keep herself from crying out when she takes in the first inch. She’s still incredibly sensitive from her first climax, and the coolness of him feels so alien and utterly addictive that she is already panting and whimpering by the time he bottoms out inside of her. 

Astarion lets out a shaky moan when she finally sits down fully, his hands jumping to her waist and his head falling to rest on her shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, just clinging to each other, no sounds but their breathing and the rapid tattoo of her heart. 

When he looks up at her again, Astarion’s smile is utterly salacious, “You have me now, darling.” he whispers, pressing a cool kiss to her shoulder, “Perhaps it would the perfect moment for you to show me some of those, things you have been thinking about doing to me all this time.” 

Astarion isn’t usually that much taller than her, but even still, there is something addictive about their current positioning and the way he has to peer up at her. She tilts her head to the side, taking in the sight of him, his blood flushed cheeks and the glint of his teeth behind his wide smile. 

“Would it be…strange-” she begins, tangling one of her hands in the back of his hair, “-If said that i had often imagined biting you.” “Hah!” Astarion exclaims, grinning broadly, “Well, it would be hardly fair for me to ask you to keep your teeth to yourself, wouldn’t it?” Her brows pull together, “You can say no, Astarion.” His eyes go wide for a moment, and his face is awash with a sudden vulnerability, “I- Yes, I know that I can.” His smile returns, but now the look in his eyes is warmer, softer, “But I don’t want to.” He inclines his head to the side, exposing the length of his throat, “Go on, darling. Let me know how I taste, would you?”

She leans into his neck, breathing in his scent as she presses a soft kiss to his skin. He makes a noise, a startled intake of breath, his hands on her waist gripping tighter and she opens her mouth and bites. Astarion cries out, and his hips stutter his cock deeper inside of her. She moans against his skin, grinding her hips down to meet his and languishing in the feeling of just how well he fills her. 

Her teeth are far blunter than his, and actually drawing any blood would take a considerable amount of force and cause a considerable amount of pain, but even without the taste of blood in her mouth there is still something so delectably perverse about biting down on him, about burying her face in his throat. She moans, kissing from the base of his neck and up to the curve of his jaw, sucking gently on the skin there and smiling when she pulls away to see purple marks blooming on his pale skin. 

Astarion’s breath is heavy when he looks at her, but his eyes are soft and relaxed, “Admiring your handiwork, are you?” He laughs a little, peering up at her coquettishly, “Does it suit me?” She traces a finger over the crescent shaped bruises left by her teeth, smiling at him as she whispers, “Very much so, and now I believe we are even.” “Are we now?” Astarion replies, a mischievous look crossing his face as his hands move down to her hips, “Because as far as I can recall, only one of us has seen stars this evening.” 

“We’ll need to rectify this situation then, won’t we?” She says, her breath quickening as she grinds down on him. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips grows tighter and he chokes on a groan, “You look beautiful up there, my dear.” he thrusts up into her, slowly and deeply, “Sitting pretty on my lap, just for me.”

Her head lolls forward, whining as his cock brushes against that perfect spot inside of her. 

“Look at me.” Astarion whispers, and she tilts her head up to meet his eyes. His breath stutters when he sees her expression, desperate and adoring, “I want to see your face as I’m fucking you, darling.” She giggles shyly, resisting the urge to hide her face in her hands and Astarion smiles, “Good girl.” 

He uses the grip on her hips to lift her up and she whimpers as his cock leaves her, only to cry out when he drops her back down. Shifting her weight to her knees, she follows his lead bouncing on his cock to meet him on the upstroke. He never breaks eye contact, staring as her breath leaves her, watching reverently as she pants and moans with each of his movements. 

“A-Astarion…” She moans, leaning forward and pressing her forehead to his, “You’re so good, you feel so good.”

He laughs breathlessly, “Would you believe that you feel even better?”

One of his hands moves from her hip around to her front, his talented fingers rubbing encouraging circles on her clit. She keens loudly, digging her nails into his shoulders, “Didn’t I say it was your turn.” She forces out, “You really don’t have-” “You greatly underestimate just how much making you climax arouses me, my sweet.” He groans when he rubs her a little faster, feeling her walls clench around him in response, “I have been thinking about it, constantly.” 

She can feel her orgasm building again, the combination of his fingers and his cock driving her absolutely wild. He’s so warm now, her own growing heat slowly warming his cold skin over time, she wants to grab onto him and never let go. His hips are losing rhythm beneath her, driving his cock up into her with short, stuttered thrusts.  Gods she can feel him throbbing. 

“I’m-I’m close again.” She breathes. 

He groans at even the thought of it, “Good. So am I.”

“Fill me, Gods, Astarion- please” She moans, tightening her arms around his shoulders, pressing him flush against her. 

His own arms wrap tightly around her waist as he fucks up into her at an utterly desperate speed. His breath coming quick and fast, he buries his face in her shoulder, mouthing at the side of her neck, waiting as always, for her permission. 

“Fuck! Yes, Please, bite me!” She cries out, feeling the warmth of her oncoming climax already blooming in her belly, “Gods, Astarion, I am all yours.” His breath hitches at that, the frantic movement of his hips stopping for only a moment, “Mine…” he breathes, and then sinks his fangs into the side of her throat. She can barely comprehend what she is feeling, him all around her, inside her in more ways than one. She’s open, vulnerable, yearning and Astarion is all she ever wanted. 

Her second climax of the night is louder, twitchier, her whole body quivers as it feels like she is shoved over the precipice, her insides clenching desperately around him and her hands digging into his hair as she howls into the open air. 

“H-Hells!” He stammers at the feeling of her coming undone around him, clutching to her as tightly as he can before emptying inside of her. 

There’s warmth, for some time, as the two of them return from the white hot afterglow. She gently runs her fingers through his hair, and Astarion softly laps at any of the mess left on the side of her neck before kissing tenderly over the bite mark left behind. 

“Would you stay?” She whispers, hiding her face in his shoulder, nervous for his answer. 

Astarion chuckles, “Are you that insatiable, my dear? Can’t get enough?” She shakes her head, “No, I mean it. Stay with me until morning, we can talk, or sleep, I don't mind.” His breath is shaky now, and one of her hands comes up to rest on the back of her head, “I don’t really know what we are doing.” he breathes, “But I’d like to try, with you.” She sits up a little, meeting his eyes. There is apprehension there, yes, but more than that there is something warm and real. She smiles, “I guess we’ll have to figure it out together.”

His smile is lopsided and effortless, “Though I’m sure Shadowheart will have something entertaining to say, come morning.”

She laughs, “I’ll have to get used to withstanding her glare, I think, as I plan to make, well, whatever this is, a regular occurrence.” 

Neither of them feels a need to define what they are feeling, or even what comes next. But she smiles when Astarion presses a kiss to her temple, and decides that for now, it hardly matters. They’ll figure it out eventually. 

POV: you wake up at your lover's side

a/n: set between acts 2 and 3; implied act 2 spoilers.

You wake up in a bed. It wouldn’t be abnormal, you think, apart from the fact that you’ve been camping on the road to Baldur’s Gate for days. You should be upon a bedroll with the stars overhead, not in a bedroom with the sound of a dying fire in one ear and the rhythm of ocean waves in the other.

It isn’t the sounds or sights that you recognize; it’s the feeling. A mystic warmth surrounds you; you’re subconsciously aware that everything you touch is an illusion, and the fact is ever-present in your slowly waking mind.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the caress of a shared daydream. It’s a vision that’s not your own, but you welcome it into your mind anyway. Besides, the hand that rubs your hip, the chest that presses against your back, and the breath on the crown of your head are all quite real.

“You needed this,” Gale murmurs in your ear. “After Ketheric—”

You smile to yourself, refraining from pointing out that Gale, who is blessedly still here, needed this, too. “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

He chuckles, and a rustling of sheets signals what’s about to come: Gale now moves like a man who knows he’s no longer on borrowed time. You’re entranced by the way one hand settles beside your head, while one knee swings over your hip. His center of gravity shifts, and he’s up above you, leaning down to lay his lips on your forehead.

“A good morning,” he says with a somber undertone, still used to the weight of his personal burdens. “A moment of quiet.”

Your smile grows. You reach up to cup his face with one hand, fingers grazing over stubble, while your other hand rests lightly on the back of his neck. “Quiet could be had at camp.”

A flash of mischief passes through his eyes, making him look younger and more full of life than you’ve ever seen him.

“Not,” he teases, leaning down again, but stopping before his smiling lips touch yours, “without prying eyes.”

Beautiful things come alive in your heart. Happiness. Anticipation. Romance. A sense of normalcy you haven’t felt since long before the tadpole. Who would have thought that a few grand illusions and several near-death experiences were all it would take to get you there? 

In bed, in the arms of a lover who touches your heart in ways no other ever has.

You lean upward, but you don’t need to move very far to reach him. With just a little tilt of your chin, your lips cover his in a kiss so sweet that your senses resonate like the most sublime of songs. You’re here, wherever here is, and so is he. Your hands touch his skin, and his touch yours. The little sigh he lets out reaches your ears, and you can taste him and all the life that’s reawakened in his soul.

When he pulls away, eyes full of a love that warms the very energy of the illusory room, you whisper, “Thank you.”

One side of his brow quirks up, but his smile hasn’t faded. “I’ll accept your thanks, but they’d be better if I knew what they were for.”

How could you ever answer that? There isn’t enough time to explain how grateful you are that he’s alive, here, with you. That he’s given himself the chance to chase what’s real instead of that which he cannot see.

So, you shake your head and reach to entwine your fingers with his. And then you settle upon thanking him for what he is: “Everything.”