NSFW. L X F!reader. Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus. L Realizing He Has Feelings For You. Approx 2.6k Words.

NSFW. L x F!reader. Vaginal sex, cunnilingus. L realizing he has feelings for you. Approx 2.6k words.

Stress impaired neural circuitry and was detrimental to cognitive function, and L couldn’t afford to lose brain power.

His most recent case required it all. The longer the case went on the more his brain seemed to fog, and the more it fogged, the longer it would take to catch the murderer. There was only one thing for it: you.

He needed you, craved you, couldn’t get you out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried to focus, the image of you appeared; a temptation he couldn’t get past. 

Put simply, he was horny. 

He dreamed of you in the few hours of sleep he stashed away from the relentless pursuit of victory. Vivid dreams of your scent, your touch, the sound of his name on your lips. He awakened from those dreams flustered and panting, his spend soaking through his jeans. But no matter how graphic and convincing those dreams were, it couldn’t compare to the real thing. To You.

With you it was never just sex. L was very fond of you, comfortable with you, his heart was made lighter by your company. You'd been friends for a while, then good friends, and then close friends who indulged in sex together. And lately your relationship was evolving into something else. Something neither of you had stuck a firm label to. Not yet.

He had Watari call you and patch you through to his line.

“L? Is everything okay?”

The moment he heard your voice, he felt the fog clear just a little. Enough to know this was exactly the right thing to do. “Yes of course. But I need to see you. How soon can you fly out to me?”

“Uh…”

“I would like to have sex with you.”

“... I’m on my way.”

Two days later you knocked on the door to his hotel room thousands of miles from home. You'd dropped everything to be there, and the gravity of that was not lost on him. 

The moment you stepped through the door he wrapped his arms around you, holding you to him in a desperate and much-needed embrace. 

“I appreciate you coming,” he said, relief immediately flooding through him, as if your arrival was the antidote to a toxin which had been slowly seeping into his system in your absence. “I need to switch off my brain… for a short while at least. And you’ve always been rather adept at making me feel at least a little mindless.”

The sound of your gentle, never unkind, laughter made him smile. As did the way your arms tightened around his rounded shoulders. “I missed you too, L.”

“Ah, well, yes, of course I missed you. Having you here while I’m working on a case is too much of a distraction. Yet being apart for too long also obstructs my focus.”

“We need to find a balance, don’t we?”

“Yes.” he hooked his index finger over his bottom lip and glanced at the ceiling. “Perhaps a schedule. Though as you know, I do tend to sleep quite heavily after sex, and that will need to be factored in when calculating the amount of time I can spend working.”

You smiled at him, and he realized just how much he’d missed the sight of it. “Do you have time set aside now?”

“Of course. I have the next eighteen hours blocked off.”

“Eighteen hours?”

“Yes… as persistent as my urges are, I have no intention of rush– mmh—”

Your lips on his silenced him, physically and– at least momentarily– mentally. Your kisses never failed to raise his heart rate and his temperature. They were devastating. Wonderful. Addictive. He was hardly aware of the little muffled moans escaping him as you backed him toward the couch and had him sit. 

“Is Watari here?” you asked, straddling his lap and running your fingers through his wild raven hair. 

A subtle smile curved L’s lips as he gazed up at you, dark eyes drinking in the familiar yet exciting sight of you. Only a matter of minutes together and already he felt the weight on his shoulders lifting. “No, Watari has his own room. We're alone.”

“Good.”

God, the heat in your kisses then, the hunger which tightened a coil deep beneath his navel. The sensation of you sucking on his lower lip made him shiver, the gentle touch of your fingertips on his neck gave him goosebumps. It was wonderful. Every touch, every second, every kiss. He clung to you tightly, his bare toes curled against the carpet, breaths labored, pupils so dilated they nearly drowned out the gray of his irises. 

A moan of protest escaped him when you pulled back, leaving his lips feeling swollen and tingly.

“You’re very cute, L.”

“I’m cute? Hm… Interesting word choice.”

“It’s true. You’re so very cute, and so very, very sexy.”

“Sexy…” he repeated back as you trailed kisses down his neck. “I’ll admit, I’m inclined to believe you. You’re making me feel many things right now and sexy is certainly among them.”

You grinned against his collarbone. “What else?”

Goodness, your kisses made it hard to breathe. But when you were around oxygen seemed superfluous. He needed your lips more than he needed to fill his lungs.

He tried to put into words the way you made him feel; hot, breathless, complete, present, safe, happy, loved. But the only sound he managed to choke out as your hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt to caress his stomach was a strained, fractured moan.

You chuckled quietly. “Good, that's what I was hoping.”

Eloquence out the window, he let his hands and his lips speak for him, fingertips gliding up your back, pushing up your shirt, making you shiver. The sensation of your skin beneath his palms was so lovely he never wanted to feel anything else. 

Early on in your relationship he’d mastered the art of smoothly unhooking your bra, and he did so now, stroking his fingers along your upper back, feeling your shoulder blades flex beneath his hands as he lifted your shirt up and over your head. He set your garments aside so carefully it made you smile. Well, it wouldn’t be polite to simply toss them.

And you pulled his shirt off too, setting it on top of yours before your hands slid over his chest and abdomen. You were so greedy for him; gentle and adoring, but unmistakably hungry. Squeezing, stroking, holding, making up for the weeks you’d been apart. Every touch left a desire for more in its wake. And the intimacy of your bare skin on his, the way your hardened nipples prodded and brushed against him every time you leaned in to deepen your kisses… heaven. Perfection.

You made him feel incredible. So good he couldn’t help but squirm beneath you, his cock aching and so desperate for your touch he couldn’t bear it. And you knew him well enough to see it in his eyes; the almost pained expression pinching his brow, the way his mouth turned down as he succumbed to the sensation of your lips on his throat, your tongue warm and soft, slippery against his clavicle. 

L wasn't quite sure when he had come to realize the wonderful truth; that you needed him as he needed you. It wasn't a sudden dawning, more an intrinsic fact which became second nature to him. Being with him, kissing him, grinding yourself against his lap was simultaneously as indulgent and as necessary for you as it was for him. You were working out your own stress, clinging to him as he was to you. Adoring him as he adored you.

You'd missed him; you’d said as much but he could feel it. It was apparent by the way your kisses lingered, the desperation of your touches, the ragged quality of each overwhelmed breath. And that feeling, of being needed, wanted, craved, was almost enough to make him lightheaded.

“Beautiful…” the word tiptoed from his tongue and into the heated air between you. It was all so beautiful; you, the sensations, him, that moment, all of it. 

He’d spent the majority of his life contemplating the very worst facets of human behavior; analytical detachment as much a necessity as an inevitability when the world around him was saturated by cruelty, violence, and death. But you… no he could never detach from you. He was wholly and willingly consumed by your loveliness, your beauty, your imperfections. All of you. 

He heard himself groan in protest as you clambered off him, but he needn’t have worried. You simply finished undressing before unbuttoning his jeans, tugging them down his slender thighs as he arched his back and lifted his hips off the couch to ease your endeavor. His erection tented his boxers, aching and twitching at the sight of you stripping off your underwear, and the arousal glistening at the apex of your inner thighs. 

“So wet,” he said, tapping his lower lip with his thumbnail, his dark eyes hungrily drinking in the sight of you. “You're excited.”

“Of course. You turn me on, L.”

“Clearly. I enjoy it immensely.” He glanced down at his erection, and the little wet patch soaking through the fabric of his boxers. “And… oh, hey… likewise.”

Goodness, he enjoyed the way you smiled. Even at a time like this when he was in real danger of ruining the mood. You didn’t roll your eyes or barely tolerate him, and you didn’t simply appreciate him for his intelligence, his money, or even his looks which you had very quickly seemed to have acquired the taste for. It was all of him for you too. 

Love, he was quickly learning, was all about those little moments. The awkwardness, the fumbling, accepting someone as the flawed and wonderful person they were. Every little thing he adored about you was reflected back in your eyes: personality, humor, mannerisms. He adored you down to your very core and there was no doubt in his mind that you felt the same way about him.

He stood from the couch, stepping out of his boxers– hopping on the spot to keep his balance as he unhooked them from his ankle– and stood before you completely naked. 

“As much as I would enjoy sex right now, I’d also very much like to taste you.” He scratched his belly as he headed toward the bedroom door. “And I feel we’d benefit from moving to the bedroom. There’s room there to maneuver. The bed is comfortable and… If I'm honest, I’d enjoy lying with you. Particularly being held by you. You’ve given me quite the fondness for cuddling you know.” 

Of course convincing you was unnecessary. He’d only ever have to ask to move to the bedroom and you would've headed straight there. But he liked the way the color rose in your cheeks when he mentioned his desires, and the way your smile took on new meaning. The little flirtatious glance you gave him as you slipped by him in the doorway made his heart pitter patter. The way you sat on the bed, parting your thighs and inviting him to indulge in you made his cock ache.

All his life he’d been treated as something other– he'd felt it too– but with you, crouching between your feet, breathing in the heady scent of your arousal as your breath hitched in anticipation, he felt like any other lovesick fool. And for that he was endlessly grateful; a gratitude he expressed by leaning in and kissing your clitoris. He knew how you liked it. Hot, open-mouthed kisses, heavy on the tongue, making out with your sex as you moaned and sunk your fingers into his hair and writhed beneath his lips. 

Dear God, the taste of you. If only cunnilingus provided adequate sustenance, he’d never touch anything else again. He’d live between your thighs, lapping at your core, devouring you, parting your folds to drive his tongue into your entrance, enjoying the way you bucked your hips toward him, always seeking more. 

Ordinarily he’d take his time, savor the slow-build toward your climax, but he was starved, desperate to sink into your heat and be enveloped by your presence which he’d denied himself for far too long. He dragged his tongue along your slit, circling your clitoris before surrounding it with his lips and sucking upon it.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped, heels pressing against his backside, thighs trembling. 

Your reactions only ever served to bolster his confidence. Your pleasure was as much a boost to his ego as any successfully closed case. And he was just as relentless in its pursuit, demanding, licking, sucking, groaning against your pussy, his dick throbbing almost painfully, dripping precum onto his thighs. 

And then you came, and it was a miracle he didn’t follow suit. 

Your gasps, your moans, the way you tensed and shuddered and cried his name. The sudden flood of heat emanating from your core, the throbbing spasms, all of it. Wonderful. Perfect. Utterly utterly maddening. He simply had to be inside you. 

Your throes had barely subsided when he crawled onto you, his mouth still dedicated to worshiping your form, following a path from your pelvis, over your stomach, your chest, your throat, and finally your lips, where you groaned at the taste of yourself on his tongue. And all else was meaningless. The case, the stress, whatever came tomorrow. None of it mattered. Because you were there. Because the sensation of you, of sliding into you, the way your body adjusted to accommodate him, the way your brow pinched then smoothed, and the sound of his name on your lips pared him down so completely to the true form of himself, to someone he hardly recognized. 

Only when he was with you like this was he allowed to be just a man. Not a detective. Not an unsettling, infallible genius or a freak or a creep or a weirdo or whatever labels were thrust upon him. Just a man whose lungs emptied when he sheathed himself inside you. Just a man whose thrusts were uncoordinated and sloppy because it all felt so overwhelmingly good. Just a man with butterflies in his belly when you held his face between your hands and finally, finally uttered the words you’d both been dancing around since God knows when. 

“I love you.”

Such a lovely sound. The gravity of it folded him. He collapsed into you, trembling, rolling his hips against you in the quest for release, his breath blowing hot and hard against your throat as he responded in kind. “I do too. I love you. Isn’t it… Isn’t it incredible?”

Perhaps he wasn’t making any sense. But he meant all of it, the simple words and their world-changing intricacies. In every imaginable way. He loved you. 

Overwhelmed with the need to be closer, deeper, he pushed up your thighs, spreading them, pressing his pelvis tight against yours until his cock was completely buried inside you and neither of you could draw full breaths. Deep, unbridled, fractured groans tumbled from his lips, his forehead resting on your chest as he arched into his thrusts, watching his cock slide into you with fascination and awe. He loved every aspect of it. The scent of your body, the off-kilter rhythm of his thrusts, that he could hear your wetness even above his own moans and yours. So good. Messy and undignified, uncoordinated and beautifully, perfectly human. Mountains of sugar couldn’t hold a candle to the indulgence he found in you. 

His pleasure grew, billowing behind his navel, a flurry of clenching muscles and firing nerves. And he simply had to have something in his mouth, his lips latching onto your nipple, tonguing it frantically as you cried out in bliss beneath him. And then he was filling you, his cock throbbing and leaking and stuttering inside you. Incapable of analysis or even thought beyond simply you.

It was you. Only you. Always you.

Afterwards you held him so adoringly, stroking your fingers through his hair, telling him how good he felt and how much you loved him. And what a wonderful feeling it was to be so utterly adored. Such tranquility in allowing himself to be just a man.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, curled in your arms a little while later, once his trembling subsided and left a pleasant humming tingle in its wake. Safe and relaxed and at peace. “Pun unintended.”

“Awful,” you teased him, as lovers are wont to do. “I’m taking the next plane home.”

“Ah, well, that’s a pity. We still have seventeen hours before I need to get back to work. And, it seems, today at least, little to no refractory period.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so. So I'd appreciate it if you indulged my awful humor a little while longer. Might I suggest keeping my mouth otherwise occupied?”

Your smile, your gentle, never unkind laughter, the way you flirted with him… just you. Goodness, seventeen hours would never be enough. 

If you liked this check out my Masterlist! I write a lot!

remember when light was just imagining L as like his ultimate detective wet dream fantasy. because I do.

・❥・in the morning picking flowers (in my head I was giving them to you)

: ̗̀➛ astarion x gn!reader

: ̗̀➛ wc: 600+

Though his piercing ruby gaze and sinful smirk that promises so much more may fool passerbyers and drunken tavern patrons, you see through him for what he truly is. A scared man trying desperately to prove his worth in any way possible. You see his lips quiver in fear every time he catches someone’s eye before quickly slipping into his persona. Your heart pangs to see a man like him degrade himself, so when he’s looming over your neck starving you don’t hesitate to offer yourself up. 

He thinks you’re an idiot. That your mother must have dropped you on your head as a child. No person in their right mind would let a vampire feed on them if they didn’t have a thing for it. He’s sure this isn’t sexual for you so what do you have to gain from offering yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter. The thought gnaws at his mind until he feels his fangs break through the thin skin on your neck and that sweet delectable blood hit his tongue. All thoughts of doubt go flying out the window. The first sentient creature’s blood he’s drinken since his turning and he thinks he can’t ever go back to feeding on boars and squirrels anymore. It is the finest wine he has ever sipped, it is a royal banquet filled with the most lavish foods of Faerun, it is the first breath he takes in a cool crisp morning. Utterly refreshing and desperately needed.

He laps at your wound like a feral dog would when presented with a well grilled steak. He feels your blood traverse through his dead veins igniting every single cell in his body. Your blood rushes to his heart and he thinks he might faint. It starts to contract horribly and then suddenly expands and he only realizes after a few moments that his heart is beating. How could he have forgotten what it felt like to have a beating heart. Chasing the illusion of being mortal once more, he eagerly slurps up your life's essence.

You watch as the warmth leaves your body and flush his paper skin with a soft coral shade leaving you feeling like ice against him as if you are the vampire in this situation. And though your vision is starting to blur and your limbs are as heavy as lead, you let him take his fill. It would be crueler still to rip away from him when all he has had is a taste. But sweet suckles turn into ravenous gulps and it takes all your strength to whisper in Astarion’s ear to stop.

Through his drunken stupor he hears your plea break through his ecstasy and he now notices how limp you’ve become. He licks at your wound savoring the last beads of crimson that seep out of the twin marks. You look up through hazy eyes at his impending form over your heaving one. Blushing cheeks, eyes even a brighter shade of vermillion, and for a few seconds, a beating heart.  

“This is a gift you know. I won’t forget it.” And you believe him. He turns to mist in your mind as sweet sleep takes over your drained body. You dream of your life before the Nautiloid, of prancing around in your mother’s garden as a child. How the grass tickled your toes and the sun kissed your cheeks. You imagine gathering daisy’s and weaving them into a crown as carefully as your toddler hands could let you and gifting it to Astarion. His cheeks turn the same shade as your blood and you spend the rest of the day basking in the sun’s embrace and making flower crowns.

A running list of places you might find batstarion has dozed off in:

The cooking pot at camp. Gale almost cooked him once by accident bc the lid was on it, and he didn't know Astarion was in there. (Or did he?)

Has been known to crawl into a chest for nap time when the rest of you are taking too long exploring a place.

In the pouch you keep all of your coins in. (It makes him feel wealthy.)

Your backpack, of course. Nestled very sweetly between all of your sharp and pointies and poisonous herbs.

Your pillowcase. You'll go to lay down and feel a lump of fur start to wiggle about, and think it's a rat or something at first.

Draped over someone's head like a little fluffy hat.

Your shirt. This one is obvious, but I had to mention it. Just be careful not to forget about him and squash the poor guy.

The pile of laundry you have in your tent just bc it smells like you.

Fully immersed in Scratch's fur or the owlbear's feathers. It won't be on purpose, usually, he'll just be chilling, and one of them will come over and flop down on top of him for a nap.

A jar of blood that he was sipping on. Lost in the sauce.

bros having a Day

⋆.˚ ⟡ 𝒞𝑜𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒 𝒟𝒾𝓋𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 .˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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