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darthwritings · 2 years

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[ASMR Script] Tiefling at the Tavern

Summary: After traveling by themselves for quite some time, the listener comes upon a most curious tiefling when they stop for a night at a tavern. Though bustling with all sorts of other adventurers traveling from lands near and far, the listener is mildly enthralled with the mysterious, ornate bard named Nobody who, with a little flirting and a lot of jesting, offers to use their tarot cards to read the listener's fate and fortune.

Setting: High Magical Fantasy (D&D)

Tags: First meeting, flirting, gender ambiguous, tiefling speaker, human listener

Word count: 2.2k

Google Docs Version / Reddit Post

(The audio opens up to the sound of a tavern bustling around the listener. There are faint voices all around, and perhaps even soft music echoing through the space. The listener walks forward for a short period of time, the motion echoed with footsteps over the wooden floor. If possible, there is the occasional 'excuse me' and 'watch where you're going' from a few other adventurers making their way through the tavern around the listener.

The footsteps eventually stop, assumedly the listener unsure where they're able to sit when the tavern is so full up of people—is there any hope for them to even find a room available? In the middle of this proposed thought, a voice breaks out from the muddled noise and captures the listener's attention.)

(The voice that calls out has a light accent, but is relatively friendly. They speak with an enigmatic but vibrant sort of tone, like one that has many years of experience in entertaining and amusing other people.)

Oi! You there! (pause) Yes you dear, the one who just walked in! You're not going to find any open rooms if that's what you’re looking for. And good luck trying to find someone to tell you that in the first place!

(There's a pause as the listener is given a chance to sift through the words, perhaps even with more people pushing past them with a series of 'move' and 'excuse me' further insinuating how busy the tavern is.)

...You can sit right here by me if you’d like. There isn't anyone I'm saving it for anyway, and you look like you could use a seat.

(Footsteps echo as the listener seems to take the tiefling up on their offer, and the sound of a chair gently scraping against a wooden floor and them almost falling into it seems to reveal just how tired they are from traveling.)

Damn, you really do look beat to hell n' back. Been traveling for a while? (pause) Heh, and all by yourself too? Don't you know it's dangerous to be movin' 'round these parts? They say the forests all north of here are infested with monsters—and not even the kind that make for a heroic story either! Shadow demons and the like, I've heard. Very powerful beasties.

Hm? Me? Oh, I'm able to take care of myself perfectly fine. I may not look like a rugged adventurer like you do my dear, but I have my own talents. (laughs, then pauses a moment)

Speaking of, what's your name, my dear?

...That sounds quite nice, actually. But you know, I'm a fan of nicknames, and I think everyone deserves something fitting of first impressions. So for you... (hums, pause almost a little dramatic) I'm thinkin' cutie, sweetheart, doll.... heh, I'm sorry, I'm only mostly joking.

(half-joking, half exasperated) Honest! I can't help it when I see such a pretty face! And yours? Yours is exceptionally sweet on the eyes.

Hm? My name? (chuckles) Well, my dear, I am Nobody. (pause) No, really, my name is literally Nobody.

...Why? (chuckles again, tone earnest and mischievous) Because, why not? It's as good a name as any, and it certainly makes for a fun night when someone starts shouting that 'nobody' owes them some coin. ‘Tis especially fun when they’ve emptied almost a dozen mugs of ale and don’t have the sense to realize how damn funny it sounds.

It's not gotten me out of any tabs, but a tiefling can hope!

(pauses, a moment of silence that allows the background noise to simmer. After at most a few seconds, Nobody hums attentively as they seem to notice the listener staring at them)

What's that look for? Interested in something about me? Go on, ask your question—I can tell there's one on your tongue, and I've heard my share of plenty.

...circus?

Oh! You thought I was part of a traveling circus? Well, I suppose I can't fault you for thinking something like that. My style of fashion is rather... colorful. Ornate. Or even, as some people like t'tell me: (tone of whimsical, amused mimicry, as if the sentence itself amuses them) "Completely obstinate and without any sense of subtlety."

(mournfully) 'Tis unfortunate for those who think so—(with dramatic woe) they must live such horribly drab and boring lives, after all, if a tiefling with a wonderful sense of taste in clothes and body art offends them so.

(tone turns energetic) But in either case, my dear, I am not at all affiliated with a traveling circus or other fantastical affair—though I wouldn't mind to be, should I cross paths with one. I am something of a bard, you might say. I don't do much of that singing business—the sound of my voice might break a glass—but I am quite adept at doing plenty of other things.

And people. (chuckles) Oh, don't look so shy, my dear—I'm only jesting, promise.

(shifting back to the topic of their skills) To be specific about some of the things I can do, I can recount tales of gallantry, tales of woe—I can read someone's fate through the usage of my deck of cards. Most people are very interested in that section of my abilities. (chuckles) There's nothing wrong in asking about it, my dear.

I'm told my skills of reading fates is everything from 'bone-chillingly accurate' to 'completely fraudulent', though feel free to make your own judgment on the matter—

In fact, why don't I read your cards? Hm? You've been eyeing them for a while after all, and I could see that sparkle of curiosity from a mile away. (pause) No, no charge at all, consider this reading entirely on the house! A discount, perhaps—simply for being in the right place at the right time. Maybe that is even fated to be as well...

First, let me shuffle these cards. (sounds of cards shuffling and sliding quietly fill more of the background noise while the two of them talk)

Tell me a little about yourself, my dear. What brings you all the way here across such dangerous lands. A quest perhaps? An adventure? A mystery of untold proportions?

(pause for a few seconds to let the listener 'answer')

Oh! Well, that's certainly more interesting than most folk that come through here. Most are just looking for mercenary work, but aren't willing to go farther than a mile out from town just where the forest gets thickest. But you... you've traveled right through there! Quite an achievement in itself, my dear adventurer. Be proud of that fact if nothing else.

Alright, now... (sounds of slight stretching as Nobody lays out small portions of the deck of cards) Since I am reading your fate, 'tis important that you have a chance to touch the cards to allow them to 'see' you, so to speak. To glimpse upon your soul. To outline your future. Just put each of these small piles on top of one another in any order that you like so that they make up a full deck again. (pause a moment) Yes... perfect! Now, cut the deck in half, half again for both... put them all back together...

Wonderful. I'll take it back from you now and—here is the most important part—focus on the cards as I draw them. Each one, pulled to answer the simple questions: From what did you come from? Where are you now? And where are you soon to be?

(pause, then the soft sound of a card clicking/flicking off the deck and onto the wooden table)

Past. (card sound again) Present. (card sound again) Future.

We will start from the past and work our way forward—like a river, time moves downstream, towards the expanse of the future that we all sail towards upon it. Behind us is our past that we move away from, the setting always in perfect detail, though we may not have been able to see it when we were sailing through it.

(sound of a card flipping over)

Oh...? Death, upright.

(tone is enigmatic and soft, a subtle but distinct shift from the overly energetic persona that Nobody had given just a few moments ago) It would appear that you have gone through some recent change in your life, my dear. A new worldview? New habit? This card doesn't mean that you've literally experienced death, but a change—and change can be scary, but it can also be good.

The warming of the winter months brings forth spring, but the frost at the end of fall helps to temper the ground so that new plant life can grow stronger. (tone softer) Whatever change you had experienced, you have endured it well, weathered it like a storm and come out a better person for it.

Now, for the next card: your present.

(sound of a card flipping over)

I see... the page of cups, upright! Not one that I see all that often, but I can't say that I'm surprised.

This card represents creative opportunities and possibilities available to you. You see how it looks? There's a young boy standing before a vast ocean and he holds a chalice in his hand, and within the chalice is a fish—the sea represents creativity, intuition, your emotions and how they play a roll in the greater world. By holding the chalice with the fish, the page himself represents all the opportunities within that ocean.

It...isn't often I pull this card for an adventurer. Typically their mind has a goal already, an end-state to their wandering. But you... (hums quizzically, as if genuinely confused and interested by this card) you're still searching for your adventure. Your quest. There are a multitude of options out there for you, my dear, but none of them have come calling for you just yet.

It makes me wonder what this final card will mean for your future.

(sound of a card flipping over)

...The ace of cups, upright.

On this card is a chalice, and water overflows from the chalice in several streams—the streams represent your senses, and the water itself represents your emotions—like from the previous card. In this situation, it represents new relationships and love that your emotions are searching for. You will find yourself meeting someone soon, very soon, that you will forge a bountiful relationship with. Perhaps... even a romantic one.

(pauses, then chuckles) I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. It's just not every day that the cards are so outright with their meaning. They tend to be subtle in their readings, lacing together careful euphemisms and gentle direction. This... is a bit less so. I'd argue this is one of the least subtle sets of cards that I've had the chance to read before, and certainly one of the most intriguing.

You have come from a path of incredible change and have weathered it well, but you are at an impasse of a choice to make, and that choice may lead you into a relationship with someone, possibly romantic, that I would argue is fated to be. (chuckles again) It's as if the cards themselves are trying to say something to me, but... well, I try not to let my own opinion color someone else's reading.

But... (tone wandering, confident but gentle) I have to wonder if your choice was in coming to this tavern. Perhaps... even sitting at this chair? Choosing to speak to me when you could have easily turned around and left? Hm. Just some food for thought, my dear—

(sounds of cards shuffling as Nobody puts them all back together, then into a soft silken bag)

I find it rather fitting, however, because I had meant to ask you a question myself before I had even drawn the cards from the deck. And, with that, I am ever more interested with what your answer might be.

You see, I don't have a room here—I've already heard several people before you turned away with how full they are—but I do have a spot that I'm camping at. I've actually been staying out there the last couple nights; 'tis a bit odd for me since I am often predisposed to moving about, but something kept me from wandering on. I wonder...

If you don't mind, my dear, can I ask you to draw but one card more for me? The deck is shuffled, and fate itself is ready for the question to be asked:

What is our relationship meant to be? Passing strangers? Newfound friends? ...Romantic intrigue?

What does fate say I am meant to be for you?

(sound of a card flipping onto the wooden table)

The lovers, upright.

(pause, then chuckles honestly, somewhere between disbelief and a moment of embarrassment)

Well, I'll just let you decide what that card means to you right now.

In the meantime, I offer you some respite at my camp area—there's a few other travelers staying there tonight, so you wouldn't be entirely alone with me if that is a worry. If you have a bedroll, then it is a vaguely comfortable place to lay your head down for the evening, and certainly safe from any bandits or dark demons of the night... unless you count good-looking tieflings. (chuckles) It won't cost you a single coin either, and I am full of interesting stories to regale you with—I am a bard, after all.

So my dear adventurer, given what you've heard of both the cards and myself, what do you say?

(The audio gently fades out, the listener's answer ambiguous and unknown)

#dnd #script #asmr script #asmr scripts #nobody the tiefling #catch me thinkin about writing a fic version of this #tiefling

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darthwritings · 3 years

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Dreamweaver

AO3 Version

Relationship: Hypnos/Reader

Summary: There’s a man whom you dream about. A man you’ve never met but he feels real all the same. Golden eyes and ashen skin, clothed in crimson layers that look more fitting of an old Greek myth than what you’d see otherwise - an intimately familiar stranger whom greets you the moment your mind falls into the soft embrace of sleep.

When you die and find yourself taken to the underworld, you finally have a chance to meet this man: his name is Hypnos.

Death isn’t quite what you thought it would be. Not entirely at least. There’s just moment of nothingness - as if life itself doesn’t exist - before quite suddenly you find yourself stepping out of an ebbing river’s tide of warm, crimson blood. It doesn’t seem to stick to your skin despite how warm and slick it feels between your fingers, but it does soak through your clothes for as long as it takes your brain to process the moment through.

You’re...dead?

The sound of voices and shuffling draw your attention up from your blood-covered hands.

A hallway opens before you at the top of a walkway leading out of the bloody river. You step forward cautiously onto the incline, all the while waiting for your feet to slip out beneath you or some other force of cruel fate to send you sputtering once more beneath the surface.

Where are you?

Of course, there is no immediate answer. As you look left to right, up and down, the world seems all the more bewildering; ancient-looking statues lining the walls, mixed with inlays of gold and carved skulls of stone. Even the marble floor beneath your feet is equally as alien to you, looking more from the temple of an opulent cult of death than anything else.

But it’s the specters that put terror in your bones.

Half-faded forms, humanoid but cloaked and completely transparent from the waist down. They appear as if a figment of your vision, hovering across the hall. Several even emerge from the pool of blood behind you, seemingly unbothered by the dark liquid that clings to them for all but a few seconds before fading away. They say nothing to you as they pass. Still, you can’t help the sense that they notice you all the same. It’s as if many eyes lay upon your form from the moment you stepped out of the pool yourself.

But you continue to step forward. One foot in front of the other, trailing blood behind you for a few moments before as if magically whisked from your body and falling back to the river behind you.

There is someone at the end of the hall. Not a specter, but not someone like you. The person seems to have a defined humanoid form, and is clothed in lavish garments colored like blood and bespeckled with golden accents. You can tell that their complexion is ashen even from the distance, but it’s the glimmer of their eyes - golden as the metal adorning the rest of their outfit - that grab your attention like lightning.

“Oh,” the voice that falls from their lips is masculine, but lilting and casual. “I haven’t seen someone of your sort come in here for a while. Is Demeter angry again?”

You know on some level that the general shock of being dead and in the afterlife - seemingly an underworld of some sort - should take importance. Regardless, there’s something about the nameless man’s jeering tone that makes your lips purse and your brows knit together warily.

“One of my sort? What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

He tilts his head for a moment, but the lazy grin seems almost permanently affixed to his lips.

“Oh I’m sorry!” The man waves a pen in one hand and then gestures to his other, holding a thick-looking book. “Just noticed it said in here that you’re one of the newer mortals and all. Not many of them end up in our house.”

“Our... house?”

The figure chuckles.

“The House of Hades,” he answers, writing something down in that book of his before looking up at you again with such soft eyes that, for a moment, you swear you’ve seen before. Ashen skin, snow-white hair. Golden eyes... But the man doesn’t seem to notice your blank stare. “Lots of different mortals go to lots of different places when they die. Where their soul is connected to most, of course. But you’re here, so that must mean y’got a connection somewhere among the pantheon.”

You blink. It’s hard to take in all the information when the man is speaking so quickly - or perhaps you are just slow to absorb it all.

“Did you have a patron?” The figure asks after a moment, interest seemingly genuine despite the fact he looks eternally sleep-deprived, to fall asleep at any given moment. “Head honcho likes to keep a tally. Mostly for bragging rights at this point. Oh oh don’t tell me, was it Zag? He’s a big up-and-comer, newest god on the block.”

Another moment passes before you dumbly shake your head. Only half of his words seemed understandable, and the other half unbelievable. At the same time your brain is feverishly trying to place why every flash of those sleepy, golden eyes leave you feeling... wistful? Familiar? You’ve certainly never been dead before, so it’s not as if you’d met the man in this same situation. But why?

“What’s your name?” you finally blurt out without thinking, if only so you can place a goddamn name to his face. Greek gods? Pantheon? Your mortal memory is fuzzy, and it’s hard to remember more than a few simple things at a time - try as you might to come up with an answer yourself before he does, but to no avail.

“My name?” the man looks momentarily confused. “Nobody usually asks for that. Just shuffle right down the hall so Lord Hades can put them where they need to go.”

He purses his lips and raises an eyebrow, continuing only when you hold your expectant gaze in stubborn silence; you try not to ponder about how his eyes seem so calming despite the situation, like a hand soothing over your panicked heartbeat.

Golden eyes hold yours for but an extra moment, emotion unreadable before he speaks, “You can call me Hypnos.”

Hypnos. The name sends a shiver up your spine and into your death-hazy thoughts to clear out the fog holding the connection just far enough from your reach to remember. Suddenly, you realize why his name is so clear, why his face and eyes bring such familiarity to you within an otherwise terrifying and unfamiliar place.

“...I’ve seen you before,” you murmur after a few moments, memories like icy cold water rushing to fill the gaps of memory that not even death can hold back any longer. “I’ve seen you.”

Even though thunderstorms terrified you, you somehow managed to find peaceful slumber between each booming crack of thunder that seemed as if right outside your window. Hard and sudden and overwhelming, leaving your entire body trembling from the moment the first drops of rain would patter against the roof of your house.

But even then, you somehow find such comfort in sleep. Like how your blankets wrap tight and warm around your shoulders, the sweet abyss of your dreams offer such a wonderful respite from everything that scares you in waking life.

There’s a man whom you dream about. A man you’ve never met but he feels real all the same. Golden eyes and ashen skin, clothed in crimson layers that look more fitting of an old Greek myth than what you’d see otherwise - an intimately familiar stranger whom greets you the moment your mind falls into the soft embrace of sleep.

“Don’t be scared,” he oft murmurs to you, tugging his soft overcoat around your shoulders and pulling you close against him. “It’s just a storm. Mortals like you like to think it’s Lord Zeus throwing a tantrum up on Olympus. And I’ll let you in on a little secret-” he hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face just enough so you can look into his eyes and see the gentle, sleepy amusement sparkling behind pools of gold. “-they’re not exactly wrong about it.”

He waits until the corners of your lips widen just a little before pulling your face back against his chest, the two of you floating among the dark, dreamlike abyss that feels as if it’s your entire world.

There were multiple dreams and, unlike others, you could recall them almost perfectly each and every time you woke. It had been such an odd experience, repeated even, that you’d chalked it up to a form of self-comfort despite how much they stood out in your mind against what most people described of their senseless dreams.

An imaginary friend made manifest only in the safety of sleep.

In front of you now as a familiar figure, Hypnos looks... awkward? His eyes don’t meet yours for longer than a single heartbeat at a time, and his cheeks take on a dark shade of lavender that is hard to miss on his pale skin. For a few moments you have to wonder if he doesn’t recognize you in the same way you do or, worse, what you’d experienced wasn’t entirely real. Who are you to assume a godly force would single you out among the rest of the world?

But after a moment, Hypnos clear his throat and closes the book in his hand with a dull thump that echoes in the cold, still air.

“So uh... you remember all that huh?”

The words draw your attention back up to his face - still as flushed as before, if not moreso - and he finally meets your gaze again. It takes a moment before you realize he’s looking for an answer to the question, and you nod your head fervently as words seem to fail you in the same moment you seem to realize that you’ve forgotten to breathe a bit.

The death-keeper clears his throat again. More as if a copout to offer words than anything else, but even he can’t let the silence trail on for all that long. Eventually he turns his gaze back further down the hall. It takes a few moments before you realize to follow it, peering into the vast open space that the hall opened into. Distantly you could see an empty desk, one far too massive for any normal person to sit upon. You can still tell how it towers above your height many times over - but it is not nearly as large as the massive, crimson-colored three-headed dog that lays in slumber just beside it.

Cerberus, your mind finally offers. The three-headed hound of hell.

You let your gaze linger for a few moments before turning back to look at Hypnos, who is looking at you in kind. His eyes look a little less sleepy in that single moment, though you can’t quite identify the soft emotion that’s taken its place.

“...I’m not supposed to put favor in mortals,” he finally murmurs, quietly, as if someone might hear. “You might say I don’t have enough rank for that luxury. But I eh... I thought your dreams looked pretty. Drew me in. A lot.”

A moment passes.

Hypnos continues quietly, “I never thought that you’d show up here when you died. Like I said, most mortals right now don’t have a strong enough tie to our realm for my brother-er, Charon. For him to ferry their soul across Styx.”

And then, it becomes clear: why he’s flustered, why he’s nervous, and why still he didn’t seem to recognize you at all when you first walked out of the pool of blood - the river styx. But at the same time you can’t help but feel a sudden warmth building up within your chest, so strong that it supersedes everything else down the line of priority for your brain to deal with later (such as the dying and all).

You wring your hands together and glance down towards your feet.

“I think it was you.”

A moment passes. Hypnos makes a sound of confusion, and you try to offer some quiet clarification without drawing the attention of the ones he seemed not to want to hear.

“You... asked before if I have a patron. Or had one.” There’s such a delicate pattern of gold laid across the marble floor, one almost impossible to notice if you weren’t staring at it. “I didn’t have a patron but... I did look forward to seeing you in my dreams. I... sometimes wished that I could meet you in person, though back then I thought you... didn’t really exist.”

A moment passes. Then another. And another. After having held your breath for so long that your lungs burn you wonder if Hypnos had even heard your soft words, but you’re proven wrong in the very moment your gaze flicks back up towards him. He looks absolutely flustered, brows drawn tight over his eyes which stare at you with an unfamiliar, but not wholly unwelcome emotion that seems to reach the deepest parts of your soul.

And then, suddenly, he opens the book half-forgotten in one hand and starts scribbling something in it.

“I’m just-” he says hurriedly, “-going to put down your patron as Zagreus. It’s not uh, like he checks the list all that much anyway. I-...I uh. Yeah, we’ll just do that.”

You take a short step closer to try and get his attention again.

“... Does that mean I can’t talk to you anymore?”

Hypnos’ eyes snap up almost instantly at the question.

“Of c-course you can! Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean everything stops. Plenty of stuff to do otherwise, and I mean-” he’s doing absolutely no good at hiding the heat across his cheeks, or the way the once-jeering man seems to stutter over every couple words. “Normally you’d go on to uh, get placed within the underworld. But I could see if... there’s a spot open here to help out. I’m sure that Dusa would appreciate it.”

Perhaps it’s the raw honesty of his tone that leaves you partially stunned. The look of something in his golden eyes that take a while for you to realize is anticipation. He waits for the answer, your answer, if the strange connection between the two of you is enough for you to remain or move on.

Even if you had the choice to leave to any other realm of death - which you’re certain isn’t true - you’ve known the answer since the moment recognition filled your mind to the sound of his name.

You reach a hand out to take one of his, and shyly lace your fingers together to which he doesn’t reject. For a moment you almost expect him to feel cold against your skin. Instead his hand is surprisingly warm, as warm to the touch as you remember from your dreams that seem as recent as they do old.

“I’d love to stay here, Hypnos,” you finally say. “I wanted so badly to meet you before, and I still do now.” A moment passes, and you arch a brow in amusement. “...assuming that’s still on the table?”

“Yes!” Hypnos all but squeaks suddenly, but quickly regains his voice just as his hand holds yours in a renewed grip - firm, but not painful, as if testing that you are real. “I uh, I think you’ll really like it here. There’s a lot of great people you’ll get to meet.”

“I’m excited to see them then. I... don’t know very much about this realm, admittedly, so you might have to help me around for a while.”

Hypnos nods, “Of course! I wouldn’t be that great of a host if I just let you bumble around the hall unsupervised! You might run into something nasty like a violent shade, or a monster... or Meg on a bad day.”

He babbles on for a few minutes more, quickly introducing you to a couple aspects of your new world with a renewed sense of excitement, alike what he’d greeted you with after meeting him fresh from the Pool of Styx.

“Oh! Also, there’s something else I know that will make you happy here - can’t say I’ve heard the same from any other realm (though admittedly I’m not allowed in any other realm).”

You tilt your head to the side, realizing that your faces are barely just a foot apart by now but unwilling to step away; his eyes truly are like liquid gold, and shimmer with every word that falls from his lips.

Hypnos smiles and leans forward to the side of your head to whisper as if it’s something of a secret between the two of you alone. And maybe he is.

“Down here,” he murmurs, your cheeks brushing for just a breath. “you’ll never have to be afraid of another thunderstorm ever again.”

You never thought such simple, little words could make you feel so comforted and safe.

But they do.

#hades game #hades supergiant #hypnos #hypnos hades #hypnos hades game #writing #reader insert #readerinsert #supergiant games #dreamweaver

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darthwritings · 3 years

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“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” - Toni Morrison

With the holidays quickly rolling closer and myself low on hours at my current job while looking for a new one, I figure there’s no better time to announce that my writing commissions have opened up again!

It’s been a long while since I’ve made any substantial content, but it was constructive and well-needed time on my end. I’ve had to make some changes in both my workflow and emotional health habits in the last several months (take! care! of yourself!) and I think I’m ready to throw my skills back into the kitchen.

About Me | My Previous Work | Terms of Service

Pricing | Contact Me | Frequently Asked Questions

The links above will lead you to all the information written up on my commission carrd, but the quick ‘n dirty information is also below the readmore cut. Please let me know if there’s any questions about something!

Writer Specialties

Themes: Fluff, Smut, Relationship-building, Guilty-pleasure wish fulfillment, Reader-insert

Ratings: General to Explicit

Content Types Available:

Original & Fandom-based works (and anywhere in between)

Oneshots / Short Stories

Sequels / Follow-ups to previous works

Chaptered Projects (priced on wordcount per chapter)

Headcanons & Imagines

Interactive Fiction Projects (ex: Twine)

In-character letters / Messages

Fandoms Available: So many

Previous Works: Found via my AO3 or on any of my multiple fandom writing blogs

Commission Process

Pricing Rate: Varies according to wordcount, please see my rates page

Payment Type: Paypal invoice

Payment Timing: At least 1/2 prior to start of work, and the remainder at completion

Refunds: Available until completion of work; amount refunded will vary based on the percentage of wordcount finished at time of refund request

Availability: Rolling Slots (Five), waiting list available if slots are full at the time of request unless otherwise informed

Turnover Time: Up to two weeks for each individual slot, subject to vary according to schedule

#writing commissions #writing commissions open #commissions #notwriting #modsukispeaks #sukirambles #i have so many tags on this thing its definitely not gonna show up on search but eh

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darthwritings · 4 years

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so I found your rwby writings and I have to say, you are one of the most talented writers Iv come across in the entire fandom, for both sfw and smut and I can't praise your work enough. I have a question, you haven't written anything for rwby in almost a year, is that due to lack of requests or have you moved on from the fandom ( I personally can only get into one fandom at a time once I get into a new one I movie on from the old one)

Mostly it’s from moving around into new fandoms! I have writing blogs for a lot of fandoms, so I hop around as my motivation takes me.

I might write something every now and then for other fandoms if I’m feeling a spark for one of the requests in the inbox, and I do get some even when I’m not actively writing! Depends on the fandom for the most part.

I’ve been pretty clingy onto FFXIV for the last year, in fact, but I’m also fairly into Persona 5 Royal as well—they both have their own blogs at @finalfantasyxivwritings and @persona5writings respectively!

#notwriting #sukianswers #ask

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darthwritings · 4 years

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Heyyy, I'm sorry if its a bother, but I very much enjoy your writing, and I was wondering how many side blogs you have for it? I know you have one for TDP (which I also follow bc how could I NOT), but yeah, basically I just wanna know where else (if there's anywhere else) I can get amazing content from you, lol.

The last time I counted, I think it was about two dozen? That’s not including my non-writing blogs, such as the ones for OCs but it’s still a fair number and if you haven’t found them yet (and are into the fandoms they cover) then there’s plenty of extra content for ya to enjoy! c:

I’ve actually listed out all of my blogs here, so that it’s easier to keep track and find them all!

I....really hilariously don’t use this writing blog a lot (unfortunately) since most fandom content goes directly to a blog if it has one <w>;;

#ask #notwriting #index #Anonymous

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darthwritings · 5 years

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Rainy Summer Days

AO3 Version

Relationship: Mollymauk/Reader/Caduceus

Rating: Explicit

Summary: It’s the third time in as many days that you’ve ended up in this same scenario, left with no form to lean upon in the boring hours of the afternoon, no friendly ear to listen to your thoughts, no lips to shape soft jokes to help the time slip by.

Mollymauk has been avoiding you, this much is obvious.

The reason as to why he’s been avoiding you, however, is harder to nail down--but there's someone willing to give you a hand with figuring it out.

Note: This was written as a commission for @owlespresso!

It’s to the tune of the gentle rocking of the cart that you first realize he’s not sitting beside you. A rickety thump…thump…thump… of the slightly askew wheels that everyone's learned to deal with--some who can only fall asleep to the rhythm--but it’s to that same tune that your body realizes there’s a discernible lack of warmth and form against your right shoulder.

Your mind comes to an almost crystalline clarity in the absence of your friend where just moments before you’d nearly nodded off. This is the time of day where you’d be happy to let the need to nap overtake you, but there is but one problem made evident: no shoulder to lay your drowsy head upon.

It’s the third time in as many days that you’ve ended up in this same scenario, left with no form to lean upon in the boring hours of the afternoon, no friendly ear to listen to your thoughts, no lips to shape soft jokes to help the time slip by.

Mollymauk has been avoiding you, this much is obvious.

The reason as to why he’s been avoiding you, however, is harder to nail down.

“Mollymauk!”

Your voice reaches something that’s almost a yell, though it only needs to reach across the small clearing where the troupe had decided to camp for the evening. Since you’ve already finished in your part of the set-up, it’s but natural that you’d look for your closest companion. It’s only natural you’d want to spend time with him--it wasn’t any bit out of the ordinary.

But it feels that way when Molly meets your gaze. When your eyes meet with his you can’t help but feel a vague shiver move down your spine and, in the moment, feel as though something is off about how he looks at you. His ruby eyes, though admittedly off-putting to those unused to the likes of tieflings or their kin, have always been warm sort of comfort on dark evenings or while beneath the lights of the circus show.

But they hold something different now, something darker than his normal wit and amusement. By the time you come to your mind enough to call his name out again, the man has long disappeared from view, lost among the bustling crowd of circus folk who are all as tired and ready to bed down as you are. There's a thread of hope that Mollymauk will seek you out by the time the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, will sit beside you in front of a warm, blazing fire and join in on the jokes and stories among the crew.

But you don't see him at all that night either, and there's not a soul who seems knowing or willing to tell you what's wrong.

Several days come and pass in the same manner. No soul sitting beside you in the back of the wagon, no friend to keep you company in the cool evening. Worry soon starts to thread through your thoughts that you've done something to upset the man, and it must have fallen so obvious that it even caught the attention of one of the newest members of the circus troupe-

Well, you wouldn't call him a member in any official capacity. Where a member meant that they were as much a performer as a part of the dysfunctional family of misfits, Mr. Clay was more a curious wanderer who traveled alongside the group, offering his knowledge in healing magicks and natural-born remedies for much of the ills that often nipped at the heels of the troupe. Considering that the constant traveling meant a constant lack of overarching medical care, the man’s offered services were not to be overlooked lightly--which is how he found a place among the troupe, no performer but neither lacking in worth for the rest of the group’s well-being.

Besides, Mr. Clay was a rather interesting man, and you don’t end up disliking his company in the absence of another.

He sits beside you on the back of the cart come the third day of travel. Though you don’t feel comfortable enough to lean yourself against the shape of his body, you do take advantage of his attention and willingness to listen to you.

“I just-” the words tumble from your lips as you sit, feeling almost engulfed by the firbolg’s size next to you. His gentle attention like a weight over your shoulders. “-I don’t know what I did wrong! He just...stopped talking to me, suddenly, and I can’t…figure out what made him hate me.”

A moment passes as the cart rocks, the wheels rolling uevenly over the dirt and gravel trail. The air still feels cool as it rises up to brush against your cheeks, though there’s also a wetness to it that makes you wonder how far out the rain is; you’ve been able to smell it for a while.

The man beside you is equally silent, though you never once feel his gaze leave you. He is instead but contemplative in a way you’re not quite familiar with--Molly tended to play with his thoughts audibly, and you had always been nearly comforted by the simple sound of his voice as he did so. You were privy to the inner-workings of his logic, so being denied that for once almost makes you feel a shiver of worry roll down your spine.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, with a voice that reminds you heavily of a warm blanket on a cold night. Of embraces and whispers and comfort. “Have you considered the greater picture beyond that you may have done to cause his distance?”

You blink, taken aback by the question with a flick of your tail and a widening of your eyes. “We’ve been on the road for only a couple of days, I don’t know what else would make Molly avoid me unless I did something that made him angry.”

“Could it be something perhaps,” the man reaches a hand to stroke at his chin. “Something he hasn’t told you about?”

“Like what?”

When you turn your face all you see is his eyes looking at you, bright and curious and heavy . They linger, meeting your gaze unashamedly--you can feel him thinking, though it’s nearly impossible to figure out what thoughts are shifting behind his pink eyes. Has his gaze always been so pretty before?

You don’t have a chance to come up with an answer before it’s suddenly turning away, with his voice finally filling up the void of silence that your question had left.

“I have but a hunch what might be ailing your friend, Mr. Tealeaf.”

The firbolg stares out to the rolling land beyond the open cart, the road long from where the caravan had come, unhindered in view by the fact that your cart was the very last. The hills beyond looked gentler than they had felt, covered in the lush greenery of mid-spring grass. Farther beyond the hills however you could see stormclouds hanging in the sky, dark grey and intimidating; the source of the smell hanging in the air. Perhaps they are the reason for the pace of the traveling, hoping to make it through the uneven landscape to lessen the chance of damage or injury. Perhaps they are somehow connected to why Molly has been avoiding you.

Perhaps.

Nevertheless, not even the sublime sight of sunny day meeting ravaging storms can keep your attention from the words that left Mr. Clay’s mouth. It pulls you closer in both attention and form, until you had to gently ignore the way your bodies pressed together, side-to-side, how you are close enough to smell the faint scent of roses wafting through the air--was it from the healer himself?

“What do you think is wrong with him?” The question spills from your lips without regard to your closeness or the intimacy it holds. “Is he sick Mr. Clay?”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes still lingering on the stormclouds sitting beyond the horizon. “At least not in the form you are thinking.”

His words both comfort and worry you, but at least the man seems to know enough. You shift against him, gently, forgetting for a moment that he is not Mollymauk--and your head lays against his arm.

“...Do you know how to make him better at least?”

There’s a soft beat of silence after the question, and suddenly the air feels heavy as the firbolg’s gaze shifts back to you again.

“Only if you trust me.”

You forget how to breathe for but a moment, feeling more than seeing the soft glint of the afternoon sun in his eyes.

It’s not as if the man intimidates you. Though like many of his kind, Mr. Clay is tall and broad, towering over many others by sheer size alone, you cannot recall a single time where you have ever been afraid of him in any capacity. The only time that his words or eyes had ever made your heart skip has been but now, though it is hardly from fear--you try not to think too hard on the way he looks like a gentle predator or how the air around him smells sweetly of roses.

You don’t move away or pull your head from his shoulder. You don’t do anything to break the moment--even taking in each breath seems dangerously close to shattering the odd, sublime peace crafted between the two of you, familiarity and foreignness twisting together as if a careful braid.

When the firbolg breathes, you can hear it rumble through his body. Deep and powerful and familiar, however faintly, though it’s not quite the same sort of sound that would purr through Mollymauk whenever he was pleased or comfortable. The sound comforts you whether the man beside you realizes it, slowly pulling at the back of your eyes in an ever-gentle call to sleep, made harder to ignore by the rocking of the cart or the soft breeze of the air

There’s other things you’d like to say, to talk about--but none of them matter all that much when you start to gently drift off to sleep, your body still tucked against the man and enjoying his warmth.

The storms came faster than what most of the troupe expects, though it’s long after you’ve left the rolling landscape and instead come into the thicket of a forest, long and stretching far to the south. It offers some protection from the rain and the wind, but there’s no denying the fact that it’s near-impossible to set up any tents without a lingering fear of them getting caved-in with the force of the storm’s anger.

Most of the wagons had thick canvas to cover them, so it was within them that the troupe took shelver for the evening when it became too much of a downpour to keep going, and the sun’s last rays of light were hidden behind dark-gray clouds far above the thick treeline.

Without the tents, many of the troupe were forced to share space within the wagons wherever they could-

Which is why, after Mr. Clay had helped you to anchor the wagon to the soft loam beneath, you expected him to simply climb back in with you. To share some more conversation before eventual sleep would take you again, or perhaps insomnia would rear its ugly head--would the firbolg be able to cure that on such a short notice? Did he have anything to help you sleep?

Perhaps it was the focus paid to your thoughts that made it easy to miss when the man slipped from the wagon. Where he had been just beside you when you were climbing your way up and inside, he is suddenly gone--you lift yourself into the dry cover to find yourself alone, which is odd in itself in how familiar you are to the idea of sharing spaces with many others.

The rain is pouring in thick sheets, a white noise that buzzes around outside while you try to change into clothes that aren’t sopping wet. By the time you have your shirt off and working to get the bra beneath, a familiar noise at the entrance to the wagon catches your attention.

Footsteps against wet earth and splashing through puddles. Hands reaching at the wooden half-ladder and pulling it down--the gentle shift of the wagon’s body as someone pulls themselves up and inside of it.

“It would seem the other wagons are quite full!”

Recognition to Mr. Clay’s voice comes at the same moment that he climbs up and into the dry space of the wagon, just as drenched as you are but seeming plenty enthused despite how his clothes and hair clung to his skin. The wagon rocks with the movement of a second person starting to climb inside.

You merely blink at firbolg, more surprised that he had left than had returned.

“Why did you leave?” the words come tumbling, question innocent and curious. “If you needed a spare change of clothes, we have some tucked away over here that might be big enough for you. There was no need to get yourself wet looking for-”

Your voice stops somewhere in your throat when your eyes fall on the person who had climbed up behind him, the third person in the wagon who was equally drenched from the rain yet falling outside. Whether it’s the recognizable cloth of his exotic clothes, the softness of his damp lavender skin, or even the bright and almost hungry gaze of ruby-red eyes, the vision of him is nigh-unmistakable even in the dim light of the space around you.

Mollymauk.

He stares at you with all the same shock that you wear upon your face, eyes wide as saucers and mind rolling over the fact that you’re sopping wet, nearly half-naked, and the man who is technically your closest friend who has also been avoiding you for the last several days looks as if he is about ready to eat you.

And gods above, you would let him.

For several moments the two of you are still, frozen of movement and words while the firbolg himself seems not to notice--or perhaps, he simply doesn’t care. He steps up to you regardless, reaching one hand for the shirt you’ve just removed and hold in your hands, the fabric dripping wet. You feel a soft wave of heat come to your cheeks, more from the man’s sudden closeness than from your partial nudity--many years of being in various states of undress around the rest of the troupe did well to desensitize most feelings of shame in it.

“I’ve been under the mercy of a rainstorm a time or two in my life,” he murmurs gently, assuringly to the worry that had been in your voice before. “But you however should rightfully get out of those clothes before you catch a cold. Mr. Tealeaf, a hand with this?”

The question was thrown with a flash of his eyes in the direction of the tieflings, which did well enough to break the thick but indecipherable aura between you. As Molly met the other man’s eyes, you couldn't help but feel a thing thread of panic, wondering what unspoken meaning there was to their shared glance--had the two spoken before Mr. Clay had returned to the wagon? What was there in their eyes that you couldn't read?

The anxiety must be obvious, because you feel a sudden but gentle hand fall to your bare shoulder--when you move your eyes they find an expression of soft pink eyes and a softer smile.

“Trust me,” is all the cleric says, though it brings an echo of his similar words earlier in the afternoon.

You look at him for a few moments as a caution presses your brows together, then glance towards where Mollymauk yet stands with that look across his face--entranced somewhere between shock and interest.

Finally your eyes move back to the firbolg standing before you.

“Okay, Mr. Clay,” the words gently murmur from your lips, though something about them brings a soft twinkle into the man’s eyes as his hands draw close to your bare shoulders.

“No need for formalities like that right now,” he says, glancing towards Molly and then back to you. You have to wonder if there is more going on than what you can merely see. “Call me Caduceus.”

A feeling of heat starts to bloom across your cheeks, but luckily a voice cuts the moment short, keeping it and your eyes from lingering too hard on the man in front of you.

“Takes about as long to say one thing or the other.”

The third voice, though familiar in its tone, does enough to surprise that your eyes are instinctively turning towards the sound. They fall of course upon Mollymauk, who still stands drenched and awkward-looking at the entrance of the wagon, his eyes nearly glowing below the soft shadows of canvas and storm-dark clouds.

But his words seemed even to surprise himself as much as both you and Caduceus. Molly blinks, his lips suddenly pressing tight, and almost looks as if he’s about to turn away upon accidentally getting your attention.

“Perhaps it would be best if I find shelter in another wagon-”

Caduceus stops him cold with but a single word.

“Mollymauk.”

The air stills, but it doesn’t turn cold--quite the opposite in fact. Somewhere between the glances and looks and half-mumbled words it’s grown hot despite the rain outside cooling off the late-summer air. Hot, but not humid as one might expect. The heat is as physical as it is emotional, boiling through your thoughts and mind as things slowly start to piece together.

The look in Molly’s eyes is as deep and impassioned as it is striking, as if he’s only half-there, words broken from their sense of usual charm that but rolls off him like waves from the ocean.

But he does step closer.

Slowly, the tiefling moves towards where you and Caduceus stand, his motions careful and reminiscent to that of a predator moving through the underbrush. Closer and closer still, until he’s within arm’s reach.

You can finally see that there’s heat on his face, darkening his cheeks in a look that’s more than a mere blush--he has seen you nearly naked on several occasions previous so it’s hardly as if your shirtless state should have been the only reason for it. But given the heavy, heated look simmering in his ruby gaze, perhaps there is something more that you've not yet been privy to know--something that the firbolg in front of you seems to know more about, given the way his lips twitch with amusement at Molly’s slow approach.

“How long have you and Molly known eachother?” Caduceus asks, having dropped your sopping shirt somewhere in the silent moments, his hands instead upon your shoulders and stroking up and down our arms while Molly but softly watches on.

The question gives you gentle pause, but it’s not a hard one to answer.

“Several summers,” the words are soft, curious but unsure why he has need to ask in this specific moment. “Why?

“Do you recall a time when he’s been like this before?”

You stare at Caduceus for a few moments, brows knitted and mind rolling with confusion. Why does he ask the question as if Molly isn’t standing right there beside you--could he have not asked the question at any other time? Could he not have simply asked Mollymauk himself?

“Yes,” you say regardless, if only because you can recall one time before that the tiefling had avoided you with such seeming disdain. The answer almost comes with shame in the tone, because it brings memories of worry and woe, wondering desperately if you had done something to upset him in much the same way you do now.

A touch draws your eyes away from Caduceus and instead to the man beside you--the very one you’re talking about. It’s no more than fingertips against the curve of your waist, but that is more than enough to make your heart skip a beat and your breath feel frozen for several moments.

Even as your eyes meet with the gentle, hungry glow of rubies, the firbolg’s words pierce through it all.

“Do you remember when it last happened?”

“It was...last year, the beginning of the fall,” you can’t find the strength to draw your eyes from Molly’s own. His face looks flushed and his eyes wanting, hungrier than you have ever seen them before. “...I...thought I said something to him. He didn’t...talk to me for a few days.”

It’s strange how you speak, talking as if Molly can’t hear you when he’s right in front of your eyes. Though it makes no sense, there’s something distinctly enticing about it--how you’re speaking to the tiefling and your dearest friend through the attention of Caduceus himself. It makes the moment oddly intimate, the true depth of its heat beginning to dawn starkly over you despite the cool nip of the air and constant white noise of the rain still hitting the canvas tarp above your heads.

“Mollymauk,” the sound of the firbolg’s gentle voice pulls you from your own thoughts, gaze finally breaking when you turn towards him. “Would you help in getting her trousers off?”

Even if you hadn’t managed to catch the mischievous glint in the man’s pink eyes, the tone was hardly subtle. Where you would have expected Molly to offer a playful and witty quip, the man merely nods, swiftly dropping to his knees as Caduceus tugs at your arms until you turn to face where Molly now kneels in front of you.

Oh?

Fingers touch at the clasp of your bra before you hear the firbolg speak again. The words are soft and husky, drifting into your mind like a suggestion and revelation soaking into your mind like the rain had into your clothes.

You can feel his lips tickling softly against the fur of your ear, making them flick and pin back against your head. It’s hard not to be ticklish, and the man chuckles.

“Did you know that tieflings go through estrus cycles? Well, most folk seem to call them heats--not entirely accurate but gets the point across one way or another.”

Oh.

You blink, knowing not what to answer, eyes slowly widening at the words dripping sweetly from the man’s mouth behind you while careful claws curl around the hem of your pants. The fact that he speaks with a nearly-conversational tone almost makes the moment all the worse, bringing forth an allure to how Molly tugs at your pants, a deepening heat to his eyes when he looks up at you-

Wanting.

Hot.

Needy .

With Caduceus' words almost ringing in your ears, it all suddenly makes so much sense. Questions that have been months-long in the making finally seem to have an answer, even though it leaves you with but dozens more in their wake.

“Apparently they’re seasonal occurrences, but don’t usually become a bother until someone has their attention.”

For all the desperation in Mollymauk’s eyes, he pulls your pants down with a surprising amount of care, being wary of making sure your tail doesn’t get pinched or yanked on as your trousers fall around your knees. Equally-gentle fingers finally unclasp your bra.

“It would seem to me that there is someone who has dear Mr. Tealeaf’s rather apt attention for him to have gone into heat but a day or so ago, don’t you think?”

It would be about this time that you’d find comfort in a gentle quip, but instead all you can find on the kneeling tiefling’s face is want . Even though you’ve still one more layer hiding your bareness from his ruby gaze, you already feel naked.

Or perhaps that’s because you feel wet cloth finally peel away from your breasts, skin cool to the touch from how the rain had left you cold and wet. You want to cover them with your hands, nakedness suddenly feeling all the more intimate when you are being looked at by not one, but two men. Nevertheless you aren’t fast enough to move before a pair of ginger palms already press warm and flat over the curves of your breasts, arms wrapping around your torso and lips still tickling against the shape of your ears.

“He wants you.”

There’s neither shame nor doubt in the statement. Breath stills in your throat as you take them in, each syllable with a power beyond anything as your eyes finally settle back onto Molly’s own. He looks up at you with parted lips and slow but heaving breaths. Where he had been trying to hide it so desperately in every interaction prior, you can now see it so plainly.

The man’s unfiltered arousal makes your stomach twist with a pleasing heat.

Despite your tail being squished between you and Caduceus, it still gently twitches and thrashes in a constant tell to your emotions. Perhaps the firbolg realizes as much, judging by how he chuckles as his hands knead against the softness of your chest.

“Will you let him taste you?” he asks, sultry and warm. “He’s been wanting this for a long time.”

Your eyes never leave the soft glow of Molly’s gaze. Though his fingertips curl and pull lightly at the waistline of your panties he doesn’t make the motion to tug them off; he’s waiting for permission first.

A permission you’re all-too willing to give, though silent, with a bounce of your chin.

In the span of half a breath, you only feel the sudden feeling of cool air against your hips and inner thighs and everywhere in between. It takes a moment longer for you to catch sight of the ruined cloth in one of Molly’s fists, and a moment more to realize that he hadn’t the lingering patience to slowly tug them down as he had your pants.

His eyes remain on yours in the entire motion, even as he drops the tattered remnants of your underwear to the floor of the wagon.

It’s just a blur of motions and heat and pressure after that--all you can do is idly follow along as your legs are gently spread as much as your pants will allow. Despite the number of times you’ve been naked before one of your fellow troupe members, the moment feels nothing short of intimate; you feel vulnerable beneath Molly’s gaze. He looks at you as more than another member of the group, moreso than even as your dearest friend. With passion burning as bright and hot as the color of his eyes, you can’t help but shiver once the man’s interest finally dropped from your face and down your body to where you feel the most exposed of all.

Luckily, he doesn’t let the moment linger for too long into awkward nervousness. As soon as he seems settled on his knees, the man merely presses his face forward and his lips to the meeting of your legs. The touch is rather chaste and gentle, but with his hands quickly finding purchase upon the curve of your hips and Caduceus' palms still pressed warmly against the supple curves of your breasts, it’s hard not to let out a soft gasp of surprise.

And the firbolg simply laughs at that.

“He’s wanted to do this for a long time.”

The words drift into your ear with all the same softness as the sweet lips that trace over one, and then the other. A soft moan falls from your lips just as a tongue starts to dip between your folds, slow and explorative, flicking once against your clit before tracing downward.

“Was a little shy about admitting it,” Caduceus continues, his hands starting to roll and squeeze the sensitive curves against them. “It’s obvious he cares about your friendship, but...well, obviously it seems to be a little different than that now.”

The tongue presses deeper, harder against you as if tracing the shape of your sex and trying desperately to commit it to memory. It’s made all the worse when the restraint of your own trousers around your knees leave you hardly able to spread your legs any wider--though Molly’s tongue seems to have little issue in pressing close, lapping between your labia and back up to flick the pointed tip against your clitoris for a second time.

Somewhere in the rising heat of pleasure you can feel his eyes on you, watching each twitch of your lips and eyes and brows. It wouldn’t be long for an observant bastard like him to figure out which parts of you adore his oral attentions the most--how the tease of his tongue against your clit had you sucking in a breath, how each press of it between, teasing against the rim of your entrance would make your hips start to shake and rock against his face.

“Does his mouth feel good?”

Deep and husky, Caduceus’ voice makes the moment even more filthy than it would have been otherwise. Between almost narrating the moment and speaking for the tiefling kneeling between your half-spread legs, it’s hard not to let yourself nod stupidly at his question

It does feel good. Too good, in fact, and you let out a whine to the fact that the two men have you positioned in a way where you can hardly even move to get more of it. Molly still has his hands gripped tight to your hips while Cad has his arms around your torso and his hands groping needily at your chest--whether the positioned was planned or not, you’re left shaking like a leaf in the wind against their attention.

The air is starting to smell like sex as your cunt grows wet with arousal and from Molly’s eager mouth, but moreso than that is the cloying smell of pure heat that begins to fill your mind. Not as much as the concept of temperature, but in the raw concept of what one might think passion smelled like--needy, hot and wild. It smells of earth and flowers you can’t identify, of pheromones that flicker keenly in your brains despite being different from that of your own kind.

Claiming. Needing. Marking. Mating .

It’s only through persistent close proximity that you finally realize that they’re coming from Molly himself.

A pinch of Cad’s fingers over one of your nipples pulls your thoughts back to the moment and your eyes whipping around to try and shoot him a half-pained glare. Despite it though, you can’t deny how your hips roll forward into Molly’s mouth from the pleasure-pain. The firbolg does it again to the opposite breast, getting all the same reaction as heat floods across your cheeks.

“You’re quite sensitive,” he murmurs gently, playfully taking the tip of your ear between his teeth for a nip. “And I wonder if you taste as good as you sound.”

“She does.”

The second voice catches both of your attentions. Half-lidded eyes drift down to where Molly happily kneels before you, his mouth glistening from your arousal and tongue but tracing over his lips. His face looks dark with heat, a beautiful flush of dark mauve over his cheeks--he looks of a parched man who is finally getting a drink.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, voice soft and words drunk with pleasure. “I want to drink every last drop of you if you’ll let me.”

“And you-” the words catch behind your teeth as you watch the tiefling lean his face into your hip, nuzzling against your skin with no shortage of intimate, warm joy in even the simple motion. “You want to...do this? With me?”

It feels almost odd to talk to him directly at last, how much Caduceus had done to be the middle party of it all--how much had he helped with? What did he say to Molly? What things were going through his mind right now as he played but the third wheel between you?

With how his gentle hands yet grope and roll your breasts against his palms, how you can feel a growing pressure press firm and shapely against the swell of your ass, it’s not that hard to figure out where his own desires lay.

The sound of your question, awkward and soft, seems to pull Molly back to his ministrations of before--with almost renewed mirth his face presses once more to the join of your thighs, only now his hands shifted in such a subtle way that it takes a moment to realize that he’s pressing his thumbs and spreading your labia apart.

It’s hard not to whimper when his warm breath ghosts over your sensitive, wanting flesh. Legs still quiver from the restraint of movement, but it makes the pleasure peak all the higher in the same breath.

It’s hard not to shake when Molly’s tongue starts to trace against your cunt, up and down between your spread lips, flicking playfully at your throbbing clit--a sob almost drips from your mouth when attention starts to lack upon such a sensitive spot.

You finally let out a sob, unmuted and unashamed in the fact that you want more .

“Please.” your legs shake as pleasure grows tight in your stomach, Molly’s tongue sinful and hot as it dips deeper into the folds of your pussy. “Muh-Molly-” your hands finally move to reach out and dip into the still-wet locks of his hair. There’s little you can do to try and pull his attention upward, but you try regardless with several hard tugs, hoping he would understand.

Or worse, hoping he would be merciful .

A pinch of your nipples, a roll of your breasts, a press of Mollymauk’s tongue--

You’re so close to the edge that it’s hard to think , let alone speak. And even still the rain hammers on outside, the noise thick and haunting and leaving the moment to twist and drift with an odd sort of intimacy only ever brought on by the sound of rain and the soft chill of the air. You can smell a blissful mix of sex and need around you, from all three of your bodies as want grows too raw to ignore.

“Close,” the sound comes out of your mouth as little more than a breath. “S-so cluh-close...please...please…!”

“Please what?”

The sound of Caduceus’ voice is right next to your ear. You can feel how he moves against you now, his hips up against the curve of your ass, so tight that your tail can barely squirm between the pressure and heat of your bodies--though the firbolg is still wearing his soaked clothes, though they press against your bare skin, there’s something hot and alluring about how there’s but one layer left of cloth between his throbbing cock and your body.

But you don’t get to think long on what-ifs, as he whispers the question once more into your ear.

“You have to tell us what you want,” the cleric murmurs, coy and rough as if he too is nearing some form of tight, hot completion. “Do you want Mr. Tealeaf to make you cum on his tongue? Does it feel good like that?”

His words and their tone can’t be hidden in how debauched they sound. Thick with arousal and shamefully filled with lust. Even if the firbolg had taken a very precarious standing on helping you and Molly, he doesn’t seem ashamed in the fact that he is aroused and needing--nearly as needing as yourself.

But you nod, furious and bouncing, fingers gripping tighter still in the tiefling’s wet hair.

“Make me-” you sputter. “Make me cum, please, please make me c-cum Molly I need-” Another sputter, a sob of sounds and moans mixing until words are hard to pull from it all.

“-I need you so much.”

It’s as if something snaps. Like an old rope pulled too taut and fraying at the edges, something snaps hard and fast and it leaves you gasping for air when Molly’s mouth almost feels as if he swallows you all down. Suddenly his lips are clamped tight around your throbbing clit and his tongue is pressing, flicking, swirling around the center of your aching need and it’s all so much-

Orgasm hits you like a wave, warm and powerful and flooding every inch of your skin. It’s good that Cad is there to hold you up because the force of it leaves you nearly trembling.

“Good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his lips to the top of your head. “That’s so good, it’s alright now…”

Somehow, the soothing tone of his hushed words make the moment feel all the more pure despite the cloying heat and smell of sex that swirls around the three of you. It makes it intimate and sweet, lingering as Molly’s lips tighten and suck for but a few moments more over you, until you are boneless and overstimulated and unsure whether to try and pull your hips away or press them clothes to his mouth.

But eventually the tiefling lifts away, his achingly hot gaze staring up at you through half-lidded eyes. His chin and lips glisten from your arousal--despite the fact that you can still feel the gentle thrums of afterglow, there’s something beautiful about how debauched the man already looks. Your hands have left his hair a mess and his face looks hot and flushed dark, the colors complimenting everything else about him at the moment.

“Was that good?”

Somehow, for all the charm and confidence that you’ve grown to know within the man’s voice, he seems, in this moment, honest and vulnerable. He looks up at you with eyes that want for so much--starting with your approval, your pleasure.

Your lips twitch into a smile as the words of soft praise already press against the back of your lips before you can mentally try to form them into proper sentences.

“So good Molly,” you murmur, shivering as the man moves to stand on his feet again--all of you seem a little wobbly in the moment, whether it be from arousal or post-orgasmic exhaustion. “You’re just as dangerous with your mouth in your words as everything else it seems.”

“You’ve only felt it once,” the tiefling says in a half-hearted jest, licking the slickness from his lavender lips before leaning in close to you. “I’ll be happy to let you feel it as much as you want if you….”

He pauses, that look of vulnerable honesty moving over his expression. It takes a moment through the haze of warmth to recognize the look, if only because it’s so subtle and mixed so deeply into the cloying air of ongoing lust--neither he nor Caduceus seem to have found their end just yet.

With shaking hands you manage to find a grip on the man’s clothes and tug him close, so close, until the three of you are pressed together, until Cad’s hands are squished between your chest and Molly’s in much the same way your tail is pressed between your ass and the firbolg’s hips.

Soft. Hot. Comfortable. Safe .

But when Mollymauk tilts his hips, you feel something else press against you, aching against the still-wet cloth of his trousers. How he’d managed to give you so much attention while being so bothered by his own throbbing need--it makes your heart give a gentle twist in your chest. He’s wrapped up in lust and want and positively doused with pheromones of heat, and still the man cares enough to make sure that you want him in the same way.

He just brought you to orgasm with his mouth on your clit and his tongue nearly fucking you, and still he has the gall to look so cute about it.

It’s Caduceus that pulls you out of your thoughts again with his gentle chuckle.

“Will you have him?” he says, nipping at one of your ears. “Will you let him make you his mate?”

It’s odd, the way the other man speaks, somewhere between speaking for Molly and speaking about Molly, whom still stands against your front--he who has found interest in mouthing gently against your pulse point in a way that makes every inch of you almost start to shiver all over again.

But despite it all, it doesn’t change your answer. It doesn’t change how you’ve always felt about him, how you’ve wanted your friend in all the ways he was willing to give his heart to you.

“Yes,” you whisper, soft and needy with hands gripping tight to the cold folds of the man’s shirt, keeping him from moving away even an inch. “Please make me yours, Mollymauk.”

Even with his lips pressed against the sensitive expanse of your throat,

You can feel him smile.

#writing #lemon #mollymauk #mollymauk readerinsert #caduceus readerinsert #critical role #critical role readerinsert #commission #writing commission

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darthwritings · 5 years

Text

Love Me, Hate Me

AO3 Version

Relationship: Arthur Maxson/Fem!Lone Wanderer

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You never expected to return to the Capital Wasteland. Though the idea had crossed your mind a time or two over the couple years you’d spent away, you had always been busy with problems elsewhere that it seemed like a wistful fantasy of nostalgia.

Suffice to say, hearing whisper and rumor about how Elder Maxson had led the Brotherhood of Steel, the knights you’d once seen as family, had put nothing short of the fires of hell into your very soul.

Note: This was written as a commission for @iamanemotionaltimebomb! If you’re interested in a commission from me, please check out my writing blog @darthwritings

Fury all but seethes through your teeth as words, spitting with fire and rage that you cannot hope to hold back–with the red coloring your vision, you hardly bother censoring an ounce of what traps you, ensnares you in it’s burning grip.

“You have destroyed everything Lyons had stood for!”

You approach the man with stilted steps, feeling one of your fists shake as the urge to punch him bubbles up with all the same ferocity as your anger.

Maxson, the boy now a man, he stares at you with a cold look that would chill you to your very bones if you hadn’t otherwise been a forest fire of emotions. It does nothing to halt your thoughts or silence your words, but it reminds you in flashes of the boy you had once known so many years ago.

“I did what was best for the brotherhood,” Maxson says, his tone calm but the tension in his face giving every hint of himself away. “I chose strength and loyalty over the weakness of one man’s heart–to stand by the creed that makes us strong!”

You can see him biting at the inside of his cheek; it seems he never let go of that little tick of his.

After a breath you chance another step forward, closer, close enough that you honestly could get one good punch in before a knight would hear the commotion and come to restrain you.

Keep reading

#fallout #fallout 4 #dfab!reader #readerinsert #readershot #one of these tags are what i use i swear

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darthwritings · 5 years

Text

Content Type: Headcanons

Fandom: RWBY

Relationship: Hyde Zircon (OC) / Tyrian Callows

Note: This is a set of headcanon commissions for @thekraziesreside, based on her OC Hyde Zircon and Tyrian Callows! If you’d like to learn more about Hyde Zircon, you can learn more about her here!

If you are interested in a commission for yourself, go check out my info page!

Hyde and Tyrian are the most impeccable of duos, the sort most people tend to look towards when they say things like ‘opposites attract’ or ‘you’ll fill in one another’s flaws’. Most people seem to consider their closeless either a surprise or a miracle, depending largely on if they are enemies of either Hyde (unlikely) or Tyrian (very likely). Despite their rather stark differences in personality, perspective and background, the two of them are nigh inseparable; If anything, it could be argued that it is those differences that makes them close in the first place.

No matter the situation, teasing and soft banter seem to be the thing that makes up much of their interaction–Tyrian seems rather fond of this avenue of showing his affection, and it’s very much one of the easiest of his tells to know whom he cares for. He loves to get under Hyde’s skin, just enough with words and fleeting touches that he’s graced to see a flush on her cheeks or a stumble to her words. The faunus knows how deep his partner’s pain run into her history and knows equally well how precious it is to see a smile on her face–if he earns even the briefest quirk of her lips, then every moment of his attention to teasing her is worth it.

This is not to say that Hyde doesn’t have a similar mind to things. Where Hyde is easily swayed by Tyrian’s carefully-honed charisma, he is equally brought to bumbling thoughts by her mere loving attention. Compliments had been a rarity in the man’s life before she came into it, and the only touch he had associated with other people often came with pain. Even after being with the warrior woman for several years, Tyrian still finds himself taken back when she strokes her fingers over his cheek, awestruck when she presses sweet kisses into his hair–the two of them are hurt in their own ways, but are equally able to help each other heal.

The two of them are equally-matched in terms of battle prowess, though their approaches to battle are a little different. Hyde Zircon is a warrior through and through, her mind honed through a life of constant conflict that requires a carefully-attuned situational awareness. She battles with passion and purpose in equal measure and is largely unafraid to make her entrance and back it up with raw physical power as needed. Tyrian on the other hand relies largely on dexterity and intimidation, to confuse and distract opponents before pouncing upon them when the time is right.

Battling against both of them is practically a nightmare–years of intimacy and shared combat experience have honed the two of them into a force of nature as strong as a hurricane and just as impossible to avoid. With Hyde taking the forefront of battle and Tyrian taking down the enemies who try to skirt around her, there is so very little that the two of them can’t accomplish when they are together.

NSFW content below the cut

The sexual dynamic between both Hyde and Tyrian can be best described as fluid. It can be easy to mistake the two of them to have a stereotypical relationship where Tyrian is perceived to be the one to call the shots and make the decisions–but that’s exactly what it would be: a mistake of judgement. The two of them are equal in worth and need for vulnerability, and so too is that shown in how they regard one another as much in day-to-day interactions as much when the two of them are privately away from curious eyes.

It’s somewhat unspoken, the balance they’ve found in one another–there are many times when Hyde finds herself on the warm, smothering end of Tyrian’s loving attentions. These are the moments where he can’t keep his hands to himself, keep his lips off her skin nor his words from tumbling stupidly from his lips. He’ll have her beneath his body for hours into the evening, keening and barely able to hold on to neither the bedsheets or the concept of words outside of Tyrian’s name.

Then there are many times that it is the other way around–when Tyrian is vulnerable, yielding only to Hyde’s touch, his belly hot and his face hotter when she smothers him in words he never thinks of himself. Soft. Sweet. Perfect. Wonderful. She gives him exactly what he needs and thensome, never pressing farther than what Tyrian is comfortable with, never rough or harsh–and that is exactly what the man needs from his partner. Hyde considers Tyrian’s needs as carefully as she considers a battlefield; careful, observant, passionate. Never once was Tyrian left anything short of sated when she was finished with him.

Though Hyde may not always be appreciative of his timing nor spur-of-the-moment consideration, the two of them are not at all unfamiliar to a rather spicy sex life. With how often the two of them are on the move from one town to the next in their search for work, it’s not entirely uncommon for Tyrian to pull the two of them into a forgotten alley when he’s hardly able to control the hunger and need gnawing at his belly. Their coupling is quick and frantic, with no shortage of moans muffled only by the aching press of lips and searching fingertips. The same desperation is seen in equal amounts even when the two of them are camping outside of the comfort and safety of a town–the only difference is how many clothes Hyde allows Tyrian to tear off of her body.

Tyrian is very possessive of Hyde, and he makes next to no attempt to hide that fact. He doesn’t like it when other people fawn over her, doesn’t like when they encroach on her space and he absolutely hates it when other people make her uncomfortable. Though this has the obvious effect of making him hover a little (and Hyde can easily get the man to calm down), it does translate almost exactly into the bedroom. Essentially: if Hyde wants to get fucked seven ways to Sunday, the only thing she would honestly have to do is get a couple cute guys to toss a compliment or a flirt her way.

#headcanon #commission #headcanon commission #rwby #tyrian callows #tyrian #hyde zircon #hyde #oc headcanons #oc headcanon #tyrian x hyde #tyrian x hyde headcanon

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darthwritings · 5 years

Text

Touch Me, Have Me, Make Me Yours (2/2)

AO3 Version

Relationship: Aaravos/Reader

Rating: Explicit

First Chapter | Second Chapter

Summary: It’s been many months since you found the mirror and learn its secrets, learned about the imprisoned elf who calls himself Aaravos. In those months you’ve befriended him, grown close to him in ways you can’t much label, and now you awake on the other side of the mirror through magic you can’t understand–and Aaravos craves your touch.

For someone so attuned to magic, Aaravos is surprisingly strong. Well, surprisingly against anyone who is able to pluck you off your feet without so much as a noise of struggle, which are few in number and fewer still like him. He carries you with all the careless ease as a parent carries a child, or perhaps more accurately as one might carry a pet–with one arm beneath your shoulder blades and the other behind your knees. He holds you against his chest, grip firm and unwavering as he carries you over to the small bed from where you originally awoke from.

“Forgive any lack of decoration or flourish,” Aaravos says in honey-sweet apology, though it comes more from obligation than any sense of shame. “This room was not designed to entertain more than one specific guest.”

You don’t need to push for clarification, so instead you merely let him move you, lay you down over the plush mattress and press his hands over your body in one fluid motion as he stands back up to his full height. He starts to undress without pause, and such a simple motion as him shedding his cloak looks graceful and measured.

Keep reading

#aaravos #tdp #nsfw #;3c

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darthwritings · 5 years

Text

Touch Me, Have Me, Make Me Yours (1/2)

AO3 Version

Relationship: Aaravos/Reader

Rating: Explicit

First Chapter | Second Chapter

Summary: It's been many months since you found the mirror and learn its secrets, learned about the imprisoned elf who calls himself Aaravos. In those months you've befriended him, grown close to him in ways you can't much label, and now you awake on the other side of the mirror through magic you can't understand--and Aaravos craves your touch.

When you open your eyes, you’re not in your bedroom. There’s something wrong even from the moment you gain consciousness, pulled out of your dreams with heavy limbs and even heavier realizations. It weighs on you but slowly drifts away as more and more of your consciousness lifts from sleep. The bed feels different, the blanket feels softer, the air even feels lighter. Before you have the willpower to open up your eyes you can tell that something is different, but it isn’t until you allow yourself to look that the notion becomes reality.

You’re not in your bedroom.

Fear creeps up into your mind as your displacement becomes increasingly obvious, but never to a point that it overtakes your thoughts completely. Though your heartbeat quickens in the center of your chest, never once do you move too sharp or quick; if anything, you rise from the bed with all the slow, languished motions as you might on any other morning, trying to savor as many moments beneath the warmth of a blanket as humanly possible.

A breath in, then a breath out. You peer across the foreign room, taking in all the details possible from your single point of observation. There is something off in the moment, in all the moments you spend looking at the room over around you, but it isn’t until your eyes finally fall to a tall mirror across the span of the room itself that it becomes bone-chillingly clear:

You’ve seen this room before. Though from a vantage point entirely different from the one you’re at now, you’ve absolutely seen this room before.

The mirror.

You’ve seen this room through the mirror. You’ve…you’ve seen it, if only through a sliver of vision allowed by the width of the very mirror you’re staring at right now–but that’s impossible. The mirror you’re used to seeing it through, is sitting soundly and untouched within Katolis Castle. Despite the fact that you’re looking at one that looks the same, you know that you are very much not in Katolis at all, but somewhere very different and very, very far away.

You clutch uselessly at the blanket still covering your body as your brain tries to make sense of everything. It all feels so real, so absolute and physical, but there’s no way you can exist in this room, in this other world that you’ve only seen through the glass-like portal of a mirror. You’ve longed to see it, to exist beside the rows of books and beside the comforting fireplace, but it’s always been an obvious impossibility, a world beyond your reach as much as it’s inhabitant was beyond your touch.

But that’s when your brain freezes. You blink, suddenly pulling your face to the side, to further look around the room when you realize that you are very much alone. Hilariously, that frightens you more than if you weren’t, making you pull at the blanket and start tugging it around your shoulders in some semblance of a comforting pressure.

Luckily, you don’t have the time to start rolling over yourself in worry and nervousness. The sound of a door alerts you, making you glance to the origin of the sound just in time to see someone stepping through the doorway across the room, a familiar shape that makes your heart flip as much as it does calm from the fear.

“Aaravos?”

Your own voice feels feeble and weak, but it’s more than enough to get the elf’s instant attention, sharp gaze moving towards you with an almost incomprehensible speed.

Surprise, shock, worry, horror–those are all sorts of things you’d expect to see on his face, the face of a man you’ve come to know only as a friendly form locked away within a magical mirror, someone whose relationship with you is unknown and unspoken.

You trust him, you trust him more than you know you should, and his smile is enough to calm the rampant beating of your heart.

“You are awake,” is all that he says at first, pulling down the hood of his cloak and slowly stepping towards you. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this. For you.”

He stops about an arm’s length away, standing just off the side of the bed. His soft smile and sharp eyes leave you a little confused, if only because he isn’t.

“Where-” you start, brows furrowing and confusion filling up your expression. “Where am I? How did I-….how did I get here?”

Fear starts to lace between your words as more and more you start to panic; Aaravos’ physical presence can comfort you for only so long before your brain starts to take control of the moment, knowing that something unnatural is at play, something unknown leaving you treading water and meaning without anchor beneath your feet and hands.

In fact, trying to make sense of anything feels just as useless as if you tried to climb up and out of the very ocean threatening to swallow you up. You’re a few seconds away from starting to babble in fear when you feel a hand press gently over the top of your head.

“Calm yourself,” a deep voice commands from above you, familiar and soft. “You are in no danger here.”

The touch lingers for several seconds. It’s warm and firm and carries weight behind it, the weight of something real despite not knowing how such a thing is even possible. Whether it’s his words or the touch itself, Aaravos is able to mute the worry in your chest without difficulty. There’s a power to it all, a power he makes no effort to hide in everything from the press of his fingers through your hair to the soft curl of his tongue around each syllable in every word.

It feels nice, if...a little surprising. There are so many questions swirling around your thoughts in lieu of anxiety, not a single of one them with an answer.

“How…is this possible?” your voice spills in soft, almost fearful question; as much as you cared to know how you can be enjoying the warm, physical and real touch of a man you’ve gotten to know for several months, you’re not a fool.

Unless Aaravos holds a power he has yet to tell you about, it’s impossible for you to be here with him. It’s impossible. You know nothing of magic but understand the impossibility surrounding his isolation within the confines of the mirror, a prison that even he claims to know so little about (and you trust him).

Instead of answering, Aaravos’ hand moves to your cheek. His palm feels warm against your skin--it feels so real.

“Would an answer change anything?”

Aaravos strokes his thumb over your cheek. His tone is soft, but it has a level of logic you can’t argue without sounding a little silly; what would it matter if you learned how he managed this feat? Would it change anything? There’s a flicker of fear in your belly as you wonder if knowing would destroy the experience, the vision--if this is but a dream you don’t want to risk destroying it, not when his touch is so warm and his voice so close.

You eventually shake your head in a wordless answer, happy only for the fact that you’re able to feel the press of skin as Aaravos traces his fingertips across your face, thumb finally lingering on the curve of your bottom lip. He catches your chin in the very same motion and tilts your face up to look at him.

A gasp leaves your lips the moment that your eyes catch his. They’re stars in a pool of darkness, sharp and powerful and knowing in all the ways that matter beyond your understanding. They look at you as if into your very soul, searching your thoughts and emotions as one may wade through warm ocean tides.

It’s hard not to feel enraptured by that gaze. He is an enigma, a shadow; as endless as the night sky and just as beautiful in all the ways you can scarcely describe. A lifetime as a poet under the tutelage of the greatest masters wouldn’t leave you with any greater knowledge of words that accurately describe the way Aaravos’ leaves you awestruck with but a glance, dumbfounded with only a smile.

You are still, frozen against his careful touch; the elf barely needs to press the side of his forefinger to get your face to tilt higher, to angle it up until you blink-

-and suddenly his lips are on yours.

There’s a measure of control in the kiss, restraint vaguely hidden with every detail. The soft press of his fingers over your chin, the softest trace of the tip of his tongue against your mouth, the barest bumping of your foreheads together before it all ends as quickly as it starts.

He’s leaning back just as your brain has time to catch up with the moment. One of your hands raise to cover your mouth, the motion something between shy and disbelieving, and you merely watch the elf in measured silence for reason or meaning that your muddled brain can’t string together.

Aaravos merely smiles in that familiar way of his; it’s not sharp, not forced, but a genuine smile of someone who has seen too much of life to care about anything but being happy in the moment. He takes a step back and, still smiling, he moves over to the desk and reaches over to one of the books piled up high upon it’s old wooden surface.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the face of another that wasn’t filtered through dust-covered glass,” he says, fingers toying with the cover of a book, flipping open the first few pages though not caring enough to act interested in the words held within. “I used to count the days, but time doesn’t function the same in this realm as it does in yours.”

There’s a thread of pain hidden within the man’s words, loosely weaved into his wonder.

Aaravos lets out a sigh after a moment before closing the book, pulling it from the top of the pile, then flipping through the one below it.

You watch him for a few moments, enraptured by the slow, almost graceful movements of his body even as he pages through a book. His cloak hangs from his shoulders and hangs around him like a shroud, dark and speckled with stars that glimmer in much the same way as the marks on his skin do. Everything about him looks regal and ornate, you could have been fooled without a doubt if he wanted you to think he was royalty–the beauty of his face would have been enough.

A minute passes before you remember yourself and shift, pressing your feet to the floor over the edge of the bed and finally stand up. The wood flooring feels real, the cushion of the mattress is real, the coolness of the air against your skin when the blanket falls from your body–it’s all so real, as if you’d merely stepped into his room from your own.

The room is larger than you’d have assumed by merely looking at it through the mirror. The shelves of books go much higher, many times your height, and they look even more carefully organized than before. There’s a rolling ladder in the corner of the room–just out of sight from where the mirror sits–and it makes you wonder how much time Aaravos has put into his personal library of books and knowledge.

What sorts of books does a man like him read?

Your gaze moves about the room for a time, until it settles once more on the man himself. The feeling of his touch lingers on your thoughts, of his fingers against your skin and in your hair.

His lips against yours.

It makes you wonder how long it��s been since he’s touched another person at all. Though your relationship is hard to label, there’s enough between the two of you that you feel appropriate in wondering when the last time is that Aaravos was able to even physically be near another person, not even in a romantic or sexual form–how long has he been without the comfort of another living thing?

The thoughts are strong enough that they move your feet before you can comprehend what’s happening, moving you closer to the elf even as he plays his fingers along the pages of a book, turned away from you–ignoring you?

No, he’s not acting as if you aren’t there.

Very much the opposite.

This hunch is proven as truth when you reach a hand out to touch him, just barely brush your fingertips over the top of his back, across one of his shoulders. Though you can’t see it, you feel the man flinch against your touch, almost shake when your hand comes into contact with his form.

He takes in a breath. It’s sharp and quiet, but just loud enough for you to catch it passing over his lips.

“I would advise you not to do that.”

Though Aaravos’ words hold no venom, they carry thinly-veiled danger. It takes a few moments for you to realize that it’s not from a threat carried on his tongue, not one of violence or pain.

The meaning comes to you slowly, filling your body with heat and your mind with a million questions; you can still feel the ghostly warmth of his lips on yours, almost intoxicating in even the recent memory, and so your fingertips linger just barely over the curve of his shoulder.

“You said it yourself that I’m in no danger here,” you argue softly, turning Aaravos’ own words back on him. “And you’re the one who brought me here in the first place, however you managed that.”

“I underestimated what it would feel like.”

“Feel like?”

You quirk one of your brows, taking a slow, careful step closer to him. There’s a muted shiver from Aaravos as your hand presses flat to his shoulder, a touch so platonic and yet heavy with the meaning of something more. He doesn’t press towards your touch, but he doesn’t lean away either.

“You are not a fool to what is happening right now,” Aaravos’ voice is not a question; it’s a statement of firm assurance. “-and yet you don’t move away from me. Should I assume this as your permission?”

“Permission?”

The word falls from your lips before you realize what’s happening, before your brain filters the moment. In a flurry of motion you’re suddenly caught in Aaravos’ arms, your body pulled to his and your vision filled with his face and eyes and hard stare. Your entire field of view is nothing but his face, the glitter of starlight on his cheeks, the inhuman and barely-restrained look of lust in his eyes.

For the first time since meeting him, since he was nothing but a nameless form in a hidden-away mirror, you see genuine tension in the man’s expression.

“I brought you here because I crave you,” he whispers, voice honey-sweet and low. “I’ve not felt the touch of another in more years than I can count and you are mine.”

There’s such a weight in his words, like a stone dragging you deep beneath the warm waves of an emotion you’re unfamiliar with. There’s danger in his eyes, power in his words and you cannot find reason or thought against it. His fingers press into the curve of your waist, as if he’s desperately trying to keep you from moving away from him.

Desperation is a powerful emotion, driving men to ruin and pain as much as it does to success and pleasure. You can see it deep in Aaravos’ gaze, shamelessly obvious in his voice as it all wraps around your mind and thoughts and heart in one fluid, tremendous force. It’s as if he’s pulling your soul with the very magic you’ve associated him with and yet you know that the only force magnetizing you to him is your own feelings.

“If you don’t tell me otherwise, I will do all manner of things to you-” Aaravos’ lips move to your throat, skimming gently against your skin so that his words are a ticklish buzz making your heart race in your chest. “-even in this brief exchange there is so many possibilities. So many moans and whispers and pleading, oh how may I serve you, beloved?”

A breath stills over your lips, eyes blinking and thoughts whirling to catch up with the moment as the warm ocean waves come crashing around you.

“Aaravos,” you whimper, caring so little that your voice sounds small and meek. “Please.”

It’s all the permission that he needs. You feel a sharp smile against your neck and a purr in the back of his throat before your suddenly hoisted into his arms and carried towards the bed.

#aaravos #tdp aaravos #tdp #tdp spoilers #lemon #lets see if this citrus tagging works or is actually useful #come get some hot starry elf yall thirsties #*bangs cymbals together*

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darthwritings · 5 years

Note

Dan, really Dan. Goddammit Dan. I dont even watch Dragon Prince - your last fic is SO well written, its a true delight to read even for someone who isn't in the fandom. ( i do love slow beginnings ) Thanks Dan, im obsessed.

Thank you!! :D Seriously, whenever I start writing for a new fandom, I’m always super humbled to hear that my writing is good enough to stand up for itself even if a reader doesn’t have previous experience with the fandom. Like, you don’t know how awesome that is to hear--it’s right up there with getting complimented on characterization and dialogue.

#sukianswers #catch my heart go doki doki when i get asks like this #Anonymous

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darthwritings · 5 years

Text

Through the Looking Glass (1/?)

AO3 Version

Relationship: Aaravos/Reader

Rating: Teen (for now)

First Chapter | Next Chapter (N/A)

Summary: You are the head keeper of the Katolis Castle, the one in charge of everything from the castle's structural integrity to the morale of the people who live within its sturdy walls. You like to think you know everything there is to know about the history and sometimes chaotic, maze-like sprawling of the castle itself--but when Lord Viren is arrested and a section of previously-unknown dungeon caverns is revealed, you come to realize that there might be a lot more to the castle, to Katolis and even to history than you ever thought possible.

And it all centers around a very ancient, very powerful mirror and the wondrous, dangerous man who dwells within it.

As the head keeper of Katolis Castle, you often like to think you know everything that happens within its carefully-fortified walls. Every birth, every death, every detail of day-to-day life that came and went with each setting sun. You’ve been the head keeper for as long as you can be called an adult--the title came with your heritage, the passing of the torch from parent to child since the original founding of the castle, no, the from the very first breath that Katolis took as a kingdom.

It’s a position you’re proud of, in any regard, so finding out any level of secrets that evaded your knowing is like realizing there’s a knife stuck in your leg; it hurts deeply as much as it surprises you. How in the world could you not have noticed, have seen something so obvious? Others could certainly turn a blind eye without realizing it, but you are different! The head keeper of Katolis Castle, learning there was a plethora of passages and rooms extending beyond what you thought was but a humble dungeon?

For shame.

But that’s exactly what you learned just a day or so ago, wrapped up with the capture of Lord Viren and discovery of such an unknown passage behind a painting in one of his personal libraries. Opeli put you in charge of investigation while she took care of Viren’s punishment in his treasonous crimes against the kingdom.

The king’s death is still so fresh in everyone’s mind that it’s hard to take her orders without some sense of unease, if only because you’re at least somewhat afraid at what you’d learn lay in the darkest corners of such untouched caverns beneath the castle. Perhaps that isn’t the right word; it makes it sound as if you’re unwilling--concerned sounds much better as an accurate reflection of your emotional state. Concerned for the kingdom, concerned for the lost princes, concerned for what will happen next.

You decide to explore the dungeons alone.

It’s stupid, yes, you know that, but something tugging at your mind told you that it was unwise to bring others with you. Maybe you needed the quiet, maybe you needed to process things in isolation, maybe still you’re still trying to unravel the anxiety and fear that’s yet to spill from the Xadian border.

You’ve been in the dungeons before. Many times, in fact, usually for purposes of ensuring structural integrity of the stone after strong rainstorms. The last thing anyone needed is a small crack being the forefather to the entire castle coming down above their heads. It isn’t exactly a common thing, and you quite wanted to keep it that way.

“What sorts of things were you hiding down here?”

Your voice follows you as you step down the winding staircase, descending farther than you once assumed that the dungeons went into the hill below the castle. You originally thought that Viren’s secret passage was simply another entrance, but it quickly became obvious it was much more than that--leading into an entire new section of passageways and rooms you’d never known existed.

It takes you a few minutes to reach the bottom of the stairs. It’s quiet. The air is damp, humid and cold, enough that it chills you despite the layers of clothes you wear.

Though you’ve grown intensely familiar with almost every inch of the castle, having lived exclusively within its walls since childhood, you’re rather taken-aback by how utterly unfamiliar you are with the walls around you. There’s a passage down one way, a turn in another, a series of small rooms across from the foot of the staircase and….there's just so much, you’re not quite sure where to even begin.

How did nobody know about this? How did you never know about this?

You allow yourself a few seconds to feel the shock spill down your thoughts. For a few heartbeats you feel as if a child again, clutching fearfully at your mentor’s shirt as they introduce you to the section of the dungeon you now know is but a fragment of what exists beneath Katolis Castle.

Shadows dance on the walls as you hold your torch-held hand outwards, hoping to get as much detail as possible without having to step forward.

You shouldn’t forget that this served as Viren’s secret for however long it’s existed--there’s no telling if he’s set traps anywhere. You’re plenty quick on your feet, but it’s not as if you’d have much over the wit of someone with many years of dark magic experience.

Everything is silent.

Silent and dark.

You consider going back after a few moments, hurrying up the spiral staircase and requesting the aid of soldiers in the case there’s something genuinely dangerous down there, but a feeling of pride and curiosity keeps you still.

“...Is there anyone down here?” You hear yourself calling out into the darkness, the faint echo of yourself the only response. “Anyone at all? Anything? No dark magic demons or ancient portals?”

The sound of a voice, even if it’s your own, calms your nerves a little bit. It helps to offset the bubbling fear in your stomach.

You finally take a step forward, and then another when nothing flies out at you from one of the walls. A third step, a fourth, and you’re standing at last in the center of the entry room. The light from the flickering torch casts more of the room into light, showcasing several options of passageways on one side or the other of you, with only one directly ahead.

Indecision strikes you like a knife, pressing into your thoughts in one sharp motion before you even feel it. It leaves you twisting your head from one side to the other in growing nervousness for what passage to start with first (would you get lost?) and what each one might be hiding (do not underestimate what Viren may be hiding).

Just as you’re about to take a step towards one of the entrances to your left, something stops you.

For a moment, the world seems to stop.

You freeze in place with a sudden tickle in your ears, a brush of wind that cannot exist in an underground cavern. It’s not the near-impossible wind that stills your motions and thoughts, but the slow realization that what you feel in your ears is not merely a breeze, but a whisper.

A whisper of a voice.

With locked joints and tense muscles your mind immediately tries to decipher the sound gently filling your ears. It’s nearly impossible as trying to understand the sound of the very breeze you assumed it to be, but it’s definitely a whisper, a trailing of words that you can hear all together but yet don’t comprehend.

There’s a thread suddenly in your thoughts. It’s cold, dark and weak but wraps around your mind and starts to tug.

It pulls just hard enough to feel a warm, undeniable presence. Your eyes flick towards the single passage on the opposite side of the room from the stairs, all without your own doing. The whispering grows louder as you peer into the darkness of the hallway.

There's something down here with you, lurking in the dark shadows and unfamiliar corners.

The whispering is still muddled. You can’t make out any specific words even as the voice gets stronger in your ears, louder and louder as you continue to stare at the open, dark passageway. The longer that you listen, the harder the tug starts to become, the more you realize that you can’t make out the words because it's in a foreign-sounding tongue.

The consonants are sharp and the vowels somehow even sharper, tickling against your mind in curious waves and delicate licks against your ears.

Its unknown if it's the thrall of the voice or the burning curiosity in your belly that drives your feet, but you're moved towards the darkness all the same. One step after another until you're swallowed by the passage, until the flame of your torch starts to weaken and pass less and less over the stone walls and flooring ahead of you.

The passage isn't long at least--you reach the end of it in only a dozen paces and come upon a door. It's tall, aged oak with rich swirls of color in the wood and iron fastenings keeping the planks together. There's a lock near the handle--it looks like it requires an old key, the sort you are aptly familiar with in your experience of learning an old castle’s secrets.

The whispering is nearly deafening by this point, fueling your curiosity into a voracious flame that seems to burn away all other thoughts of caution and logic. It encompasses everything of you, until you feel nothing but a shell of yourself, watching passively as your free hand reaches towards the handle-

-and, slowly, you turn it.

It’s unlocked.

The shock is strong enough that you seem to come back to yourself, blinking in momentary bewilderment that such a door would be left unlocked, but what exactly did you expect otherwise? Doors usually functioned to open.

Though part of you knows it would be best to return to Opeli and request help, that thread in your thoughts all but snatches the desire away and burns it to ashes.

No. You need to be alone. With a swallow, you pull the door back in a slow, careful motion, cautious for any traps that may have been set up for someone foolish thought to waltz right through--you've seen Viren in combat, you know exactly what the man is capable if pushed. Hairs stand up on the back of your neck as your heartbeat quickens in preparation for anything. A burst of flame, a lunging sword, a falling mace over your head--so many possibilities, each of them more horrible than the last--but there's nothing to greet you when the door falls open in your hand, fingers gripping tight around the metal handle. Nothing. You blink, staring into the darkness of the room that lays beyond the door. Little of the warm glow from the torch is able to move past the opening, leaving you with nothing but cracked stone to see within your view, the rest swallowed up by nothing but shadow. Your grip suddenly feels too tight around the handle; you let it fall with a breath, a pondering of thoughts to the seemingly empty room before you. The whispering has stopped. You’re not quite sure when it happened, when your ears finally stopped ringing with the sound of words you didn’t even understand. It had been deafening but moments ago and now, with the door opened and your eyes taking in all the emptiness of but a single, humble jail cell, you can’t help but feel disturbed by the utter lack of noise. The silence is deafening. Though your mouth feels dry and your limbs heavy with worry, you feel yourself take a step forward. Then a second step, and finally a third. You enter the room with a discernible lack of confidence you held but moments ago, carefully letting both eyes and light sweep across the room. There isn’t very much to see, but what you do find captures your attention instantly: a chair, a table, a handful of items on said table and…a mirror? You blink and turn your body towards the questionable item sitting in the corner of the room, positioned so it’s the very last thing you take in, the last thing that you notice. Your thoughts had already been rolling over the possibility that the small cell had been used for some sort of torture–considering the collection of items on the table and the set of handcuffs hanging from the opposite wall–but the mirror throws your train of investigative thought for a loop.

What would Viren have need for with a mirror? Though most of you doesn’t want to ponder too long on the meaning or the implications of such a piece, you can’t stop yourself from prodding against the edges of that fragile barrier. Curiosity is far too strong of an emotion, and you far too familiar with its tug to ignore it for very long.

It’s an ornate piece, decorated by twisted metal of origins you can’t place. Runes cover the mirrors outer edges; they are of a language you don’t know, perhaps they are even magical. There are plenty of things you’ve picked up over the many years of your careful love over the castle, but dark magic or Xadian culture is not one of them. Your fingers reach out to trace several of the alien shapes, briefly wondering what sort of meaning they hold, if any at all. They could be words of blessings or curses for all that you know, especially since you scarcely can place a reason that Viren would have a mirror in a jail cell, and likely one used for torture.

You recall that Commander Gren had been found down here upon its opening. You remember him being weak, helped up by two soldiers and looking famished and dehydrated. You remember him being in warm spirits, but with a look in his eyes that you dared not to ask about–it’s a look you’ve seen before, a look shared by soldiers who have seen firsthand the nightmares of war and death.

It’s obvious Gren was not the person held within this cell. When discovered, he bared no marks of torture and spoke with ease, his warm spirit unbroken and still filled with his familiar mirth.

No, there had been someone else held in this cell. You can’t place a perfect finger on anything in particular, but you know that someone else had suffered through this cold darkness. Your eyes shift from the mirror, instead over to the shackles bolted to the stone wall.

Someone had been sitting there, chained up–you know it, you can feel it deep in your bones, but you can’t begin to wonder how long ago it had been, how long Viren had been keeping someone down in this dungeon and out of the knowledge of Katolis’ High Council.

How much is Viren hiding?

It’s a question you know is far from your status, high above your head and out of your reach. You are the head keeper of the castle, but that doesn’t inherently make you privy to each and every scrap of information passed between those who rule your kingdom–that is something that aggravates you often these days, wanting to do everything you can for your country but being resigned merely to the care of the castle and all that went on within its walls.

It’s the first thing a keeper needs to learn, but it’s also the hardest.

Curiosity killed the cat, your mentor had stressed in telling you. Keep the castle a heaven so that the country doesn’t turn to hell.

Still, it bothers you deeply that so much pain happened just below the castle, beneath where you slept and felt so at-peace. To think that Viren hid so many things, to think that he would risk to much and betray his own people, imprison a Katolis commander and even torture one of his own-

No.

You shake your head in sharp motions to stop the train of thoughts from leaving your control like a wild hare. What’s done is done, and you are here to do your job. After a slow breath and a few moments to compose yourself, you decide to take a closer look at the small table sitting beside the mirror.

As the light from the flickering torch draws nearer, the tools reveal themselves not to be devices of torture, but something else entirely. In fact, you’re not even sure what they were used for–though it’s obvious that they have been used to come capacity. A cup, a piece of embroidered cloth, two halves of a crystalline-lined geode and a knife?

The knife must have been what caught your attention first, leading your thoughts instantly to the idea of outright torture; there’s a speckling of dried blood against the blade, haphazardly smeared as if the user didn’t think to clean the metal until long after it was fresh. You stare at it for a few moments, trying to piece together what the items could even have been used for-

-and then it hits you all at once.

Magic.

Just as your mind wraps itself around the word, you feel a pressure against your mind. It’s cold and powerful, like the weight of several dozen stones all driving down and into your very thoughts. The impact is so strong and sudden that it leaves you physically reeling away from it, one unsteady step backwards even leaving you unbalanced; you’re falling, suddenly, your own feet as if not knowing how to right yourself when your heel catches the uneven edge of a stone of the flooring.

You have just enough time and thought to grab the back of the chair next to you, though you have to drop the torch in order to keep yourself from falling back and likely cracking your head against one stone surface or another. Instinct keeps you safe, but it certainly doesn’t stop the fact that in the span of a heartbeat you’re left with an adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, a bead of sweat down your back and a pitch-black room as the light from your already-weakened torch goes out completely.

“Fuck,” you curse, hands clenching the shape of the chair’s back, less to hold you up and more to have some physical touch to something else in the darkened room. “Fuck, where’s the door?”

The door is still opened to the hallway, and while you can detect the faintest of light from the stairs all the way back at the entrance, it’s just too soft and too far to do much but give you an idea of the direction to walk. Without a light to guide you, all you can hope to do is make it back to the stairway and to the dungeons entrance; then you can swallow down your pride and curiosity to ask for not only another torch, but also a spare few soldiers to help you explore.

You stumble around the chair for a few moments, barely able to put one foot ahead of the other without tripping over your own steps on the uneven stone flooring. All you need to do is get to the doorway and then let your hands press to the wall and lead yourself back to the stairs.

Just as your hand leaves the anchoring touch of the chair, you see the outline of the door with enough detail to walk steadily in its direction.

Wait.

You’re several steps from the doorway when you realize that’s impossible. There’s no other sources of light with you, your torch has completely died–how are you seeing anything at all?

One thought leads to another before you think to turn towards the source. The glow is soft, almost sky blue in color and it’s….coming from the mirror. Confusion fills your mind up twice over as the realization comes to fruition. It leaves you dumbstruck and staring at the object in some combination of awe and curiosity until you catch what seems to be a shape just behind its reflective surface.

A shape, many shapes–all it takes is a blink of your eyes and what was once nothing more than an ornate mirror suddenly looks like a window. Instead of a reflection, you see a room, as if one exists just behind the mirror and the glass is nothing more than a thin pane separating it from this dreary, musty old jail cell.

It seems impossible, but yet you can’t deny that it’s real, you’re seeing it with your very own eyes.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re stepping closer and pressing your hands to the cold surface, taking in more and more of the room just beyond and behind the mirror.

It’s beautiful, magical in both literal and metaphorical sense, like things of old storybooks and fairytales children would year from their parents. You can see an empty fireplace and shelves upon shelves of books towering around it, a collection that looks organized in some form though you can’t read the titles on the spines. There’s a window, a desk, there’s plants of all sorts scattered about the room–you don’t even recognize any of them–and then you have to force yourself to take a step back.

With a quickness that nearly trips you over your own feet, you peer behind the mirror. There’s nothing but stone and empty space, as one may normally expect to find behind an old mirror sitting uselessly in a dark, secret dungeon.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the metal coiling around the glass and you stare into the emptiness, wondering how such a wondrous thing exists or if perhaps is nothing but an illusion; is this too part of the torture that had taken place in this cell?

Something in your chest tells you otherwise.

You take a step back, let your eyes shift to the surface of the glass to take another look into that magical room and see what other wondrous details lay within its little world.

When your gaze falls back to the mirror, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not staring into the room anymore. Something has changed in the half-minute or so that you’d looked away and, in the span of a heartbeat, you stare, awestruck, as a second pair of eyes stare back at you.

They’re part of a face so completely inhuman that you’re not quite sure how to react. Elven. You know very little of Xadia, but enough to pick out the basic features of its people, or at least the bare assumption of its people.

Pointed ears, horns adorning their head, sharp eyes and skin that seems to glow with all the colors of the night sky. The figure stares at you in silent return–it takes you a few moments to realize that their eyes look just as surprised as you feel to see them. Wide, blinking with something between awe and shock, and in their hands is a book they must have been reading but several moments ago.

By the time you think to take a step back from the mirror, the elf’s look of shock is gone, and instead is replaced by something with more assurance, more confidence laced in their golden, star-bright eyes.

You stare in frozen stupidity as the elf has enough time to put away the book and return to the mirror, head tilted to one side and a certain eagerness to their step.

They approach the mirror. A smile starts to tug at the corners of their lips as they gesture for you to do the same.

“You’re uh,” you say, remembering that you can speak. “You’re gonna have to give me a reason. I don’t make it a habit to listen to strange elves I meet in mirrors.”

The elf purses their lips and furrows their brows for a moment. Their lips open, then shut, and that’s when you realize that they might not even be able to hear you. The logic seems sound even though you’re not quite sure where it comes from, just another gut feeling in your belly that seems accurate enough to trust.

Well, it’s a bit of a conundrum. You have no intention of stepping closer towards the mirror again, but this elf seems unable to hear or even speak to you. Maybe it’s something with the magic of the mirror–maybe it only allows the vision of one side to reach the other–

-maybe that’s what the items on the table had been used for.

Oh. Oh. It suddenly begins to make sense to you, the curious objects and blood-speckled knife. Some sort of dark magic, though you’re unsure if it’s dark magic that created the mirror’s magical portal or simply allowed Viren the ability to speak to the entity standing on the other side.

Either way, if dark magic was in any way involved, you certainly aren’t going to be easily trusting of this elf.

They stare at you for a few moments more and then, with still-pursed lips, let out a sigh. You can see their chest heave gently with the motion despite being unable to hear it, those golden eyes trained on you all the while. Like a predator.

An idea comes to you after a few moments, creative enough to try and foolish enough to work.

It takes a few moments for your hands to remember the motions, a language of movement than sounds that you learned enough from Gren in the times he’s spent at the castle and furthered from books and mentors from across the kingdom.

You gesture widely with open palms, point towards the elf in the mirror, and then tap the sides of your fore and middle finger one one hand to the other. The question is simple, but it’s complex enough so that you can learn if the other understands you or not.

‘What is your name?’

Golden eyes blink slowly at you. It’s not a look of confusion in their face, but of curious recognition that leaves you feeling a little nervous, as if under a heavy weight that almost seems familiar to you. Almost like the pressure just a few minutes before.

You almost feel stupid, standing there with your hands possibly making empty gestures if the other doesn’t even know how to interpret them. Just as you’re about to rub a hand over your face you watch the other move, their hands making slow and deliberate motions of a response.

‘My name is Aaravos.’

It takes a few moments for you to put the letters of their name together in your head, string them up close enough so that your lips can start to form the sounds you assume it makes.

“Aaravos?” you say eventually, letting your lips and tongue shape the vowels.

The elf nods after a moment–so they can hear you; that answers a question, leaving you at least with the knowledge that verbal communication can go in one direction at least.

“It’s…nice to meet you?” you finally say, cautious and unsure. “I hope you don’t find my shock unbecoming. I…didn’t exactly expect to find a magical mirror down here in a secret dungeon.”

There’s a quirk of one of their brows–amusement, most likely–and they respond with a gentle, if a little dramatic flip of their hands.

‘You’re not the first human to meet me.’

“I assume the other one is Lord Viren?”

Another quirk of their brow, a little higher; you have their attention.

“He is the advisor to the king. Or, well, he was…he’s been arrested for crimes against the kingdom and will be put to trial. I…am responsible for making sure he’s not hidden anything dangerous down here.”

Aaravos tilts their head to one side, then the other, as if weighing your words. There’s a glimmer of knowledge in their eyes that certainly don’t get past your notice: they must know Viren to some degree, though you can’t be certain of the relationship’s depth or shape. For all you know, the elf could be a key conspirator, a close ally that has aided Viren into his numerous charges.

‘You’ll not find any danger with me,’ the elf signs, motions deliberate and gentle so you can follow them with ease. ‘One may call me but a humble advisor as well.’

You let the situation settle into your chest for a few moments. It’s a lot to take in, a lot more to filter. Already there’s been the discovery of one of Katolis’ highest commanders chained up and held prisoner literally beneath the castle, evidence of torture and some form of magical mirror with an elf of unknown origin–all of these things Viren has hidden away, leaving you to try and piece together the details as if they’d come together in a perfect puzzle of meaning.

But there’s no meaning to be found; the puzzle is far from complete, leaving too many gaping holes of confusion and questions to his reason and intentions that it takes you a few moments to realize that Aaravos is signing something at you.

They repeat the motion when its obvious you were too lost in thought to read it.

‘I’ve told you my name, it’s only polite you tell me yours.’

There’s a glimmer in their eyes, an inethreal glow to the glittering freckles over their cheeks. It’s hard to place the expression on their face, but it leaves you feeling small, as if under the gaze of something powerful and old and magical–considering the situation, you can’t find doubt in any of those things. You need to be cautious, but there’s a definite sense of social correctness that overpowers your fear and nervousness.

You sign your name to the other, one letter at a time, feeling almost that signing was safer than speaking it out loud–as if the sound itself had a power you didn’t wish to give them.

Aaravos weighed your name in their gaze for a moment, eyelids falling half-shut for a moment as if to enjoy it, the name, in their thoughts.

‘A lovely name,’ they sign. ‘Though most humans wouldn’t give their name so willingly to an elf.“

“And here I was trying not to stereotype.”

Though you can’t hear it, you watch as Aaravos chuckles, holds a hand up to their lips despite the fact that they are as silent as the night, the sound not leaving whatever confines that exist on the other side of the mirror. The twinkling over their cheeks grow brighter for but a moment, fading away into background glowing when they finally seem to catch themselves once more.

There’s a gentle grin on Aaravos’ lips.

‘You need not fear, I cannot do anything with a name alone.’

They purse their lips, then you see their eyes flick to the side–over to the table with the blood-speckled knife. You don’t follow those golden eyes.

‘You said that you are exploring these dungeons, that Viren is arrested?’

You can almost hear the question despite never once hearing their voice. In the same respect, you notice that there is a discerning lack of shock in Aaravos’ expression; perhaps they already know what’s happened to the mage, left to their own existence and maybe even trapped in the mirror itself.

It’s not something you’d put past dark magic.

“Yes, I did,” you try to sound as official as possible. “I…have to make my leave now, actually. I didn’t plan to explore for long and I….”

The thoughts of everything feels like a mountain of rocks all pressing at your mind. The weight of it all alone makes you feel exhausted.

“…I need to rest.”

You let out a sigh, knowing that there’s still so much to get done, so much to explore and mark and learn–you still need to interrogate Gren about his captivity and start making some sort of map of this unknown section of the dungeon and that’s not even getting into reporting this all to Opeli–

Anxiety feels so much like an ocean pressing down on you. It’s a familiar thing, as horrible as that might be, but it’s something you’ve felt enough as a castle keeper and recognize without much issue. You know your limits and by god, you’ve hit it at least twice over with all of this magical mirror shit.

You look up to see Aaravos standing on the other side of the mirror. Their eyes stare at you, just as they’ve been staring at you since the moment your gaze met with theirs. You almost expect there to be a cold distance, a curiosity perhaps, but you’re momentarily taken aback to see a thin look of concern more than anything else. Despite the fact that you and the elf know next to nothing about one another and have all the reasons in the universe not to trust one another (perhaps more for you than for them), they still look genuinely concerned for your exhaustion and ills.

‘Unless you speak of it to someone, I’m certain my mirror will still be here after you’ve been able to rest.’

You want to ask why they even care, but that’s when your brain decides that it doesn’t really matter. The weight of everything seems to come down over you, leaving you better off taking the advice to heart and continuing the conversation later, when you’ve had the time to lay your head on a pillow.

“We will have more to talk about,” you finally say, some level of authority in your voice. “I will return tomorrow to ask more about what Viren has conspired about with you, and if you have helped him in any way. I expect that you will at least comply with my questioning.”

You’re not sure if it’s a good idea to give Aaravos that sort of detail, but you assume that they are not a fool–anyone in their position could assume that you would need to ask about it, considering the situation.

Aaravos merely looks at you, one brow lifted while their head tilts to one side. Though you’ve scarcely ever seen an elf of Xadia in your entire lifespan, it doesn’t take intimate knowledge across the difference in culture and species to understand an expression of amusement painted over their face.

But it’s how you leave Aaravos, using the light from the mirror to help guide you out the door (which you close behind you) and down the hallway. Once at the end, the faint light from the top of the spiraling staircase is enough to lead you back towards the entrance, where you alert a guard to ensure that nobody else enters while you sleep.

Deep below Katolis Castle, within the cold stone walls of the dungeon and hidden away in shadow, the mirror sits. It still glows with an impossible, magical light, still gives view into a realm of something entirely other as Aaravos stands before the mirror of his side of the connection.

He peers into the darkness for a few moments, expression turned stern and curious, memory fondly turning over the look of your face as one might the pages of a book. Curious, intriguing.

There was an odd connection to you that he felt, that he’s still feeling. He assumed that the thread had been only to Viren, to a fellow mage yet privy to the knowledge and intention that Aaravos had for him and his goals. The elf certainly didn’t expect for his material connections to be two-fold, but surprise and loathing are two wholly different emotions; he only feels one of them.

There’s something special about you,

and he's excited to learn more.

#tdp #the dragon prince #aaravos #tdp aaravos #reader insert

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darthwritings · 6 years

Text

Life’s Miracles (1/2)

Pairing: DFAB!Reader/Optimus Prime

Chapter Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're pregnant with Optimus' sparkling. Though you're getting plenty of medical attention by Ratchet through the entire experience, you're very much lacking in attention from the one you want it from most: the sparklings father. After a revelation about how much he needs to work on his communication skills, Optimus more than makes up for it.

Could be read as a sequel to Tell Me How You Feel, though if it is then damn does Optimus have some issues with running away from his feelings.

It was a miracle.

If Optimus was a smarter bot, if he knew more into the details, the science, the biology that went into understanding how he had been able to sire a sparkling, then he might not have been nearly as equally awed and terrified at the situation. He might not have the layers of stress and anxiety wrapping around his thoughts, always wondering when something would just go wrong --but he wasn’t a scientist, not in the way that Ratchet was, and Ratchet seemed more intrigued by the whole thing than afraid, so that should have been enough for Optimus to go off of.

Except it wasn’t.

There was next-to-nothing on record about a Cybertronian siring a sparkling with an organic but a whole ocean of things to worry about. How would a half-Cybertronian function? Would it require energon? Would it be able to transform?

So many questions and so few answers; Optimus was used to having answers, used to knowing what to do in even the worst, most bleak of times. He had led countless battles through numerous wars, always being able to come up with something to turn the odds around. He was a Prime, it was in his spark to know what to do.

But this? This was new, this was terrifying--

But this was the most beautiful miracle he had ever lived to experience.

He is going to be a father.

You get used to being pregnant surprisingly well. After all the morning sickness, the frequent medical exams, the weight gain and the lack of dexterity your rounding belly gifts you bountifully, it’s not nearly as horrible as what you would have expected. If anything, it isn’t your own body worrying you the most--it’s that of the baby’s father.

Ever since the two of you found out you were pregnant, Optimus had been surprisingly distant and yet hover-y at the same time, as little sense as it made. Whenever you seemed to look for him he was nowhere to be found, but when you didn’t want a touch or a set of eyes upon you he was there, asking too many questions and always a step behind you, as if you were a child yourself.

It was as infuriating as it was confusing.

Ratchet was a wonderful doctor through the pregnancy--though he certainly had next-to-no experience when it came to a pregnancy such as yours, he still had plenty of experience that left you feeling comforted--you were surrounded by those who cared and, at least in the case of all but the young Bumblebee, had plenty of life experience.

There were worst places that you could be pregnant. Worst people to father your child. Worse situations you could be in.

You were several months along, stomach already rounded and body in a full hormonal swing. Every day seemed to bring something new, but this one brought one of the worst feelings of all: you were horny.

Whether it was a caress or a quickie, you just wanted intimacy, wanted something physical and warm and loving from the bot who sired the baby in your belly--but gods above he always seemed to be anywhere else than at your side when you had days like these.

As much as you wanted to say you were able to ignore the feelings, you were barely a few hours into your day when they broke you.

Unfortunately, they happened to break you while you were in the medical bay, under the careful watch of Ratchet as he put you through an uncountable number of tests.

“Your heart rate is up today,” The bot said, as he tapped at a screen beside where you sat. “I’ve also noticed a difference in some of the hormones you’re producing compared from the blood test I ran a week ago.”

He didn’t look at you as he scanned the readings and other careful notes he’d been taking on you since the first noticeable day of the conception. Though you couldn’t blame Ratchet for such careful observation, it was a little harder to curb your over-stimulated mind from lashing out when you very much didn’t want to tell him that you wanted to get fucked so good you couldn’t remember your own name.

So you shrugged awkwardly and tried to not think about it.

“I feel just fine,” you said after a moment, feeling your shoulders droop as you then let out a sigh. “...Well, as fine as I can be, I guess.”

“You guess?” Ratchet asked. He paused what he was doing and turned to look at you, blue optics watching gently, but concerned all the same.

It was hard to keep your eyes on his for more than a few seconds; you felt heat over your cheeks as you tried to form the words appropriate for the situation that still communicate your needs.

“I...haven’t been able to share some time with Optimus for a while,” It took you a moment to get the words out, your eyes slowly dropping to the floor and your hands wringing themselves over. “He’s been really...distant. I almost feel like he’s been avoiding me? I mean, I know he’s busy, I know you’re all busy, I don’t want to be selfish at all and I just--”

You were rambling. You were rambling and not making sense and probably sounding silly. All the same, Ratchet gently cut you off, a hand waved gently in front of you to catch your gaze that was now down on the floor.

“Calm down,” He said gently, tapping once more on the screen before the lights darkened to nothing. “The last thing you need to be right now is stressed--I ain’t no expert on this type of pregnancy--” (he mumbled something low along the lines of, ‘I’m not an expert on pregnancy at all’) “--but gettin’ all stressed ain’t going to help you or the sparkling out. I haven’t seen him around yet today, but you head back to your quarters and I’ll make sure to send him over as soon as I see him.”

It’s honestly as much comfort as anyone could really give you. You flash a gentle smile to Ratchet in thanks as he helps you down from the examination table, then silently leave the bay so you could be with your own thoughts.

Ratchet worked in the medical bay for several cycles, losing track of time as he gently worked over the medical notes he had taken earlier. It was fascinating, really, even for a bot who really never had any sort of vested interest in bio-organic research. The idea that a Cybertronian could have a sparkling with an organic was nothing sort of awe-inspiring, enough that even Ratchet couldn’t help but want to look into the pregnancy--it wasn’t like there were any others in the Autobot team stationed on Earth with the same level of experience, interest and willingness to do it.

He was halfway through running a test on a blood sample when he heard the bay doors open. Ratched turned his gaze and caught sight of the very bot he’d been hoping to see.

“Optimus,” The medic greeted, only able to offer a gentle bow of his head in greeting as he checked the current readings of the test at-hand. “I was hoping to see you today--your timing couldn’t be better.”

“Oh?” the other said, curiosity mixing with another subtle, almost unheard tone in his voice. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh no,” Ratchet finally turned to look at the autobot leader, finding him looking just a touch worse for wear than he normally did--it wasn’t something specific that Ratchet could point out, but a lot of little things, minute details. “She’s as healthy as can be, according to the tests I’m running; no harm to her or the sparkling--whom is also very healthy.”

Optimus perked with interest as he leaned against one of the examination tables.

“Any updates on them?”

Ratchet thought about it for a moment, then shrugged in a nondescript answer.

“No sign of anything major--I’d wager to say the growth is more like a human pregnancy than cybertronian, which is probably a good thing,” The doctor chuckled more out of relief than humor, because that had been quite a bit worry for the longest time in the early months of the pregnancy.

A moment of silence passed. It was tense, Ratchet could sense that something was off with the autobot standing in front of him and he wasn’t going to let it go--especially not when the look of your face clung to his thoughts, your eyes when you told him how you were feeling.

“You know, Optimus,” Ratchet does his best to sound casual. “You and her haven’t been spendin’ too much time together lately. It’s probably a good idea to make time for her--this experience is probably a little….frightening. It would do her and the sparkling well to have you close by, eh?”

It’s probably not the easiest topic to breach, but Ratchet has known Optimus long enough that it’s not as tense and awkward as it could be, all things considered. Even with their close bond, Optimus’s eyes shift, breaking from Ratchet’s gaze and off to the side of the room.

“I’ve been...busy,” The leader says, voice tense and obviously lying. “With the last message we intercepted from the Decepticons and the new readings of energon, I’ve been required to take on several missions and--”

“You’re a terrible liar, Optimus.”

Ratchet doesn’t try to sound soft when it’s obvious his old friend needs someone stubborn and willing enough to call him out on what he’s trying to avoid. He crosses his arms against his chest, almost glaring now at the bot before him, the leader of the autobots--the one who should be acting less like a bumbling rookie.

“I’ve known you for eons, Optimus, and I have been in more than enough battles with you to know that’s a buncha slag.” Ratchet drops his arms and takes a step closer to Optimus, finally reaching out a hand to lay it on the other’s shoulder in firm (but honest) comfort. “What is bothering you? Is there something going on between the two of you? A fight?”

Optimus blinked, staring at Ratchet blankly for a moment as he extrapolated the question and suddenly shook his head.

“Primus,” he cursed with a groan. “No, we haven’t. Nothing like that, old friend--I swear it’s nothing like that.”

“Then explain why she looked like she was about to cry while she was telling me how she hasn’t seen you for the last several solar cycles?”

“What?”

The surprise was genuine in his voice. It was the only thing that kept Ratchet from falling into an even rougher tone--all the official customs and courtesies in the world couldn’t keep the old medic from being honest, but at least Optimus seemed genuinely confused.

Ratchet sighed, feeling too much like a father himself with the slight tension running through his thoughts.

“Did you think trying to avoid your partner while they are actively pregnant is a good idea for their emotional and physical health?”

It was the only thing he could think of that might make the notion obvious without being rude. With the words hanging on the air, Optimus’ gaze still didn’t meet the other’s own. He didn’t have a response at first, letting the silence grow thick and tense until it became unbearable--the guilt was heavy in the leader’s optics.

“I just don’t want to hurt her,” he said eventually, voice too soft and gentle for Ratchet, if he hadn’t heard it himself, to have come from a bot who had been in countless wars and survived death numerous times.

“Hurt her?”

Optimus was silent for a moment, thinking through what he wanted to say before clarifying, “I don’t want….to let my emotions dictate my actions. In that way. While she’s pregnant.”

“....I’m not following anything that you’re trying to tell me,” Ratchet answered, voice deadpan. “I’m her freaking doctor, Optimus, and I’m your friend, just spit out why you’re avoiding her for Primus’ sake!”

Less than a beat of silence passed between them. And then, as if at his wits end, Optimus answered with a very calm, careful tone.

“To put it in the local Earth slang: I want to fuck her until she can’t remember her name .”

Another beat of silence, and then another, until the whole bay was filled with a new type of thick tension that nobody seemed apt to break; Optimus was still, unnaturally so, not so much as a shift until the silence was finally broken by Ratchet’s uproariously loud laughter.

“Oh by the primes,” The medic said, words cut between laughter as he tried to control himself but failing spectacularly. “She’s not glass and she’s not a scrappin’ sparkling Optimus--did you not wonder if she’s feeling the same way?”

When amused blue optics flickered towards the Autobot leader, they found Optimus at a loss for words, looking equally confused and unsure in how to respond, largely because he couldn’t--he was at a loss for words entirely.

Ratchet, deciding that he hadn’t actually seen nor experienced everything in the universe just yet, sighed.

“Did you know that, when humans are pregnant, the hormones their bodies produce can make them want to engage in mating?” The doctor crossed his arms, as if to make his point that much more obvious. “...well, interface.”

And then, slowly, a smirk worked onto Ratchet’s face.

“...or even ‘fuck’ as you had put it.”

It wasn’t hard to see a range of emotions move across Optimus’ expression. Awkwardness. Worry. Realization. Surprise. Then, at the end of it all, he looked so, so very guilty--surprised and guilty.

Suffice to say, it didn’t take all that many seconds until Optimus, Autobot leader, battle-hardened warrior and future father, hurried out of the medical bay (assumedly to find his mate). He left Ratchet to his own thoughts once more, but the doctor found the new peace something nice.

“I’m too old to be giving relationship advice,” he muttered to himself, turning back to the various holo-screens of the medical bay.

#transformers #optimus prime #readerxoptimus #reader x optimus #reader insert #dfab reader #nsfw

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darthwritings · 6 years

Text

More than Anything

Pairing: Ratchet/Reader

Summary: Just another day in the lab, working as a researcher alongside Ratchet. One thing becomes another as the two of you decide to take a little bit of personal time for eachother.

Note: This was a commission for @iamanemotionaltimebomb! It took longer than I would have liked, but it’s always fun to write for a local grumpy doctor like Ratchet ;3c

Commission Information | General Writing FAQ | My Patreon | Donate

“So, what’s a ‘heart’?”

To any normal person, the question would have seemed strange. It would have been so odd to hear, considering that, up until a few months ago, you assumed most living things tend to have hearts and, as such, wouldn’t really need to ask the question of what a heart was. But that was before you learned that there were much more things out in the universe--more than you could have ever imagined; so the question seemed so foreign, so curious, so alien.

“It’s hilarious to hear you ask that,” You say with a genuine chuckle, leaning against the leg of the robot standing beside you. “You call yourself a doctor in one breath and ask me what a heart is in the next.”

The scoff that came from your rather unhumanly companion was nothing short of amused than anything else; you could almost feel the playfulness radiating from him, a teasing joy that most others never got to see from the old autobot.

“Just because I’m a doctor a’ one species doesn’t mean I know everything ‘bout another.” After a moment, the autobot beside you, Ratchet, shifted, turning his attention to a screen for a breath as it flickered something in a foreign language over it. “But you didn’ answer the question. What is a heart for you humans?”

“It pumps blood through our body,” You say in a simple answer.

“Blood?”

“Er,” It takes a few moments to come up with an answer, caught off-guard for the dozenth time by the sheer biological differences between the two species. “It’s like...what keeps us going; provides oxygen to our muscles and tissues. Like fuel that criss-crosses through the body that the heart keeps moving.”

A noise of distinct appreciation clicks from Ratchet’s mouth.

“Ah, fuel,” he says, stepping away slowly enough so that you have time to stop leaning on his leg. “Now that’s a term I’m more familiar with. Blood is human fuel, makes sense--can’t imagine what sorta fuel wouldn’t cause all those fragile tissues of yours to degrade over time.”

Ratchet mostly spoke in jest and amusement, which is something you’ve come to respect about him--for as grumpy as the man could be from his years, no, millennia of war, he could still find some moments of peace to himself. You could admire his experience and could absolutely respect his knowledge as a doctor, even if he was a doctor for a species completely different from your own.

“We’re not that fragile,” You say with a gentle laugh, though you knew you couldn’t continue to argue if he chose to fight the notion. Fragile was up for debate, depending on how one looked at weakness.

Ratchet seemed not to care, or at least not enough to continue the teasing. Instead, he turned his attention to whatever was on the screen before him, an alien language flashing before his eyes and shifting as he clicked idly at the workstation.

The two of you worked in blissful silence for a short while.

By the time you shifted out of your own thoughts again and looked to the side, you found that Ratchet had changed sizes at some point, though he was still tapping idly at the matter-less screen before him (which had also sized down with him).

After a moment, the autobot doctor seemed to notice your attention and turned his bright blue eyes to meet yours, a chuckle slowly working out of him.

“It’s easier to focus when I’m not worried that I’m gonna accidentally step on ya’,” he said, but you could tell that was only part of his reasons--the rest remained unspoken. You didn’t care to force the thoughts from the doctor’s mind, so you merely turned your attentions back to your own work and simply enjoyed Ratchet’s company.

It was soothing to work beside him, to occasionally bump your body against his frame and linger, if only for a few heartbeats. It’s one of the things that help keep you focused just as much as it distracts you. Ratchet almost hums to himself as he works, a tone gentle and low as it rumbles deep from his chest, soothing your nerves and thoughts until the two of you are working in perfect synch, until the two of you are barely aware of how you step out of one another’s way, how you pass information and answer questions without even needing to finish a sentence.

It’s a harmony you’ve grown so fond of.

The two of you are working side-by-side soon enough, your body nearly leaning against his own. Even at his size-compressed form he stands several heads over you, a force that cloaks your thoughts with the feeling of comfort and protection whether Ratchet means to or not.

“I’m just about done with my work,” You say after a moment, cutting the remains of an excuse that you weren’t looking to use his form to lean against. “What about you?”

Ratchet lets out a little grunt, eyes attuned to the flickering screen before finally thinking over your simple question.

“Done enough for the day,” he says, head tilting to the side as he presses something. “I mean, there’s never really an end to the work--you suggestin’ for something?”

Ratchet turned his form before you could realize it; luckily, the autobot was fast enough to gently wrap his arms around you, both to keep you from falling to the ground and to press you to his chest.

“I--I mean,” your words are a little jostled from the near-fall. “I could be suggesting something. Maybe.”

Blue eyes watched you for a few moments, widened slightly, and then fell into a look of sly interest.

“Oh,” Ratchet said. “ Oh , like that is it?” His grip tightened, but at no point did it hurt; you could feel his fingertips rubbing little circles against the small of your back. He was very gentle, but the touch was enough to make heat blossom on your cheeks.

“Could be,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Hypothetically, what would you do about it if it was….like that .”

Ratchet’s smirk only widened.

“What any good doctor should,” You could feel the passion almost burning from the autobot’s bright, focused optics. “--plenty of research and a good, thorough examination.”

You weren’t sure whether it was his choice of words or the gentle, low purr of his voice, but Ratchet’s response sent a delicious shiver down your spine. His gaze felt like a smoldering fire, a heat that burned deep into your belly--

You needed him right then and there.

Though heat blossomed across your face, though your heart jackhammered against your ribs, you met his fervent gaze with what you hoped was a playful, endearing look.

“Then what are you waiting for?” The words barely felt cohesive, let alone how they sounded to your own ears. They did the trick regardless, gently nudging Ratchet to the next stage of intimacy--you could see that subtle shift in his eyes.

And, in a heartbeat, you closed your eyes and felt him lean down to you, lips meeting in a swift, but passionate kiss.

For all that Ratchet was (a doctor, an experienced veteran, a war-hardened grump) he was a surprisingly tentative lover. For as much of a hard act he tend to put on, it was rare for him to be rough with you--at least without some begging beforehand. He was gentle, but passionate, careful to tend to you with as much curiosity and wonder that he seemed to look at everything else he did in his line of work.

Suffice to say it didn’t take very long for the two of you to be wrapped up in one another, limbs askew in a mess of the heated want you shared.

He had you on his berth--what you had quickly learned was their version of a bed--your body beneath him. Experience had lent itself to there being a fair few layers of thick blankets below you, to shield you from the otherwise cold metal surface and offer some buffer from the autobot’s weight on your body.

But it was, in a word, delicious. The warmth, the pressure, the feeling of his splayed hands framing around your head. It was hard not to feel the center of his world, not when what little light there was in the dark room was otherwise coming from his bright, beautiful blue eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” you heard him murmur, somewhere between the groans that spilled from his lips. “So, so damn beautiful…”

His hips moved slowly, but with enough firm, almost restrained power that made your body shake regardless. You could feel him inside you, opening you up and rubbing against your inner walls in ways that made you want to sob.

The pleasure kept any words from leaving your mouth in response, so you hoped that your smile, your pleasure, your little mewls of want were enough so that he knew how good he made you feel. Your hands scrabbled uselessly against his metal form, legs hardly able to wrap around his hips to keep him close and thrusting into you--it was one of the distinct annoyances of his matter-compressed form, but also the most delightful.

He felt so protective--it was like nothing bad could happen to you, not when Ratchet was right there, holding you, murmuring in your ear with sweet nothings as his hips moved almost in synch with your heartbeat.

Heaven, perhaps; that’s what it might have been.

And all the while he moved, you could hear Ratchet whispering to you, positioned just so his words fell right beside your head and almost wrench a moan from you for their filth alone.

“I love havin’ you all tucked up like this,” he’d say, voice a purr. “It makes it so much easier to stuff ya’ full of me. Been wonderin’ how much I can spill inside you until yer’ drippin’.”

To emphasize his words, Ratchet rocked his hips particularly hard against yours, sending his metalic cock so damn deep inside you; you couldn’t help but let out a delightful sob at the way it opened you wide, how it filled you up, pressed against every goddamn bundle of nerves to make you feel like putty beneath his massive form.

“Sounds t’me like you like that, don’t you?” Ratchet wasn’t looking for a response, he wasn’t looking for anything more than the understanding that his words were having a positive effect on you--and they damn well were . “Just love how my spike fills a lil’ human like you up? Yeah, that’s right, such a tiny lil’ thing, but I bet you’d look beautiful with my sparkling inside of ‘ya.”

A sparkling?

“You’d get nice n’ round, I figure,” Ratchet continued, his voice gentle and his eyes keen to your response. “An old bot like me doesn’t have any business thinkin’ about kids, but prime above if you don’t make me want it.”

He moved his face, just slightly enough to press a kiss to your forehead. One hand of his moved, down to your body, pressing and caressing over any curve and plane of your body that he could.

“Would you want that baby?”

Ratchet’s voice sounded so soft, almost teetering on the edge of unsure, of nervous. It took a moment before you had the ability to open your eyes, to let your thoughts fall back into place to realize that your eyes were mere inches away from his own. Blue optics searched yours for a response, and you could see the depth of emotions that were hiding behind Ratchet’s question.

Want. Fear. Shame. Curiosity. There were so many, you weren’t sure at first what he was hoping to get as an answer, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

“Yes.”

It sounded like a sigh, breathless and wanting. You repeat yourself once, and then again, legs trying desperately to curl around his hips so that you could encourage him to keep moving, to keep fucking you.

“Please,” You whispered, almost too quiet to hear yourself. “I want it--Ratchet, I’d want your sparkling. Give it to me.”

It was like a damn had been broken. Ratchet’s eyes blinked rapidly as he took in your answer, at the tumbling information he didn’t realize he wanted ( craved ).

“ Oh, ” Is all you hear from his mouth before Ratchet seems to shift (not literally, thank god), his energy spiking as his body gently leans back and his hands move to find a purchase on your hips. “I didn’t take you for being so spike-hungry, baby.”

His pace quickened. The change in position somehow made him go even deeper , and that was more than enough to make you start crying out his name into the open air of the room, thankful for nothing more than the fact that the walls were mostly soundproof, that the kids were at school, that the other autobots were busy with their own tasks--

“Say it again.”

Ratchet’s deep, husky tone pulled you right out of your jumbled thoughts. He sounded passionate, starved for something--something he could only get from you.

“Say it again ,” He repeated. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

But words, they were not working for you; you were lucky to let out a strained moan let alone an understandable string of words.

“Wantyout’putasparklinme.” Between the sounds of want and pleasure, the plea was barely English.

Ratchet thrust harder still, his fingers pressed delightfully firm into the soft, warm flesh of your hips. He growled, a noise coming from deep in his chest, and rumbled the demand once more before threatening the one thing that could easily snap you to crystal-clear thoughts: he stopped thrusting. Completely stopped moving, and it only took you a second to put all the puzzle pieces together.

A sob fell from your lips before you could stop it.

“Your sparkling,” Is all you can sob, your hands moving to cover his in the hopes that the intimate touch of skin-on-metal would help your cause of pleading him to keep fucking you again. “I want your sparkling, Ratchet--please, please fill me up, fuck me .”

You repeated it once, twice, a slew of words slammed together in the middle of your pleasure-hazy thoughts that only wanted more of Ratchet’s warmth and comfort.

Take me. Have me. Fill me with your sparkling.

It was like a switch was flipped, the air going thick with it as Ratchet finally began to move again. Where he had been almost overly gentle and slow in his pace, he fucked you like a bot possessed, his hands gripping tight to your form, his body kneeling over you as he moved with fervent, powerful thrusts. It wasn’t quick before you were on the edge, pleasure scorching through your limbs and want practically dripping from your lips in the form of his name.

Electricity coursed through you with every moment, every heartbeat--you could feel the heat building, the tension and near-stiffness of Ratchet’s motions as he drew ever so close to climax.

All you could do was cling to him when everything fell to blissful, perfect pieces. He hovered over your form as the two of you fell over the edge, orgasm washing over your thoughts and bodies in a tidal wave of pleasure. Ratchet felt so warm, so big, so perfect--he held you through each euphoric moment like something precious, cooing and murmuring sweet nothings beside your ear until the both of you were left boneless and limp on the half-covered berth.

Though the metal was cool to the touch for what patches of bare skin on your legs and shoulders touched it, as the blankets had nearly been tossed off from the fervent lovemaking, the heat from the sex itself left you without much of a care.

Ratchet pulled himself out slowly, careful for what twinges of discomfort were always rather inevitable with him due to his rather sizable endowment alone (compared to your size, at least). You felt….full. It was a hard thing to describe, if only because your lover was a different species; the basic components of sex seemed to be much the same way for Cybertronians as it was for humans, but there was always something so delightful in Ratchet fucking you.

He always left you feeling so warm and full, dripping of his trans fluids and probably marked up in more ways than you could sense of him. He rarely left physical marks (due to how careful he tried to be) but there was always something lovely in the carnal marking of feeling the wetness between your thighs after your coupling.

As Ratchet wrapped his arms around you and shuffled your bodies so you were laying on his chest, you pulled the blanket with you to seal the lovely warmth the two of you had made. The fabric, though a little messied from the sex, was soft and comforting as you cocooned yourself over the autobot doctor. He wasn’t soft in the manner that you would have described other lovers (more human lovers), but Ratchet was sweet, lifting a hand to stroke down the center of your back--you could feel his curious eyes upon you even if you didn’t see him staring.

“...I meant it, you know,” you said, without opening your eyes.

You didn’t need to see him and his expression to know he wanted an explanation.

“What I said during….well, you know.”

“I don’t know if I do,” Ratchet said, his voice soft.

It sounded cute to hear him unsure, perhaps a little nervous. He sounded genuine, sweet and vulnerable--he sounded a way that few people, if anyone beyond you, could hear him.

“About having your sparkling,” You spoke as you finally opened your eyes, meeting his optics and their curious blue glow in the near-darkness of the room. “....About….wanting you to fill me with a sparkling….a baby. I meant it. I’d want to be a parent with you, Ratchet.”

He didn’t answer for a few moments, long enough that you almost weren’t sure if that’s what he had wanted to hear from you. Unsure worry started to flicker into pure anxiety before his soft smile soothed it all away; it was such a pure, genuine expression that made him look anything but the battle-hardened doctor that he was.

“That makes me happy,” he murmured, his hands gently pulling you closer, so he could press a kiss to the top of your head. “Something an old ‘bot like me doesn’t deserve, but damn if I’d pass up half a chance to make it a reality. But uh…”

He let out a chuckle.

“Guess that means we’ll need to do quite a bit of experimentin’ to see if that’s even possible, eh?”

You could barely muster up the energy to smack a hand on his chest in indignant, but teasing annoyance.

“You dork.”

You nuzzle your face against Ratchet’s chest, pleased at the gentle, warm hum that rumbled from his body. Ratchet rubbed his hand gently down your back, soothing away the little aches that started to make themselves known in your muscles. One of the downsides of having a lover several feet taller than you, but like hell if you were about to complain about it.

Still, the reminder was lovely and warm, just as much as Ratchet himself was; your protector, your lover, your everything.

“Ratchet?”

“Hm?”

You let out a slow, relaxed breath and pressed your cheek to the warm metal of his chest.

“...I love you so much.”

There was a breath of silence. A careful shift of his body beneath you, largely for comfort’s sake, and then his second hand moved to stroke his fingers down your back in a motion of comfort.

“I love you too,” He murmured, sweetly. “More than anything.”

#readerinsert #nsfw #nsfw readerinert #transformers #ratchet #ratchet readerinsert #transformers readerinsert #gender neutral reader #commission #fandom commission

3 notes · View notes

darthwritings · 6 years

Text

Tell Me How You Feel

Pairing: Optimus Prime/DFAB!Reader

Summary: It was safe to say that he was avoiding you. Sure, doubt had crept through your thoughts for the first week, second week and even into the third, but every thought that tried to convince you otherwise fizzled away when you simply let the conclusion come to its end: he was absolutely, positively avoiding you, and you were going to find out why.

Note: This was a commission for @iamanemotionaltimebomb! It was a ton of fun to write, especially since I haven't been into or excited for the Transformers fandom in a good couple of years! (Can't wait until that new movie comes out! :D)

Commission Information | General Writing FAQ | My Patreon | Donate

It was safe to say that he was avoiding you. Sure, doubt had crept through your thoughts for the first week, second week and even into the third, but every thought that tried to convince you otherwise fizzled away when you simply let the conclusion come to its end: he was absolutely, positively avoiding you. If it wasn’t for the fact that your job hadn’t been entirely set on keeping an eye on the Autobots and the children in their care, it may not have come off so obviously--

Well, if you weren’t otherwise obligated by the military’s orders, you probably wouldn’t have even met them, huh?

Regardless.

It doesn’t sit well in the pit of your stomach to know that Optimus is avoiding you. You worry first that his always-constant missions is keeping him busy, and then perhaps that there are issues that you couldn’t hope to understand with his people, his race, and then the worry boils even further into the fear that he’s finally found you worthless of his attention.

It’s the last thing that scares you the most.

There’s no secret, attempted or otherwise, for the relationship you shared with him. What had begun as a professional task had become a friendship, then a bond, and then something deeper--it had blossomed into something innocent and wonderful and all shades of affection that had your heart singing every time he said your name in his powerful voice.

Dating was too...casual of a term to use. Partner? That was too...wrong. There was no proper label for the relationship you and Optimus shared, but it was a bond strong enough to know when, suddenly, he had begun to avoid you. Begun to find reason to leave the room, to escape a conversation, all the while with a look of unease and frustration on his face that made you feel...scared, in a way.

So you did what any mature adult would do in a situation like that: you sought Optimus out yourself.

It wasn’t exactly a hard thing to do, considering the fact that your job all but required you to know where they were at all times, but it was still a bit of a chore to nail down the Autobot leader. The base was huge, built for beings that were at minimum a dozen feet tall, so it took some snooping and perusing from room to room to figure out where Optimus had settled himself for the evening.

Of course, you found him in one of the science labs; your science lab, to be precise, the very one that had been built for you to take all of the information down needed to satisfy Agent Fowler’s constant need for information and updates so that he could tell others with the need-to-know that the earth wasn’t in any particular danger to this particular faction of alien lifeforms. Well, it was among some of the reasons for having the lab to yourself, though you didn’t understand a lot of the information you gathered and--

It didn’t matter right then. None of that mattered.

What did mattered is, when you stepped into the lab, sectioned-off partially from Ratchet’s work area, you found Optimus standing over a console to himself. He seemed to enraptured in his own thoughts to notice your entrance.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out until I go home, huh?” The question comes from your lips with more disdain than anger; it makes the autobot leader jump regardless in surprise. “Clever, I suppose--A little easier to hide when you’re only like, 8 feet tall when compared to, what, 30?”

Optimus turns his head to quickly confirm the face to the sound of your voice. Though you see momentary fear in his optics, he doesn’t try to hurry out the room or sputter out a very sudden and very fake-sounding excuse to leave. He lets out a sigh (do Cybertronians need to breathe?) and taps a button on the console to exit out of a series of hologram readings.

It’s a little disorientating to approach him when he was so much closer to your own size, but not enough that it keeps you from crossing your arms in the ever-growing need for an answer--an answer to a question that practically burns your lips as it leaves them.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

It comes out a little too emotional. Something about the sound of the words when you speak, or perhaps even the way your body feels tense and loose all at the same time--it makes Optimus look hurt, genuinely hurt as he opens his mouth and then, just as suddenly, he closes it.

It’s obvious that he’s not going to reject the accusation, but that’s not the response you want from him--you just want an answer, an honest-to-god answer that could sate the gnawing anxiety that had been chewing on the back of your thoughts for weeks.

“Optimus?” You take a step closer to him, head tilted and brows knitted in concern. “I just...want to know why, is all.” A blip of anxiety crosses your mind. “...Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” The leader responds firmly and quickly enough to the suggestion that it is at least a mild comfort. He takes another breath and slowly meets your gaze with his own. “I...have been avoiding you, I will make no attempt to deny that, but it is of no fault other than my own.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question though,” You say, hands gesturing in hopes that it would effectively communicate your exasperation with the moment between you both. “I mean I--...I thought we were....” Again, there is no real term that felt right, no name to call the two of you that would describe the feelings you had for him.

So you take a slow breath and let it out all the same.

“...I love you, Optimus.”

It’s not the first time that you’ve said that to him, but it’s still careful territory. It’s unknown and confusing and scary and absolutely wonderful all at the same time. Seeing his response, the pause in his words and the careful focus of his eyes on you--

You take a step closer, just a few short from being able to reach out and touch him.

“I don’t know what’s bothering you, but let’s work this out together?”

Another step, and then another, close enough that you have to lift your chin and face high to keep your eyes locked with his. Though the mass displacement could work wonders on making him slightly more approachable, it still kept him hovering above you and yet, he still looked so small in the moment. So unsure. So worried--

So scared.

Of what? What could he, the leader of the autobots, be afraid of?

Optimus averted his gaze after a moment.

“I…” he tried to find the words. “I do not try to hide nor suppress my feelings for you in kind. It was irresponsible of me; I thought that taking time to think over the problems myself would yield insight to a solution for how to...proceed.”

“Proceed?”

Optimus looked even more unsure, almost flustered if there ever was a way for a ten-foot-tall robot to. He had no ability to blush, no blood to rush to his cheeks, but you saw it all as clear as day: he looked awkward and unsure of himself.

“For Cybertronians, we have reached a level of our bond where many would have already…” Optimus tried to search for the word, but let out a growl as he could not find it. “We would have already...interfaced.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sex’, in English at least.”

Was he...worried about sex? About how to have sex with you? The thought seemed rediculous, something akin to what a teenage boy might feel like with the thought of his first post-middle-school crush, but it’s...not at all what you expected Optimus to feel like. But the more you thought about it, the more it made sense: you and him were entirely different species, there was no telling the differences and challenges that could come up for what otherwise seemed like such a carnal activity.

Nevertheless, Optimus nodded, reaching out one of his hands to cradle against the side of your head.

“You are not a Cybertronian,” He said slowly. “But...there are still some possible issues that may come in sharing a bond with me.”

“I understand if we’re not compatible to have sex, Optimus,” The words flew from your mouth faster than you could stop them, relief and amusement mixing together as you all but nuzzled your face into his gentle palm. “That’s the least of my worries, really, because-”

“We are actually too compatible.”

It took a moment for the simple sentence to sink in.

“...What?”

Optimus looked that same brand of awkward-and-unsure again. He looked like he wished he could do more than just avert his eyes--it was the look of someone who was trying, and failing, to look abysmally small.

“...There is a possibility, due to the fact that I am a Prime,” Optimus took a moment to weigh his words as you felt his thumb brush over your head in a careful sweeping motion. “-That I will be able to sire a sparkling within you if we had ‘sex’, if you will.”

In all honesty, it takes longer than you’d like to admit to parse all the words together and filter them through your thoughts for a meaning to come out the other end. It’s not that you don’t follow what he’s saying, it’s just that the concept is far enough beyond what you expected him to say that it’s nearly foreign to you.

A baby.

Sure, it’s not as if you don’t understand enough to know the basics of his people, the importance of Optimus as a leader and the fact that ‘Prime’ was not simply his name, but a title bestowed upon him that came with a certain level of power and influence and a million other important things your brain couldn’t begin to recall at the moment.

But he was telling you that he could get you pregnant.

The look on your face must have been hilarious, in hindsight, but it was surely enough to make Optimus feel more than a passing need to explain it all to you in a bit more detail.

Something about his spark being powerful, something about humans being exposed to energon being receptive carriers, something about a million things and it all came back to one detail:

A baby.

The thought had never crossed your mind; hell, the fact that you and him may never have something resembling sex had been the biggest worry, but this? This was huge, this was different.

This was amazing .

Nevermind the scientific wonders that the opportunity could present, it was a relief, a wonderful relief, that Optimus’ only worry that had kept him from talking to you was a fear that he could get you pregnant? Jesus, you were scared that he was bored with you, no, maybe even hated you, but he was scared about having a baby?

“I don’t even know how that’s possible,” You said, reaching a hand up to touch his own against your face, to nuzzle and kiss his palm because god , you were scared of something so much worse. “-but you didn’t think I wouldn’t be happy?”

Optimus blinked, even though it was yet another unnecessary gesture. The confusion on his face was obvious. You felt your brows knit again, this time in amusement that the concept, the simple concept that you may not actually mind having his child--it seemed alien to him.

“Would there be something wrong with carrying your...sparkling?” The word felt a little odd on your tongue. You turned your eyes up to catch the softly-glowing blue of his, met his gaze for a few moments so that he could understand the meaning and genuine depth behind your words.

And then, once the surprise was gone, once the pieces began to click together, you could feel the heat in the air. You could feel Optimus’ gaze turn into something deeper, something almost distinctly predatory and hungry.

And the shiver that moved down your spine was delicious .

Despite the vast differences between both of your species, sex was still more-or-less the same. The heat, the desire, the hunger that seemed to take hold of your thoughts--it all seemed mutual as could be. It was a wonder to experience it, feeling soft and awkward like a teenager all over again, to feel the rush as you and Optimus sought for the privacy of an unused room, one that wouldn’t have someone barging in on the intimacy between you.

“And you’re certain that-” Optimus can barely get out the question before you’re shushing him with a kiss, feeling the strength in his arms and hands as he held you up and against him.

“ Yes. ” The words fell like rushing water from your mouth when the two of you parted. “I want you to fuck me, Optimus--” You could feel the gentle shiver through his limbs as he filtered your words. “--I….I want you to put a sparkling in me.”

And that must have been a breaking point. It must have been a dozen breaking points, since the autobot leader could barely seem to keep himself contained and still as he pressed a kiss to your lips again. It was harder this time, more passionate and less restrained and yet with every ounce of love you wanted from him.

His hands cradle you against his chest when he finally finds a place to lay down--an unused berth in the empty room is more than good enough. He holds you to his chest as he moves--he may be a fraction of his original size, but he is nonetheless immense in stature and strength; it wasn’t a secret that a misplacement of his weight or strength could hurt you plenty.

It was exhilarating nonetheless, your legs wrapped around his thin waist and his body hovering over yours as he stripped one layer of clothes after another from your body. You’re almost worried for the touch of cold metal against hot skin, but when you’re bare and naked beneath your partner he felt anything but; he felt so warm, so blissfully warm against your skin that you let out a soft moan for that sensation alone.

“Are you alright?” Optimus asked. His voice was soft, hushed almost, and it beckoned forth a blossom of heat from your chest at how genuinely nervous he sounded. “I’ve….looked into the process with humans--it’s much the same style of reproduction of Cybertronians and--” His words became a bit of a jumbled mess by that point, terms and sounds blurring into one another that only seemed to make his babbling mess of awkward nervousness worse.

But it was cute; it was so damn cute that you almost felt bad by cutting him short.

“Please.”

For as much as you try to sound soft and whimpery, the noise that comes from your mouth is less forced or acted than you tried for. Your body wanted more, more heat and touching and attention and a million other things. You ached for him to be inside you, a carnal desire that screamed to be sated by his lavish attentions.

It didn’t take very long for him to get the message. Kisses and touching became more fervent, his lips and hands exploring more and more of your body. Optimus had obviously done some research, somewhere, or perhaps Cybertronians simply had a similar-enough anatomy that there was little for him to find surprising.

Nevertheless, when he worked you open around one of his fingers, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sob of pleasure.

“ Optimus ,” you moaned. “ Please. ”

He was so gentle and so sweet, letting your cunt adjust to the size of the penetration before sliding in deeper. The fear for how you’d even take something larger than a finger was overshadowed by the growing pleasure that simmered in your core, made only worse with every glance you were able to spare to the autobot’s face.

His eyes were trained on you. Sharp orbs of winter-blue, curious and gentle, sought out any little reaction he could to understand how he was making you feel beneath him. He looked nearly awed by every little twitch, every moan, every plea that fell from your lips as he began to thrust that single, thick digit inside your body.

But it wasn’t enough.

You came close to climax a time or two, hovering just over the edge as you tried to figure out if your lover was doing it on purpose or not. Either way, your words found their mark when all you could sputter out was,

“Fuck me!” it was somewhere between a sob and a command. “Please, fuck me--put your sparkling in me, make me yours I need you Optimus--Ineedyouplease-”

The thrusting paused for a breath’s worth of time. You could almost feel him debating on asking a question, but felt it all the same when that question flickered from Optimus’ thoughts and he, finally, withdrew his hand from between your legs. The emptiness was aggravating. Your body was caught between carnal need and conscious thought, wanting nothing more than to be taken and smothered and loved all over.

So when you opened your eyes to meet Optimus’ gaze again, it was hot bliss to see him staring back at you. His face looked filled with the same kind of need that yours must have been--and with once glance downward, you could see exactly what he was, more or less literally, equipped with.

Fuck.

He must have saw your gaze, your shy expression, your body expression or something because Optimus suddenly took on, if only for a moment, that same awkward not-really-blushing look over his eyes and carefully pressed himself against your body. You could feel his heat, his strength, but you could most certainly feel the thick, pulsating warmth of his cock against your cunt. It practically hummed against your heat, leaving you eager and wanting all the same despite the size itself.

“I won’t do anything to hurt you,” Optimus murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Do you still….?”

It barely took a second for you to come up with an answer; here he was, body over you and making you feel so delightfully small and powerless, a literal alien lover who was more than what you could have asked for with a cock ready to fuck you into next week and looked worried about hurting you?

“ Yes. ”

It wasn’t even a question that needed an answer to, yet you gave it anyways.

“Yes, yes yes yes oh please yes-”

You gave the answer with a breathless need, as if the world around you was going to crumble if Optimus didn’t fuck you now.

There was a single moment of silence, a moment that worried you immensely, that perhaps it wasn’t the right time, that he was having second thoughts, that maybe there was something wrong or-

And that's when you felt him shift, cock moving until the tip pressed to your entrance and he pressed himself inside of you. The motion wasn’t hard or forceful, but by god did you feel every little twitch.

You felt one of Optimus’ hands reach up to cup the side of your face against his massive, warm palm. It was a wordless comfort, one that you took greedily and nuzzled into--it kept you grounded as he slid deeper and deeper within your body, carefully opening you up inch by mind-numbing inch.

You’re not sure how long it took before he was settled within you, all you could focus on was the soft murmurings of comfort and encouragement from the bot above you, all the while feeling his hand against your cheek.

After a moment, you collect your thoughts and slowly nod your head, the answer to the unspoken question you knew was biting at his lips.

That’s all the answer that your lover needed.

Despite the immense difference of size between the two of you, Optimus was surprisingly precise with his movement. His thrusts were hard and quick, but not enough to hurt you. His hands were strong, but they didn’t grip hard enough that you feared for bruises. It was just heat and pleasure, all whirling around one another and clamoring over your thoughts as you tried to make sense of it all. You could feel him moving against you, feel the heat from his body, the piercing attention of his eyes.

The sound of his low, firm voice.

“You want me to sire a sparkling inside of you?”

It was less a question and more of a statement--one that you weren’t about to argue. Instead, the sound only made you moan louder, his name somewhere inside of it as he continued to press inside of you.

“You would--” Optimus’ voice sounded so delightfully strained, trying to keep himself composed enough to speak even while he was at the edge of pleasure-induced insanity. “-You would make such a beautiful carrier. Such a beautiful sparkling--I want--”

Your legs tightened around his waist as he quickened the pace, ramming hard and fast against your body. You could feel his cock rub against every good spot inside you, eager wetness leading down your inner thighs. There was a slick, wet noise every time Optimus moved--it only made the air feel hotter, your hands reaching for anything that you could grasp to keep you anchored down.

All the while, your lover continued to growl and purr sweet nothings into your ear.

“Do you like the way my spike feels inside of you? You’re so small and tight, you’ll look so beautiful and round when you carry our sparkling--I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

It was a wonder to hear the words coming from the leader of the autobots mouth, but it was a delight that you knew would be yours alone--a pleasure that nobody else had the right or the relationship to see from him. It only beckoned you further, closer to the edge, seeking out the pleasure that Optimus was so keen to give to you.

“Optimus,” you all but keened in delight. “I’m so close--socloseplease-”

You felt him rumble against you, the noise coming deep from his chest as he shifted to hold you close. His body was pressed to yours, just enough so that you felt smothered and small and beloved in more ways than one, his cock--spike--all the while hitting that glorious spot deep in your cunt that made you see stars in the back of your closed eyes.

You didn’t last more than a few seconds longer before you came, climax crashing into your thoughts like a red-hot wave. It poured through your limbs and swirled in your belly as you let out cry after fervent cry of joyful love and abandonment.

It was only a few moments after that you felt Optimus following behind, your body filling with warmth much differently than what his cock had felt like. You could feel him throb inside of you, hot and thick and perfect in more ways than you would have ever bothered to count.

You could distinctly feel yourself dripping with liquid, too much to take, and it dripped messily down your thighs from where you and Optimus were still joined.

All the while, every inch of existence felt like pleasure.

He held you until every ounce of climatic euphoria was gone, fucking you through it until both of you were exhausted and boneless and an absolute mess of body fluids.

When you finally had the mind to reach a hand down to press at your lower stomach, you did distinctly feel warmth, an extra curve to your stomach that hadn’t quite been there before.

“So,” you say at last, letting Optimus gently shift, turning your bodies so you could lay ontop of him. “If we’re trying for a sparkling now, I think that means we’ll be doing this a lot more often.”

And despite it being certainly impossible, you swore that you could see the autobot leader blush.

#readerinsert #nsfw #nsfw readerinsert #optimus prime readerinsert #transformers #optimus prime #dfab reader #commission #fandom commission

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darthwritings · 6 years

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Headcanons (FNAF)

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy’s

Characters: Toy Bonnie, Toy Freddy, Mangle + Golden Freddy

Request: Headcanons for how the character prefers to have sex and some of their personal kinks.

Note: These characters are written a bit loose with the series’ lore. They are, for intents and purposes of the content of the writing, simply haunted (or nearly haunted) animatronics (and hell if I’m following the lore at this point, but). If you wanna imagine otherwise, I ain’t gonna stop you.

If the content of this writing doesn’t jive with you, then heed the warnings and skip this one friendos.

Commission Information | General Writing FAQ | My Patreon | Donate

Toy Bonnie

In everything, Toy Bonnie is particularly enthusiastic. Birthday parties, conversations, down time with his friends--absolutely everything gets the same level of enthusiasm and energy, and sex of course is no exception to this at all. It’s the finer things in life, after all, and they all require that sort of attention and energy so that they’re done right.

In sex, Toy Bonnie is extremely playful and even moreso light-hearted. He likes to tease and loves to poke-fun at things, largely attributing to the fact that life (and sex) should be fun! No reason to feel stressed or nervous about an activity that should be fun, after all. This is especially true for a partner who is nervous or unsure of themselves in some way or form--Toy Bonnie would settle himself into whatever sort of spot or lover that they need the most.

He’s not entirely a top, but not entirely a bottom. Toy Bonnie is, in the shortest way to describe him, a switch. This is partially due to his light-hearted and energetic take on sex itself, but also because he simply doesn’t like to be static in something. He is just as happy to top his partner into the damn floor as he is to have the positions switched, to be at the mercy of his lover’s whims and wishes. It’s quite exciting, actually, and he always looks at a new venture or experience as something to be happy for in itself.

Due to Toy Bonnie’s lack of focus (along with a defined lack of spirit haunting his form) he isn’t inherently equipped for sexual activity. It’s certainly nothing a little creativity (and perhaps someone knowledged with mechanics) certainly can’t solve. Wireplay is an interesting, if albeit nerve-wracking kink that he would be very into with his partner, though Toy Bonnie would feel a little bad if he wasn’t assured that they were able to get off from it all the same--sex toys are certainly greenlit though, though the question comes down to the best way to get a dildo on him.

Toy Freddy

As a Toy (the capital T is quite important), Toy Freddy is quite a capable fellow. He’s the leader of his little merry band of animatronics, and that sense of leadership and control carries over to a lot of other things that he does outside of entertainment. He is a top 99% of the time, always wanting control in how things go between himself and his partner. He likes to feel bigger than them, stronger than them, in complete control of things as best as he can--whether it’s from his programming or not, he’s not entirely sure.

Can protection be a kink? If so, Toy Freddy certainly has it, almost getting off on the feeling of protecting and smothering his partner in attention in almost any sexual encounter. This isn’t all that difficult, given what he’s equipped to do as an animatronic, so it’s certainly something that his partner should be ready to handle with very often--that said, Toy Freddy is incredibly gentle, almost overly so, unless his partner takes a lot of time to convince him otherwise. He doesn’t enjoy the pain of others, so he makes very much for a gentle dom, enjoying more the emotional control over another than anything harsh or kinky, inherently.

That said, Toy Freddy is very, very curious about sex toys as a whole. The Toy animatronics don’t really have any way to create any sort of genitalia without physical assistance in some way or another (as they aren’t haunted by a spirit or have powers of their own); Toy Freddy, in this case, is more fond of experimenting with toys themselves--it’s somewhat connected to his love for control, to be able to drink up the response of his partner through the different toys that the two of them try out together. Vibrators, dildos, anything goes really--his curiosity is almost as strong as his love of power and control over the situation.

Mangle

It’s generally easy to understand Mangle’s wants and thoughts, despite not having any clear way to actually communicate. They are very open with their emotions, so to speak, and a lot can be understood by their body language and ample sensation of their, well, emotions so to speak. That’s not to say that Mangle is by any means telepathic, but there is a certain level of….understanding that can be done from their non-verbal cues and such alone. You wouldn’t ever call it a mental or emotional bond (at least not outwardly) but there’s a defined lack of word that would properly describe it.

All of that said, there’s never a particular sense of rhyme or reason for Mangle’s distinct tastes or interests in intimacy. Though there’s a certain level of trust that Mangle would never do anything to harm their partner, there’s certainly a level of enigma that’s behind their process of want and thought. Most of the time, Mangle’s partner only understands what Mangle wants in the moment that Mangle wants to do it, and they can be rather flighty when the same level of surprise is sprung onto them--truly an enigma, but not a cold or distant one at the very least.

If one could point out any sort of ‘kink’ that Mangle has, the closest that one might be able to discern would be a love for intimacy? Praise? It’s hard to tell, but a lot of things are a bit hard to tell when one’s partner is a half-broken animatronic with no seeming ability to speak coherently. The best that one can do is to be observant, to see the moments where Mangle is the most responsive, the most energetic--it often seems to come from genuine moments of intimacy with them, though you’re still without any solid evidence exactly what the animatronic is particularly into.

Golden Freddy

There are a lot of things that you could call Golden Freddy, but a traditional lover is certainly not one of them. Equal parts spirit and animatronic, It’s a wonder that you didn’t chalk him up to a terrifying presence that seemed to cling to the suit, unable to communicate or feel beyond the thick, choking desire for vengeance that seemed to claim his purpose. That said, despite assumptions, Golden Freddy is just as much conscious and just as much coherent as his brethren--he simply lacks a working physical form that they have. As one may think, it makes for a rather challenging, albeit interesting relationship.

In short, Golden Freddy’s spirit isn’t difficult to sense or interact with--if he has the focus and the energy to do so, he can conjure up a rather solid, albeit slightly transparent physical form. His appearance always seems to shift--a young adult male with indiscernible features, a shadow creature with glowing, pinprick eyes, and sometimes even an attempt at Golden Freddy (the animatronic) itself. There’s very little rhyme or reason to the form--it is all dependent on his focus and energy at the time, which always seems to be in short supply.

Due to this, Golden Freddy is often at best a voyeuristic lover, seeing as almost 75% of the time he’s clinging to a body that literally can’t move. He enjoys watching his partner please themselves, likes being able to see just how well his mere presence and almost mesmerizing voice in their ears can send them over the edge. When he’s able to procure a physical form in one way or another, Golden Freddy certainly takes a more active hand in things, often choosing to make the most of the rare moment, sentimental and nearly smothering in his affection to his partner, if only to make up for the time he’s otherwise not able to do so.

#nsfw #commission #headcanon commission #fnaf #fnaf headcanon #golden freddy #mangle #toy bonnie #toy freddy

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darthwritings · 6 years

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Headcanons (FNAF)

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy’s

Characters: Springtrap, Puppet, Withered Bonnie, Funtime Freddy

Commission Request: Headcanons for how the character prefers to have sex and some of their personal kinks.

Note: These characters are written a bit loose with the series’ lore. The characters featured are, for intents and purposes of the content of the writing, simply haunted animatronics (and hell if I’m following the lore at this point, but). If you wanna imagine otherwise though, I ain’t gonna stop you.

If the content of this writing doesn’t jive with you, then heed the warnings and skip this one friendos.

Commission Information | General Writing FAQ | My Patreon | Donate

Springtrap

Like several other of the animatronics, Springtrap is quite fond of the chase. It’s unknown if it’s connected to his past life or not, but he loves the experience of chasing and catching his partner before much of anything else--as he likes to put it, “It makes me feel alive again.” You’ve never gotten much more information than that.

Nine times out of ten, Springtrap is almost always dominant with his partner--and he prefers it that way. He likes to tower over them and see the submission in their eyes, feel how they let him manhandle them around however he likes--it’s as much a kink as a disposition, really, knowing plenty well that he’s far more physically capable than they are.

Despite it all, he’s extremely particular about letting his partner poke around his internal workings--as a springlock suit, there’s a certain amount of danger that comes with simply existing as he is, largely for anyone around him. Despite being in ‘animatronic mode’, there is still a level of danger that comes with the minor maintenance his partner would need to assist him with and, sometimes during sex, the worry is certainly there--a pinched finger is the least of the possible injuries, and it may be why he’s so explicit about being the one in control of any given sexual situation; Springtrap knows his body best, knows the points and the places that are the most dangerous for his partner to be and avoids them at all costs.

Being a haunted animatronic does come with some perks, but the ability to have sex was certainly not one of the design features. That along with the fact that he may or may not have once had his old dead body in his….well, animatronic body, it adds up to his literal, physical form not being all that suited to sex, at least not on its own. Even with his animatronic form being thoroughly disinfected and cleaned, most sex is done with some less-than-paranormal means. Fingering and dry-humping are usually the go-to methods of getting his partner off, with the latter being especially pleasant to watch--it’s a wonder to see how much his partner gets off on the sound of his deep, gravely, disembodied voice.

Sometimes, just sometimes though, there has been moments where, in the heat of the moment, you have been distinctly fucked by a shape that you know that Springtrap doesn’t possess. You certainly don’t have the mind to ask in the moment (you’re often more concerned about getting fucked over a desk or some other bit of furniture), and you don’t have the will to ask him about it afterwards either. The shape is always slightly cold, firm and shapeless at the same time--you wonder if he has some level of paranormal power that even he isn't’ aware of.

Puppet (Marionette)

It’s so, so very easy to underestimate how intelligent the Marionette is--he rarely speaks, and even then it’s often in bits and pieces of riddles that you can only scarcely understand. Nevertheless, to underestimate his ability to understand is a problem all of its own--one that has nearly killed any unwitting night guard who thinks they had the bravery (forced or otherwise) to keep up with the chaos of the Freddy’s restaurant franchise. This plays as much into his day-to-day behavior as it does with intimacy--underestimating him never leads to anything good.

For the most part, Puppet (it’s the closest thing he’s accepted as a name for himself) is very protective and extremely clingy to his partner. He likes to hold them tight, limbs wrapped around theirs and pinprick eyes carefully watching them through the night (he has no need for sleep, after all). It’s uncertain how much touch that Puppet can feel himself, but it’s obvious enough that he enjoys almost overwhelming his partner with the physical sensation than anything else.

Puppet isn’t all that equipped, metaphorically or otherwise, for traditional, penetrative sex. It certainly doesn’t stop him from pleasuring his partner in a variety of other ways, most of them based on his intrigue for touch, caresses, binding and thensome--but there are times where he does take a bit of a back seat to the fun; voyeurism is one of Puppet’s most peculiar enjoyments, especially when he’s so hell-bent otherwise on holding his partner close.

Perhaps there’s something he gets by watching them, eyes mere pinpricks of lights from the shadows. Perhaps there’s some thin heat of pleasure he’s able to get, or a satisfaction in seeing them, watching them, knowing that they’re fully aware that he’s just somewhere in the shadows and allowing them to bring themselves to climax over and over again. Sometimes even, on particularly good nights, they’re treated to the sound of his soft, lilting voice gently pushing them over the edge, something between praise and gentle shame; they are oh-so-sweet when their face is flushed and hot, after all.

Withered Bonnie

For the most part, Bonnie is far more submissive an animatronic than what he used to be. Being broken and mangled has done plenty for his self-esteem, and moreso for his worry to his partner’s safety. Exposed wires and hell, his face is half-gone, that would be enough to sway anyone into fear than joy when seeing him. Despite it all, he is the fondest of the most intimate parts of love--holding his partner close as best he can without hurting them.

Ironic as it may be, the most common ways that he is able to be intimate with a partner is typically dry-humping or, depending on how much he trusts them, mild electric-play. Though he does have some wires loose and some mechanics worse for wear, he’s still able to control his animatronic body to a degree of detail that he can fine-tune the little sparks that crackle gently over his lover’s skin.

Sometimes, just sometimes, in between heated moans and mindless thoughts seeking pleasure than anything else, you’ll find yourself manhandled gently over Bonnie’s not-quite-existing face. Lowered into the broken hollow where a mouth should be, you’ve been surprised--no, absolutely mindblown--to feel something cool and wet and wriggling against your sex. It’s not something real, but it presses against your thoughts and nerves all the same, bringing you from one climax to another--it’s certainly not something you’ve had the care to ask Bonnie about either; you’re not even sure if he knows all that much about it himself.

Funtime Freddy

Compared to many others, Funtime Freddy (though he prefers Fred or Freddy) is perhaps one of the most talkative ones with his partner. It’s not inherently a kink for dirty talk per se, but he simply likes the way that his partner reacts to the sound of his exuberant voice. The way they wiggle, the way they shiver--it’s all such a delight!

Though it’s probably more due to his larger physical size and overpowering energy, Freddy is quite dominant, if only a gentle one. He gets the most satisfaction from making his partner feel good, oftentimes bringing them to the edge with the sound of his voice and his careful fingers alone, watching them softly all the while with sweet praises in a barely-contained whisper.

Puppet Bonnie is usually present in some way or another--it can easily feel layers of awkward at first, but it becomes a kink all its own. Voyeurism? Exhibitionism? Who knows, but it’s certainly pleasing to hear the sweet praise and sweeter encouragement that Freddy and Bon-Bon talk about between one another. There’s just something about hearing the big lovable animatronic bear say how pretty your moans are or how adorably you move when you’re close to climax.

#nsfw #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #springtrap #the marionette #the puppet #withered bonnie #bonnie #funtime freddy #fnaf headcanon #nsfw headcanon #commmission #writing commissoin #Headcanon

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