#This felt so good to write
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These Arms of Mine
A/N: After Taron's lovely Instagram stories this afternoon, I was whacked over the head with the inspiration bat and I couldn't be more grateful. After messaging @brayndilyn I knew what I had to do. And almost three hours and 2,000 words later I give you domestic Taron vibes.
Word Count: 1,744
Warnings: Fluff, alcohol consumption, explicit language (mild)
As you made your way up the short cobbled path that led from the main road to your front door, you could hear the soft thumping of Motown music playing from inside. You knew in an instant that it meant your husband was dancing around the kitchen; his speciality. The thought alone brought a smile to your face and washed away the sour mood you’d gained from working. It didn’t, unfortunately, wash away the pain that burned into the bottom of your feet and up your calves. No amount of Motown or your dancing husband could ever wash that away.
It had been an insanely long, tedious day at work and all you wanted to do was climb onto the sofa with a fluffy blanket and a glass of wine to watch an episode of Gilmore Girls with Taron. That or to climb into bed and sleep until the weekend when you had plans to go out with friends. Either one would be ideal.
The front door felt heavy as you pushed it open and you slumped into the hallway, letting it close abruptly behind you. You quickly tossed your keys into the bowl by the door where Taron’s were, shrugged your coat from your shoulders and dropped it to the floor with your bag. Holding onto the wall with one hand to balance yourself, you lifted your feet one at a time and removed the heels that had been causing intense pain, rubbing the balls of your feet momentarily in hopes of gaining some relief.
Just as you had assumed, Motown played from the kitchen and you could hear your husband singing along gently to the song playing. The house smelled of fried onions and your mouth watered instantly at the scent. After slipping on your slippers that Taron had left near the door for you, you trudged through the downstairs of the house until you reached the kitchen, standing in the doorway and watching Taron.
He hadn’t heard you come in over the music and you loved that it gave you the chance to watch him for a few seconds; dancing around the large kitchen with a glass of wine in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Underneath the black apron that you’d bought him the previous Christmas, he wore a grey t-shirt underneath a nude coloured overshirt, a pair of comfy slacks on the bottom half. His feet donned the matching pair to your slippers and he had no socks on; an indication that he hadn’t left the house that day.
‘And I'll spend my life making love to you.’ he sang quietly, spinning around on the balls of his feet and coming to a halt when he saw you in the doorway, a playful smile on his face. ‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘Long enough,’ you smiled, walking over to him and planting a kiss on his lips. ‘I’m going to hold you to that, by the way.’
‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘Something smells good,’ you commented, peering over his shoulder to the stove where he had multiple pans on the go at once. ‘What are you cooking? I’ll help.’
‘Red onion risotto with a white wine sauce and mushrooms.’ He kissed you again and walked over to the cabinet so that he could grab you a wine glass, passing it to you with the bottle of open white wine so that you could pour yourself a glass.
‘That sounds heavenly. What can I do to help?’
‘No babe, you just pour yourself some wine and get off your feet. It’s not going to be long.’
You didn’t need to be told twice. After pouring yourself a large glass of wine you lifted yourself onto one of the bar stools at the small breakfast island, pressing your feet onto the cold metal bar and relieving some of the pain.
‘I see you’ve already had a glass,’ you smirked, tilting your head to the glass that he had in his hand. ‘Had to pour myself a large one just to keep up.’
He chuckled to himself, taking a quick sip and watching you let the first drop fall onto your tongue. ‘You see, I had to make sure that it was good enough for the sauce, didn’t I? Can’t exactly give my wife mediocre sauce. That’s grounds for divorce.’
‘Thankfully for you I’m far too tired to file for divorce. So you’re stuck with me for a little longer yet.’
‘Damn it.’ You scoffed playfully at him as he laughed boisterously. ‘I couldn’t be stuck with you even if we were in a one square foot room for an entire year. How’s your day been?’
Your eyes rolled on their own accord and you sighed loudly, letting the stresses of the day leave your body. A new song started to play and Taron turned back to the stove. Though you knew he was still listening as he’d stopped dancing and wasn’t singing along.
‘Karen-’
‘Nothing good can come from you saying her name at the very beginning of your story. What’s she done today, babe?’ He turned to you with a sympathetic smile, taking another sip of his wine and stepping towards you.
‘She had me running from floor to floor trying to find one singular piece of paperwork which wouldn’t have been so bad because it meant I was wasting time but the lift doesn’t work between floors five and eight and those were the floors I needed to get to. I feel like I’ve been on the stairmaster for twelve hours straight. My feet are bloody killing me.’
Taron sighed sadly, offering you an apology with a single look.
‘No matter what myself and Dawn from accounting were telling her, she just wouldn’t accept that Dawn didn’t get it. Turns out she hadn’t even sent it. So for over an hour I’d been running around like a headless chicken for no reason. Up and down three flights of stairs countless times to the point where I actually had to take a break at one point. I just sat on the stairs for five minutes and rubbed my feet.’
It felt good to get your frustrations out. There was no pressure. Taron continued to cook and make sure that your food wasn’t burning, the music continued to fill the room and you were able to relax and finally feel like you were able to stop for a minute. ‘Oh and then to make matters so much worse, Josh and Caroline are incompetent arseholes and I’m going to get ‘mug’ tattooed on my forehead.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because no matter what happens or how many times I tell them what I need doing and when, I’m still rallying around at the last minute to get stuff done. I needed the files from last year organising for the meeting I had this afternoon and did either of them do it? No, they organised them in the completely wrong order and I spent a solid fifteen minutes before the meeting in a panic with every single file on the floor in the corridor going over them and putting them in the order they needed to be in. What’s that thing where someone does something bad on purpose so that they don’t have to do it again? Incompetent something or other.’
‘Weaponised incompetence?’
‘That one! That’s what they were doing today. So yeah, Karen was just her usual bitchy self and I’m a mug. How was your day?’
Taron turned away from the food and took a deep breath. ‘A lot less interesting than yours. I spent most of it tidying your office for you so you didn’t have to do it before the weekend. I know you stress over it being messy. But you aren’t a mug. The company and people treat you like one but you aren’t. You’re just so good at your job that they think they can get away with it. You need to start putting your foot down.’
‘I know,’ you sighed, tilting your glass enough that you could finish what wine was left in it. ‘God that is good wine. Fancy another?’
Silently, Taron passed you his glass and moved to change the song, wanting something a little different. These Arms of Mine by Otis Redding started to play gently through the speaker and Taron turned to you with a sweet smile. He grabbed his wine glass from the table and held out his hand for you to take, carefully helping you down from the stool and to the middle of the kitchen floor.
He held his empty arm around your waist and pulled you into his front, swaying you to the music with his eyes trained on yours. He watched you intently as you danced slowly around the kitchen, a smile of adoration on your face at all times.
‘These arms of mine, they are burning / burning from wanting you,’ he sang delicately, taking a small sip of his wine before leaning down to rest his forehead on yours. ‘These arms of mine, they are wanting / wanting to hold you.’
Your feet moved slowly around his, following his every step as he guided you around the kitchen, singing to you in a low voice, eyes on yours and heart beating rapidly against your chest. Every single day you were reminded as to why you fell in love with him, and every single day you couldn’t believe that he loved you back.
‘What did I ever do to get so lucky?’ You whispered, mostly to yourself. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too. I love you so much that if you weren’t already my wife, I’d get down on one knee and ask you to marry me again and again and again. Day after day. Until the end of time.’
You smiled, moving forward to press your lips to his in a tender kiss, blindly reaching behind him to put your glass of wine on the counter so that you could hold his face to yours. ‘And I’d say yes again and again. Day after day. Until the end of time.’
‘And I, I, I need you, I need your tender lips, to hold me / together when I’m right with you.’ He kissed you again, slowly and with purpose, putting his glass with yours so that he could hold you properly. ‘These arms of mine were made to hold you.’
#taron egerton#taron egerton imagine#taron egerton imagines#taron egerton sex#taron egerton blurbs#taron egerton fanfiction#taron egerton writing#my writing#this felt so good to write#I've missed writing#and I may be falling back into it again#I hope so#thank you Taron for cooking tonight#I appreciate it
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things that have changed my life this year:
- got this tumblr account. i’ve had tumblr for years, but this account has been a life changer. i have finally gotten the courage to openly be insane about the things i enjoy. and i have mutuals and friends and followers who care. (and if they don’t care, they see, and that’s enough for me lol)
- @4listr and @youretoomuchweretiger. they are my best friends in the world. i can’t believe we’ve been friends for only a year (almost). i feel like we’ve grown up together, i feel like we’ll continue to grow together. you mean the world to me and i cannot imagine entering another year without you. thank you so much for caring about me, for being the most amazing friends i could’ve wished for. please know that i will always love you.
- started college !! i can’t believe im already done with a semester. i enjoy it so much and im so happy to have this opportunity. it’s something i didn’t think i’d be doing, but it’s a delight.
- @krispyykrab i just want to give you an honorable mention. i’ve only known you for a short while, but in that time, you’ve made yourself a home inside my heart. i hope we stay friends for a long time more :)
- bungo stray dogs. it’s a story that i’ll never forget, characters that will forever be important to me, and a piece of media that has had a huge impact on me.
- will wood. i cannot begin to express the impact this enigma has had on me. his music, his personage, everything. he is so fascinating and talented, and it’s a damn shame i’ve only just now begun to see that. as he’ll be ditching us soon. but all the same, it’s incredible to see how he’s grown as a person and an artist. i’m talking about him like i know him and it isn’t like he’s going to be reading this, but what im trying to say is: he is so important and has altered my brain chemistry. i haven’t been so down bad for something and someone.
- i have gained more courage this year than i have in my entire life. it still isn’t much, but it’s a start, and that’s good enough for me.
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CREW || first episode of appearance ⇉ season 2 episode 8
#ofmd#ofmd s2#our flag means death#ofmdedit#ofmdsource#ofmd gifs#ida.stuff#sorry ivan but i only included everyone who appeared in s2e8#i've had this on my to do list for sooooo long#and now felt like a good time#can't make myself write “last episode” though#i love them all so much
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inspired by and as a direct follow up to this post by @strangersteddierthings:
Eddie is horrified. He remembers the day Steve is referring to, though clearly not as well as Steve does. He calls out as Steve raced up the stairs and hears his door slam.
“Fuck.” He stares blankly at the wall in front of him. He can’t believe things went so bad so quickly. He’s been trying to get to know Steve better, get closer and damn if he didn’t just blow the hole thing. He’d shown up early, told Steve he needed to prepare as an excuse to spend some time with him. Despite everything that happened over spring break, Steve had remained guarded, standoffish no matter what Eddie tried. At least now he knew why. He’d fucked things up before he’d known there was something to fuck up.
He feels even worse about calling him a bully. Sure, Steve had looked the other way and even laughed at some of the mean jokes others had made, but he was far from the worst. That dubious award went to Billy Hargrove, but even without him, there was plenty of people who did far worse than Steve did.
Especially because Steve is right. He did hit first, metaphorically at least. He can justify it all he wants as trying to protect himself, but that doesn’t make it right. Steve all but admitted that as he said the same thing.
He feels nauseous at the realization that maybe he was just as bad as those he decried. That for all his talk about accepting outcasts and defying convention, he was just as prejudiced.
Swallowing hard, he heads back to the dining room and looks at the clock. There is no way he is going to be able to run the campaign today. He’s not going to be able to focus or even play without thinking about how things might have been if he hadn’t driven Steve off all those years ago. He grabs the phone and dials Gareth’s number.
“Emerson house, Sheryl speaking.”
“Hi Mrs. Emerson, it’s Eddie.” Eddie is proud that he manages to keep his voice even. “Is Gareth there?”
“Oh, yes! Let me go get him for you.”
“Thanks Mrs. Emerson.” Eddie focuses on breathing while he waits.
“Eddie? Hey man, what’s up?”
Eddie breathes out. “Hey Gareth. Look, I know its last minute, but we’re gonna have to postpone Hellfire. Something came up.”
He could hear Gareth’s frown through the phone. “Postpone? What happened, did Harrington do something?”
As if he couldn’t feel worse. “Nah. I’ll explain later, but can you call Jeff and Frank, let them know? I gotta call the freshman, too.”
“Alright, but I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Fair enough. Talk to you tomorrow.” Eddie promises before hanging up. He weighs his options for how to tell the Party. Eventually, he decides on calling Mike, know that the younger teen won’t push too much. He’s dialing the Wheeler home before he can second guess his decision.
“This is Mike.”
Eddie feels a rush of gratitude that Mike is the one who answered, rather than Nancy or one of their parents. “Hey Mike, it’s Eddie. Listen, Steve’s not feeling great and having Hellfire here isn’t going to help. Can you call the rest of the Party, let them know we’re gonna move it to another day? I’ll keep an eye on Steve.”
Eddie knows Mike is a confused, given how adamant he’s been in the past about not canceling or moving Hellfire, but as he expected, Mike accepts what he says at face value. “Sure. Need us to bring anything?”
“Nah, I’ve got it. Pretty sure he just needs some peace and quiet so he can rest. But thanks.”
They say their goodbyes and Eddie puts the phone back on the hook. With that done, he checks that the door is locked and faces the stairs. Now for the hard part. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, if there is anything he can say that will fix this, but he has to try. Even if doesn’t change things between him and Steve, Steve deserves at least that much. Every step feels like it takes effort, chest heavy with guilt, but it only takes him a few moments to get to Steve’s door.
It’s closed, which doesn’t surprise him. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before knocking. Nothing.
“Steve?” If it wasn’t for the quiet sound of Steve’s breathing he could hear through the door, Eddie would think he had left. He glad that he at least didn’t drive Steve out of his own home. He rests his forehead on the door.
“I’m sorry.” Eddie hopes Steve can hear how much he means it. “You’re right, I fucked up. I made an assumption and took out my anger at other people on you. And that wasn’t fair and it’s not okay. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Even if it wasn’t you, I shouldn’t have done that.” He lets out a hysterical laugh as he realizes - “And despite that, you still humor the kids when they talk about D&D and agreed to let us play here and didn’t punch me in the face, which makes you a better man than I.”
He falls silent, listens as Steve’s breathing slows. He isn’t sure how long he stands there. He wonders how many other people he hurt this way, without even realizing. Knows he wants to do better, be better.
He sighs, feeling his shoulders slump. “Anyway, I canceled Hellfire for today. I told everyone something came up, don’t worry about that. I’ll make up some story, make sure they know its not your fault. And uh, let me know if you want to hang out again or something. I know I’ve been around a lot; didn’t realize that I was making you so uncomfortable, which is probably another thing I should apologize for. Anyway. Yeah. I’ll see you around, okay?”
He waits a moment for an answer, but when none comes, he backs away from the door and walks downstairs to gather his stuff. It hurts, but he knows Steve deserves space and to be the one to initiate contact. He has some thinking to do, anyway.
#steddie#my writing#fic#legit read that fic like 6 times in a row and had to write a follow up#have a handful of extra pieces as well#or thoughts anyway#like steve telling eddie about christopher#and eddie helping steve make a character and play in the future#after lots of talking and eventually getting together#his character is a dwarf paladin named after christopher#i haven't written in forever this felt so good#barely proofread so apologies for any mistakes
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Virgin-killer Sweater ft Zhongli + fem!reader
cw/tags: Riding, fingering, handjob, tit play, dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, inappropriate use (or is it?) of the virgin killer sweater//jk
notes: Hi hello I hope this breaks my dry spell happy 2024 I didn't expect to write this at all but @ainescribe (<3) tested my horny braincell by giving me this prompt and wHEW it got good
You blinked in surprise at the item that dropped out of the small plastic bag onto the bed as you were organizing the closet. Thick light blue wool greeting your eyes as you picked it and stared at it confused until it clicked. It was some stupid thing a friend had prank gifted you some years ago, you were surprised to find it bundled up in a corner after all these years a so-called ‘virgin-killer sweater’. It used to be all the rage, but you swore you could never wear something so… revealing, at all.
Yet you kept it.
You bite your lip and sneak a glance at the mirror.
You’re older now, your body a bit more… ahem… shapely. And enjoyed indulging in some sexy clothing once in a while, if only for the confidence boost and the look on your dear husband’s face.
Hm, what would he think of this? Your cheeks warm up a little, it’s so silly.
With a slow hum you stand up and shrug off your current lounge shirt, unclasping your bra and kicking off your shorts before sliding the wooly article over your head, shivering at how it feels over your bare skin. The material is thick and warm, soft yet admittedly a little ticklish.
“There is no way this is meant to be worn with nothing under…” You mumble blushing a little as you struggle to adjust it. The openings at the sides are impossibly deep and no matter how much you tug and pull at the bottom it either dips way too low on your lower back or reaches too high on your thighs.
Maybe it’s a little… short on you?
You stare at the mirror from different angles and twirl around, it’s fuzzy at the neck and front the front it looks kind of cute but everything is else is… well…
You huff a little embarrassed. Well, you suppose it could be nice if matched with another top, using it like a vest or something… maybe with a backless top or lace just so some of the skin still showed thro-
The sound of the apartment opening caught you attention and immediately made you heart speed up.
“Darling, I’m home.”
Oh, no!
No no no no no no-
“J-Just a moment!” You scramble for your clothes while trying to take off the atrocious garment when you slip over some other clothes and items scattered around in your cleaning spree.
The loud thump and your following yelp coming from the room was surely enough to gather even the neighbor’s attention.
You hear quick footsteps and then Zhongli appears at the bedroom’s door, eyes wide in worry before stopping dead in his tracks.
Squealing you struggle between sitting up and trying to cover your crotch and your butt with the offending piece of clothing.
“T-This is not-! Wait! D-Don’t look!”
A flush spreads over your face as you try to curl up into a ball in embarrassment. Zhongli’s golden eyes study you for a few tense moments before he quickly reacts, coming to help you up.
“Are you hurt?”
“N-No, I’m fine…”
He regards your outfit with fascination and you shrink under the intense gaze. Zhongli is observant, he doesn’t merely stare, he evaluates… appraises things with those mesmerizing golden eyes.
“What is that?”
“A sweater… sort of.” You mumble, still uncomfortably pulling at the hem and the bottom and feeling it dip lower than intended at your butt, again.
“It’s very unique.”
“it’s stupid.” You puff out mortified, picking up your shorts from the corner of the bed.
“Wait-” Zhongli’s hand stops yours and you feel goosebumps rise along your naked shoulders. “Let me see you, please…”
You gulp and feel your heart thump in your ears, buzzing with some sort of giddy nervous excitement.
You’re being ridiculous, it’s not like he hasn't seen you in less… or nothing at all.
You push the thought away standing back a few steps, the deep cuts down the sides granting him a glorious peek of sideboob. You nervously fidget with the hems.
“I-I think it’s a little sma-”
“Let me see the back...”
Oh. That deep tender sound. It was not a demand but a plea, a hint of sensual hunger under the calm stillness of his voice, soft and humming like he does when he holds you close.
You turn and brush your hair out of the way, straightening up as you had in front of the mirror, showing off the low low cut at the back, the hem of your panties peeking through.
“it’s…” You start.
“Tantalizing…” He hums.
You can see his Adam’s apple bob and his eyes darken just so, and your lips part with a soft sound.
“You look gorgeous, my dear.”
Your skin breaks into goosebumps again. “I-It’s embarrassing.” You insist, yet any other complaint dies in your lips with a squeak as Zhongli’s palms runs over your exposed shoulder blades, large and warm, and you feel his breath on your ear, a soft sigh.
You whine when he drags his knuckles along your spine, savoring the dip and arch of your back, caressing the tender skin, tracing the edges of the fabric along the swell of your butt and dipping lower to fondle it.
“Zhongli…” You whimper breathlessly.
“Shh… I got you.” Zhongli soothes you with a low croon, nuzzling into the slope between your covered neck and onto your shoulder. The skin there is hot and he nibbles at it gently. “I could just eat you up.”
“You could…” You mumble, the anticipation boils between your legs.
“I think I might.” He replies low, words heated at the shell of your ear before he nips there too, his hands sliding back up the smooth skin of your naked back, fingers teasing at the edges of your breasts before slipping under the knitted garment and cupping them. You gasp.
Your nipples are already hard, little peaks against the wool, so sensitive as they rub the soft material while Zhongli massages and plays with your chest. “Hnnng… ah!” slender fingers take one of the little buds between them, pinching and tweaking just enough that your back arches and your mouth opens in a silent moan.
“So, so beautiful…” He kisses the top of your spine, teasing there with his teeth.
“S-Stop teasi-oh Oh!” A chill runs down your body as he unexpectedly licks a stripe along your back and then you hear him chuckle against your skin, it makes your heart jump.
His hands never stop caressing your breasts, and he cups both before giving them a squeeze. Zhongli tilts forward pressing against you and you can feel a certain hardness against your ass. “Does it feel good?”
“Yes… feels good- hah.” You pant, eyes fluttering closed. “Mmm… Li… more please.”
Oh, how he loves seeing you like this, face flushed and eyes half lidded in bliss. He rubs his thumb against your pebbled nipple and then pinches it again making you gasp and squirm. Your hips buck and rub back unconsciously, seeking fiction.
“Come here.” He kisses your cheek and sits at the edge of the bed, gently stringing you along. “Take off your panties, let me help you darling.” His hands roam your thighs and pull the hem of the sweater just a little, hunching it at your hips. You’re too horny to care at this point and brace your hands on Zhongli’s broad shoulders as he slips your underwear down your knees, you gingerly step out of them and sink into his lap with practiced ease.
Your lips meet in a kiss as you circle his neck with your arms, immediately licking into his mouth and moaning as he adjusts your position, cupping your ass and accompanying the soft sway of your hips as you grind against his bulge. Zhongli groans on your mouth.
The slight coldness in your naked back makes for such a contrast against the hot wetness between your legs, the sweater’s fabric rubbing on your chest as you move, further stimulating as he continues to devour you, just as he said.
His hands move to your thighs, tracing patterns that have your legs quaking and tensing before his fingers dips lower below the cotton and brush your heated pussy. You break the kiss with a mewl.
“Ah… f-fuck… wait-”
He traces those sinful fingers along your folds, poking and prodding, smearing your wetness and finding your entrance. You kiss him fiercely again, combing your fingers on his hair pulling him closer and tilting your head.
It’s needy, it’s desperate, it’s…
He sinks the tips of his fingers inside you and you muffle another sound, shifting and grinding on his lap again. He works you open slowly, sinful fingers following the pace of your kiss becoming more and more daring. Oh, his pants have to go. Now.
Fumbling hands work his belt open and struggle for a few moments with his pants, enough so two of his fingers sink down to the knuckle. You whine and he chuckles, both gasping as your lips separate again.
“Let me- fuck, please-” You paw at Zhongli’s crotch incessantly, worked up. Finally, that perfect thick cock springs free, leaking slightly at the tip and gods your mouth waters.
“So impatient.” He grunts as you trace a finger along his length, thumb rubbing at the tip collecting the bead of precum there and wiping it on your tongue before you can even think, the musky tart taste makes you burn with want.
You notice how his length is trapped between your bodies, pressed against your navel and rubbing on the dumb sweater… and a wicked idea comes to mind. You smirk.
You wrap your hand around Zhongli’s cock, pumping slowly and firmly, and once you feel him resume the movement of his fingers inside you, you start canting your hips again, purposefully making it so the thick wool of your attire strokes against his sensitive shaft, adding another layer of stimulation.
“You- hah…” His words dissolve into a moan as you bite your lip and try to keep up the pace, it’s clumsy but the sounds you pull from him and the way his fingers stretch and pump you is so delicious, feels so good…
In no time your breath quickens. You pump your hand faster. More and more. Hot, so hot, so good. Your eyes fluttering shut, concentrating on the feelings. Your mind slow and hazy, just chasing that delicious pleasure. Only you two exist at this moment.
“Li, I’m… I-I’m…”
His thumb brushes against your clit and you come undone with a sharp cry, a quick and hard orgasm wracking your body and you keen and cry out, vision going blank.
His cock throbs in your palm, hot and hard and you gulp, moving a little sluggish to rise on trembling knees “More please, want you, need you…” You whisper and pull the sweater up to your waist. He helps you get it out of the way and then sink down on him, inch by inch filling you way more than his fingers did.
He hums and tips his head forward to rest his forehead against yours, basking in the closeness for a moment. “Are you ready?” Your eyes meet and you nod.
He leans down to kiss as his hands slide to your hips for support. You love the way Zhongli kisses you when he’s inside you. He tastes like sweet decadent tea, like hunger, passionate, unyielding, insatiable hunger.
He lets out a low growl as you lift and drop your hips against him, that thick cock molding your insides and rubbing all the right spots. You feel his fingers tightening their grip around you as you pick up the pace, grabbing his shoulders for support as you ride him. Your kiss dissolving to fleeting pecks as you pant and moan against each other’s lips.
His hips move under you, matching your rhythm as he rolls them in time with your hips. Heavy lidded eyes take in your figure writhing on his lap before he leans forward with a wicked thought of getting even at you and he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, wetting the fabric as he mouths and sucks at the little peak. You let out a high-pitched whine and claw at his back.
“So close, so close, please please please…” You babble as that sweet climax builds closer and closer.
Your thighs quiver and Zhongli takes over, planting his feet on the ground and beginning to thrust in earnestly. You sob and arch your back, clinging to his shoulders as he slams into you chasing his pleasure.
“So beautiful… your little sounds… your skin…” He hisses, his breath coming in hard gasps. “Come for me. Come, come, come, come-”
You arch your back and keen as your orgasm washes over you, shuddering on his hold as it drags this time. You feel a pulse and then a flood of sticky warmth inside you as he cums, groaning low and resting his head against the valley between your breasts. Your body melts against his as you both rest there, catching your breaths.
You nuzzle at his hair as you come down from your high, pressing a fond kiss to the top of his head. In turn, his arms surround you and hug you closer, sighing into your chest with contentment.
“Hm… want to accompany me for a shower, my love?” He asks as you pull back a little to stare at him, his hands cup your face.
You test your legs as you try to stand up but your knees wobble and there’s a tingling feeling still simmering on your skin. “You’ll have to carry me.” You decide, plopping back on his lap.
He chuckles, deep and precious as he kisses your nose. “Anything for you.”
“Hmm, you know Li… I think I’ll keep it.” You smile mischievously as your hand brushes the wool at your neck.
#crys writes#zhongli smut#zhongli x reader#zhongli x you#genshin x reader#genshin x you#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact x you#genshin smut#genshin impact smut#genshin imagines#genshin impact imagines#fem!reader#lmao the start is so cliche I feel//HIT#OH THIS FELT SO GOOD TO WRITE#dgchjvbdshvbs tit play my beloved//HIT#to think this is what started it
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listen im ace and im pro kink at pride and whatever, but the way some of yall are wording your posts in response to the backlash against it is uh. really taking me back to the ace shitcourse era.
yall know theres nothing wrong with being a "virgin", right? that its not inherently shameful to have not had sex, to never have sex, even if youre not ace, even if you do want to have sex someday, like, its fine that you haven't had sex?
maybe if your problem is that theyre trying to police your behavior and shame you for expressing your sexuality, you can say that? instead of resorting to "haha stupid virgin gets no bitches" like my god. do you not hear how fucking regressive that attitude is? i know, i know, youre "joking".
get a better joke
#toy txt post#god im going to regret this post im gonna regret it so much i can feel it in my bones#let it flop..........pls#internalize my message let it sink in and understand what i am saying and then let the post flop#i say. knowing the ppl who need to see such a message are the ones who will make me regret this post and regrwt not having#1 million bajillion disclaimers#virgin is in quotes bc its a bullshit made up stupid purity culture concept anyway and quite frankly i hate even seeing the word#disclaimer: the previous sentence is not me saying that it is a slur for asexuals. it is me a single individual saying this specific word#grosses me out to read and see everywhere when its a stupid bullshit binary made up or at least historically largely used#to shame largely women and i dont know why we're still using it in 2023#and ive just been. seeing such an uptick in this whole like. attitude? lately and like#im ace im minorly sex repulsed. mostly about anything sex at me bad. other adults sex at each other consensually? go wild#i like to think im pretty chill about it. i try to be. i think its fine ig to be like 'my meat is huge i fuck so much so good'#like okay not my thing but good for you. love that for you#but then some of yall have started turning it back around back to. 'haha your meat so small and shriveled you get no bitches'#'haha stupid incel virgin' like okay. didnt realize we all went back to fucking. middle school but okay#god im gonna run out of tine to get ready for my thing writing this stupid post UGH evil#but like idk we've kinda circled back to being like haha being a virgin still is stupid and silly and shameful#and if im quite honest. i do think the acecourse played a part in that bc i felt like we were making good progress in like#hey guys is fine to not have sex ever if you dont want to its fine to not want sex its fine#and then aphobes went fucking rabid on us and splintered and destroyed online communities all over but especially on tumblr#and so many aces went back in the closet we stopped talking about it we stopped spreading awareness and now this stupid goddamn like#and now this stupid bullshit attitude is back where its like funny to call someone a virgin as an insult but like no bro trust me its okay#its okay for me to do it bc im a hot queer person with huge meat instead of a cisstraight frat bro with huge meat#? like you know the issue was the behavior right? not the fact that it was straight dudes saying it? its bc the thing being said was shitty?#you know you can dunk on the puritan bitches trying to police your behavior at pride without getting us as collateral damage right#stop making me read that stupid ugly ass word ur not cool or funny#whatever#if you come on to this post to start shit i will not only block you but as many of your mutuals and followers as i can find. i will scroll#i will block this entire fucking website if i need to do not test me. i am exhausted and the acecourse ate up all my tolerance in 2015.
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it's not often you get to see a sleepy suguru.
it's not like he's not tired – he's fucking exhausted; the dreams just don't seem to like him all that much. but he's usually toughing it out, trying to seem as composed and put-together as possible. the dark skin underneath his eyes betray him, though.
so you don't really know why today is different. is he just more tired? have all of the sleepless hours caught up with him? or is it just you; could it be that your body is the most comfortable place to rest his heavy head? or is it your perfume that's soothing him to sleep?
or is it the fingers in his hair?
he doesn't really let others play with his hair too ofter either. satoru and shoko had been the only exceptions but that was before you came along. satoru uses his hair as a stim, something to play with when he's bored. suguru has taught him manners though – a few slaps against satoru's fingers and chest to remind him to be more careful. and shoko is just more likely to brush a strand from his eyes or help him tie them up in a half-assed bun whenever his own hands are full with whatever.
you like playing with hair, always have and always will. it's relaxing and it's fun and it's calming and you love it. when you first met suguru, his hair was the second thing you noticed about him (his keen purple eyes being the first). an irresistible itch burned in your fingertips everytime you saw him, everytime he wore his hair down. it just looked so pretty and soft.
he takes very good care of his hair, you know that much. specific shampoos and conditioners, masks and all – he's all in. and nobody bats an eye. not that they should but satoru definitely gets made fun of because of his stupidly expensive collection of figurines and shoko gets teased for her silly mug shelf – and yet, neither of them ever comment on the bottles and tubs of fancy products that lay on his bathroom counter.
his hair also smells good. the compliment always hangs on the tip of your tongue but stays hidden in fear of coming off too weird. too creepy. but he doesn smell good. even with closed eyes and ears and you'd find him in a crowd. you wonder whether he knows that.
as you grew closer and closer, the now scorching itch only doubled in need. you never did gather the strenght to outwardly ask him – if you could play with his hair? if you could caress it? comb through it? it was an accident.
a simple gloomy friday afternoon: you're both lazing on your couch, staring at the screen. it's funny – you find yourself muffling your already quiet bursts of laughter, suguru alongside you. he's sitting close by, closer than usual. you don't ask him about it.
he asked to come over; something-something about being sick of his own apartment. you understand that, so you tell him that your home is his home (you'd tell him that even if you didn't understand). you hear the faint smile when he thanks you over the phone.
even when he looks like he hasn't slept in months – he looks good. you can tell he's overexaggerating his smile a bit but don't say anything about it, rewarding him with a grin of your own. his eyes flick to your lips and how they curve and he thinks about how warm it feels to look at you. maybe he's not exaggerating anymore.
your arms open wide, inviting him into you and he obliges, as always. he smells good. as always.
his hands lock behind your back and your behind his neck. your hearts meet and they greet each other with a fastened beat, eager to be in sync – to feel each other again.
he pulls back and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. he's not doing it anymore and you're happy to relieve him even if it's for mere moments.
he's wearing a sweather and his hair is down. he has lip gloss on; you try to think whether he's more of a mint guy or more of a shea guy. it remains a mystery.
and now you're on the couch with two cups of warm tea waiting for you on the small table. he smells good. he's so close. he snickers at the screen and you can't take your eyes off of him. it's the same small crinkle of the eyes and the faintest pink tint on his cheeks.
you know he knows that you're looking at him. you've been told to have a staring problem and he's just an observant guy. it's a terrible match. or a perfect one.
he doesn't say anything though; instead he leans his head back and little to the side against the headrest (he's even closer now) and you find yourself shifting an inch aswell. perhaps magnets are involved? the iron in your blood pulling you together?
no, that can't be. you'd have to be polar opposites for that to work. warm-blooded and cold-blooded? would that work? you're getting too poetic and he's looking at you now.
it's an accident. it slips out on its own. you smell good. caught off guard by your own comment, you're about to apologize when a hand on your thigh almost makes you suffocate on the words stuck in your throat.
he laughs and it feels so good. he thanks you. he means it, you see it in his tired eyes. he likes the way you blush.
turning his focus back to the tv, you try to collect yourself. a deep breath in and a deep one out and a deep one in and a de—
a weight on your shoulder. he smells so good. he's so close. you peek down, curious as to whether this is a dream or not. but suguru's head is in fact laid on your body, sinking a bit more into you by the second. a deep breath in and a deep one out.
seeking for a more comfortable position, you snuggle closer to him. it's hard to focus but you're making it your sole mission to make him feel safe. your arm curls around his body, his shoulder, and rests right by a flock of his hair.
his cheek is now smushed against the top of your chest and the weight of love doesn't seem as bad as everyone keeps telling you. his hand finds a place around your waist; loosely – as if he's the one who's afraid to scare you off. silly.
his breath against you feels right and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. so you do what you always do when you get nervous – completely on their own, your fingers caress his hair. just smoothing over it at first but before you know it, they're combing through a strand and twirling the ends between themselves.
you wanna apologize, again, but the soft little grunt that emits from the man keeps you from doing so.
don't stop.
+ this is for @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat just bc it feels right
#absolutely 10000% not proofread i do not know where this came from#suguru my sweetheart#this just felt right in my heart#so i'm gonna post it anyway#btw if i ever write something that doesn't make sense#it's your own fault bc it's poetry okay#u just don't get it#this is me convincing myself that this isn't a complete slur of words put together#it sounds good in my head i won't apologize#ALSO CAN U TELL I LIKE REPEATING THINGSS HMMM#love u my kittens mwah mwah mwah#wtf mickey can write#sugu#suguru geto#suguru geto drabble#suguru geto blurb#suguru geto fluff#jjk drabble#suguru geto x reader#geto suguru#geto suguru drabble#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru fluff#geto suguru blurb#jjk geto#jjk fluff#jujutsu kaisen drabble#jjk blurb
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I will entrench myself in literature this year no matter what the fuck it takes
#forgot how euphoric it felt to just be seen by a piece of writing#I’m excusing myself for last year bc I was having the busiest semester of my life & then traveled shortly after#so I didn’t make reading a priority#but no more. i have to consume more this year. it makes me feel so good whenever I’m down in the dumps#it’ll be hard in tandem w all the other shit I’m juggling but I’ll make it work#I’ll make it a priority for my mental health lol#just like I have to pop my vitamin pills every day I have to READ MORE to STAY SANE#teen me consumed so many books & i wanna go back to that. full on literature girl for 2024#p
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Stuck in the middle of a forest made of
Flesh and bones and they're all scared of
A lost little boy who has lost his heart
Fear's not enough, they have to
Tear him apart
—-------
There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:
He’s adopted.
He can’t remember anything else before that.
‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.
What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.
When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.
(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)
The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.
It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.
The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.
His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.
(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)
(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)
They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.
(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)
Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.
He turned back around and went inside.
—-------
Where do we go
When the river's running slow
Where do we run
When the cats kill one by one
—------
One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.
He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.
It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.
He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.
Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.
(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)
After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.
He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.
—------
Hazel beneath our claws
While we wait for cerulean to cry
Unsettled ticks run through time
Enough for the hunt to go awry
—-----
There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.
He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.
Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.
(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)
(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)
He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.
A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.
He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.
His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.
Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.
—-------
Harpy hare
Where have you buried all your children?
Tell me so I say
—-------
When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.
Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.
He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.
Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.
(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)
(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)
(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)
—--------------
It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders
And they will never
Hear me here listen to croons and a calling
I'll tell them all the
Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow
Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare
—-------
More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.
Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.
His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.
They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.
It is a fast dream.
His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.
His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.
The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.
The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.
His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.
(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)
—---
She can't keep them all safe
They will die and be afraid
Mother, tell me so I say
(Mother, tell me so I say)
—-------
When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.
The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.
(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)
(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)
Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.
(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)
—------
Seeker, do you ever come to wonder
If what you're looking for is within where you hold
Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path
You'll soon forget
Home
—---------
When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.
When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.
‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.
He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.
He ends up calling himself Phantom.
(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)
----------
Home is where we are
Home is where you are
Home is where I am
-----------------
Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.
#dpxdc#dp x dc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpdc#danyal al ghul au#amnesiac danyal al ghul au#songs in order of the album: the hartebeest / harpy hare / and the hound / neath the grove is a heart#musician danny has my heart and soul#yes this danyal IS an alternative danny from the other au. an au where things were a little better :) but still sucks#implied good mom talia al ghul#danyal is a momma's boy send tweet#dpxdc ficlet#dpxdc prompts#dp x dc au#dp x dc fanfic#danyal is sTILL five years older than damian in this au#no beta no edits we die like danny fenton#poc danny fentons#i didnt know where to end this :(( i was gonna go on but i blanked. i thought about going into his relationships with his rogues and so on.#but that felt too much like trying to just increase the word count rather than actually writing?? if that makes sense#ugh im gonna have forgotten to include things and im gonna be kicking myself later#morally ambiguous danny whoo! we love to see it#since this was just for fun it doesnt really go into it all that much other than like. it happens. and that danny realizes he's dangerous#phantom in a hazmat suit? nah phantom looking like an assassin >:].#danyal al ghul with damian and his mom: 🥰🌸✨#danyal al ghul with everyone else: 👹🔪#am i heavily implying that clockwork had smth to do with Danyal’s amnesia and appearance by the cabin? 👀 maybe#not enough danyal al ghul aus where him being an assassin actually. has some kind of affect on him
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The rest of the base has gone to sleep, but you don't sleep anymore. You don't join them in the mess hall anymore, either. You barely eat organic food at all these days, and when you do, it's mainly for pleasure. You can take the organics out of the pilot, but you can't take the love of sweets and pizza out of the organics, you guess. Despite that, you're so far removed from your humanity that it's gotten difficult to relate to most of them. It's not like anyone else is sharing your meals of titanium and copper.
The other pilots look at you with fear and disgust, knowing their inevitable fates if they're ever pitted against you. The mechanics see you as an oddity, a fascination, and heap praise and adoration upon you, but it's hollow in your eyes. It feels more like they're ogling a rare car rather than talking to a pilot. The corps see you as nothing more than a weapon to be pointed at their enemies, or whoever has less money than them that week.
The only person who still respects you as an autonomous individual is your handler. You adore her just as she loves you. Certainly, you're still a weapon - that's what the relationship started as after all - but you think she might be the only human in the base, including the mechanics, who could truly love a weapon of any kind. She's been so good to you through all of this, taking each stage of your radical transformation in stride as naturally as a lover watching her partner go through a more mundane transition. She's only gotten more attracted to you as you've grown into your new form and become more comfortable and confident with yourself. You'd burn the whole world down just to make her happy.
There's one other who respects you for who you are, though: your girl. Your beloved Wolfrun Mk.X, heart of Coral, veins of electricity, and arms of 5 ton power-guzzling metal-shredding AC-devouring WB-0010 Double Trouble carnage. Before all this started, you always thought of her like a weapon, just as the others see you now. Then she started changing you. The Coral in your augments connected with the Coral in her systems, and something changed in both of you. At first, it was just a whisper. Something brushing over your psyche, speaking just on the edge of hearing, incomprehensible but unmistakable.
Then your body started following suit. Your teeth, jaw, and digestive tract were the first things to change, presumably to allow you to consume and digest - you're not even sure if that's the correct term - the materials your girl needed to keep changing you. After your first meal, the tastiest 20 pounds of scrap you've ever eaten, your skin started changing too. The docs couldn't give you injections anymore. Their needles bent or broke when they tried to push them into your skin. You figured out why a few weeks later when what was left of your epidermis sloughed off and revealed armored plating underneath. They had to take an angle grinder to your arm in order to access your veins. You didn't feel any pain when they did. At the time, you thought that should have disturbed you a lot more than it did.
By that point, you'd been noticing Wolfrun's thoughts coming in a little clearer. In transit to your jobs, it was feelings of curiosity, probing, and wonder. In combat, it was a spark in your vision when you needed to dodge, a wordless warning about approaching enemies. In the base... still nothing but a whisper. That's when you started feeling lonely: when you couldn't feel her presence anymore.
As you became more and more monstrous, more and more like her, you began to visit her night after night. Maybe it was because you sensed an intelligence within her 65 ton body, or maybe it was simply because being near her drowned out the silence. You had no way of verifying this, but you felt like she relaxed as well when you were around. She was shut down in the hangar, of course, and there was no way any part of her could still be engaged, or so you thought. But as time went on, the whispers got louder, the words - feelings and thoughts, really - more comprehensible. And all the while, your body changed.
The 5'6" chubby trans gal who went into debt and subsequently under the knife to get a hand-me-down set of 4th gen augments all those years ago is long gone now. The thing you've become, whose claws clanged against the metal of the hangar's floor, had long since cast off that form. Where once was skin had become plated metal. Despite having no screws or rivets to speak of, it stayed firmly in place no matter how much the techs tried to pry it off. The augments which before had stuck partially out of the left side of your skull had seamlessly integrated themselves into the sleek plating that had cropped up on your head, looking far more natural than they ever had before. Your hair had fallen away, and the metal around your skull became angled and sleek, looking more bulwark than biological and with aerodynamic fins sprouting from it.
A sleek black plate had formed where your eyes once were. The day you woke up with that, you thought you had gone blind. You panicked, begging for help, afraid they wouldn't ever let you pilot her again. You had been moved into your new warehouse home at that point, and it took time for the maintenance techs to find you. Before they did, though, you felt someone - your girl, you realized - beckoning to you. She could help you. When the techs finally got there, you begged them to put you in her cockpit. It took them a while to figure out who you meant by "her", but your handler, who had come running the moment she heard the news, was on top of it. She barked at them to get you to Wolfrun, and with great difficulty, the three of them helped you get your then-8 foot form into her. You spent the next week inside her cockpit, refusing to get out except to eat and drink. She was there with you, and she let you see through her eyes. The world as she saw it was far more vivid than human eyes could ever see, infrared, ultraviolet, gamma, magnetic, smells, sounds, vibrations, on top of the visual spectrum you were used to. And when the delicate sensor plate where your eyes once were finally engaged at the end of that week, that's how you saw the world, too.
When you finally left her cockpit, you realized you could still hear her. From then on, she was with you always. That made you happy. It made her happy, too. You started letting her choose her own parts, and she was happy to. She still insisted you choose some too, though, since according to her, it was your body just as much as it was hers. True enough, whatever force was altering your body changed you to match her. When you tried out digitigrade legs, you stumbled getting out of bed the next morning after yours had reconfigured themselves to match. When you got her bulky, high capacity arms, your arms - fully synthetic by then - had bulked up considerably.
Even cosmetic changes started to affect you. You painted menacing, sharp teeth onto her head over the sensor plate with mechanical precision, and you found your own mouth elongating and becoming more of a muzzle as a result. You'd have thought being so malleable would have unsettled you, but you found you were more excited about the possibilities instead. It felt more like becoming who you were meant to be. Besides, it made wolfing down your metal meals easier. You figure intention, either yours or hers, or both, affected how you changed, but no one else had any satisfactory explanation for any of this. You'd stopped caring long ago in any case.
What you and Wolfrun ended up settling on for her, after earning a mountain of COAM for you and your handler with your unbeatable, utterly synchronized performance, was a mid-lightweight build focused on tearing apart the battlefield as quickly as possible with heavy machinery. What you became in response was anything but lightweight, at least compared to the humans around you. The finned bulwark and the black sensor on your head never really changed, but the rest of you seemed plenty mutable. Your arms grew long and powerful, your shoulders tipped with decorative spires. Your waist grew slender, tapering inorganically in nested panels to allow for plenty of articulation. Your torso got wider, too, though for whatever reason, the outline of breasts remained constant on your new chassis. You kept the digitigrade legs. Over time, hydraulic supports seemed to have formed on yours. The snout stayed, too. You were too proud of that paint job to ever take it off even with the changes to your own body. BECAUSE of the changes. You might be more machine than woman at this point, by you're still you, pride and all.
The techs estimate that only about 5% of your body is still organic. Probably most of your brain and maybe some other systems, plus a few symmetrical patches of skin. They suspect that you had either some kind of sympathetic Coral connection to your AC that rearranged your augments and allowed the changes to start, or that somehow repair nanites adapted to your form and began "fixing" you. In any case, they think the bulk of your changes are done with at this point. You're a little disappointed by that. Wolfrun likes the new you, though. She's happy for your connection and to be able to get even closer to you. Your handler appreciates your new form just as much. She doesn't even bat an eyelid when you tell her that you've been talking to Wolfrun. If anything, she seems a little sad that she can't talk to her directly. As for your relationship with your handler, you might be nearly twice her height, standing at a hulking 10 feet tall, but that doesn't stop her from loving you, or from jamming her fingers lovingly between your legs after missions.
But she's sleeping now. It's late, but you're still lonely. There's only one entity up at this time of night you'd care to talk to, so you climb the catwalks to meet her, claws clanging against the metal of the hangar. You smile your toothy, metal smile as she greets you, opening her cockpit so you can crawl inside and be one with her for a few more hours before your next mission.
#this one's probably too long to get attention#but it felt so good to write#armored core 6#ac6#mechaposting#mechposting#transhumanism#transformation#handler x pilot x AC
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#this feels very DO YOU LOVE THE COLOR OF THE SKY#maybe it wouldn't be so long if MISSIE WOULD STOP WRITING SO DAMN MUCH#taylor swift#mine#ttpd#midnights#haven't felt compelled to make a taylor edit in yEARS#idk if i actually like it but it's good enough!#anyway.
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If you ever feel unproductive creatively because you keep reading instead of writing, keep watching shows and movies instead of making your own, keep consuming art instead of creating it, just remember that you are awarding someone else's creativity! You are putting worth into your fellow artist's productivity! There is no waste in that!
#mine#you can always finish yoir wip later#and consuming art of the same type as what you create#can help you brainstorm#i remember when i felt like my writing states to sound meh#and i was like whyyyy???#and then i realized i hadn't read anything by anyone else in months#and after reading a bit it went back to my usual quality!#which i think is good so hopefully it is lol
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just watched the new ghostbusters movie with my friend and truly, awkward teenage lesbians will both end and save the world.
#guys i have a type#blonde girls who are manipulated due to/by family and end up fighting for the side of good anyways#i saw melody and her Issues™️ and got attached to a dead girl#her whole thing with phoebe was gay as fuck tho you cant convince me#they did the thing that natasha did in what if to peggy where she looked back at Phoebe longingly and then stepped into the light#truly a tragedy that she was. yknow. dead and her whole arc was moving on into the afterlife#so she couldn’t have a sapphic little relationship with mckenna grace#some of the writing was kind of weak and it felt like a lot of fan service cause a lot of the characters didn’t do anything during#the climax of the movie or i just didn’t care for their story#but it’s really fun as a movie itself and i highly enjoyed myself so honestly that’s all that matters to me#ghostbusters frozen empire#phoebe spengler#melody ghostbusters#nat’s rambles
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OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE
so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.
14. "Oh, you're hard to please."
warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact
pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)
wc: 4.4k+
join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character
How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even?
If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end.
Plainly put, it had been a while.
But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way.
Personal demons including Cazador.
Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew.
And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light.
“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again.
It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter.
“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!”
His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-”
“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”
Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.”
You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.
He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet.
The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time.
You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin.
He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-
“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?”
He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.”
“Then what did I just say?”
“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?”
Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen.
Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.
He was ready. Insatiably ready, really.
“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?”
You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction.
“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.”
The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition.
“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”
“And what of Gale?”
Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”
“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.”
Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances.
“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.”
“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?”
You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.
Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.
Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones.
When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you.
“No.”
“No?”
You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.”
And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours.
“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two.
He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach.
“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment.
He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?”
Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions.
If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”
What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret.
He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again.
“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.”
Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.
He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready.
The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.”
“Excuse me?”
He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic.
“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”
“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.”
If he has to beg, he will.
He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate.
It was a novel moment.
But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge.
“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.”
You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue.
Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you.
Something snaps.
All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly.
Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly.
You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it?
It was Astarion’s own damn fault.
He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control.
“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?”
He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain.
It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you.
“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole.
“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”
Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?”
“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.”
Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do.
Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib.
“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”
“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.”
You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip.
The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration.
“Gods, you’re beautiful.”
He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him.
“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head.
He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.”
“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”
His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.
You’ve waited just as long as he has.
It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy.
He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough.
It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment.
Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe.
As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you.
He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.
But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.
When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice.
And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier.
You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone.
Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so.
“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness.
He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort.
It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”
“I love you.”
The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you.
But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.
“And I love you, my dearest sun.”
#ghost's stories#smutty party#astarion#astarion x reader#astarion smut#astarion x you#my writing#there's a line in here that my best friend watched me write in real time IN PERSON that we both cackled about#i went 'i really shouldn't include it' and she went 'but it's HIM'#it's giving 'i'd rather be the only dark power inside you'#idk if this is good but it is what it is ya know#if the ending feels rushed it's because i felt terrible for how long it was getting lol#i just wanna love on the boy#i just wanna love him and he love me is that too much to ask#so many pet names i considered editing but the voices won
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“Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Want me to kiss it where it hurts?” Kirishima purrs up at you, his place between your thighs seemingly the closest thing he can get to ascension. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown out, any red swallowed up by the lust pooling in his eyes. he looks like the picture of adoration and worship, all faux worry and pure hunger as he bounces between your gaze and the pretty picture that twitches in front of his face. his eyes cross to watch the slick ooze from your hole, sighing.
“It’s the least you could do for me,” you pout to him, running your nails through his soft locks, tugging a little meanly at the root. “After using me like a toy on your cock for so long.” Your words are sighed wistfully, your eyes betraying just how much you want his mouth on you as he wants to taste you. Kiri moans at that, quiet and in the back of his throat, but you hear it none the less.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he repents, but it’s all for naught when his tongue laves over your sensitivity and doesn’t let up until you’re crying from the overstimulation once more. he’s so sorry—that you can only cum so many times before you tap out. he’s so sorry—that your thighs are more sore from tightening up around his head than his working jaw. he’s so sorry—that you’re so addicting, that he can lay between your legs until his last breath leaves him.
#I am so tired#I feel like I say that every time I write in the tags LOL SORRY#but today was so nice and it drained me in the good way lol#anyway I realized today that I don’t write enough for him by himself#and I felt guilty 😔#he’s just a big guy that doesn’t realize his own strength or stamina#and accidentally uses you like a little toy whenever he’s pent up#and he always tries to make it better with a kiss no matter where it’s at :(((#I love calling him big guy tho it’s my fav nickname#okay gn I sleeb now#—new treat in the streets! 🍫#kirishima treats! 🍬
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I think Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett must have planned originally for Aziraphale to be involved up in Heaven leading up to when the Second Coming starts, or whatever actually happens in s3. Gaiman’s said he wrote s2 as a bridge to get them to the events of the sequel they’d plotted — and he spends most of it showing us again how they love each other and the world, how close they are to a truly shared life. And then he splits them. It feels like such a shock.
And he said he and Finnemore didn’t know till quite late how to write that bit. So I think that that must have been the decades-old plan. And s6 must have been the only way he could imagine it happening — the only way Aziraphale would ever leave Crowley to rejoin Heaven after everything — only if they promised to welcome Crowley and to offer Aziraphale the power to preserve the world. (Lie that that was.)
So in the end I’m guessing that, since it’s only a second installment/interlude instead of the entire sequel Pratchett and Gaiman envisioned (which would end happily), that’s why they made Crowley confess at the end of this season — so we had one hopeful thing amid the shock. At least we could imagine the eventual happy ending, the finally-together-after-all. It would have been an entirely different kind of crushing if Crowley hadn’t spoken — if he’d broken his heart over Aziraphale leaving in utter silence. That would have done me in. As it is I’m only mostly dead.
#he said he was so sad writing that part#he must have felt it was necessary to make the sequel plot work#there’s a split universe in my head now#one in which all the happy postmageddon fics are true#and one in which I’m waiting for the Second Coming and crying#I can live with both#to find out what happens next#good omens#good omens 2
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