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#fanfic by me
thranduilsperkybutt · 5 months
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☾ the gold & the rust ☼
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Pairings:  Astarion Ancunín/Tav!Reader Warnings:  NSFW; angst/comfort smut; yearning; Astarion is not ascended; mentions of past canon-typical trauma/abuse; the struggle of healing; Astarion has racing thoughts and you can't tell me otherwise; canon-typical biting; it's not about the sex it's about the feelings; spoilers for the endgame Word Count:  7,168 words Reader Gender:  Female Author:  Meg Summary:  You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again... A/N:  Look I blame Hozier for making too many Astarion-coded songs that make me sob my eyes out while thinking about the implications of his "good" ending. Astarion has literally changed my brain chemistry.
The sun cusps over the horizon, its soft tendrils spreading over a murky sky. Beckoning the night’s fleeing retreat with a gentle violence as the day demands more territory in each passing second. Sparse hues of blue manage to cling to some lingering clouds that have yet to meet the threateningly beautiful pink and orange sky.
Astarion reaches out from behind the heavy curtain and his darkness, towards the pillar of light that breaks into the privacy of your bedchamber. Pale fingertips dip hesitantly into the light, as if he could believe everything that has occurred over this past week has been only a dream. It takes but a moment for the evidence of his reality to meet him when his skin sparks and dusts under the light of day.
He flinches back, hissing lowly from the burning pain of it. Glaring down at his flexing hand as if the disdain in his eyes could change the fates that have turned the thread of his life into this ever-knotted thing. He’d never imagined he would miss having that damned illithid parasite in his head, yet here he was. Yearning to reach for morning again. Wishing to experience a dawn that may never welcome him again.
He hears the stirring moan, soft and drenched in exhaustion, and dares a glance away from his own skin and stinging regret. Stilling entirely, Astarion hopes he has not awoken you just yet. He does not wish for you to see him like this, in this state of self-pitiful detestation. Though he knows you may yet love him despite having seen it, showing the reality of his mind beyond his comfortable performances is easier said than done. Tension drips from his shoulders, if only a little bit, as he watches your body relax into the cushions with your blissfully ignorant slumber.
The sigh at his lips is shaky. Mournful. He looks back towards the sunlight and remembers how it had felt when it had forgotten how to punish him like this. He doesn’t know which is crueler: to have never felt it at all, or for it to be ripped away from him like this. In the brief time he was granted to finally walk in the sun again after the past two centuries, Astarion can’t help the fresh anger that bubbles up in him at the taking away of it. He didn’t deserve this--- any of it.
Truthfully, he has no clear memory of how the sun had felt to him when he was simply a mortal elf and not a spawn belonging to a master. It had been so long ago; memories fade over time when drenched in horror, he’s discovered well since. Still, something tells Astarion he loved the day even then as he did now. He’s certain he had always loved the heat of it--- the color.
The way it filters through your hair when you stand in the path of daylight, kissing the edges of your skin in a way he forever wished to share with it. It had been warmer and kinder to him than he had ever expected to receive, somewhat like you. You were undeniably beautiful in the light of day.
Even standing within the finality of the sunset of your journey together--- foes vanquished, coated in sweat and victory--- he had thought the same.
But nothing good ever lasts, he’s learned. At least, nothing but you. Astarion wonders if he would still grieve this much if he were to never have known the day at all. Would he know what he was missing? Would a piece of its cosmic heat have whispered of you to him, even then?
He can’t truly comprehend a world in which his fate had not become so intimately entangled with yours. Perhaps that is the worst part, how he knows he would always brave this feeling of loss to gain what he has with you. In the end of it all, he knows he has made the right choice to have this over the temptations of that infernal ritual’s power.
Despite that knowledge, Astarion truly hadn’t expected you to run after him when the lingering illithid protections dissipated from his being and the sun began its remorseless burning again. He had scampered away from the docks in an abject desperation, attempting to flee from the light’s betrayal. Astarion was the objectively faster party, but you had found him eventually--- you always seem to find him--- after he had taken to cowering behind wooden crates that cast a meager shadow of solace. He had been shaking, cradling himself, closed off entirely from the world as that sickeningly familiar taste of how things had been before--- back when he was still Cazador’s--- came flooding back onto his palate. His mind had become drenched in a fear he had thought could never claim him again.
You’d cut through all of it with your worried call of his name. Plunging him into the magical darkness you cast upon the both of you to shield him from the sun’s assault with such a thoroughness that not even you could see through it. His call of your own name sounded far too broken on his tongue for his own liking, but you’d followed the sound towards his outstretched arms all the same.
Dragging him up into yours, only a sliver of the calamity in his soul dissipated when you promised him blindly, “Come, quickly, I’ll get you someplace safe.”
Despite his better efforts, his voice shook as he allowed you to clumsily drape your cloak over his curls in darkness, unable to bring the deflecting humor to his voice that he so achingly wished would return, “Darling, you are a sight for sore eyes; or, you would be, I’m sure, if I could see you.”
“I told you this would come in handy,” you shot back, and he had been grateful for your effort at ignoring the bittersweet grief that so clearly drenched his soul in favor of reminding him of how he had teased you for spending a good amount of your gold on this very cloak when you’d all first arrived in the city.
His breath remained shallow, but his hand tightened over yours in what he hoped you knew was gratefulness when you finished ensuring the fabric had covered any of his exposed skin, “I shall never question any of your purchases again, on my honour.”
“Of course you will, Astarion,” he heard the slight worry in your voice as much as you tried to hide it. He felt the spell waning and with it the returning disorientation that even slight sunlight left him in. You had grasped his arm firmly and spoken with a confident determination that he suspected was as much for your comfort as it was for his, “Now, get ready to move quickly and keep your head down; the dark won’t last much longer.”
You were good for your promises, he’d learned over his time travelling with you, and that had brought some small comfort as the day reemerged before he’d had a chance to respond. Then, you were maneuvering him through the city, towards the darkness of Sharess’ Caress, with such a precision that he might think it more important than any quest you’ve had thus far if he hadn’t known better. Gripping him tightly the whole way, Astarion still has not dared tell you how grateful he was for it--- for you, surprising him against his better judgement every time with how you simply are.
It has been nearly a week now of you coming to his side in the night and yet some part of him still expected the other metaphorical shoe to drop. For you to come to your senses and tell him that you simply cannot carry on like this with him.
He wanted to believe you. Gods, how he wants it. Yet, he still felt like a fool to think he’s earned some love such as yours. He wants to believe he deserves the way you look at him like he can be what you see him to be. It’s too dangerous for his heart to invest in the thought that he maybe can. That maybe he is, already.
For you to look at him and tell him, “We’ll find it together. I promise we’ll find a way for you to walk in the sun again,” with such determination--- for you to be someone who genuinely believed the both of you could achieve it---
Well, you simply must be mad. He doesn’t know how else to explain these little ideas of yours.
Astarion figures you’ll continue to be as much a surprise to him as you’ve made a habit of in the past… and then there was that persistently annoying optimism of yours to contend with.
But this?
He doesn’t think that you understand the truth of the choice you’re making, to stay with him. To love him. How could you know it and still look upon him with such eager hopefulness as you do? He barely understands it at all himself, and he’s had centuries to come to terms with what he’s become. Forgive him if it’s a bit difficult to begin to understand just what “being something better than what Cazador made him” truly means.
He understands how much he wants you, though. He wants it all. The life that was stolen from him, the opportunities, but mostly for you to be there--- here. Where you’ve not wavered an inch from his side; you’ve given him no reason to think you plan on leaving anytime soon.
Why does he still fear it so much, though?
Some part of him had thought--- hoped foolishly, rather--- that killing Cazador would somehow fix two centuries of torment. Fix him. In the brief time after, he discovered that it hadn’t. In his elongated struggle, he worries it never will.
Nightmares still plague him, he still jumps at shadows, he still has thoughtless fear dart through his mind before he remembers again that his former master is well and truly dead. That simply existing in happiness was the rebellious proof of his victory over a man who he hopes will not haunt him forever. When he is with you, Astarion almost believes that Cazador won’t. It is some charm you have bewitched over him surely. Your ability to calm this chaos in him with soft eyes and patient hands that do not seek to own him, yet he eagerly chooses to belong there all the same.
Astarion still has trouble loving you like he knows you deserve to be loved. There are times when he can barely stand physical touch, though craves to want yours. And you understand the duality of the contradiction in him, taking only ever what he is willing to give.
Sometimes he thinks you too understanding, with little concern of how this affects you. He’s always baffled by how selfless you can be sometimes, particularly when you’re taking in strays. He has come to admit, if only to himself, that he does see the irony in his complaints. Moreso, he’s terrified of what will happen when that seemingly endless well of care you hold within you for others inevitably runs out.
What will happen when you can no longer bear his eccentricities? The compromises? The sacrifice that his double-edged love requires of you? Will there come a time when all he offers as part of being in this real love becomes too overwhelming?
Astarion had fallen in love with you in the easy warmth of sunlight. Looking upon you now as the dawn creeps against your sleeping form, his heart aches as he wonders if he can truly doom you to a life in his complicated darkness.
Selfishly, one thought consumes his mind--- he knows he wants to. He would want you, no matter the cost to you both. You have told him over and over again how you want the same but, Gods, he can’t figure out what he has done for this sliver of joy and it eats away at him in the dark. It’s unreasonable what he asks you to give him, but he’ll take it all the same. Bitterly he thinks, if he were a better man--- the man you see him to be--- he might even feel guilty for it.
For now, all he feels is the monstrous need to escape these racing thoughts in his head.
When will you walk away to join the sunlight for good? Hells forbid the answer his weary heart is preparing for ever be spoken from your lips.
Astarion hopes the day never comes when you choose to go where he cannot follow. He wants to spend all his days traipsing after you, wherever you may lead, no matter how much he may complain about it for show.
Astarion wants to spend all of it, whatever it may be, whatever he’s got left, with you. He’s terrified of the day that you change your mind on him. Fearful that you may one day decide these sleepless nights with a vampire spawn who can offer you nothing more than his undying love and sarcastic quips are nothing compared to the full life you could have with someone else. This theoretical, easy life in the sun that he dares to think he is stealing from you by loving you as he does.
Well, he supposes that reclaiming Cazador’s palace is always an option, rather than his other fantasy of burning it to the ground. Spending an eternity draping you in finery and keeping you to himself within a palace feels like something he should want, but he can’t help to think that it would be no better than making his love for you into a somewhat prettier cage.
More than he wants you, he needs you to freely want him. He’d be tempted to take up praying again if he had any faith that it could solidify your love for him forever, but deep down he doesn’t want heavenly intervention. He wants you to want to be with him--- to choose him willingly and without any regret for what the inevitable sacrifice will be. That understanding is, perhaps, what makes his heart swell with this bittersweet glory over all else.
You’ve told him as much and what your lips did not confess to him willingly, your body has whispered to his with an adoration that threatened to scorch him in much the same way of your beloved daylight. You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again--- this being the most horrible realization of all to have come to him tonight.
Hells, how desperately he wants to believe you, but Astarion has always had difficulty getting his hopes up. He hasn’t been known to bet on losing dogs, and he certainly doesn’t bet on his own odds these days.
But he figures you have more than enough hope for the both of you.
A minute smile quirks his troubled lips at that thought, watching your fingers twitch in your slumber. He shouldn’t doubt you as he does; you’ve given him everything. His freedom, his salvation--- even from himself, when he hadn’t known how much he needed it. Things he can never repay, and yet you’ve never asked him for a repayment. He owes you everything, but you’ve been adamant in tempering his sense of obligation. You’ve reminded him that everything he's done, he’s chosen for himself.
You’ve only ever asked him to love you, and that you have had for far longer than you know--- far before you ever actually plucked up the adorable courage to ask him for it.
He has come to love you more than he’s ever loved anything for as far back as he can remember. The depths of his adoration could scare even him with the raw vulnerability he is left with when it comes to you. How beautifully all his plans and plots for self-preservation have backfired upon him, though. He would not have you destroy his peace of mind in any other way.
Maybe one day, he’ll admit to you exactly when his nice, simple plan truly began to fall apart. The idea dances in his mind, of how you’ll react to that particular information. You’d hang on his every word, he thinks--- it would be rather pathetic of you, if he weren’t in much the same state.
Gripping the curtain, Astarion finally deems it time to push the budding light out of his darkness. If it is to be the only place he may have you for all of your days, he’ll make his darkness a sacred place. He decides he shall worship you in it--- all other gods have forsaken him already. Until the day his little hero saves him once again, he will indulge in this darkness with you.
The patriars nipping at your heels for guidance, the unwashed masses of the Gate clamoring for their glimpse of his hero, even your other traveling companions--- none of them shall invade upon this sanctuary.
He moves towards the bed, returning to you. Exhausted from a late day in the city and an even later night of enjoying his company, you’ve taken to claiming sleep when you can these days. The evidence of your labor rests in the dark circles under your eyes. He doesn’t think he could stop you from your philanthropic efforts assisting the city’s reconstruction even if he tried.
Still, right now, in these hours you are only his.
He dips his weight onto the bed and lays himself alongside you, pulling you tenderly against him as his lips graze your neck. Truly, he knows it is cruel to wake you, but he doesn’t know how he can manage to miss someone like this when you are right before him. It is as if his very soul yearns for you. He melts against the rhythmic flutter of your heart, and it sounds more like his home than the palace he has spent the last two hundred years in ever could.
Teeth graze against your carotid pulse, and you stir slightly. He hums into the soft warmth of your flesh, biting without intent to draw blood--- though the thought of it does cross his mind. He has never recovered from the taste of you. Cold fingers curl into your bare hip, dragging you slightly closer at the feeling of your waking movements.
Your pulse picks up against his lips. Astarion hears the patter of your heart in your ribs as his tongue drags up your throat towards your ear. Your breath hitches when his lips graze your jaw, but your eyes remain closed.
His lips twitch with mirth at your effort to have him do as he pleases.
“Quite the show, my little love, but I know you’re awake,” Astarion murmurs, slurred from the back of his throat like a man lost in thorough indulgence. Drunk with the scent of you on his skin, he leaves another faux bite on your jaw as you squirm beneath his assault.
“Shall you feed again, is that it?” yawning, your hand rubs at your eyes before you blink them open. When his hands run up your sides, your answering shiver reminds him of that first night he’d fed from you. Lit only by the campfire, you had allowed him to take too much before stopping him, even then.
He chuckles breathlessly, shifting the covers to invade your space more completely as you come back to your consciousness piece by piece, “As tempting as it is when you offer oh so nicely to be my treat, I hunger for something more satisfying this morn.”
“Ah,” you gasp from sleep-drenched shock, reacting on a delay as he brings his knee up to strategically push your legs open. Allowing you to feel the growing length of him through the thin linens between you, he levels you with his weight in a slow grind. Blinking up at him, your eyes focus in a darkness lit only by the dim glow of dawn beyond the curtains when he languidly rolls his hips against yours, “A-Astarion---!” He is watching you peculiarly, with a glint of some unreadable darkness in his eye that you can’t quite place. The breathless whimper at your lips sends that warmth of yours straight down his spine, “What’s gotten into you?”
He hasn’t had you since that night he had been so drenched with adoration that he’d taken you on his own grave and truly confessed how he loved you. Ever since then it had been battle and struggle, one after another, in your pursuit to stop the Absolute for good--- constantly ensnared in some new concern that stole any potential moment he could’ve used to steal you away from duty. After the final battle, Astarion had been so dejected by the return of his vampiric limitations, and you had been near constantly pulled away to assist the public---
There was the part of him that enjoyed indulging in the easy-going intimacy you offered him. The lack of pressure to perform was something he had not yet fully become accustomed to; a certain comfortability that has been cultivated between the two of you over the time you’ve been together. The sense of knowing that he is well and truly safe with you. Despite this understanding, he wished to freely want you in every way he was capable of.
And, oh, how he has come to want you over these last few days.
It was so mindlessly simple and immensely complex. He can barely put into words to describe the ways he wants this. Carnally, intimately, wholly, eternally--- nothing is a sufficient descriptor. Maybe in that vast library that your wizard, Gale, insists on boasting about showing him one of these days, Astarion will find an all-encompassing word for how he wants to have you forever.
As it stands currently, he settles on the comfortable seduction that has become second nature to him, “Actually, I was quite hoping to have gotten into you by now, lover.”
He’ll never get over how you melt for him; how you fall for every word. He watches the heat he stokes behind your eyes, the flex of your fingertips where they lay beside your head on the pillow.
Then, he descends upon you.
A practiced mouth parts yours as his cool hand takes the long route from your waist to your throat, indulging in the feeling of everything in-between. He sets your skin on edge in his wake, stirring a familiar feeling that he was entirely too good at urging from you to settle low in your stomach.
Gentle fingers find his hair and he feels the scrape of your nails against his scalp when he finally rests his hand on your throat to hook his thumb beneath your jaw, kissing you deeper. Passionately. As he always does, Astarion excels at unravelling you in every way, but you have no idea how much you manage to rebuild him with your every touch.
Your body welcomes him completely, urging him closer in ways he doubts you are consciously aware of. His hips rock into yours with each passing second that your heat spreads through him, feeling himself grow harder at your soft moans that meet his eager mouth. When you tug slightly at his hair, he lets a cautioning sound fall from his tongue onto yours, but you only nip defiant teeth at him in response.
And then he’s pushing your hands down, captured at the wrists by his. Pinning you to the pillows while he draws back just enough to catch the breath that is coming, labored, from the both of you.
“I’m sorr---” you begin, remorselessly.
“Telling a pretty lie won’t save you from me,” Astarion leans close once more, dragging his skin against your cheek as he kisses a trail towards your ear, feeling you test his grip at your wrists with a half-hearted tug. “I do believe all of this ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ business has kept you from the more important happenings of our bedchamber. It would be a terrible pity if you continued to neglect your baser desires when I am in such a mood to indulge you.”
“Are you sure you’re talking about me?” you tease and he feigns a mild shock at the insinuation that his own behavior is the reason you’ve yet to bed him.
“I’ll have you know I am all indulgence, unlike you, darling hero,” but when he leans away, your eyes capture his. Reading him too easily, you know something is wrong as his carefully constructed mask falters, if only for an instant. It’s all you need, and Astarion regrets losing himself for the moment as he watches your softening gaze survey him.
“Is that so…?” You’re left guessing at what troubles him, “If you missed me, you could’ve just said so. The city can survive a few days.”
“Does the city know that?” it would be so easy to leave it there, to let you think you’ve figured him out once again. The anxiety in his veins won’t allow it, however, and his mouth speaks before his mind can instruct him to shut up, “Tell me, darling, that you won’t regret it someday… Of course, you won’t--- but I would like to hear it all the same.”
He looks down on you with growing vulnerability, confidence cracking. That detestable anxiety that has plagued him all evening coming to the forefront of his mind once more. Crimson irises swirl with a reckless uncertainty and it reminds you of how he had looked upon you when confessing his initial manipulations in those early days of your relationship.
“Regret what?” the confusion on your face nearly has him losing his nerve, but he chokes back the urge to dismiss you so quickly.
“I don’t want you to regret… choosing me,” his voice is clearly pained at the thought, cold hands at your wrists tightening like he is afraid you will run from him should he let you go. “Choosing us, I mean. I am well aware of all you shall endure if you spend each painstaking night of forever with me. It is a price I was willing to pay for my freedom, but you… I--- I know you have said that I am what you want, but I don’t want this to be one of your regrets. I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you here---”
Astarion was constantly preparing himself for the ending of all things; it is a part of his nature that you wish you could soothe with simple words alone. It will be much more difficult to satisfy than that and you know it, but you intend to spend all your years working towards earning his unwavering faith in you. This trust that he has so endearingly placed upon your soul, when every piece of his own screamed at you for doing the same. You doubt he knows how, if you were to someday break him in the way he so fears, you feel it would be as if you were destroying a part of yourself.
You cut off his rambling with a firm, “Astarion!” like it hurts you to hear him talk of himself in this way. His mouth snaps shut as you search him for the cause of this doubt, “Have I done something to make you think I will have these regrets you worry of?”
“Well, no, but---”
When you pull at his grip this time, he wordlessly releases you, only for you to reach up to him to drag him down into a tight embrace, “Then, why is your heart so troubled?”
“I---” he chokes on the word and how shallowly his lungs fill with you holding him so securely in your arms. Maybe it is better that you hold him so closely that you cannot see how he crumbles against you, dissolving into your grasp as if you are the only thing holding him together when he confesses, “I know what it is to live this life of darkness. You are so---! You deserve everything I can’t give you, starting with a life surrounded by the beauties of daylight.” His head turns, misty eyes catching your worried stare. He regrets the distress he’s caused you, but moreso he needs to hear your reassurances that his mind has gotten the better of him in this. He has never hoped so pitifully that he was wrong.
“Astarion,” heart swelling at the loss in his eyes; he looks to be mourning for you. As your thumb smoothes along the lines of his jaw, you come to realize the depth of his lingering sadness, “tell me, what good is the sun? The sun cannot care for me as you do or feel my love in return. A life of pure sunlight is worthless if it means living it without you.” You watch his breath catch in his chest, a stifled sob of his relief that he does not give into so easily.
His voice comes strained and nearly sounds like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, “You so obviously will miss it! You talk of finding a way for me to ‘walk in the sun again,’ but what if it’s impossible? What if we waste our lives searching for something that was never attainable? When you realize it, I wouldn’t have you look differently upon me.”
“Is that it? You think I talk about finding you a cure for my own benefit?” you scoff, before leaning towards him to place a soft kiss against frowning lips. He lingers in the middle ground as you depart just enough to demand he listen, “I only think of you, Astarion. Since the moment I first saw you, you’ve consumed my mind, body and soul. The sun was made for you--- and you’d know it if you ever had the privilege of seeing yourself in it. I only want for you to be happy.”
The arch of his brow tells you he still doesn’t fully believe you, despite his attempt at a half-hearted joke through the tightness in his throat, “I do quite enjoy when you call me beautiful.” It’s more than that, and you both know it, but if he were to ask you right now to name one thing about the light of day that you know you will sorely miss, it would be never seeing him in it again.
Rolling your eyes, you sigh at him with a lopsided smile, “Oh, my silly vampire, I love you much more than the sun. Without you, I would not want any of it. In fact, you can take the moon and stars, too, while you’re at it---”
He cuts you off with the eclipse of his mouth on yours, hands spread along your ribs to dig eager fingertips into your skin as he pulls you in as close as he can manage. The kiss is more languidly meaningful than the last; he intends on burning the feeling of you into his mind to replace the torrid thoughts there. If your words had not been enough to convince him, you hope the way you receive his body with your own can. Every part of you calls to him, blood and sinew, breath and bone, flesh and spirit.
Maybe it’s clear to him now, that you are as intertwined as the earth and sea. Should the tide of your soul ever depart from his shores, he can rest in the knowledge that your reunion is inevitable. As far as you are concerned, you are fated in such a way that not even the gods above or the devils below can alter the course of how your body fits beneath his--- how you shall always welcome him home.
You will have him, for as long as he will have you.
When he finally withdraws, he dares not go far, eyes blinking open slowly in a melancholy acceptance, “How can I be so fortunate?”
Brushing the mess of white curls behind his pointed ear, you hum at the shiver that runs through him when your fingertips graze the skin there, “I don’t know, but it’s about time things start going our way, don’t you think?”
“That it is,” his groaned agreement softens the worry in his eyes and he melts into the stroke of your hand against his temple.
“What you should be worrying about, Astarion, is whether you’ll regret choosing me when I’m all old, wrinkled, and grey,” it’s only half of a tease, and you hope he can’t see through the smile on your lips. The thought has been on your mind for some time after realizing that the two of you were going to somehow survive everything you’ve endured these past months.
“Darling,” he scoffs, nudging his nose with yours, soothing you as much as you do him, “knowing how well trouble finds you, we’ll both be long dead before either of us need worry much about that.” His lips graze yours, when he gives you his earnest answer, “For our sake, I hope to spend every moment we have left with you, watching every sunset and sunrise we are granted until the end takes us both.”
It's more complicated than that, but most real things usually are.
What isn’t complicated is how you feel beneath him, tongue tracing his teeth as he ravishes you. There is a completeness that comes in the way of his body fitting against yours. This reassurance in your touch will never falter. Even if your mind were to eventually escape you, he will know you were always his. If the world were to fall away in this moment and leave nothing but this room, Astarion would happily float out his days with you here forevermore.
He loves you. You love him.
He can scarcely comprehend anything else. Nothing else matters, he decides.
Nothing but your little shivers and whines when his fingers delve down the soft flesh of your stomach--- nothing but the arch of your body into the exploration of his touch. Nothing is worth more than his name whispered from your lips in that scandalous tone you reserve for these moments he sets your skin ablaze with teeth and tongue. You call to him like it were a prayer, but Astarion has hardly done anything so holy to warrant the way you say his name.
His sole inkling of faith is spent on the belief that he could live his whole life, his extended eternity, and never tire of loving you.
Soft and demanding partner within the thrill of his touch, you’ve learned, and his hands part you for him with that comforting understanding. Insistent and hesitant are your finger’s answer to him, digging into the nape of his neck as your head falls back against the pillows. Throat bared, it’s a wonder he doesn’t take another bite of you where he’s done so frequently before, but his attention is too acutely focused on the aching wetness between your thighs and his slender fingers.
Your lips part in an open moan of his name with how expertly he drags pleasure through your veins with each stroke within you, and he drags his teeth against your jaw in a growl, “You sweet, generous thing, always so ready for me.” Finally, he grants you some relief from his constant teasing, pressing the heel of his palm into your most sensitive nub. He allows you to seek your own pleasure with each desperate grind of yourself against the hand that continues to stroke pleasure from within, “Do you have any idea what the sight of you does to me? How dearly I long for us to never leave this bed?” The rasp of his voice has heat rushing up your spine, muddying your thoughts with each continuance of his lascivious tongue, “Leave the Gate to fend for itself, my dear, for I should have you like this always, stripped bare with me between your thighs.”
“Have me then, Astarion,” you really did purr for him in times like these and as much as he enjoys teasing you for it, he truly does relish the tone you get when he has drenched you in lust. His reaction at your words is groaned against your throat; he’s so near, but his hand retreats from you all the same. Never to neglect you for long, your lover is soon tearing at your smallclothes with an impatience that was not wholly unexpected from him.
He pushes his weight onto his forearm beside your head, using his other hand to tug at the laces of his loose breeches while glancing down between you. His eyes, rubies in the darkness, snap to yours and it is as if he has dipped you in firewine and struck a match. You burn for him, from the inside out and in such a way that you know he has thoroughly ruined you for anyone else. You are dripping with it, onto the sheets and the new press of his length against your core. His indulgent rub of himself through your folds is punctuated by him grinding into you, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling for but a moment.
Hair disheveled, you watch the beauty of him as he swallows deeply before capturing you in that piercing gaze once again, “I think I shall have you, now--- how did you just put it?” He crowds you with his arms, and your breath hitches at the feeling of him catching at your entrance when he murmurs lowly, deliberately, “Body and soul? Isn’t that right, my love?”
The way you drag him down into your kiss as he pushes into you is a messy, desperate thing, but it only seems to urge him on. You simply cannot seem to get close enough, though not for lack of trying, as he fills you gloriously. Astarion gasps into your mouth, staggering the push of his hips against yours, devouring you until he is left seated so deeply within you that you can hardly breathe. Then, hands around your thighs push your legs up, and he fits impossibly further.
You sob a moan against sharp fangs, deliriously full of him as he begins a slow fucking that is just enough to drive you into madness. Clambering for something to ground yourself, your nails dig into his back, scraping against the scars that remain there--- his hips snapping faster into you at the feeling of it.
He smears saliva across your jaw and down your throat, understanding your breathless, “Please, please,” for what it is. Permission.
Pain is so fleetingly brief that it may as well not exist at all, because when he bites down hard enough to draw blood from your skin, you are met so suddenly with a lightheaded ecstasy that is compounded by the pleasure he pulses through your body. Only the raw stretch of his every thrust keeps you from dissipating into delirium entirely. You are left keening beneath him as he dissolves into the taste of your blood, feeling his moans against your neck and the way his thrusts begin to match the drum of your heart in your ears. Astarion’s fingers drag in the space between, stopping only when he has found the base of his seat within you.
You feel your heart skip in your chest before he ceases the meal he’s made of you, licking your throat of the sloppy blood that threatens to yet spill. The iron of it meets the smell of sex in the air and he strokes his fingers against where he continuously plunges so deep within you; the wet sounds of your coupling may have been embarrassing if you weren’t so disoriented with the raw need of it. Your every nerve has fiercer concerns than your fickle dignity when he is working to make such a wonderful mess of you as this.
“Delicious,” Astarion groans into your shoulder, nipping and groaning against whatever he may get his mouth on as he feels your increasingly erratic clenching with his harshening pace. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, feeling him reach to draw tight circles at your clit as his own pace begins to falter. Neither of you will make it much further through this. He is left stained, begging upon your skin, “Come with me--- Hells, darling--- I need you to---"
Finding a grip in his hair allows you to drag his head sharply back to force his open-mouthed gaze to cast upon you once more, desperate to see him as he falls apart with you.
The sight of him is nearly enough for you to lose what little sense you’ve held to; while his complexion has turned slightly rosy with the assistance of your fresh blood, he still looks upon you with a consuming hunger all the same, “I love you.”
“Gods---!” dark eyes slam shut as he gasps out your name before all control leaves him in the mindless oblivion that he drags you down into alongside him. Scorching pleasure burns from the inside out as he loses himself in the trembling heat of your rapture, dissolving into a wild and erratic pace that bursts sparks of euphoria behind your eyes.
You are both left in the sticky aftermath of it, heaving mingling breaths as tension melts into you from where he collapses and lingers atop you. You hold him, content to have his softening length seated within you for all eternity as you let him continue his mindless caressing of your skin.
He has said it before, but it will never be enough, so he says it again in the hoarse aftermath of your lovemaking, “I love you, darling. You have made me so… happy.” Should you ever forget it, he is prepared to remind you for the rest of your days, “Thank you.”
Your own repeated declaration is sighed with a contentment that you hope will last a moment longer as your fingers take to stroking through his hair when he lays his head against your chest. Can he hear it from there, you wonder, how your heart whispers only the sweetest of sentiments for him? You like to think he can.
“Astarion?” you finally croak after some time, and he hums soft acknowledgement without much movement. “We should watch the next one together.”
“The next what, my treasure?”
“The next sunrise.”
There is a smile in his voice when he murmurs, “Always.”
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idyllghost · 1 day
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Johnigail lovers come get your juice
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thequackcity · 2 years
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The moment Wilbur sits down in his makeshift boat, Tommy climbs aboard and sits down too. The boat shakes as he settles, water lapping up the sides and spilling over into the hull.
“What are you doing?” Wilbur asks, craning his neck around. Tommy is completely soaked from the rain. His t-shirt clings to his body, heavy and grey, while his dripping hair sticks to his forehead and dangles over his eyes, obscuring all but his frown from Wilbur’s view.
“Coming with you to Utah,” Tommy answers, wrapping his arms around Wilbur’s chest and gripping his sweater tight enough to tear it if Wilbur were to attempt to pull away. “I’m not letting you fucking leave without me.”
“Tommy-” Wilbur sighs, pushing a hand through his own wet hair. “Tommy it doesn’t work like that. Only people who are from Utah can go to Utah.”
“They’ll make an exception for me,” Tommy growls into Wilbur’s coat. “Because I’m not letting go of you until we’re in Utah or you come back to my house with me.”
“Tommy-”
“What?”
Wilbur stares ahead. The sun is peaking over the horizon, red and orange rays beginning to chase away the darkness. The storm will be over soon. “You need to let me go.”
Tommy fists his fingers deeper into Wilbur’s sweater. “No I don’t. Fuck off.”
The rain slows to a drizzle as the sun rises high enough to turn the black sky into a brilliant yellow. Grey clouds dissipate, making room for the white wisps of late summer. Wilbur sighs heavily. He’s missed his chance.
“Fine. You win, Tommy. I’ll go back to your ridiculous dirt house and sleep among the worms.”
“You’re not going to run off the second we get out of the boat, are you?”
Wilbur laughs. “I’m not a stray cat, Tommy.”
“You kind of smell like one,” Tommy says, finally lessening his hold on Wilbur. “I’ll get you a leash.”
“You’re the one who needs a leash.”
Tommy sputters indignantly, his voice drowning out the sound of the last drops of rain splashing into the water around them, and for the moment Wilbur forgets why he ever wanted to go to Utah in the first place.
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bellpeppersand-beef · 1 month
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Cowboy Bebop (Anime) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jet Black/Spike Spiegel Characters: Jet Black, Spike Spiegel, Faye Valentine, Ed (Cowboy Bebop) Additional Tags: Drunken Shenanigans, Domestic Fluff, Will I ever write a fic about these two where they aren’t drunk?, the world may never know Summary:
“Whatever. It’s not like we’re married or something.” Jet muttered bitterly. He was halfway through taking a sip of whiskey when Spike’s failed attempt to stifle a chuckle caught his attention. “What’s so funny?”
Spike grinned brightly at him. “I mean, we’re a little married.”
Written for @bebopcrew‘s Relationship Week.
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hungryhannya · 1 month
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A little Valentine's Day gift for the favourite darkest dungeon adventurers, hope you'll like it.
@engelsschwert so remember that certain WIP I had? You might want to check this out ;)
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I’m running out of characters for my mcr black parade/danger days fic but I need at least one more (a woman if possible). I already have all the guys, fear and regret, the patient, and mother war. helena wouldn’t work in that context and the demolition lovers don’t have names. maybe I’ll make a reference to another band’s music
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sidleyparkhermit · 14 days
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Dr. Larry Fleinhardt: You know, here's a discussion: Why is it that we remember the past and not the future? Charlie Eppes: That's a tough one, Larry. - Numb3rs Episode 1x01, "Pilot"
In honor of today being a math holiday, I'm posting the first part of the Numb3rs time travel story!
Magnetic Reconnection
Chapter one: In which, obviously, none of this is happening.
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ironicandpunny · 10 months
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Anyway, I wrote a Parksborn fanfic. Pls read and enjoy
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blueberry-macaron · 2 years
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Music of the heart [Marinette Dupain Cheng x Luka Couffaine]
So anyone remember this idea I had for Luka the street musician?Yeah, I've finally turned that into a fic :D
Apologies for any typos or grammar mistakes in advance, hope you enjoy!
After Marinette hugged Alya goodbye, finally exited the school and walked through the park towards the bakery, she thought about the only good thing about this sunny, warm friday.
That it was almost over.
Because Marinette had an absolutely horrible friday.
It has started when her akuma alarm had gone off one hour before her actual alarm, so she had jumped out of bed, tried her best to fight the akuma with her half asleep partner while still being half asleep herself. The duo had somehow managed to end the fight before school started. Marinette had considered that to be a good thing, until the universe had decided to reward her with a surprise history test, for which Marinette had not studied the day before due to an akuma attack from the evening before, which really begs the question if it really was a good thing they had defeated the akuma from this morning so quickly.
That had pretty much set the standart for the rest of the day, when Chloe was also in a bad mood and letting it out on Marinette with mean comments on Marinette's new jacket that she had made herself.
Later some other student had accidentally bumped into her during lunch, leading her to drop her plate, which already was humiliating enough, only for Lila to step in and to make sure that every single student in the cafeteria was informed about how awfully clumsy poor Marinette could be while playing the helpful, selfless person by helping her up. Which later was the katalyst for Alya to hype her up, rambling how great of a person Lila is.
But the cherry on top was a thing that Adrien had said to her after lunch, walking to their classroom.
"It was really nice of Lila to help you during lunch! I think she's improoving, so maybe you guys can finally be friends."
As soon as the words had left his lips, Marinette had felt a sting in her heart and she had tried really hard to not snap at Adrien. And had failed.
She had shouted at him, about how he still decided to ignore all of Lila's red flags, how she had clearly tried to humiliate Marinette and how, under no circumstamces, was she ever ready to forgive Lila, let alone befriend her.
Even if she had regretted her outbreak the second the words left her mouth, the damage has already been done.
Before her eyes, she could still see his disappointed expression when he told her she was mean and that it was unfair to not give Lila a chance. And then he had walked off, leaving her all by herself in the corridor as she tried to hold back tears.
Marinette let out a sigh. She really felt like she had screwed up big time.
"Are you okay, Marinette?", she heard a quiet voice from her pocket and looked down to her purse, where her eyes met Tikki's.
Marinette shrugged.
"I don't know, Tikki. Today was just kinda..."
The kwami streched her head out of the purse, pressing it against her holder's hand.
"It's going to be fine, I'm sure of it. Everyone has bad days," she noted.
Marinette bit her lip.
"Yeah and my quota of bad days is probably above average," she let out another sigh and petted the little creature, "I really have surprisingly bad luck, considering my power is good luck."
Tikki smiled gently and squeezed Marinette's finger.
"I'm sure everything will work out. You're a really strong person, Marinette. I think you can overcome any kind of bad luck."
"Still, needing to overcome things constantly gets exhausting after a while."
Marinette gave Tikki a quick smile, then looked away to blink away some tears, as the Kwami assumed.
Tikki continued to pat her holder's hand when they suddenly came to a halt, picking up some music in the distance. While Tikki disappeared back into the purse, Marinette looked around and soon found the source of the music on a bench a few meters away.
"Oh... it's him."
The boy had it's eyes closed, it looked like he was meditating while the wind brushed through his black and blue hair as his hands danced along the strings of his accoustic guitar, creating the wonderful sound.
She had met the blue-haired guitarist before. Though, "met" was maybe not the right word, because she hasn't actually had any sort of conversation with him. But she had run into him a few times, when he had picked a spot somewhere near the big tourist attractions of the city. She had already seen him at the Eiffel tower, the Louvre, L'arc de Triomphe or Notre dame. In a crowded place, it was easier to attract an audience, she assumed. At least a few people were always listening, maybe gave him a few coins before moving on with their day.
And when they would, he would always give them this kind, genuine smile that Marinette, for some reason, found incredibly attractive. His eyes were always filled with so much appreciation, wordlessly thanking perople for their generosity, for taking a few minutes of their day to turn their attention to him and his sweet tunes.
He had also given that smile to Marinette once before, when she had donated him 2 euros, She had been out with her friends to try out another wild idea to grab Adrien's attention somehow. She had walked over to him, put the coin in the open guitar case and he had looked up from his instrument and had given her this wonderful smile of his. And she hadn't stopped thinking about that smile for the rest of the day. In fact, she had been so distracted by it that she wasn't even that disappointed when their Adrien plan hadn't worked out.
Marinette figured that he must have an easy time attracting people's attention, because she found herself mesmerized by his music. Even though she never recognized the songs he was playing, it always felt... right, in a way. Understanding. Familiar.
Marinette wasn't sure how to describe what exactly the music made her feel accurately, but she didn't think about it any further when she walked a few steps closer, sat down in the grass, closed her eyes and just tuned everything out but the music.
She felt every note, every chord echoing in her heart. It was a strange feeling, but still nice. It was as if something would pat her shoulder, wrap an arm around her, whisper in her ear that everything will be fine. That Lila was an idiot but it would be fine. That Adrien was wrong but it would be fine. Everything would be fine.
Marinette felt a shift in the Melody, the hopeful, optimistic notes turning more into a relaxing tune, wrapping her in a warm blanket and lying her down on a soft, pink cloud. Up in the sky, where nothing could harm her. Where everything was peaceful. Where she could simply exist in peace.
Marinette could've wondered when the last time was she felt that way. She could've also wondered about other things, like Adrien or Lila or Hawkmoth or anything, really. And yet she found herself not thinking about any of these. Her head was empty, free of any negative thoughts.
Marinette felt herself smiling. She hadn't felt this relaxed in a while and she was so in the moment that she didn't really notice that the melody slowly faded out. She still kept her eyes closed and took in that calm feeling that had taken over her body and mind.
"Seems like you enjoyed it."
Marinette flinched a little, opened her eyes and looked up to meet the blue eyes of the musician sitting across her on the bench. Wow, those were some pretty eyes.
She forced her brain to form words, but quickly realized that it couldn't, so she just nodded. The musician smiled. "I'm glad," he said. His voice was pretty, too. Why were so many things about this boy so pretty?
Marinette smiled back.
"What- uh, what you play sounds really nice," she complimented him, not only because it was true but she wanted to avoid awkward silence.
"Though I'm a little surprised to see you here."
'What are you saying, Marinette,' she mentally scolded herself, 'What kind of conversation starter is that?'
But the guitarist didn't really seem to mind. His smile didn't fade. Instead, he lifted an eyebrow.
"Why would it be so unusual to sit in a park, all by myself, strumming my guitar?", he asked curiously.
Marinette could feel herself blushing and looked away.
"Uh... it's not that you're not allowed to be here, it's just... well, normally I see you in more crowded places, you know, where you can attract an audiende..."
Marinette felt stupid for asking such a dumb question. As if he wasn't allowed to be in the park. He probably thought she was weird.
"Well," he answered, without a hint of judgement, "sometimes it's nice to just enjoy music on my own, without all those people surrounding me."
He lightly strummed a few chords.
"Besides, it appears I still was able to attract an audience after all," he poked his tongue out and it made Marinette blush even harder.
The way he had just said that... was he flirting with her? And more importantly, was she a into it?
"I'm sorry," she heard him say and she looked up. He wasn't smiling anymore, he rather looked embarassed.
"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," he told her.
"Oh no, don't worry, I'm not uncomfortable, I was just- uhh..."
Marinette bit her lip nervously.
"I mean, of course you'd find an audience anywhere. You played such a beautiful melody, it would be a shame not to listen," she finally said, "Although I didn't recognize the song you were playing."
The boy smiled again in response.
"Well, that's because...", he thought about what he's going to say for a moment, "you could say I was playing a melody I heard in my head when I noticed you."
As soon as the world had left his lips, his eyes widened and he nervously bit his lip.
"Sorry, that came out wrong, that sounded kind of weird..."
"It's fine," said Marinette, a little too loud, "that wasn't weird. At least I don't think it was." The boy relaxed again and let go of his lip. He really had nice lips....
Marinette tried to not focus too much on them.
"Uhm, but still, what exactly do you mean by 'hearing a melody when you noticed me'?", she asked curiously.
The boy took a few seconds to think about an answer.
"I'm not sure how to explain it," he admitted, "but when I look at other people... it's like I can hear what's in their hearts."
He strummed his guitar.
"I hear their feelings and emotions... and so much more. It's like... I listen to their song and I have an idea what kind of person they might be. And the more time I spend with someone, the clearer the song becomes... if that makes sense. The songs I play I pick up from other people's hearts."
He was biting his lips again nervously.
Marinette got rid of the though of his lips (somehow) and thought about his explanation for a moment.
"So... what you played earlier... that is what I have in my heart?", she asked. That seem to have relaxed him, because he stopped biting his lip and seemed relieved that she didn't see him as a total weirdo.
"Well, I think I did" he answered, "What do you say? You know your heart best, after all."
Marinette thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.
"I'm not exactly sure I know what's going on in here," she put her hand over the area where her heart was located, "it's really... I guess you could say complicated."
The musician nodded.
"Complicated, you say.... like this?"
He put his hand to the fret board again and played the same melody he had played before, but this time, he added some extra notes and more complicated chords. It sounded fuller and, in a way, more complete than before.
"Yeah, that seems more accurate," she said jockingly. That made him laugh and that in return did funny things to her heart. She prayed he wouldn't be able to pick up on that.
After their laughter died down, the sat in silence for a short while. It wasn't as awkard as Marinette imagined it would be with a stranger. She actually felt kind of comfortable.
"If I'm being honest," she said, "I think you got an incredibly beautiful gift. Playing people's hearts like that is... I think it's very fascinating."
The boy stared at her for a few seconds until his lips curved into that beautiful smile of his.
"You know, I never introduced myself," he noted, "my name is Luka."
"Pleasure to meet you, Luka," she answered, "I am Marinette."
"Marinette," Luka repeated slowly, tilting his head a little, "yeah, that fits. A pretty name for a pretty girl."
Marinette couldn't help but giggle. At this point, she was certain he must've heard the nervousness, the admiration, the... whatever that feeling he gave her when he smiled at her was in her heart. But for some strange reason, she really didn't mind anymore.
Maybe that's what gave him the courage to invite her to a glass of orange juice, to exchange phone numbers, to take a walk along the Seine together and then walk her home. They laughed, they talked, they learned about their hearts and even if Marinette wasn't able to hear Luka's heart, something told her that there were the same feelings inside of his.
And after a long, eventful Friday, Marinette's day ended with a text from Luka, wishing her a good night and asking if they could meet up again, and it was at this moment she decided that this day might've not been so bad after all.
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sprucefrog · 1 year
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The dark oaks had been getting to Grian. Something had started ticking. He didn't think any of it until he slumped into a decrepit chair in the old mansion. They had spent several days cutting down trees, tilling the earth, and planting wheat for a project they called the Bread Bridge.
It was Joels idea. After a couple of days with no succes hunting Joel had proposed they build a path of wheat from the mansion all the way to the edge of the forest. As Grian sat down afterwards he thought what a strange thing to do? There was no reason to make fields of wheat so long it stretched to the edge of the forest and cut down so many trees in order to do so. It would have been so much easier just sticking to the area around the mansion. So why did they do it?
A few days later he noticed Jimmy starting to act strange. He'd begun going into the forest presumably to meet with others on the outskirts. He would come back after dark and speak about kidnapping frogs and secret missions entrusted to him only. One night he came back with someone else's blood on his clothes. Jimmy, who'd never started a fight in his life.
Joel had been acting weird too. He kept talking about a submarine he was going to build which puzzled Grian since they were in the middle of a forest. Albeit it rained a lot, but not enough for a submarine to have any use.
Grian walked along the wheat fields of Bread Bridge staying in the shadows of the dark oak trees. He didn't know how he felt about the Bad Boys. He'd joined just for the heck of it and didn't feel particularly tied to the group. Joel however had such a warmth in his eyes when they were together and Jimmy seemed to feel similarly. But lately Grian had started to notice a change in Joels eyes. A faint hunger even when they were all together. And what was all this about submarines and secret missions?
What scared Grian the most was that he had noticed something in his own eyes too. Not quite the same as in Joels, more like a purple glow. His dreams had been odd too. He kept seeing fragments of people he didn't know and situations he didn't remember being in. For some reason he kept seeing sand in his dreams despite never having stepped foot in a desert. He felt as if something had started ticking in them all, since they built Bread Bridge. He felt like the ticking was getting louder day by day and it made him feel like hurting someone. That maybe the ticking would stop if he took a life. Any life, Joels even, or maybe Jimmy.
Maybe he was just fooling himself. Maybe Jimmy was doing something important on his missions and a submarine wouldn't be so bad. In fact Grian had been thinking about starting a bakery in the forest with the wheat from the Bread Bridge. Maybe then they would get more visitors and they'd feel less isolated out in the forest. Maybe Grian wouldn't feel like hurting Joel or Jimmy.
As Grian reached the edge of the forest he looked back along the fields of wheat peacefully rustling in the wind. He thought living in an old mansion in the middle of the dark oak forest might not have been the best idea.
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thequalityrunaway · 2 years
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Strifehart.
Cloud starts fishing in dangerous waters to revive his dying village.
He has no idea the true danger he is in.
-
A Dark Merman story.
Squall considered. “It would be more than a fair exchange for what was given …  I will tell you our story.”
Cloud in turn got comfortable by the rock face, “Does it begin ‘Once upon a time’?”
Squall laughed, “Don’t they all?”
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thranduilsperkybutt · 2 years
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GIRLS ON FILM
Photo sources:  1  |  2 
Pairings:  Steve Harrington/Reader
Warnings:  NSFW; smut; fluff; amateur corn production; literally no proof-reading; plot? what plot?
Word Count:  6,001 words
Reader Gender:  Female
Author:  Meg
Summary:  You need a subject for your photography class assignment. Luckily, your boyfriend is more than willing to help you out. Some pictures, however, might be better off left between just the two of you...
A/N:  Caught you in 4k 📸 Had to bang this out before volume 2 crushed my soul, so, here you go 🤡🤡 I’m in full clown-mode denial that anything is going to happen to my faves at all rn---
Hoisting your bag onto your arm, you make your way out of the lecture hall, still dwelling on the newest assignment your professor had given out. You were supposed to photograph someone important to you in your own unique portraiture method, which had set off a few groans in class when the professor had first announced it. There were clearly several people who had no idea who they were going to make the subject of their assignment, meanwhile your mind had immediately gone to one specific person.
Steve Harrington was perhaps the most important person in your life right now, which makes sense, considering your relationship with the man has been serious since last March. It was perhaps the only thing he was serious about at this current time in his life, with how he was still undecided on his major after nearly a year and a half’s worth of college courses.
His father wanted him to go into tech, but Steve had been so uncertain that any chance at getting into somewhere other than the community college a county over from Hawkins had flown out the window. It was still a touchy subject, and the fact that his wealthy parents still had him working part-time at the Family Video store, despite pursuing an education, was evidence enough that his father hadn’t forgiven him for not applying himself harder. He has a little over a semester’s worth of classes left until you both are set to transfer to state, and he has to decide on something to do with his life by then in order to appease his parents.
Well, something other than dating you, because you’re the only thing in his life right now that Steve’s absolutely certain he wants.
And you’re absolutely certain that Steve is the man for this assignment.
He’s already helped you set up a few of your other projects for this class, between studying for the few classes you share together, so you’re pretty sure he’ll help you out again, if you ask him nicely.
Pushing past the double doors leading out to the parking lot, it’s not difficult to find his beamer parked right where it always is. Steve’s sitting in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down, undoubtedly enjoying the temperate weather after having got out of his own class that ends thirty minutes before yours. The closer you get, the more you can hear the music on his radio, and it becomes clear that he’s either taking a nap or has his eyes closed behind the sunglasses perched on his nose, because he makes no move to acknowledge your approach.
Leaning on the windowsill, you bend into the car swiftly to place a peck on his cheek, “Guess who?”
“That better be my girlfriend, or I’m in trouble,” he grins, raising his head from where it had been leant back on the seat to look at you through his shades. “How was class?”
“Same old, same old,” you roll your eyes, pushing off the door to go around to the passenger side. Dumping your bag into the back seat, you slide in beside him, continuing, “Dr. Tanner gave us another assignment.”
“Oh?” Steve hums, shifting gears to drive out of the parking lot. “She likes to give you guys a lot of things to do, huh?”
“Yeah, she always is saying that the more we practice, the better our photos will be. I guess she’s right,” you sigh, sinking into the seat and deciding to test the waters. “How about your day? How’s it been?”
Steve groans, jaw clenching as he turns his blinker on, “You don’t want to know. My dad’s gonna’ kill me when I make a C in biology.”
“You got your test back?”
“Unfortunately. At least yesterday I still could live with the hope of getting a B—”
“I’m sure there’s some way to improve your grade. There’s still one more test before the final, right?” You lean towards him, reaching out to give his shoulder a comforting rub, “I’ll help you. I’m doing alright in biology since Dr. O’Malley explains things pretty well.”
“Yeah, but O’Malley at least teaches you what’s gonna’ be on the tests! I feel like every time my guy gives us a lecture, he’s telling us what not to study, because it’s never on his exams!” Steve huffs your name with frustration, “I made a fifty-eight. A fifty-eight! That’s like if a nuke hit my B-average.”
“I’m sorry, Steve. I know you studied hard for it,” you murmur, knowing there’s nothing you can do about it now, and instead focus on perhaps cheering him up, “Want to get drive-thru before we hit the interstate? Like KFC or something? I know you must be starving.” It’s about an hour’s drive back to Hawkins, and food is the only thing that you can think of that might make the situation at least a little better for now.
“Yeah, I guess I could eat,” he doesn’t sound convincing.
You give his shoulder a squeeze, feeling him relax slightly at the touch, “You’ll feel better after.”
The side-eyed glance he gives you lets you see a glimpse of his dark eyes beyond the sunglasses, and you offer him an encouraging smile that he returns, “You’re probably right. Man, I’m moping, aren’t I? Sorry to be such a downer.”
“No, it’s okay. You know you don’t have to be on all the time with me,” when he stops at a red light, he reaches from the gear shift to rest his hand on your thigh, leaning into your touch when you move to caress his cheek. “We’ll work through it together, yeah?”
Steve nods, smile spreading into something more genuine, something that reaches his eyes, when he sighs softly, “What did I do to deserve you, honey?”
“Probably something amazing, I’m sure,” you giggle, before retreating back into your seat and turning up the radio just enough to hear a familiar song you liked.
The wind flowing through his open window ruffles his hair as he continues driving on the turning of the light, “That assignment you were talking about— what’s it going to be this time?”
“Well, I have to take a series of photos involving someone I care about, and make them unique to my personal style.”
“Ah,” he begins, “so who’re you gonna’ ask—?”
Rolling your eyes, you snort, “You, obviously! Who else?”
“I don’t know! I thought, maybe, like, Robin, or your parents, or something—” he quickly runs through his options.
“Of course I was gonna’ ask you, Steve. You’re pretty much the most special person in my life—”
“Aw,” he grins, teasing, “I’m special to you? That’s so sweet.”
“Shut up,” you fight against the warmth rising to your cheeks. Even after all this time, he still can make you flustered, and you know he knows it, “Well, will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Be my subject!”
“Uh, sure,” he hums, “I just gotta’ work this weekend. I’m off Sunday, though, so we could do it then, unless you’re busy.”
“Sunday works,” agreement on your tongue, you’re glad you’ll have a few days to figure out what kind of set up you want for the photos. “You could bring your bio books, too, and we could study together.” Steve groans his reluctance until you point at him, “Hey, I’m gonna’ make sure you get the grade you need, mister!”
“Sunday’s supposed to be a day of rest or something, isn’t it?” he whines, taking the turn towards the restaurant.
“There ain’t no rest for the wicked, Steve,” you tease, grinning, as he shoots you a look beneath a raised brow.
“The wicked, and college students, huh?” Steve shakes his head, a smile lingering on his lips as he pulls up behind the cars waiting in line at the drive-thru, “Come on, tell me what you want.”
Reaching around the seat, you grab your bag to rummage through it in search of some cash, “I’m treating you today, okay? Because you had a bad day— no arguing!” You can tell he wants to, by the time you plop back into your seat with your wallet in hand, but you silence whatever protest he’s about to start into when you lean into his personal space, his eyes darting to your lips when you repeat, “No arguing,” before kissing him.
Trying to keep it proper, considering you were still in semi-public, you don’t give Steve much attention before you’re pulling away, and he’s pouting, but concedes all the same, “Fine, but I’m getting it next time.”
“Mhm,” you hum, biting into your smile as you flip open your wallet.
“I am,” Steve leans towards you, catching your attention with a playful look of determination, shooting your own words back at you. “See this face? No arguing!”
“I’m not arguing!” Gesturing to the car in front of you which had driven forward in the time it had taken for him to get distracted, you refocus him, “Pull up, Steve!”
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.”
A wide grin cuts along his teeth, like he knows he’ll get his way, which he will. He almost always does, when it comes to treating you to little things like this. Steve was the kind of guy who liked to feel like he was taking care of someone, but the truth was, he needed you just as much as you needed him. Maybe neither of you were truly reliant on each other financially, but when it comes down to the little moments of every day you spent together? Without that, you’re certain you’d simply wither up and die.
Steve had been your safe place, whenever something was going wrong in your life. You knew you could confide in him about anything, and he’d try to support you through it. Maybe that’s why you can allow yourself to give him the same, because Steve Harrington made loving you look easy, even when you knew it wasn’t always the case.
Comfortable is a forbidden word to some couples. They’re so used to the high of a honeymoon phase, or the anxiety of a struggling relationship, that when the lull of everyday comfortability sets in, it’s mistaken for boredom. For something being terribly wrong. You’d been that way once, before him, and judging by what he’d told you of his past relationships, he’d been victim to that same uncertainty in the past.
The truth is, you wouldn’t rather have him any other way. Slipping into this sneaky vulnerability that comes with the soft comfort which spreads through your soul every time he touches you, or calls you his, is a state you’d gladly live in for the rest of your days.
You’ve been head over heels for him for far longer than you ever realized.
That’s why the next couple of days were hard. Whenever you were separated by work, only able to see him between classes and shifts, as silly as it sounds, you’re missing him by Sunday. Sure, he called you the night before— he always makes sure to call you on the days you can’t see each other in person, but you’re still a bundle of nervous excitement as you set up the finishing touches for the photos of him you had planned.
It was a photography studio on a student budget, also known as a sheet pinned against your shoebox of an apartment’s wall, with strategic lighting positioned around it. You’ve decided on seeing what you can accomplish with polaroids, rather than the film processing you’d have to do otherwise.
You wanted to focus on minimalism, on just him, hoping that maybe the lack of focus on anything else would show how little everything else matters in comparison. Or, at least, that it’ll get you a good grade on the project.
Sighing, you plop down onto your bed to get as much a distant look at the set-up as you can in the cramped space, before deciding that it was as close as you had imagined in your head as you were going to get for now. The sound of the key in your lock lets you know it’s just in the nick of time, too, because within moments Steve is pushing open your door.
“Your model has arrived,” he calls out, before catching sight of you on the bed. He does a dramatic little spin to show off his outfit, which consists of a blue sweater and gray slacks, before shutting your front door behind him with a grin, “I’m ready for Vogue.”
Chuckling, “Perfect timing! I just got done setting everything up.” He’s tucking his keys into his pocket when you look around him, “Did you forget your biology book?”
“Ugh,” he groans before collapsing beside you on the bed, pushing himself up on his elbow to affix you with a reluctant, “it’s rotting in the trunk of my car. I was hoping you’d forget about bio…” blinking up at you, he bats his eyes as if to persuade you, “since I’m being such a great guy and helping you out with your project, and all…”
“Steve!” you huff when he pokes you in the side, swatting at his hands, “It’s for your own good!”
“I’ve just accepted my fate at this point—”
“No, come on,” you shift to turn towards him more fully, dangling one leg off the bed with the other crossed beneath your hands. “There’s more fight in you than that! Look, how about we do the shoot, then we can study a little, and spend the rest of the day doing something fun together? At the very least, we should go over your test together…”
A smile slowly parts his lips, as Steve jokes, “Alright, professor, we’ll do it your way,” before sitting up properly to sneak a kiss at your cheek. “So, tell me all about where you want me for this shoot.”
Escaping the way his hands have started to snake around your waist, you move towards the camera you’ve set up on the small space of a kitchen counter that you have, “I’m thinking, polaroids this time. I did regular film for the last project, but the professor is giving us more creative leeway with this one. Besides, I’ve been wanting to do something serious with this thing for class ever since you got me it for my birthday…”
“Oh, yeah,” Steve nods, as if he’s said anything different when you told him the last few project ideas you’ve come up with, “I think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m not finished telling you everything about my idea,” you begin, picking at the camera in your hands as you confess the one point you weren’t entirely sure if he’d be okay with. “I wanted to do a minimalist kind of thing, and you can totally say no if you want to. I’m sure I could make it work otherwise—”
Steve raises a brow at your rambling tone, “What?”
“I was thinking… about maybe taking a few pictures… without your shirt? Like I was going to pose you so it’s like, this artistically minimal kind of thing, and it would only be shots from the waist up, but I totally get if you’re not comfortable with doing that—” your voice dies in your throat when Steve stands up and simply tugs his sweater over his head, laying it over the rails of your bed’s iron footboard.
Moving closer, he smirks at having successfully silenced you, “You want me to sit on the stool?”
“Yeah, um,” you tear your eyes away from him, towards your setup, and the stool sat in the middle of it. “Kind of with your back to me— I’ll show you.”
When you have him successfully positioned, in the stool, pushing his hair the way you want it to look, he grins at your look of concentration, “Can’t get enough of this pretty face, huh?”
“Quit smiling,” you snicker, before pulling back to look at him through the camera lens, “I want a neutral look on your face in these shots.”
“Neutral, huh?” he proceeds to frown.
“Neutral, not frowning! Think of, like, clean laundry, or something that makes you feel calm—”
“Clean laundry?” he was heavily judging your choice, “That’s what makes you calm?”
“Steve,” you whine, lowering the camera from your face, “just think of something calming.”
“Okay, okay, just gimme’ a second,” he relents, as you bring the camera back up to line up the shot. Finally, he breathes, “Got it,” before his face settles into a calm neutral expression, dark brown eyes looking at the camera just the way you want.
“Perfect,” you snap the shot, before hearing the whirr of the film as it gets ejected. Fanning the picture until it starts to appear, you feel your smile spreading when you begin to make out the photo. It turned out great. Setting the picture on the counter, you turn back to Steve, “Alright, just keep doing that. I’m gonna’ get some different angles.”
“Okay. Just make sure you make me look cool,” of course that would be his one concern.
Before you can reposition him again, you try out some different angles. You want to have multiple shots to choose from, so you don’t wind up having to take more pictures of him later. You’d learned your lesson before about not getting enough shots, and it was more of a hassle in the long run than just taking your time while you had everything set up. You spend almost half an hour taking the shots between soft banter with Steve, which is honestly less time than you’d expected it to take, but Steve was more focused today than he usually is.
Flipping through the stack of polaroids you’ve taken, you hold out some for Steve to see, “Wanna’ take a look?”
“We done?”
“I think so. They turned out really nice. I’ll have to narrow down my favorite ones to submit for class…” Steve’s fingers brush yours as he takes the pictures from your hands, looking through them. You hope he thinks they look as good as you do, “What do you think?”
“I think,” his eyes flick up from the pictures to catch your waiting stare, “I’ve never looked better.” You let out a breath of relief, taking the pictures back from him to sort out on the counter, while Steve plucks the camera into his hands, “This is a nifty little thing, huh? I didn’t expect it to be able to make pictures that good.”
“That’s the technology of the ‘80s for you,” you joke, only for a flash and the sound of the camera going off to catch your attention. Whipping your head from the pictures on the counter to Steve, you find him grinning mischievously at you as he fans out a picture of his own, “Steve!”
“What? The photographer never gets to be photographed?” holding out the picture, you watch as the candid image of you sorting through the pictures comes into view, “Look at how beautiful you look.”
“Stop,” you can’t stop your giggles when he slides up into your personal space, positioning the camera like he’s going to take another picture, “you’ll waste the film.”
“It’s not a waste. I could use a few more pictures of you.”
Looking towards him skeptically, “You have pictures of me—”
“Yeah,” he sighs, brushing your hair out of his way to kiss  you against your temple, “I could always use more, though.”
“What you should use is that biology book that’s in the trunk of your car,” you turn to face him, leaning against the counter as he rolls his eyes at your cheeky changing of the subject. Backing up, he appears to be thinking, before he turns to go and sit on the edge of your bed, still picking at the camera in his hands.
“You said we wouldn’t study until after the shoot,” Steve mumbles, placing the camera to his side.
“Yeah, and I’m done. I got all the shots I think I need.”
“No, you haven’t,” he begins, and you know better than to play this game with him, when he gets that look in his eyes. You know whatever he’s got in his head can only be a bad idea, but you step forward anyway.
Arms crossed over your chest, it’s too fun to give into him to resist, “Oh? What makes you say that?”
“I was just… thinking…”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Shut up,” Steve chuckles, reaching out when you’re within arm’s reach to tug you closer by the loops in your jeans. “I was just thinking about, maybe… you letting me take some pictures of you. Just for me.”
“Just for you, huh?” you lean your hand on his shoulder, steading yourself from where you stand between his knees. “What kind of pictures?”
“Nothing too bad, just… the last picture I have of you is the one in my wallet, and it’s practically falling apart,” he sighs when you card your fingers into his hair, scraping your nails along his scalp. “How am I supposed to brag about my girl with a picture that looks like it’s been through a world war?”
“And who’s fault is that? I gave it to you brand new—”
“I know, I know, but,” and there are those wide eyes of his again, staring up at you with that pleading look that made you melt to his every whim just about, “I want to remember how you are now, when we’re alone together. Not just some professional photo— though, you look nice in those, too.”
Now, how were you supposed to say no to that?
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, knowing full well you’d let him take as many as he wanted to, “just one picture.” He could use the rest of your film up, if it meant seeing him grin at you like he was. Reloading the camera again is a small price to pay.
“Really?” when you nod, he urges you down into his lap with a firm tug at your hips, until you’re left straddling him. His hand finds the side of your neck, dragging your lips against his in a kiss that’s soft, slow, but laced with his hint of grateful excitement before he pulls away with, “Thank you.”
“Jeez, if that’s the thanks I get for letting you take a picture, I’ll let you take them more often,” you laugh, as he picks the camera off the comforter. “How do you want me to sit for the picture, Steve?”
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully, bringing the camera to his face to look at you through it, “that’s a good question. I think… I want you to take your sweater off for it.”
“It’s a cardigan,” you correct, reaching down to unbutton the garment.
“Whatever,” Steve lowers the camera, watching you toss the cardigan onto the footboard of your bed, where his sweater still hangs. It leaves you in the casual tank-top you’d been wearing beneath.
“Do you want to use the set?”
“No, no,” he brings the camera back up, still seemingly deciding on how he wants the picture, “I think I want you to sit on the bed.” Before you can move from his lap, he adds, “It would be more normal. I want it to be kind of natural.”
“Alrighty, then,” you shift, crawling off him and to the side in order to lay back on the bed, until he gets up. When you sit upright, Steve’s standing off the end of the bed with the camera, seemingly mimicking the way you had been lining up your shot earlier.
Noticing the strap of your tank top has slipped down your arm when you shifted positions, you go to push it back up, only for Steve’s voice to stop you, “Uh, can you leave it?”
“What?”
“It just makes you look comfortable,” is his only explanation, but you lower your hand all the same, leaving the strap hanging slightly off your shoulder.
“Is this good?” you ask, but there’s a tension in the air, and judging by the strain in his voice, he can feel it, too.
“Yeah, uh,” you watch as Steve swallows, “can you just, lay back a bit?” Doing as he says, you relax against the comforter a little, and he comes closer. His knees brush the edge of the bed between where your calves dangle off the edge of it. He takes another second, before the shutter goes off along with the flash, and then another picture is ejecting from the camera.
Steve fans it a little, while you raise your foot to press into his abdomen, “Did it turn out how you wanted?”
His eyes are a little glazed over, when he looks from the picture to you, as if he were lost in thought for just a moment, “Um, yeah, take a look.” You take the photo when he offers it to you, only to see yourself spread atop the bed, hair spread around your head like a halo, the strap of your tank top falling off your shoulder. The slight smile on your face only adds to how comfortable you look, and you have to admit, you don’t hate this picture of you.
Steve’s hand comes to your ankle, pushing your foot from his path as he kneels into the bed, settling over your body while you stare at the picture, “I did good, huh?”
“You’re quite the photographer, Mister Harrington,” you tease, casting your eyes upon him again to find that he’s so close. It takes only a shift of his body weight to lower himself enough to capture your lips with his, but while this kiss might be slow, it was far from soft. There’s an edge there, a need in the insistence of his lips against yours. The taste of his tongue scrambling your thoughts until you completely abandon the picture in your grip, leaving it somewhere beside you on the bed, in favor of the feeling of his skin.
Your hands snake up his sides, dragging him closer just as much as your legs do, while Steve kisses you senseless. His fingers splay beneath the end of your shirt, pushing until he can feel the soft press of your stomach, and inching upwards with each passing second. The last thing on either of your minds is studying for biology, and any chance you have at returning to the plan for the day is quickly slipping through your fingertips the more his body presses down into yours.
It crumbles away entirely when he pulls back just enough to utter a breathless, “I need you so bad right now,” before delving down your jaw, dragging his lips along the column of your throat.
“Steve—” you’re just as breathless, and you don’t know if it’s the few days you’ve spent apart, or the fact that you have both been so wound-up over school, but you need him just as badly.
“Please,” he groans against your throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses there that were undoubtedly going to leave a mark thanks to the fervor with which he’d descended upon you. You hardly mind. You’ve missed his marks on you, ever since the last ones had faded.
Your tank top is pushed over your chest, a fist in the fabric keeping it up while his other hand presses against your hardening nipples through the bralette you’d chosen to wear today. You hadn’t planned on going anywhere, and wanted to just remain comfortable, but that was backfiring on you now, because you can feel almost everything through the thin fabric.
As if arching into his touch wasn’t enough, Steve questions, “You want it, too, right?”
“Yeah, Steve,” catching him by the jaw to drag his head back up, you mewl against his lips, “I want you.”
His breath shudders from his lips before he draws you into another kiss. Taking his time to strip you down is nothing new, but the words he utters as he pushes his own pants from his hips are.
“I can’t stop thinking about how good you look on camera,” Steve groans, taking himself into his hand, stroking languidly as you shift beneath where he’s knelt himself over you on the bed. Fingers slipping down your thigh, he drags you a little closer, kissing the inside of your knee. You suck in a breath as he pushes himself along your core, spreading your wetness along his length, all the while with a heated look swirling in his dark eyes. When he finally positions himself against your entrance, your mouth falls open, sucking in a soft breath at the feeling of his familiar stretch, but it’s his words that set you on fire, “Now that’s a sight I’d like a picture of.”
It’s an off-handed comment, but now you can’t stop thinking about it. Drowning in the feeling of the slow, steady pace he sets, the idea has time to marinate in the back of your scrambled mind.
You’re reaching for him, brushing your fingertips against his abdomen as you moan his name, but Steve huffs, “Touch yourself,” as he drives his hips into yours once again.
Blinking up at him, you’re struck by the idea of how he would look if you took a picture of him at this very moment, and that thought is perhaps what sets the most foolish words on your tongue, “The camera— Get the camera.”
His hips stutter, and a choked sound comes from him, before he manages to form a sentence, “Are you serious?”
“Just for you,” you nod, and he abandons his grip on your thigh to reach for the polaroid that had wound up against the pillows.
His pace almost stills until he can get the camera in a good enough grip to lift it to his face, and that’s when his thrusts return in long, languid strokes that have you writhing beneath him with the assistance of your fingers pressing circles at your clit, “God, look at you.” His voice is heavy, wrapped around a moan of his own as he presses a hand down against your stomach, pushing your hips down onto his cock in a way that almost makes you cry out, “These are gonna’ turn out great.”
There’s a certain vulnerability to being in front of a camera, and stripped as bare as you were already, you’re practically raw, rubbed against him when the flash bursts upon your skin, camera shutter mixing with your moans as he fucks you slow into the mattress, “Steve, ah—!”
He abandons your stomach to take the photo that slips from the camera, fanning it until it develops enough for him to see the still image resulting from his touch, “Oh, look at how pretty you are.” He holds it out for you to see, but you barely manage a glimpse at yourself before he’s tossing the picture to the side, bringing the camera back up to his eyes.
“You’re— taking another?” you gasp, arching up into your own touch as he hits you deeper with the next roll of his hips.
“Yeah, that’s right. Just a few more—” Steve groans reaching to slip his hand down your thigh, pushing you open even more, “Can you spread your legs a little more— yeah, just like that—” and the shutter’s going off again, the image of you burned into the film as much as it will be in his memory.
You clench around him when the photograph falls onto your chest before he can reach for it, and you hope you’ll never forget the whimper that escapes him when he lowers the camera just slightly. A glimpse of teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep the sounds threatening to spill from him at bay, when he opens his eyes from the feeling, he sees you watching him in a way that seems to spell out your desire in every way words seem incapable of accomplishing right now.
All you can manage are your own sighs of pleasure, when his fingertips overlap yours to press into your clit. Lowering the camera to the bed, he refocuses on turning you into molten lava with every steady, sure stroke, building up the pleasure until it reached a boiling point. Lost somewhere between overstimulation and the peak of your desire, you’re both chasing this feeling and trying to draw it out for as long as it will last.
Your mouth is dry, so you lick your lips, thankful you’re able to think just barely enough to say, “I-It’s not fair. I won’t have any pictures of you.”
“You want some of me?” Steve repeats, as if he didn’t quite hear you right. For all he knows, he hallucinated it at this point, because he’s nearly out of his mind with how good you feel wrapped around him.
“I do,” you shift, using all the energy you have left to push him over, until you’re sitting on top of him. “It’s only fair.” Grinding your hips down into his, his hands catch against your thighs, aiding in your attempt at riding him with just a torturous pace as he had set. 
“Oh— Okay,” his head falls back against the bed as he moans, “Yeah— We gotta’ be fair.”
The camera’s in your hands as soon as you can reach for it, but you’re slower than he was. So lost in the feeling that it takes you more time to drag your mind back to the task at hand, until his lips part when you drop your hips down onto him a little quicker than before.
That’s the one.
The snap of the camera seems to only make him rock himself further into your thrusts, and you wind up quite pleased with the way your picture turned out, “Steve, look—” He squeezes your thighs before one of his hands releases you in favor of taking the picture by his index and middle finger, bringing it up to his face.
“Oh, fuck,” he whines at the sight, and you place your hand on his chest in order to get enough leverage to drag yourself almost completely off his cock, just to drop your hips again, and he nearly shouts at the feeling. You’re both shaking, and it shows in the next picture you take of him, but the blurriness is hardly obstructing the view of him, still looking at the photo you’d snapped moments before it.
He falls apart just seconds before you do, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh as the photograph falls from his grip. Fingers carding through his own hair as you ride him through the brunt of it, desperately chasing your own pleasure at this point, until it detonates with the fullness that comes from his shuddering release.
Steve’s weak call of your name falls on deaf ears as you nearly collapse atop him. Shivering white-hot pleasure down your spine until it settles in the involuntary fluttering of your core around him. He supplies a few overstimulated, shallow thrusts as his arms wrap around you, holding you to him for dear life, until you both manage to float down from the devastation you’ve reaped upon each other.
You’re just glad you didn’t drop the camera, because you would hate to have broken it.
Instead, it lays against the mattress much like the rest of you, though you don’t think you’ll ever be able to use it again without thinking back to this moment. Steve’s fingers trace up your spine, as you feel him slowly beginning to even out his breathing beneath your chest.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs into your ear, and you giggle against him.
“Yeah…” moving off of him, you collapse into the bed, careful to avoid any stray polaroid pictures evidencing your love-making that were strewn along the bed.
Steve tilts his head to look at you, chuckling, “I think I should get a video camera for your next birthday—”
“Shut up.”
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thequackcity · 1 year
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tommy imagined his reunion with wilbur a million times over. he’d imagined running towards wilbur, both of them with their arms outstretched and grins on their faces. he’d imagined screaming at wilbur and shoving him away. but when they finally meet again, after their eyes meet across a crowded street, tommy holds out his hand instead- a silent offer that says ‘do you want to try to start over?’ 
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bellpeppersand-beef · 1 month
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Cowboy Bebop (Anime) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jet Black/Spike Spiegel/Faye Valentine Characters: Jet Black, Faye Valentine, Spike Spiegel Additional Tags: Drunken Shenanigans, Drinking Games, Never Have I Ever, probably ooc but I am having too much fun to care Summary:
Spike was the one who suggested they drink, but Faye was the one to suggest making it a game. Jet was fine just playing along, as long as it meant there was peace and quiet on his ship for a goddamn minute- of course, it doesn’t go exactly to plan. Nothing ever does when it involves those two.
Written for @bebopcrew‘s relationship week 😊
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oatmilk-vampire · 2 months
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Always the writer, never the reader.
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SOMEONE!IN FRENCH!COMMENTED!ON MY!MCR FRENCH FIC!THAT I POSTED!TWO HOURS AGO! AND!THEY SAID!THEY LOVE THE CONCEPT!
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