#must have watched that scene a thousand times | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gilverrwrites · 11 days

Text

Best friends to lovers, but it's Dick Grayson.

≈1.3K words, CWs: F!Reader, cunnilingus, dirty talk. Pet-names: Princess, baby girl, pretty girl. Rating: 18+ MINOR DNI

Your best friend Dick Grayson has no boundaries.

He helps himself to your food, swapping and changing dumplings for noodles, carrots for celery, dips his fries in your milkshake, without even asking.

He leaves his dirty clothes in your washing hamper, ‘borrows’ your lotions, and leaves his streaming services logged in on all your devices. In the winter he puts his cold hands under your shirt, stealing your warmth, and laughs when you flinch. “But you’re so hot!” He whines, hugging you tighter, “Let me hold you a while longer, please.”

In the summer he struts around your apartment, shirtless and sheening with sweat, eating your ice cream, pumping up the AC so he and Haley can chill out post-run. Not that you mind, it’s just that ‘oh, no, he’s my best friend’ is a hard sell when you bring dates home.

At random hours of the early morning, he wakes you up by crawling into bed with you, clings to the over-sized shirt you're sleeping in that is clearly his and makes fun of your tattered old underwear. “They’re comfy!” “They’re… something...” He trails off, all dreamy and quiet, refusing to expand before falling asleep, and is gone by the time you wake up.

Your best friend Dick Grayson brings you gifts from all over the world. Chocolates from that one mom-and-pop you once mentioned in Keystone, jewellery, and perfume he probably paid way too much for from market vendors in cities like Paris and Istanbul, risqué pieces of underwear from Milan.

On late nights, he rests his head on your tummy, settled between your thighs as you watch your favourite film series for the nth time, smiling to himself as you babble on about your favourite scenes, about facts he already knows because you already told him, but he wants to hear you say it again anyway. When you start falling asleep on the couch, he lifts you, bridal style with ease, and carries you to the bedroom. “Come on then princess, let’s get you to bed.” “I can do it myself.” “You can’t even keep your eyes open, let me.”

He brushes stray pieces of hair out of your face when you’re too engrossed in something to do it yourself, when your hands are too full to reach, or when he wants to get a better look at you, just because he loves looking at your face.

“Um, what are you doing?” He nonchalantly hooks his finger into the waistband of your trousers, disappointed when he gets a not-too-subtle peek at neither your endearing threadbare usuals, nor the lacey Italian ones he’d bought for you.

Your best friend Dick Grayson flirts with you blatant and publicly;

“The red or the blue?” “Neither.” “I have to wear something!” “I’d love to see you wearing nothing.” “Wear the blue, always the blue.” Jason would never let it go otherwise. “What do you want?” “You.” “I meant to eat.” “Same answer.” “I could never be you.” “What? Why?” “Must be tiring, being that cute.”

He texts you when you’re not together. “Good morning pretty girl” “saw this and thought of you.” “What are you wearing?”

One day you text back a picture, a mirror selfie from behind, your skirt hiked up, showing off the tiny navy-blue thong and he doesn’t text back. You worry that you’ve taken it too far, overstepped a line.

Until your best friend Dick Grayson is waiting for you when you arrive home, sporting a nasty black eye and a smile the size of titan tower. In actuality, that image was exactly what he’d been hoping for every time he messaged. That image had been ingrained in his mind since you sent it, and it was one thousand times better than he’d imagined. That image was his hook, time to reel you in.

“Sorry I didn’t text back, I was speechless. No really, I got this” he points to the purple bruise forming around his eye “because I was distracted, thinking about you.”

“It’s cool, you didn’t have to say anything.” You lie. “Not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

“Can I see it again?”

In the middle of your cramped kitchen, your best friend Dick Grayson lifts your skirt above your waist and drops to his knees, brazenly eying your folds. On request, you take the skirt from his hands, holding it up, exposing yourself as you do a little twirl for him, letting him see the full picture.

When he lands a playful smack on your ass-cheek he grins, thrilled by the playfully petulant look you fire at him over your shoulder. When he runs a finger over your clothed slit, he’s even more delighted by the way your body shivers, by the hint of wetness he can feel seeping through the thin piece of fabric.

You don’t stop him when he hooks a finger in the crotch, pulling the obstructing lace to the side, or when he runs his fingers through your now exposed lips. Deft fingers tease you, ghosting over your clit with no real fiction, making your pussy clench around nothing.

“Want something?” The sight of him at your feet, watching you through defiant eyes has you weak.

“Yes, touch me.” The sight of you, spread and writhing has him near feral, but he wants something more.

“I’m already touching you, Princess.” He laughs, his warm breath against your slick tingles. If his breath is enough to make you quiver, he can’t wait to find out what his tongue will do to you. “Ask for something else. Nicely.”

You’re not sure exactly what he wants you to say, so you stammer the first words that come to mind; “Please Dick, stop teasing. Just do whatever you want to do, I want it too.”

It’s enough.

Your best friend Dick Grayson lifts you by your knees, setting you on the counter and securing your thighs over his shoulders as he descends on your folds. He’s messy and desperate, unable to get enough of your sweetness, darting his tongue in every direction until he finds the select few motions that have your fingers curling in his hair, have you panting his name between loose lips.

When you start to roll your hips, using his mouth for your own pleasure he can’t help but moan, the reverb sending further vibrations through your body that has your toes curling. He’s rock hard, itching to palm his cock, to grind it against the closest surface, but that’s an afterthought. He won’t get off until he’s lapped up your climax at least once.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” His words are slurred, muffled between your legs, unwilling to pull away long enough to get his words out cohesively. “I want you to cum all over my face, okay baby girl?”

If he wasn’t already salivating against you, Dick’s mouth would water at the sight of you. Your body begins to jerk, your back arching, head thrown back as your orgasm hits you, his firm hands tighten around your legs, locking your lower body in place until all your tension is gone, and his face is soaked with your fluids.

As you come down from your high, he savours the flavour, occasionally licking up stray droplets from your skin. He admires the way you look, head lolled to the side, eyes static under heavy lids, jaw slack, until it’s too much, until he needs to see you high on his doing once more. Without warning he lifts you. The collar of his shirt is damp, his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for round two.” Your best friend Dick Grayson says as he cradles your body in his arms.

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing #nightwing x reader #reader insert #dc #gilverrwrites

339 notes · View notes

bakugoushotwife · 8 months

Text

kinktober day sixteen: femdom kink

>>> listen my toxic trait is writing a five thousand word naoya fic and using it as textual evidence that i could fix him! also pretty sure this is my first time writing dom reader and it is for the most peggable man alive. this is for the sick and depraved bitches like me <3

>>> starring: naoya zen'in x curvy!f!DOM!reader >>> cw: femdom obviously, misogyny, degradation, coercion, bondage, pegging, cowgirl, creampie, breeding, gojo is hilarious, this cures naoya! >>> wc: 5.1k >>> event masterlist

he watches you for a while. he had heard about you, and was naturally disgusted and in denial. you weren’t even from a big clan, and you’re a woman—there’s no way you were as powerful as they say. you were even on his father’s radar, he’s overheard many conversations about your promotion to special grade and how it was done much too late. you even had his father fooled. what was so hard to understand? women had no place in jujutsu sorcery. women are good for reproducing heirs–having a powerful technique only helps in that effort. in his clan, their women stay home and take care of the children and their husbands like they’re supposed to, and that’s why there wasn’t any impressive females in the work. until you came along, second only to satoru gojo, or so they say. he just had to see for himself what all the fuss was about.

naoya leaves the zen’in compound to take a brief break from the hei. your name comes to mind, and he seethes with rage at his brain’s reminder of your heralding. how had you risen so far without a humbling? he planned to fight you himself and put you in your place since no one else was willing to do it. he knew you kept close to gojo based off of your mission reports and the way people spoke about you two. everyone assumed you would marry him someday, but naoya was also looking for a bride. perhaps he could show you his power and prove your uselessness simultaneously, if you were pretty enough. that may not even matter if satoru gojo likes you. he would do anything to knock him down a peg too, and taking his preferred spouse would be a great start.

finding you was easy enough, as he thought it would be. you continued to field missions on your own, but if you were in between them, you were helping out around tokyo’s sorcerer school. he watches you now, sparring with a student. he folds his arms over his chest and sits down on the steps furthest away from the scene. you move with grace and fluidity, outmaneuvering the male student you were fighting, and your grin was clear to see.

“kusakabe—quicker!” you chide, sweeping his feet out from under him suddenly, pointing your bo staff under his chin. the first year boy chuckles beneath you and shakes his head.

“damn sensei–i’m learning, take it easy!” he huffs, getting to his feet.

“this is me taking it easy—i’m not even using my technique, kid.” you sigh and roll your eyes, stabbing your staff into the ground next to you. “get outta my sight. next?” the other two first years shake their head, having seen enough for one day. “no takers? go find gojo.” you jut your chin in dismissal, watching the group as they trickle inside the school.

naoya waits until they’re gone. you feel his energy as he comes closer, but you pretend not to. what could naoya zen’in possibly be at jujutsu tech for? you’ve heard plenty about him, and none of it has been good. you imagine this had something to do with his one sided tension with gojo, and that idea humored you enough to ignore his presence in hopes he aggravated your friend some more. but he calls your name instead, and you hesitantly turn to face him.

he smirks with shallow satisfaction upon further inspection of you. yes, it is easy to see why gojo must be fond of you. you have a pretty face, doe-like eyes and full cheeks, soft cheekbones and jaw, full lips and long eyelashes. yes, you are very beautiful in just your face alone, but he does note the hourglass shape of your figure. your full chest is restrained by that ugly school uniform you wear, but it can’t hide it. your hips are perfect for birthing heirs, and you are strong enough in foundation to handle several of them, he thinks.

“can i help you?” you arch your brow, cocking your hip out impatiently. he was busy drooling, and you wonder if naoya has ever seen a woman before. “would you like a picture?”

your voice brings him back to the matters at hand. he looks unamused, “unfortunately i’m not another one of your adoring fans.”

“really? could have fooled me. what do you need then?” you tease, tilting your head to the side in confusion. you don’t fool him though, he can hear that matronly tone to your voice. look at you, already trying to cater to his needs.

“i want to fight you. and then i want to marry you.” he states confidently, mirroring your tilted head out of amusement, though it’s you that starts laughing. his brows furrow in response.

“are you being serious?” you titter, covering your shocked mouth with your hand. “such an interesting proposal, traditionally men court their potential brides.” you tease him again, now poking at the nature of his clan. but you don’t say no, and that interests him more than the attitude he’ll quickly put into place.

“you’re far too boisterous for a woman. i’ll beat you, and then i’ll take you as my wife.” he explains simply, tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe. you’re entertained grin doesn’t falter, and he’s astounded by you. most women flounder and argue with him or they stick their noses in the air and just ignore him, but you…you were nodding.

“deal. and when i beat you, i’ll take you as my husband.” you smirk, knowing exactly how to put this over idealistic man in his place, which just so happened to be under your control.

“what?” he sneers, confusion evident. why on earth would you make the stakes the same even if you won?

you shrug a little and examine him the same way he looked over you. he was tall and handsome, a bit more muscle bound than gojo with feline features. having a zen’in would be nice too, you think, smiling to yourself. “you’re a sexy little thing, i wouldn’t mind making you my husband.” you shrug, securing your hair. he was no first-year kusakabe, you knew you’d need your technique on him.

he can feel heat sting at his face when you say that, having assumed he would need to try much harder to earn the fight and your agreement to marry him. you’re attracted to him already?

“you gonna fight or you gonna stand there and catch flies?” you hum, cursed technique active already. you know his, but he does not know yours. he snaps back into it, feeling weirdly competitive not only in showing off his power and the value he would have as a mate, but to beat your peacocking.

he huffs, rolling his eyes at you and jumping into action, clearly waiting on you to attack. you’ll bite, knowing he doesn’t understand the scope of your abilities. you throw your left hand out to release millions of threads. your cursed threads are so tiny they’re almost unnoticeable, and he thinks you’ve walked right into his trap. he uses his technique to phase out of your way, but not before you toss your right hand out and catch him in your webs. you smile, wrapping him up in the spider-like spins like an ant about to be eaten by the black widow.

“looks like this fight is over, husband!” you cheer, crediting your extensive knowledge on his technique as the winning edge. had the fight been more even, perhaps it would have lasted longer. he looks down at you with a mixture of shock, disgust and…arousal?

“when will we have the wedding?” you hum, tapping your chin in mock-thought. “i’m thinking the end of the month should give you plenty of time?” you grin, watching him squirm against your threads. you release your technique to spare him some pride. “assuming our deal is still on?”

he has to have your power for his children. as he’s said before, the sin of the insignificant is the ignorance of true strength, and while he may not be quick to accept his defeat, he’s able to move into the vein of the potential you would bring him as a spouse. you would never fight again, you would never need to, but truly he had never seen someone like you before—male or female. embarrassment settles over his features, and he’ll make it a point to control your mouthiness after this wedding.

“the end of the month will do. come to the estate by noon.” he looks over your cocky disposition and nearly seethes again, but the bigger picture is clear–so he has to put these feelings of confusion and shame aside for now, so he can reach his goals.

you chuckle fondly. “i’d like to be married here, i think. i was the winner, no?” your cunning smirk makes his eyes narrow as he agrees.

“fine.” he dismisses with an eye roll, leaving jujutsu tech’s school grounds with his mind a jumbled mess. you were everything he hates. a loud-mouthed woman who thinks she’s powerful enough to play with the big dogs. but… it seems you can. it isn’t all talk, you are extremely powerful…and you beat him. and he doesn’t hate that you did. in fact, watching you handle him without a sweat made him wonder if even toji would be able to handle you. what did that mean for him all of a sudden?

the wedding is lovely given the time constraints the planning was under, even though the guests in attendance are very confused and unapproving. kusakabe even approaches to make sure gojo didn’t dare you to do this. the zen’in clan comes in limited numbers, though they seem pleased with his ‘choice’ in bride. satoru walks you down the aisle—something he begged to do simply for the pleasure of putting your hand in naoya’s and leaning in to his ear to whisper.

“good luck. you asked for this, remember that.” he chuckles, clapping him on his back before returning to his seat. naoya thinks about his words for the rest of the ceremony, even when he gets distracted by your perky chest and bright smile. he wonders just what he’s in for as you drag him along with you, his pride commanding him to straighten up and get it together as he makes it a point to match your pace. you chuckle at his neediness, and that won’t be the last time you do so.

“so husband. did you enjoy your wedding?” you ask, walking him towards your residence only a mile or so away. he chuffs at your eagerness, the conflicting feelings in his gut telling him to be as petty as possible. he turns his head to the side and shrugs.

“it was a wedding.” he says in non-answer, very immersed in the details of the trees all of a sudden. you hum, still holding his hand firmly.

“aw, don’t be shy now, it’s just us!” you cheer, veering down a path that would take you towards your house. “personally, i enjoyed it. you look very handsome.” you practically coo, and his heart jumps at your tone. god this was insufferable. but he loves it.

“it was..nice. zen’in’s would have done it bigger.”

“and did you want it to be bigger?” you respond, and the sincerity in your question makes him wonder what he does actually want and like. he has always had everything except a connection, and maybe that was his own doing, a product of his environment—but still. you made him think. and after a few precious moments of silence reflecting on it, he doesn’t think he would have liked the ceremony his clan typically performs, nor everyone being there. he doesn’t much care for any one of them at all, so why would he have them at his wedding?

“actually. no.” he squares his shoulders and straightens his back, seeing a humble little house come into view. “is this..?”

“my house. welcome home.” you smile and push the door open for him. he furrows his brows and cocks his jaw in confusion. “what? you’re my house husband now. close your mouth, sweetheart.” you hum, leaning over and physically shutting his mouth for him.

“house husband?!” he erupts, his face turning bright red as you drag him into the house. why doesn’t he just fight you back, stop you? is it because he knows he can’t win? that realization alone makes him yank his hand out of your grip and stop in his tracks. you bat your eyes at him expectantly, knowing you had a little brat on your hands.

“mhm,” you nod, a little grin tugging at your lips. you step closer, balancing your arms on his shoulders and playing with your fingers where they connect. “i made you my husband, silly boy. so i’ll keep running missions and you’ll shut up and do what i tell you to.” you tilt your head to one side, admiring the surprise and rage glimmering in his sharp brown eyes. “doesn’t that sound good?”

you bring your hands back to his slender shoulders, trailing the touch to his pecs. he opens his mouth to speak, absolutely stunned. never in his entire life had anyone, male or female, ever spoken to him with such brazenness. his cheeks warm with color. no way he was enjoying this. is this what it felt like to be…submissive? his eyes narrow at you in the confusion, but he only sees that same angelic face and divine body, and he doesn’t think he can argue with the notion that obeying you might have its upsides.

“and right now, i want you to follow me. time for the house tour!” you clap enthusiastically and tilt your head for him to follow you. he does, until he notices you’ve stopped by the bathroom. you lean against the doorway and gesture to the room. “the bathroom of course. you’ll clean this on mondays, should be pretty clean already. i have good hygiene.”

his eyes widened a little bit once more. you were deadly serious, meaning for him to clean the house while you continued your job as a sorcerer. you move onto the kitchen with a smug grin. his feet move a little more reluctantly this time. you open the cabinet with all the cleaning supplies. “the kitchen should really stay clean. i’ll help you learn—i’m not heartless.” you chuckle to yourself as he folds his arms across his chest.

you’re worse than heartless. you have to be the devil herself with all of this. you’re a siren at the least, so beautiful he really hadn’t processed all you were demanding of him until now, and he huffs and rolls his eyes at your remark. you smile sweetly still, unphased.

“you just need a little time to get used to it, is all.” you hum, walking off towards your bedroom. you flip the lights on and make for your bed. he watches you take a seat, the short kimono you wore riding up your delicious thighs at the action. he was losing the plot, he just needed to take control. all women are submissive in the bedroom. “this of course is my room. if you’re a good boy you’ll get to sleep in here with me.” you titter, scrunching your nose at your own humor.

“you forget yourself, woman. i’ll be the head of the zen’in clan in just a few years.” he scoffs, looking over your seductive positioning with a nod of approval. he enjoyed your attitude, he thinks, he’s sure it will make your sweet cries of his name that much more memorable.

“the only one forgetting their place is you, husband.” you cross your arms over your chest, that arrogant smile still mocking him. “you can still be their little head as long as you keep my house clean and my bed warm.”

oh that does it. you’re so patronizing, so demeaning—he stomps over to you, reaching to grab your face. you allow it for entertainment’s sake, looking up at him with big doe-eyes that almost made him forget why he was angry in the first place. but that smirk reappears, and he squeezes your face in frustration. “i’m not cleaning shit. you’re my bitch. you should be honored to be my wife. take your clothes off and shut your mouth.” he releases his hold, waiting for you to obey.

and to his amazement, you do. you stand up and remove your kimono, watching him the entire time. the fabric falls to the floor and naoya is drowning in your curves and the lusty look in your eyes. you smile at his reaction, eyes trailing to his still-clothed form. even in his haze he understands you, pushing his robes off and wrestling with the string holding his hakama in place. all the blood rushes to his cock as he processes that it worked—you were just giving him a hard time after all, and he’d get his way as always.

as soon as he’s fully naked, your threads are tied around him again. his eyes widen at the sight of your silvery silken yarns circling his waist and pulling him to the bed. you stand, moving out of your own way as you smile sickeningly at him.

“wh—what are you doing?” he blinks rapidly, unable to break free of the strong web you were spinning him into. you position him on his back, legs strapped to the mattress and hands tied together above his head.

“what’s it look like, husband?” you ask innocently, crawling over him like a lioness stalking her prey. he can see the real devious desire in your eyes now, and he gulps. he should have known you wouldn’t give in that easily. “you look so much better like this, you know.” you hum, extending a hand to finger-walk over his abs. the slight touch makes him jump and his cheeks warm.

“you’re evil.” he hisses, fighting his restraints if for no other reason than to not focus on your soft fingers brushing against his skin. you giggle at him.

“hardly, babe.” you chuckle, admiring the slight panic and deep arousal in his eyes. “pretend you hate it all you want. i see through you.” you lick your teeth, grinning at his proud length standing tall before you. “your mouth ruins everything though.” you sigh, ghosting your fingernails over his thighs. the touch makes his cock jump this time.

“what does that even mean?” he huffs, annoyed at how his body responds to your taunting.

“means you’re sexy, strong, and have a huge dick.” you deadpan, eyeing the good seven inches he presents you, curved and pretty with a cute pink tip. “but your loud, arrogant, disrespectful mouth ruins it.” you further, fingertips dancing along the insides of his thighs. it’s annoying—just enough to stir butterflies in his stomach but not even close to providing pleasure. your hands are so close to his dick, you could just wrap your hand around him and make everything better. he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, too focused on your teasing to hear your words. you trace his hip bones, humming a little. it tickles in the way that he wants more, so he grunts his dissatisfaction.

you take your hands off him completely, looking at him with a raised brow. he huffs, almost pouting as he looks at you.

“what are you doing now?” he groans, yanking at his ties in an effort to get you to touch him again. it’s pathetic. you haven’t even really done anything, but his dick already hurts.

“don’t complain or you won’t get touched at all, kay? you better learn how to put this pride away or you’ll stay wanting.” you threaten, and he knows from your track record that you’re all too serious. he opens his mouth to protest, but you touch him again and he snaps his jaw shut. now your fingers target his chest, feather-light strokes over his nipples or light scratches across his pecs as he’s left helpless, only able to watch your naked body torture his from between his legs. he didn’t know he was so sensitive, but as your touches grow heavier, his eyes fall shut from the pleasure of his stinging chest.

you can’t tear your eyes away from his leaking slit. it’s starting to drool down his shaft, and you’re giddy from the high, thighs rubbing together at the sight of him unraveling. he’s trying to repress ragged breaths and pathetic moans, but your pinching and tweaking his nipples had him fighting every wave of enjoyment. he can’t help the raspy groan he lets out when you lean over to kiss him.

it was too short. you sit right back up as soon as he sounds off, and his brow furrows again. “already told you, baby.” you tsk. “gotta get a handle on that mouth if you wanna get fucked tonight.” you hum, picking your words carefully.

he nods, straightening up against the headboard as much as possible. he doesn’t care, your touch is driving him crazy. he needs relief, and at this point he would do anything to cum. “would you like that? for me to fuck you?” you ask, hands back to squeezing his biceps and shoulders.

he nods drunkenly again, frowning as he feels you shift away from him. his head snaps over to watch you once he hears the sound of shuffling in your bedside table, mouth gaping as he sees you pull out a glittery pink dildo attached to a black strap. he nearly chokes. you giggle.

“what, change your mind all a sudden?” he nods rapidly, focused on the size of it, not quite as long as his actual dick but considerably thicker. you tsk again and pilfer for the lube. “i thought you wanted to cum?”

“i do!” he says with haste. “you just can’t use that on—”

“mkay.” you sigh, sitting back in your spot with the materials beside you. “i’ll ask again in ten minutes.”

his face contorts at your nonchalance, but once again you keep him from back talking. your slender hand closes around his shaft and his breath is ripped from his chest. luckily, you don’t take that as a sound large enough to stop, your grip sending electricity through his body. his pre leaks onto your hand as you pump him, so you collect it with a few of your other fingers. he watches with parted lips and red cheeks, heart dropping when he realizes you were moving toward his ass.

you rub your fingers around the puckered hole, slathering the surface with all the precum naoya had produced from your endless teasing. while your other hand slowly strokes his cock, your other experiments lower, a finger slipping into the tight ring. he whimpers at the feeling, tightening around your digit as you lock eyes. you grin, nodding encouragement. you didn’t want to be too nice—he didn’t deserve it, but it was better than starting from scratch if he started bitching.

your pumps match the pace around his cock and he slowly loosens up for you. you stay focused, giving him another finger and milking the pre from his cock with the tight grip your hand had on him. his lip is nearly bleeding from how hard he bites into it, and you giggle.

“just tell me when you’re ready for the strap, baby boy.” you hum, eyes a little frenzied from the state he was in. it was all too exciting to be the one to humble naoya zen’in, but you were growing a bit needy at the same time. “it’ll feel so good. you know that’s where your g spot is? bet you didn’t. you zen’in boys are always so uptight.”

he blinks harshly, only mild protests even coming to mind as the hot sweat of need coats his body. he has to have more. your fingers already felt unreasonably good…but if what you said is true, he supposes there is a reason. his chest heaves as he argues with himself, feeling you shove a third finger in him convinces him to nod vigorously.

“yes what, husband? i need words, i’m just a dumb bitch.” you snicker, lightly flicking his balls and giggling when he jumps. he grunts again, feline eyes sliding over to the toy on the bed. “g-go ahead..”

you shake your head, withdrawing all touch. he feels so empty and frustrated he could cry. “better words. don’t you wanna cum?”

“in you.” he replies, and you hum with a pleased little smile.

“that can be arranged if you can learn how to beg like a good boy.” you squeeze his thigh, the only link he has to your warm hands that only make him dizzy for more. he narrows his eyes, knowing that you’re only punishing him for his treatment of you, but he hates how much he loves it. he hates how easy all the words you want to hear come to mind, but also he doesn’t at all. he’s insane with need and would jump off of a bridge if you told him to right now.

“god, just fuck me already–please.” his voice shakes out before his eyes clench shut so he doesn’t have to see you laugh, but to his surprise, you growl a little bit. he opens his eyes, finding you adjusting the strap to fit your wide hips hastily. you fumble around with the lube, trying to see what he would look like taking you. you liked what he said, and he wanted to hear you make your own noises, so he keeps going. “you’re stupid gorgeous, the only person i’d ever let do this–”

you can’t deny the ego boost that gives you as you direct the tip towards his hole. “it’s cold, i know. you’ll get used to it princess.” you giggle, shoving the tip in and pausing to let him adjust. “i’m so nice—could just give you all of it at once and tear this pretty ass up.”

he tenses every muscle in his body, the foreign object stretching him open burned and stung, but the ball of heat in his stomach only grew as your hips gently rolled to ease more in and start a pace. he gradually relaxes, sounds of pleasure rolling out of his pouty lips. thankfully, you don’t stop. you brace your hands on his abs and watch his face screw up in enjoyment.

“see? i told you that you’d like it.” you grunt, voice wavering from the force you’re using to plow into him. “cute little house husband, i think it’s what you were made for, baby.” you snicker, huffing at the way the fabric of the belt you’re wearing rubs up against your unattended clit.

he can only offer a nod as a reply, this was like nothing he had ever experienced, mouth dropped and eyes blissfully closed. his cock still aches from the lack of attention, but it almost adds to the delight of your hips smacking his. you release the threads around his legs, shoving them to his chest and giggling at the esteemed naoya zen’in, your husband, beneath you in a mating press taking your glittery pink cock. he whimpers at the new angle, so deep he’s writhing against the sheets.

it’s a gorgeous sound, his deep-but-posh voice reduced to breathy whimpers and moans, leaky cock making a mess out of both of you. “don’t get too boisterous, little bitch.” he moans louder, either from your nasty words or to defy you, and either way you drop his legs and slide out of his ass. he’s whimpering at the loss until he feels you grab his cock. his eyes fly open to watch you hover over him, plunging onto his length once you get the angle just right. his dick jumps immediately, your cunt too warm, wet, and tight for him to handle after all your bullying. he shudders and shakes his head.

“what? embarrassed?” you say with a little whine to your commanding voice, adjusting to his impressive size sitting against your womb. you’re panting already, mostly from all your hard work—but the need to cum is fogging your brain too. you drop all the threads around his wrists except one, directing the hand to your swollen nerve bundle before you trap the other hand again. “then rub my pussy and make me cum with you.”

you pick your ass up and drop down again, taking him so nice and deep each time he doesn’t even try to muffle the grunts and groans flowing from him. he follows your order, thumbing at your clit as you abuse his cock, waiting to feel the flutter of your pussy to tell him to bust. “don’t even think about it, bitch.”

he chokes a bit, looking up at your knowing face. “can feel ya twitching. you’ll cum when i tell you to.” he nods, rubbing at you fervently. you are the goddess he thought you were, but you’re also the devil in disguise, and he’s so in love it's ridiculous, demeaning, and everything he deserves for never realizing the power that a woman could have over him—or period.

“there we go, there’s hope for you after all.” you hum at his obedience, feeling the tension building in your cunt. he watches you closely, his face still overcome with satisfaction and bi-colored hair messily strewn about his forehead. he fills you up so nicely, and his complete surrender does more to you than his dick. “go ahead and fill me up, my good boy. see if i can give you an heir.” you chortle, abusing his desires for your own twisted game. he can’t live with that, the idea of impregnating you means more than before. he knows it’s the highest compliment he’ll get, and it’s because he knows your allowance means everything. he’s spurting before you can finish your sentence, but you don’t mind, following over the edge seconds later. he’s so pretty when he finishes, whimpering loud and watching your face for approval. your lips are parted and your eyes closed, but you nod anyway. you must feel him looking. you open your eyes and smile softly, swinging your leg off of him and leaving him tied up while you get yourself all cleaned up. he’s mush, thoughts and heart racing as he waits patiently for you to come back with a warm towel to clean him up and release your webs. so unlike him, but he’s hardly angry—he’s wondering what you want him to clean tomorrow.

#jjk x reader #kylee's kinktober event #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #jjk smut #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin #naoya zenin smut

410 notes · View notes

thesherrinfordfacility · 10 months

Text

okay let's get them hard truths out in the open following episode 6, bearing in mind that i am in the UK and am therefore chronically sleep-deprived, and have watched the Feral Domestic™ maybe only like oh 7 times:

crowley is as much at fault as aziraphale. they are both as bad as each other. their own individual idiosyncrasies are literally the other's emotional downfall and if im honest im not entirely sure there's any way they can adequately move past it.

waxed on and on and on about it, but aziraphale's issue is not that he has any allegiance to heaven. he doesn't at all, and that is obvious in his initial reaction to the metatron, in that he essentially says that he knows his place and it is not Up Above. it is right there in the bookshop, and with crowley (even if he didn't consciously think it that explicitly at the time). he doesn't want any part of the heaven that it currently is, he has had enough and is tired of trying to be the angel that hides who he is and what he wants from his existence. that much is very much clear.

but the mantra throughout most of life is to be the change you want to see in the world. look at the major societal issues that are happening in the world today; people are rising up and fighting for what is right, and what they believe in, and wanting to make changes. now look at this opportunity that aziraphale has been given. regardless of the questionable motive of the metatron offering it to him; if you were in his position, could you say you'd find it easy to refuse that?

the issue here with aziraphale is that he (again, ill harp on about it until the cows come home) thinks that crowley - this demon that isn't a good demon because he is good and kind and gentle - would want to have his place in making that change happen; be by aziraphale's side whilst they create the world and heaven that is different from the largely shit one they've always known, hated, and feared. this is where the Pedestal comes in; like i said before, aziraphale has now been confronted with the fact that this demon, his best friend and love of his life, is acting in the way he's always acted but that aziraphale refuses to acknowledge... because to acknowledge crowley's shortcomings (which ill discuss in a sec) would be to question aziraphale's faith in him, and mean falling from the pedestal that has been aziraphale's status quo for the last few thousand years at minimum.

edit: this also needed adding because it touches on aziraphale's tendency to hold himself superior to crowley, which he also does in the Domestic scene.

crowley's issue is twofold. one, he cannot move on from the fall. second, that he is sometimes a manipulative and childish shit. the first is obvious, and his recent experiences with heaven have only compounded this (ie his conversation with gabriel/goob, where he lays into him about gabriel's part in the cruelty shown towards aziraphale to the point he almost makes goob kill/injure himself). crowley can also however be incredibly cruel borne out of his own pain. there were major hints in s2 that not only did crowley fall (no matter what the metatron says, im still not convinced he fell for only asking questions) but he fell from a great sodding height that in his mind should have made him untouchable. my thoughts on morality in heaven have already been discussed, but that must have had a huge impact on crowley; it is no wonder that it's a sore point and he feels bitter, resentful, and angry.

in the above context, id want nothing to do with heaven either. but crowley doesn't communicate and im guessing that his feelings about the fall are a No Go area in terms of what he's shared with aziraphale... so for crowley to assume that aziraphale turned down the metatron is grossly unfair - how was aziraphale necessarily meant to know how deep his trauma (if we're applying human mental health constructs) runs? he isn't to know that at all - so it does track that aziraphale would think that crowley would want to help him make a difference so they don't have to keep getting involved in the toxicity that is the heaven/hell politico-moral dichotomy.

what also upset me about the Domestic was the kiss. i loved it for what it was in isolation and it was a long time coming, and a huge movement in the dance they constantly have with each other, but it was in essence manipulative. i realise crowley was on his last emotional straw and yes, perhaps the love and devotion got too much for him to contain... but he literally just stood there and heard aziraphale tell him that he wanted crowley and he wanted them to be together. there were no qualms at all that aziraphale loves him as much as he loves aziraphale. so, what was the kiss meant to prove?

to my mind, it was manipulation; specific, a temptation. whilst very romantic and 'sweep him off his feet with the violins playing', it was also non-consensual and unwarranted on crowley's part - to the point of being derogatory and redundant (lets be clear: not a criticism on Neil for adding the kiss, im purely talking about crowley as a character and his Choices here). there was nothing to prove, nothing that that kiss could have possibly convinced aziraphale to do. so the only thing that leaves, imo, is that it was a temptation. crowley does not typically use temptation in this way, or at least that's the impression ive had throughout s1 and s2, so he chooses now is the time? to tempt aziraphale into staying with him? of course he does!

he's desperate, but also childish and immature and completely ignorant of what aziraphale is actually saying to him. aziraphale never denied him; aziraphale wanted him in this opportunity exactly by his side as he always has been. but that didn't fit with what crowley wanted, so he tried to make aziraphale bend to his will. aziraphale says the fatal words "i forgive you", but if he has (as i suspect he has) realised that crowley was trying to manipulate him... well, id probably say something as damning to crowley as 'i forgive you' too.

when aziraphale said 'nothing last forever', i realise crowley took that to mean him and the life that they built together, but it obviously wasn't that at all. aziraphale is saying that they have eternity ahead of them, that he wants to spend it with crowley, whatever has to end around them (ahem the world? apocalypse from s1, anyone?). aziraphale demonstrated consistently throughout s2 that he is trying to give crowley his own agency where heaven/hell are concerned (paraphrased but: "I want you to help me but if you don't want to, you are free to leave"). crowley however seemed that he was constantly one foot out the door in case things got Too Much (which, you know - valid) but aziraphale really did his best to make crowley not only not feel suffocated but also that crowley was wanted. and for anyone that is a tough balancing act.

the two of them have had 6000+ years of Not Really Communicating. this is the detritus that remains when they don't, and it was absolutely needed in this season. for them to break apart and break in and of themselves. s3 needs to be where they learn more about themselves than each other, and stop believing that the other is infallible, because such thinking - worship, blind faith - only ends badly.

#good omens #not the analysis this fandom wants #but the analysis that it needs #i will proof read this at some point so if shit doesnt read well or make sense just pretend that it does #aziraphale meta #s2 meta #feral domestic/final fifteen meta

419 notes · View notes

astrialuvs · 4 months

Text

"Captured Moments“

➻ SYNOPSIS : When the mischievous twins playfully meddle with Suna's phone, capturing plenty of candid snapshots of you, he finds himself appreciating more than just the stolen moments. The stolen glances unveil a budding connection that goes beyond the surface.

➻ PAIRING : suna rintaro x reader

➻ GENRE : fluff, mutual pining

➻ CONTENT WARNING : slight cursing

➻ WORD COUNT : 746 words

a/n: repost from old account | happy na birthday mo pa!~

another note: the twins definitely know what they're doing 😉

You've grown familiar with Suna Rintaro's daily routine for who knows how long—long enough to recognize his habits and routines such as volleyball, casual banter with the twins, and being perpetually glued to his phone.

As you were making your way towards the place where you normally have lunch, Suna was absorbed in a mobile game and unconsciously wandering about. After losing another round, he hissed for the nth time. You keep a close eye on him, apprehending that he is unaware of his surroundings.

"Excuse me!!!" someone yelled from the back. A group of students carrying boxes rushes through. You stepped aside to give them more room to pass, but Suna maintained his pace.

"Watch out, Rin," you cautioned, tugging on his sleeve and holding him close to you until the students passed.

You tried to give him a mild reprimand for not paying attention; instead, he flashed a rare smile and uttered, "I know you're always there to keep an eye on me.

You averted your gaze to the side at his response. His words lingered, tugging at the strings of your emotions, and you found yourself momentarily breathless.

No. Actually, everything he says and does for you makes your heart skip a thousand beats. You felt the tips of your fingers go cold. You silently wished for a split second to keep your emotions at bay.

"Suna!~ Y/n!~"

The appearance of the twins disrupted the moment, and Suna's reaction was palpable. Atsumu and Osamu casually walk toward you too. You didn't miss the way Suna's left eye twitched, possibly because of their appearance or maybe because of how loud they are. Or maybe both.

Amidst the chaos, you were startled when you felt a large, warm, calloused hand on your hand. Suna grasped your hand and carefully tugged it off of his sleeve, making you realize that you still clung to his sleeve.

"Your hands feel cold. Are you 'lright?" he inquired.

"Hmm-. Y-yeah. I'm fine. Must be the cold weather," you stammer awkwardly as you reach for your hands, but Suna firmly grasps your hand with both of his hands, seemingly forgetting about his previous activity.

'Oh goodness,' you thought as you noticed your heartbeat quickening.

Lunchtime unfolded, and you found yourselves sharing a table. Except for Suna, who doesn't make lunch for himself, the rest of you settled on one of the tables and took out your own lunches. The twins hatched a mischievous plan involving Suna's phone as soon as he handed over his phone to head to the counter to order his own lunch.

As soon as he leaves, the twins seize an opportunity to play a prank on Suna's phone when he heads to the counter. The twins, mainly Atsumu, flop themselves beside you, ripping out the phone from your hand, to which you quickly protested.

You hesitated, but eventually succumbed. Unlocking his phone discreetly, you wish Suna hadn't changed his phone's lock after seeing how many times he unlocked it.

As his phone got unlocked, the three of you clamored quietly, the twins comically shaking you. You took notice that his wallpaper display is a blurred silhouette of you, but before you could fully recognize it, the twins attempted to invade his phone, only to be thwarted by password-protected apps. In a spontaneous move, they redirected the camera toward you, capturing candid moments.

"Such a bummer."

"You scumbags," Suna cussed as the twins fled off the scene. You, on the other hand, lowered your head, fully aware that you were complicit in the crime. You braced yourself for what he was going to say, only to have him tell you to continue to eat.

A little later, while Suna opened and checked his phone, he flopped on his bed with one hand behind his head. checking each app to see if the three of you had changed or discovered anything.

He was lying on his bed as he scrolled through his phone. He smiles bashfully as he examines each photo, somehow thinking of how he will confess to you someday.

The first smile after finding out about the stolen shots withered away when facing the twins' stunts. He erased their photographs in haste, but he paused on the candid snaps of you with a shy smile as his future disclosure.

271 notes · View notes

greenishghostey · 1 year

Note

Blurb prompt: Playing with Eddie’s ass for the first time. He’s totally up for trying it but doesn’t think it’ll do anything but ooof is he proven wrong. Boy sees GOD.

I will preface that this is the first time I've written anything to do with pegging/anal, so there's likely gonna be a few incorrect bits, but what I lack in experience, I make up for in enthusiasm!!!

and yes, the first line is a piss-take of A Christmas Carol, 'tis the season.

18+ Content MDNI / Seriously though, this is like absolute filth

///

The lube was cold: to begin with.

Eddie's hips twitched slightly when the cool gel made contact with his skin. His breathing had picked up, and he was grinding into the mattress slightly - thinking you couldn't notice, but of course, you did. Poor boy just wanted some friction, some kind of stimulation where he needed it more than anything.

The scene in front of you was one you never thought he'd actually go for. Eddie was naked, lying on his stomach, stretched out on his lumpy, soft mattress. You had seen him lie like this a thousand times; Eddie liked to sleep on his front. The addition of his spread thighs and the small arch in his back was the real kicker.

Eddie had insisted that his ass just wasn't all that sensitive. He had told you - in almost too much detail - how he had tried to finger himself while jacking off, but nothing happened. "Just started to feel like a chore after like five minutes." That's what he had told you.

You weren't convinced by his statement. Not even a little bit. You knew all too well how impatient Eddie was when it came to his cock. You knew that he hadn't been doing it properly. But you could fix that for him.

The lube was dripping down to his balls, the chill making him circle his hips harder into the mattress. You gathered a glob on two fingers and moved to massage it around his hole, letting your fingertips drag and catch at his entrance. Eddie pushed his face into a pillow to muffle a loud groan.

"Wasn't this good when I did it. Fucking christ," He said, sighing at the teasing sensations from your fingers.

"You gotta take time with these things, babe. The warm-up's half the fun." You teased, your fingers continuing to play with his ass. Your other hand had started to wander. First, massaging Eddie's heavy sack until he whined and chased your touch. Then moving to knead into his ass cheek, feeling the warm skin and watching your palm sink into the fat.

"You trust me, yeah?" You asked, your voice so soft and calm.

"Yeah, 'course, sweets. Do your worst-" Eddie meant to bite back playfully, but he cut himself off with a string of whimpers and curses. You had given him a sharp, short spank and pressed your lubed up fingers into his hole - you stared as he seemed to grip your fingers and shift his ass back into your hand.

"Atta boy," You cooed, smiling and massaging his stinging ass cheek. "You're doing so good for me, Eds. I wanna make you feel amazing." His insides were so fucking hot. Eddie was so fucking hot. Groaning when your fingers grazed his walls and trying to lift up onto his knees a little. The position must have been uncomfortable, though, so you gently pressed him down onto the mattress.

"Deeper. Please, sh-shit. Fucking fuck me." Eddie groaned, running his hands through his hair and pulling just enough for it to hurt. You would pull his hair into a ponytail if you could.

Your fingers filled him to the hilt, and you grinned at the pleasured yell that ripped from Eddie's throat. You started to thrust and circle your soaked fingers into his greedy hole. Fingertips jabbed at his prostate, and you revelled in his reaction.

Eddie knew you wanted him to be loud, but he was biting down on his pillow to stifle his animalistic moans. He was being such a good boy, and he deserved a small reward, so you went back to playing with his hairy balls. It felt that both of you were in your own little world in his bedroom - slowly going insane in the chase for Eddie's ecstasy.

You heard quietly whined words from Eddie. "What was that, babe? C'mon, use your big boy voice like you usually do." Teasing him when you were knuckle-deep in his ass was just too tempting.

Eddie lifted his head and peered back at you. Fuck, he looked ruined. His big brown eyes were glazed over. His hair was wet with sweat. His lips were red from being bitten and licked. However, his usual horny, manic grin painted his pretty face.

"What's got you all smiley?" You chirped, thrusting harder. If Eddie could still form thoughts, then you weren't working hard enough.

The grin stayed on Eddie's face as his eyes rolled back into his skull. "You're the fucking best, babe. Do me a favour?" You nodded excitedly. "Spit on it. On me."

Well, that was unexpected. But so so welcomed. Eddie emphasised his request by wiggling his hips up into your touch. Your heart rate was spiking. Your hands felt so sweaty. Your mouth filled with saliva almost immediately.

Eddie stared over his shoulder at the slow trail of spit that moved from your pursed, wet lips to his filled hole. His heavy-lidded gaze burned in such a great way. Eddie wanted you to make him messy, and who were you to deny such a lovely request.

You took to spitting sharply onto his hole and ass cheeks. Leaving Eddie sticky and wet, just like how he made you feel.

"I need to cum. Can I fuck the mattress? Fucking please, please, sweetheart." Eddie was essentially delirious by that point. His words were slurred, and he had zero control over his hips as he humped the bed. Again, your thrusting fingers started to move faster and harder.

"You can cum, Eddie. Make a mess to match mine, yeah?" You groaned deeply. "Empty these balls and cum on my fucking fingers." You cupped his sack again, squeezing and encouraging him to grind into you rather than his bed.

Eddie came suddenly and all at once. His shout was hoarse and slightly muffled by his pillow. You wished you could have seen him make a mess on his stomach and all over his sheets. After helping him ride the aftershocks of his release, you carefully slipped out of him and rubbed the backs of his thighs - observing the sheen on your pruned fingers. It spread across his leg hair and made him pant, his shoulders heaving like he had been sprinting a mile.

"So, what was that about your ass being a chore?" You snorted as he flipped over onto his back and gave you the finger - a dreamy smile on his face and a soft chuckle on his lips.

"Yeah, okay, you win." Eddie sighed, gesturing for you to come closer. "The mess is great in the heat of the moment, but now I feel gross. Help me up, sweets."

"Can't even stand up by yourself now?"

"I'll spit on your ass next. Help me."

Sweet laughter filled the quiet trailer as you and Eddie hobbled your way into the small green bathroom.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x gn!reader #sub!eddie #eddie munson smut #fic #smut #fluff #eddie #my writing #i'm geniunely worried this might be a bit too much?????? is it?????

1K notes · View notes

doccywhomst · 8 days

Text

okay so i understand that daleks are one of the main brand icons of doctor who, and that they represent a certain breed of fascist thought that can never be fully stamped out, but. :/

i think im ready for the daleks to die.

daleks have been central to doctor who from the very beginning (the second ever episode, the daleks, and season 2’s the dalek invasion of earth), embodying fear, hate, imperialism, and the darker sides of our own nature - but it seems that, for a while now, their continued existence has been maintained solely by the doctor’s mercy and/or ineptitude ??? which sucks as a theme imo

a great example is remembrance of the daleks, a seventh doctor story from 1988 - yes, the one where the doctor blows up skaro. or, davros fires a device the doctor boobytrapped at skaro’s sun, which goes supernova and destroys every dalek in that region of space. it’s pretty baller. anyway! davros and a few daleks hop in an escape pod and fuck off, and the doctor just lets them. k.

(skaro’s destruction was later ‘corrected’ by widely-detested EDA author john peel in war of the daleks, which is unhyperbolically the worst book i’ve ever read, and thus disregarded! but this heretical text explains that the planet was a decoy named antalin. it’s awful yeah. i tried to warn you)

exhibit b: evolution of the daleks (2007). ten confronts dalek caan, the sole survivor of the cult of skaro, at the top of the empire state building. the daleks have just created and annihilated a slave race of pig people, and it’s horrible to watch. you get the feeling that they’ve done this millions of times all across the universe, because they canonically have. they are inherently imperialist, racist, and genocidal. the doctor knows this.

and the doctor’s response is basically “killing you would mean that I commit genocide, so let’s just hang out and have a conversation.”

dalek caan gets away.

and you’ll never guess where he goes. that’s right! he hops the time lock and grabs davros, who escaped in remembrance of the daleks!!! and they make a bunch of new dalek babies together, out of davros’ gross old flesh. it’s a tentacle fest.

so he was right. killing dalek caan would’ve been a genocide- but because he didn’t, now there are ten thousand genocides. a clear improvement!

exhibit d: victory of the daleks (2010).

after a couple of false starts, the daleks manage to make more daleks after tricking the doctor into confirming their species to open their own device (??? okay sure)- but then they trick him again with a robot scientist bomb that he failed to detect even after talking to the guy, and it’s just like…. fool the doctor once, shame on you, fool them twice? damn, you must be on the merch.

exhibit e: the witch’s familiar (2015).

the iconic ‘only other chair on skaro’ scene where twelve and davros chat on the rebuilt dalek home world - super fun, so fun i forgot how the doctor folded like a house of cards. davros, the genocidal maniac, wants to live another day to see a pretty sunrise, so the doctor *checks notes* gives him some artron energy? that can’t be right, wh- oh- oh, but it’s fine because it affects all daleks, and through some contrived science magic, they all ‘learn the concept of mercy.’ on accident.

and it changed nothing. later stories retcon this. i’m too tired to even think about resolution, revolution, or eve of the daleks right now, but those episodes only further cemented my malaise regarding the doctor’s apparent complacency.

again and again, the daleks depend on the doctor’s mercy, and they get it, and they WIN- and it feels like the moral is that they should be eliminated like an unthinking, unfeeling virus, but the doctor is just too compassionate or inept for the job. certainly not the first doctor to lose to a virus, but perhaps the first to do so willingly.

beyond a loss in revenue, i can’t imagine why the doctor couldn’t destroy the daleks, or why they wouldn’t want to - there was a point when, allegedly, “the time lord’s continuity could not survive without the daleks” (“neverland” audio), but i think the weight and relevance of that harry potter type threat has long since passed.

so… it might be time to put the daleks away, for now. sure, they can come back as a concession to the persistence of fascist ideology, but watching the doctor lose or win to fascism for seemingly arbitrary (always sentimental) reasons isn’t really satisfying. the show addresses that daleks cause untold suffering, but again and again the only obstacle to no suffering is the doctor, who can’t get their shit together! it’s killing me.

#some actual blog material for you on this fine morning #i’m not replying to anyone who doesn’t read the entire thing! after you read please feel free to disagree #an example of a satisfying conclusion would be the doctor forming an interplanetary coalition #or persuading a pre-existing one to unite and defeat the daleks #it would be brutal and difficult but i would love for good people to unite and actually SUCCEED #doctor who #classic who #seventh doctor #tenth doctor #eleventh doctor #twelfth doctor #davros #daleks

87 notes · View notes

lurkingshan · 1 year

Text

I’m thinking a lot about the scene between Pran and Tian where they discuss the fight Tian and Phupha are having. Not the fake one about who liked who first, but the real one about Phupha refusing to travel home with Tian or change anything about his life to meet Tian’s needs. It’s a funhouse mirror image of the conflict Pat and Pran are having about how much Pran should let Pat help him, and their long-term dynamic of Pat letting Pran win every disagreement and always being the one to compromise or give in when their needs are in tension.

What I love about it is that Tian doesn’t know anything about their relationship, he’s just (drunkenly) talking about his own experience, and how frustrating and exhausting it is to be with someone like Phupha who never meets him halfway. And Pran is sitting across from this guy who looks like his twin, whose story he has already memorized and connected to, who he now thinks of as a sort-of friend, and he is self-aware enough to see the parallels instantly, and to feel a little embarrassed and ashamed that he is essentially the Phupha in his relationship. And you see him react, just a little, and maybe start to think for the first time about what it must feel like for Pat to yield to him on everything, and never have that reciprocated by Pran.

Reading this wonderful post from @waitmyturtles earlier where she mentioned how she empathizes with Pran, I was also reflecting a bit about where I see myself in this story, and let me tell you, I am such a Phupha. When it comes to how I want to live my life, where I want to be, and how I want to spend my time and with whom, I am uncompromising to a fault. I completely get where Phupha is coming from - I told you who I am, and now you’re telling me it’s not enough. He is frustrated by the idea that he has to change himself for Tian, and I get that, I really do. It’s something I am personally not willing to do. The key difference between me and Phupha, however, is that I am not in love and I do not desire to be in a romantic partnership. He very much is, and very much does.

So what might a guy like Phupha think, as he is struggling so much with the idea of yielding to Tian, when he is met with someone like Pat? Someone who is so like him in some ways - in his strength, his masculinity, his physicality, his confidence, his loyalty, his desire to help others - and yet so unlike him in other ways - his emotional openness, his vulnerability, his comfort with compromise, his absolute willingness to put his pride aside for his lover. Where Phupha is rigid, Pat is versatile, in every sense of the word. There is a lot Phupha might learn from talking to someone like Pat about how he sees his relationship, why he is always willing to bend to Pran’s needs, and why he ultimately feels it’s worth it, even if he sometimes feels some of the frustration that Tian does. Might Phupha have his own epiphany next week, opening up a path for him to finally compromise on something important to Tian?

@dribs-and-drabbles, I’m not sure how this might fit into your theory about the patterns playing out in these episodes, but I really hope we get to see this happen next week, and watch both of these couples learn from each other’s experiences and find a way to meet their partners in the middle. Because as @waitmyturtles said, this is the work of being in a long term relationship.

In the server with @bengiyo @shortpplfedup @kyr-kun-chan @wen-kexing-apologist we talk often about how amazing it is when romances address what happens to couples after they get together, and how exciting it is that we are starting to see more bl shows about the work of staying together, and I’m so glad that the genius minds behind Bad Buddy and A Tale of Thousand Stars took the opportunity of this special to dig into that so authentically. And to have done it in such a brilliant way, by mixing and matching these characters from beloved shows, putting them side by side and demonstrating how they are similar and also how they can learn from each other, creating a sense of community in this shared universe, and making it all so damn fun along the way, is just an unbelievable treat for us as an audience. Can't wait to see how it all comes together next week.

#bad buddy #a tale of thousand stars #our skyy 2 #thai bl #shan shouts into the void

430 notes · View notes

imtryingbuck · 7 months

Text

Birdie

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: The team lose their friend (I’m bad at summaries sorry)

Word count: 1,532

Warnings: Angst. My terrible attempt at a fight scene.

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Her hand slowly came up to her face, removing the bottom half of her mask then the glasses.

They couldn’t believe it.

They didn’t want to believe it.

“Y/n?”

~~~

Bucky’s heart was in his throat, his eyebrows raised and pulled together.

It can’t be he repeated in his head, he watched her die, he watched as the Hulk picked up the rubble and threw them like they weighed nothing. He held her in his arms the whole way home trying to attack the people who took her cold lifeless body away from his arms.

Frozen in place in the middle of the road he didn’t want to believe it, it couldn’t have been her. Yes this woman standing in front of them all posture upright and ready to attack had their friends face, same colour eyes, the same scar on her lip from the time Y/n fell over whacking her face off the kitchen counter busting her lip wide open, the exact same scar that went across her eyebrow from where she was beaten many missions before her untimely demise - she had copied Steve’s words ‘I can do this all day’ which was accurately true, making everyone who heard her through her comms laugh.

The three things wrong with this woman who was standing in front of them was, one - her eyes were so dark, nothing like Y/n who’s eyes were always so bright and full of life, joy and wonder. Two - their friend, their crazy friend who always made everyone laugh, their friend who always had their best interests at heart would never ever let anyone hurt them, taking bullets and hits just for them, let alone try and attack them. And three, their friend was dead.

“Is…is that Y-Y/n?” Clint’s raspy voice sounded through their comms.

Bucky watched as her head tilted ever so slightly to the left, his whole body went rigid as he knew what that head tilt meant.

She was about to attack.

And sure enough six individual 10 inch claws came out of her knuckles.

“What do we do?” Nat questioned.

“We can’t hurt her!” Tony says.

“Wanda control her!” Orders Steve.

Bless the redheads heart, she was trying. And failing. “I-I’m trying!”

Little bird/Y/n’s eyes shifted from Bucky to Wanda and before any of them could do anything Wanda was thrown backwards.

Like idiots they took their eyes off of the woman all in black, when they turned around the panic they already felt amplified by a thousand.

She was no longer there.

“Clint you’ve got a visual?” Steve asks.

“No…”

They heard a high pitch screeching sound of metal against metal scraping together from behind them, they turn to face that way when they hear the sound again from their original position.

“She’s toying with us”

“I’ve got a visual” Clint speaks.

“Clear shot?” Steve asks.

“What? You can’t be serious!” Bucky all but shouts.

“We injure her and then we’ll grab-“

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you” The voice that they hadn’t heard in real time for 6 long painful years suddenly says just as she appears in front of them.

“Y/n?” Whispered Bucky.

Her eyes flickered ever so slightly but they all catch it. “Buck say her name again” Steve says.

And he does, this time they all see a flash of recognition in her eyes “Metal man talk to her” Tony tells him.

Taking in a deep breath he slowly breaths out, “Y/n? I know you’re in there doll, I can see it. It’s okay I promise. Please come back to me-us, it’s oka-“

The look on her face of her remembering vanished, along with their hope. “You must take out the strongest first in order to succeed” Winking at them, she throws Steve into a car.

Thor was then thrown.

Then Nat.

Then Sam and Tony at the same time.

Then Bruce.

Keeping them all pinned along with Wanda she stared down Bucky then smirked. “You’re the strongest you know?”

“Why didn’t you throw me first then?”

“Because… you’re the one that makes me stronger. Always have. Always will.”

“Y/n you can come back from thi-“

“Like you once said Solider, it always ends in a fight. And that’s what we shall do”

Before he even had the chance to talk some sense into her or move position she launched herself at him, throwing punch after punch to his face and body causing him to grunt in pain.

“Fight. Back. Soldat” Each word ending with a hard blow to his face.

“No” Bucky rasped out. He doesn’t want to fight back, even when they use to train together he always went easy on her - not because he was scared to hurt her but because the thought of laying a hand on her in a violent way made him feel sick to his stomach.

“Fight or die”

For Bucky it was an easy choice. Didn’t even have to think about it. Didn’t even hesitate to go to his knees, he blanked out the shouting from behind him. “You’re going to have to kill me Y/n/n because I’m not going to fight you”

Her eyes squinted and one eyebrow raised up “Coward”. She spat out.

“You’re the one hesitating now Y/n… what does that make you?” Bucky could tell that the woman he loves was still there and trying to break through, well he hoped he could see it and it wasn’t just his hopefulness playing tricks on him.

“If killing me brings you back to our friends then doll, do it. Please”

Her face hardened as she stared him down, her stance faltered. As she squared her shoulders she looked around at the people she had pinned down. “I-I don’t want to do this but you’re my mission. So fight back”

“Okay, okay I’ll do it” He gets up slowly, he hopes that what he’s about to do is all worth it.

He throws the first punch, then the next and the next. His stomach turns at his actions but he continues to fight the love of his life.

Spitting blood out of her mouth, with her left leg she kicks him in his stomach, making him fly backwards landing just a few inches away from Steve. She makes her way towards them as he jumps up onto his feet, they meet in the middle and continue to throw punches and kicks at each other.

The Avengers hearts were beating rapidly as they watch their friends try and kill one another.

Due to the super soldier serum coursing through their veins neither one backs down, neither one grows tired.

Her claws come out and he gulps, he tries to use his vibranium arm as protection against her adamantium claws knowing his arm is stronger.

Bucky had managed to dodge the umpteenth attack when her claws dug in and sliced him across his stomach causing him to scream out in agony, he dropped to his knee’s clutching his stomach with both hands. A lone tear drops from his bright blue eyes as he looked at her.

“It’s okay…”

Y/n dropped to the floor and scrambled backwards, her eyes bounced from Bucky’s to her claws - that were covered in his blood, looking at them in horror and disgust.

“It’s okay” He kept repeating to her, he could see that it was her and not the puppet Hydra had created.

“Bucky? Bucky I’m so sorry, oh my God, what have I done, I’m sorry” His heart broke for the last time at the pain in her voice.

The team were finally able to move, their invisible chains letting them go, they all made their way to Bucky’s aide.

“I’m so sor-sorry”

Tony slowly put one foot in front of the other towards the girl who he had unofficially adopted, whose whole body shook with sobs “Sweetheart, can I ask you a question?” Their friends looked puzzled at him.

“W-w-what?”

“What’s your nickname for Bucky?”

“Buckaroo”

Tony released a strangled noise, between a laugh and a sob. “It’s okay sweetheart, look at me, he’ll be okay I promise and so will you”

“No no no I hurt hi-him”

“He’s okay Y/n/n I promise” He got closer to her and dropped to his knees “Ca-can I hold you?” He sees the hesitation in her eyes before she nodded, he didn’t waste any time in pulling her into his arms. Holding her closer and tighter as he humanly could, he couldn’t help himself from crying. For 6 years he’s not been able to touch her, to give her a hug. He cries with her, softly telling her ‘everything will be okay’.

Despite the pain that Bucky feels in his stomach he doesn’t stop the smile from forming on his split lips or the tears from falling.

They all stand there watching Tony cling on to their friend who they thought they had lost 6 years prior.

None of them had a dry face. None of them knew that when they woke up this morning they were going to be reunited with their friend.

Their friend, a huge part of their blended and mismatched family was alive and back.

Tags: @bethexo07 @doublebassallie @vicmc624 @cyberficlya @elijahssuit @learisa @unaxv @sapphirebarnes

~ banner credit goes to @sweetpeapod ~

240 notes · View notes

pandorasword · 18 days

Text

Chaeri as the 8th and youngest member of BTS.

CHAERI'S MASTERLIST

PTD On Stage in LA | Day 3

❒ genre: Slice of life

❒ words: 972

❒ summary: In which Chaeri uses Tae's beauty to her benefit

❒ prompts requested from the dialogue prompts game: “Wow, I really can’t speak, huh? Must be because of how pretty you look”

She was never good with words. She preferred facts: solid, reliable, hard to misunderstand. Words, on the other hand, always seemed elusive, ungraspable, especially when she had to use them in English. The situation worsened drastically when she found herself in front of thousands of people, right after singing for two hours non-stop. What was so difficult about a simple 'thank you'? For her, it was a real mystery. In fact, she didn’t believe a speech was necessary to express the emotion she felt every time. Hearing her songs sung by so many voices, with different accents, but with the same passion she put into them… she was sure it was evident during her performances how much she appreciated and was grateful for everything.

But it should be considered that those who cause their own misfortune should weep for themselves. She knew that day would come. She had all those years of experience and a highly competent team to ignore the inevitability of that moment. She could have taken the time to prepare a few sentences in English, memorize the pronunciation, and say them on stage. Instead, look at that, she had done nothing and couldn’t even remember why

In just a few seconds, all the times she had literally fled the room when she saw the English coach enter came back to her. It was almost like a scene from a cartoon: he came in one door and she scurried out the other, as if her only purpose in life was to avoid that conversation.

She had to refrain from slapping her forehead for being so stupid and irresponsible. She was still on stage, under the gaze of thousands of people.

Tae had just finished his speech. His English was insecure, his pronunciation questionable, but at least he had said something.

That evening, he stood out among the other seven, entirely dressed in red with a mask on his face, he had fun dancing and singing in a costume inspired by the Squid Game series, which had conquered the world in record time. And the crowd was ecstatic. A true show genius, born to capture attention: that's who Kim Taehyung was.

A shiver ran down her sweaty back, a testament to the hours spent jumping and running, reproducing the choreographies she knew by heart for that performance.

It was her turn to speak.

With an uncertain gesture, she brought the microphone to her lips. Embarrassed, with no idea what to say or how to formulate a coherent speech, she searched the most remote areas of her brain for a foothold, a memory, or anything that could help her find the right words.

Then, suddenly, the screams of the crowd became so loud that they overwhelmed even her chaotic thoughts. Behind her, on the huge screen, appeared Taehyung who had removed his mask.

And, damn, he was breathtakingly beautiful.

At that moment, a fleeting memory from a few days before came back to her: she remembered Namjoon, visibly irritated, trying to watch an episode of Friends. The younger members of the group were making noise around him, forcing him to restart the same part of the episode several times because he couldn't hear the lines.

Yes, that line she had heard repeated at least five times was perfect, and luckily, it had stuck in her mind.

She turned towards Taehyung, just a few meters away from her. The blue lenses of his eyes shone under the reflection of the multicolored stage lights, accentuated by the glows of the armybombs not far from them.

“Wow, I really can’t speak, huh? Must be because of how pretty you look”

The crowd roared in approval, shouted for the interaction, clapped for the way the boy's cheeks turned red, almost as red as his costume, because of the unexpected compliment.

The rest of the members burst into laughter, teasing Taehyung, while she realized that the attention from her speech had successfully been diverted elsewhere.

What a perfect end, she would have shaken her own hand in congratulations.

Later, in the backstage

“Chaeri-yaaaaa, you made me blush like crazy out there. Did everyone notice?” said Tae, walking beside Chaeri, an arm around her shoulders and almost all his weight leaning on her, partly from the exhaustion of the evening, partly because he loved to tease her.

"Every single person here saw how red you got" Jimin replied with an amused smile before the girl could, taking the perfect opportunity to tease his group mate when he was usually the butt of the jokes.

"Aish" Tae sighed theatrically, faking a look of devastation "my reputation as a tough guy is ruined because of you, Chaeri-ya."

Chaeri raised an eyebrow. “When have you ever had a tough guy reputation?” she said with a playful tone

"Hey, you" a sarcastic, accusatory tone came from Namjoon as he approached the trio, who were dragging their feet, destroyed by now, along the floor, hoping to reach a place where they could sleep for hours. Many hours.

"Don't think I didn't realize you did it to avoid the speech you were supposed to prepare for tonight" Namjoon looked at her with a look that said it all, the look of someone who raised you and knows all your little tricks.

"Oops?" she looked at him, softening her eyes and curling her lips a bit to look more innocent - which she wasn't - and more forgivable - her behavior was absolutely unforgivable -.

"So you didn't think for real that I was so handsome to leave you speechless?" Tae had pulled away from her half hug to look her in the eyes, his tone high-pitched.

"If it makes you feel better, I really think you're the prettiest of us all"

"Ha! Did you hear that, Hyung? I really am the prettiest"

taglist: @alixnsuperstxr | @bts-dream | @enchantingbrowneyedgirl | @ycuvi | @cosmicwintr

#bts 8th member #bts female member #taehyung imagines #bts imagines #taehyung scenarios #taehyung x reader #bts au #bts female addition #bts v #bts 8th member au #bts scenarios #kpop female member #kpop female oc #bts x reader #bts idol au #bts au fanfic

63 notes · View notes

some-pers0n · 2 months

Text

Hey guys I rewrote the Arctic death scene again for like the fourth time. Wanna read it?

Two of the three moons were full that day, with the third, Oracle, but a sliver of light among a sea of stars. Their pale glow trickled down onto the stage where Darkstalker stood. While the shimmer of moonlight against his scales was notable, nothing could compare to the innate aura of fear and disgust radiating from the kneeling dragon before him.

Arctic hung his head. His talons were unmoving, bound by invisible shackles. His breath was laboured and anxious.

Darkstalker grinned at the sight of his father cowering. It was enthralling beyond any sense of the word. To see him quivering like prey finally captured and waiting for the agony of death to come.

"How are you feeling, father?" he asked, a coy smirk still on his face.

Arctic's mouth tightened.

"Let's try that again." Darkstalker cleared his throat. "Tell me, father, how do you feel?" His voice was stern, commanding.

"Annoyed." The words spilled out of Arctic's mouth. "Bothered by how you have to make a big show."

"Oh, terribly sorry about that. Shame, really. You don't want to be forced into a position you never asked for? My, what a tragedy. I'm certain Foeslayer could relate to that had she been here."

"Darkstalker," Clearsight began, "I don't think you should bother him–"

"I don't see why I can't." He glanced back at her. "I was only asking how he was. Is that too much for a son to ask?"

"You're torturing him..."

"Torture?" He echoed. "That seems much. I'm trying to make one last conversation with him before the performance begins."

"You don't have to do this."

"But I must. You saw him! You saw what he did to Whiteout!" He gestured to his sister. "She would've been handed off to some low-life IceWing and erased of any personality. And for what? So he could see Foeslayer again? She hates him. Everyone hates him." His snout curled. "He's better off dead; I'm simply kind enough to let others join in on the fun of killing him."

Whiteout flinched. She moved closer to Clearsight, murmuring words that Darkstalker couldn't hear. Her mind was a swirling storm of muted grey-green with streaks of silver and ebony.

He sighed. "I understand that it seems barbaric, but I promise that this is necessary."

"Is it? Is it really?" Clearsight's voice was sharp.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Of course. You'll see soon enough, my beloved." He raised his talons to brush her snout, but she stepped away. Her eyes were wide. Her thoughts raced. She was afraid. Afraid of him.

Fine. She could be difficult. There will come a time when she realizes the error in her ways. How she was blinded by her belief that Arctic was still deserving of redemption and forgiveness. She never could truly understand the pain that dragon had put his family through. What Arctic had put him through.

He scoffed and turned back around. By the time he had his little conversation, a crowd had formed. The passing NightWing citizens stopped and stared. They were waiting for a performance to begin.

"My fellow NightWings," Darkstalker called out to the crowd. "Today, I bring forth a traitor to not only our own tribe, but his very own kingdom. Gather round, as I would not dare to look away. No, these next few moments will dictate the choices made thousands of years from now. Like a rock tossed into a river, the fate of this IceWing will ripple throughout history."

That got the attention of more dragons. Soon enough, the flow of shoppers stalled as more and more gathered around the stage.

"Isn't this exciting, Arctic?" he whispered. "Turns out there's more than a handful of dragons who care about you enough to watch you. More than I thought."

Arctic stayed silent.

"Be that way then." He hissed. He raised his head back to the crowd. "Lovely night, isn't it? Each and every one of you are a beautiful piece of this marvellous city. Come now, don't you agree? Look to your left, your right, up, down, all around! These are your peers. Friends, perhaps to some of you. A NightWing like yourself."

He paused. "Now, tell me, who is not a friend of a NightWing? A dragon that, despite potentially looking friendly and innocent, will do nothing to tear down both you and the kingdom we graciously live under."

He snickered. "One dragon I could say is this one right here." Darkstalker swept his tail at the talons of Arctic, knocking him down. "You might have seen him before. Arctic of the IceWings. the runaway prince. The reason why our tribe is locked in a vicious war against the IceWings. Because of his impulsive, rash, and selfish deeds, our NightWings are sent to battle—families broken because of him.

"We have tolerated his presence enough. Some of you might think he was reformed. I can't blame you. It's difficult to understand what happens behind closed doors. Though, tonight, he had betrayed the NightWings." He gestured to Arctic. "Why don't you tell us, IceWing?"

"Tell you what, exactly?"

"You know what you did."

"I did nothing! I was going home. I was not betraying my tribe– this isn't even my tribe!"

"Answer me!" Darkstalker roared. "Answer. Confess. What were you doing earlier this evening?"

Arctic's mouth contorted. "I was taking my daughter to Queen Diamond. A peace treaty. I would hand over my daughter's hand in marriage and reintroduce animus magic back into the tribe...and in return, I would be a prince again. I would live in the castle. I would eat, drink, and sleep like a normal dragon. I would find out if my love was still alive."

"She was never your love. You hated her and she hated you." Darkstalker snarled. "Besides, that was not all, wasn't it?"

His lips struggled to keep close, but the words poured out of him. "I planned to draw and hand over a detailed map of the Night Kingdom. It would be in exchange for Foeslayer's life had she survived. I would have given everything to see her okay again."

Mumbles from the crowd reached Darkstalker. Gasps and concerns, both about the performance and the confession. How could a dragon do such a thing? Why wasn't the IceWing flying away despite being unchained? What was going to happen next?

"I assure you, NightWings, that the traitor did not reach Queen Diamond before I had stopped him. They do not yet know our location. However, we are not fully safe until this stain on our glorious kingdom is dealt with." He spat.

"How could a dragon do such a thing?" he started. "He admitted that all as if it were nothing. As if the livelihoods of you, your friends and family, and this very kingdom were little more than a statistic. He even brainwashed one of our own, his very daughter, to comply with such a plan!" He shook his head. "This traitor is the worst dragon to ever live. Do you agree?"

A mixed response. Some argued and debated on the nature of his choice. Foolish. They couldn't understand the intricacies. Others questioned the nature of Darkstalker carrying this out. Should it be Queen Vigilance? Where is she?

But most agreed. Between nodded heads and shouts for death, they stood alongside Darkstalker. The NightWings had given this IceWing, one of the dragons whom they had been at war with for years, a home in their very own kingdom, and how does he repay? He lies. He backstabs. He cheats. He betrays.

Darkstalker couldn't help but bask in the feeling of grandeur. A crowd of dragons all repeated back the thoughts he had all these years. Arctic was unforgivable. He was a coward. He was a traitor. There was no excuse for him to live.

These NightWings were all on his side. Was this truly what it was like to be king? To be worshipped and hailed? To bring justice and peace? It was an intoxicating feeling that surged through his veins.

He held up his talons. "Silence, NightWings!" he commanded. With that, the audience quieted themselves. "Thank you. Now, I believe it is time we dealt with this dragon."

He turned to Arctic. His face was a dark grimace.

"Oh, come now. Have a little more of a cheery smile. It's your big day." He chuckled. "Now, admit that I am the greatest animus of all time."

"You are–"

"No, no. Not a whisper. Admit to the world!" Darkstalker raised his wing to the crowd. "Speak, IceWing. Say that I am the greatest animus of all time."

"You are the greatest animus of all time," he choked out.

"Now tell them that there is no dragon more powerful than me. No army that can best me. No queen that can kill me. Nothing."

Arctic winced as he spoke. "There is no dragon more powerful than you. No army that can best you. No queen that can kill you."

The crowd became more worried in tone. Hushed words of skepticism and worry. This was an animus on stage, ordering around and playing with the IceWing. Darkstalker couldn't care. He was having fun. Let their fear fuel his power.

"Now..." Darkstalker lowered himself to Arctic. "Say that you wish you were a better father."

A shocked snort burst from Arctic's mouth, one that grew into a bemused and mocking laugh. He looked dead into Darkstalker's eyes. "If I had been a better father, I would've strangled you the moment you hatched."

The night was still. The crowd was dead silent. Even the breeze of the ocean had been snuffed out. An unbearable quiet as Darkstalker stared into Arctic. Into his very soul.

Arctic ruined it. He couldn't stand to watch his father sit there any longer, smug and having had the last laugh. No. Darkstalker needed to win.

"Rip out your tongue." His words were frosted over with hatred and malice.

Arctic's eyes widened as his talons moved involuntarily. He could see them shake and twitch. He could sense the panic and restraint, and yet nothing could stop him from grabbing his tongue and, with one firm tug, ripping it out.

Horror emanated from the crowd. They too were afraid. They feared him. No longer did they feel the same murderous zeal and fervour as him, but rather disgust and terror.

It was like bringing wood to a burning house.

Darkstalker leaned closer to his father. His eyes were transfixed on the blue mass of flesh flopped gracelessly on the stage, cyan blood dripping down his mouth. "Had your fun?"

His silence was not out of defiance. Arctic could not form a sentence.

"Good. Now, tear out your heart. Show the world who you truly are on the inside. Pour your life onto the stage. For all to see."

#sp-writing #wof #darkstalker wof #arctic wof #wings of fire #wof fanfic #Took longer than I'd like to have written but eh who cares it's still 1.7k words #Better than writing no words again

70 notes · View notes

pancake-breakfast · 10 months

Text

CW: Suicidal Ideation, Substance Abuse, Severe Depression, Body Horror

It really seems like Volume 6 of Trigun Maximum was about a lot of people trying to cope with Vash. We have Wolfwood, who has his experience with the Fifth Moon Incident plus his knowledge of Knives stacking onto all the reminders the Dragon's Nest gave him of what Vash is. We have Meryl, who ended up getting a megadose of Vash's memories and emotions at the same event, and must reconcile them with all of her own feelings toward Vash. Heck, even Knives spends a notable amount of time mulling over how each use of Vash's angel arm has brought Vash notably closer to death.

And then we have Vash himself. The king of false smiles hiding great sorrow. I've mentioned it before, but I'll say it again: the way Vash is coping with the return of his memories of July can easily be summed up as "not well." Heck, the way Vash is coping with being Vash could be summed up the same way.

And who could really blame him? Over the last two or three volumes, he has:

Realized he was the cause of death for thousands of people, including children, friends, and colleagues

Been reminded that he doesn't really know how to control his power and a slip-up can absolutely cost way more in lives than he's willing to pay

Held the hand of a dying man while knowing that any comfort he might try to bring with his right hand is too late to undo the pain he wrought with his angel arm, listening patiently as the man spits curses at him with his dying breaths

Seen one of his (few) friends slide into depression after seeing him release his angel arm

Had one of his other friends pull a gun on him while his back was turned and steadily aim it for his head

This would be a lot for most people, but for Vash, it's even worse. Vash's ideals mean the cost of even one human life is too high for him to justify taking it. In his mind, they're all his family, bequeathed to him by Rem via her death; to destroy one of them is to dishonor her memory and the bonds that bind him to them. Vash aches both for redemption for what Knives did in causing the Great Fall and for July. He also aches for connection, but has years of practicing not having it, trying to keep distance to keep others safe from him, and to keep himself safe from the possibility of their rejection should they realize what he is and what he's capable of.

The fact that Meryl, Milly, and Wolfwood seem to understand how dangerous it is to be around him and yet continue to follow him seems to be important to him...

...so how does a being who has put over a century of time and effort into protecting people, who may be able to read minds and can definitely key in on emotions deal with this:

The answer is, of course, not well. In fact, Vash decides to go with one of the more destructive forms of coping, choosing substance abuse as if he could just numb it all away to get a moment of escape.

This is probably one of the most upsetting images of Vash we the readers have seen thus far. We're removed from the danger of his angel arm, but too many of us have watched loved ones succumb to some form of substance abuse, or perhaps found ourselves sliding down that trail. To see him so upset that he's giving this path a shot is too real, and that adds a level distress to the gut-punch of seeing him this upset and casually trying to laugh it all off.

We've seen Vash drink before, but it was always in celebration. He breaks out his goofy drinking tie (from God knows where), ties it around his forehead, and allows himself to enjoy the company he's in, if only for a while. In fact, it seems like he might even be feigning his level of drunkenness in those scenes, as more than once we see him pop right up, seemingly sober as anything, when either no eyes are on him or when he senses danger.

But Nightow makes it very clear that's not the case this time. All through the fight where we see him slurping alcohol off his hand, his movements are uncanny. Vash, who usually puts so much work into trying to pass as human, is failing to do so.

This is first hinted at when his attacker compliments his dodging, but Nightow shows it to us some pages later. Vash flows through the panels at strange angles and takes poses that just don't quite feel right.

And then... he messes up.

Senses dulled, mind not fully in the game, and he fails to dodge a shot aimed right for his head. Instinct kicks in, and his body reacts before he realizes.

We haven't seen Vash swear much thus far in the manga, but he swears here. He might have saved himself (and anyone standing behind him) by catching that bullet with a part of his angel arm. In fact, this might be the first time he's had enough awareness during its deployment to see it used for something other than destruction or threat of destruction. But that's not where his thoughts go right now. Instead, they're on the crowd around him, because this tiny display of his power has irrevocably revealed him to be something that is most definitely not human.

Now, they see him as the monster he sees himself to be. He's laid bare before them. The threat of the bounty hunter and his posse is gone, not even referenced again in the chapter. The people want him dead. And to make matters worse, his friend Meryl is having a meltdown at the sight of him.

He knew it couldn't last, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Maybe if he hadn't been drunk or if things had gone differently in the Dragon's Nest or if...

There are a hundred thousand "maybe ifs" and "if onlys," but the chance for them to change has passed. He falls back on false smiles hiding great sorrow, hoping all his emotions will just melt together into an unfeeling mud.

#cw alcohol #cw sui ideation #cw body horror #trigunbookclub #vash the stampede #character analysis #trigun maximum #volume 6 #pancake analysis #ok i think i got the bulk of my volume 6 thoughts out for now #time to move on to vol 7 #cw depression

160 notes · View notes

toushindai · 3 months

Text

totk spoilers but are we ACTUALLY meant to think it’s poetic or flattering or triumphant that Rauru was like “oh YEAH? Well in thousands of years this guy called Link is gonna kick your ass”

How much has he even heard about Link? He must have had at least one more conversation about him with Zelda because the Master Sword doesn’t come up in the Zelda and Sonia tear, and by the King’s Duty tear Rauru’s just like oh don’t worry, if we don’t finish Ganondorf off I’m sure your bf can handle him. As I’ve said before, his “We rely on your knight” line rubbed me the wrong way starting with its appearance in the trailer, and it really does not feel less entitled after watching said knight (and that legendary sword he carries) very very VERY nearly get one-shotted by Ganondorf at the beginning of the game. And Zelda knows this! What does she feel watching her Better Dad Substitute sacrifice himself and simultaneously sic the evil bad guy on Link—a siccing which explicitly shapes Ganondorf’s attitude towards Link at the beginning of the game? At what point did she have the emotion of “welp. I know why Ganondorf knew Link’s name now.” The musical blending of the LOZ theme/hero’s theme with Rauru’s theme seems to suggest that it’s not an emotion meant to be had at exactly that moment, but I cannot watch Rauru sneer “remember that name” without yelling HE DOESN’T NEED THAT INFORMATION at the screen.

I played through the GSI in Japanese recently and Rauru did seem a touch less entitled to Link than I’ve been reading him—mostly because of the formal, polite, outgroup-equal language he used with him—but I still can’t get over the extent to which Rauru heard about Link a few times and decided, sight unseen, that he was going to clean up Rauru’s mess. My man what made you think that. What gave you the right to decide that. And how frightening to be Zelda and watch Rauru pin all the world’s hope on her beloved knight who Ganondorf absolutely fucking wiped the floor with. We see this worry in her in the Master Sword in Time cutscene! To what extent can Zelda’s transformation and before that her petition to the other tribes of Hyrule for Link’s sake be understood as a forced action due to Rauru’s conviction that Link could do this no sweat? Almost entirely, I feel—but does the game know that?

I just. Isn't it intentional? Doesn't it have to be? The fact that Rauru already needs the correction, once, that he cannot and should not face the Demon King alone. Then his melodramatic claim that Link has got this on lock. Then Zelda being like 😬 not sure about this actually and going through the whole process of talking to the ancient sages + draconifying for the sake of the Master Sword. Because Rauru absolutely set Link up to fail and Zelda is the one making sure Link has the resources, including the support of others, he needs to succeed. And the game is so much about community, about not doing things on your own.

And yet the way the scene is scored and animated and the way all the other characters talk about Rauru's sacrifice seems to treat this as a a moment of culmination, of triumph. I am getting such mixed messages here.

Understand, I’m saying all of this with an aching fondness for this poor self-deluded hypocrite. And also teeth-grinding frustration. I think he deserves to feel suffocatingly humiliated when Link almost didn’t survive Ganondorf’s attack and I also have tremendous sympathy for the shame and terror that it might be far too late to correct his mistake that he must have felt as he waited for Link to wake up. Both of those things. Hopelessly lonely man who found people to love him and built himself into a role he was never adequate for. I wish the game looked at this a little more. I wish I could tell if the game intended this at all.

(This is not the most intelligently written post but I assure you I mean every word of it.)

#totk spoilers #tears of the kingdom #totk rauru #rauru (lozbotwtotk)#tou and the tearful kingdom #bad and imperialist zonai get put in the goat wiggler #nintendo look at me. look at me. do you KNOW how interesting your character is. did you do it on PURPOSE. or am I making this UP.#I love him I hate him I am shaking his terrarium SO SO SO SO HARD every day

64 notes · View notes

thebigbiwolf · 9 months

Text

Starvin', Darlin' - Chapter 1

Pairing: Not quite friends to lovers Astarion x OC/F!Tav

Chapter Summary: Astarion knows his power is waning, and seducing their leader Evelyn has gone poorly at best. If he is to keep himself in the tiefling's good graces, he's left with no other options. He must drink from a thinking creature.

Everything goes according to plan... until it doesn't.

Fic Tags: Minor spoilers for Act 1, The Bite Scene, Emotional slow burn, Angst, Teasing, Frottage (god I'm sorry), Pining, This is my first ever fic so idk how to tag things appropriately but you get the gist.

Fic Warnings: Eventual Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon (I cannot stress this enough), Bloodlust/Loss of control, Mentions of blood, lmk if you need anything else tagged.

Word Count: 6.1k

Read on Ao3: Here

A/N: I started this as a way to get this fruity fuck out of my head but I think I just made the situation worse. If you know me, no you don't. If you've followed me for a long time, sorry in advance. I may make this a mini-series depending on time and reception, but we'll see! OC is a rogue who seduces men to gain their favor but we'll get to that in later chapters.

Astarion's trance did not come easily that night; his hunger manifesting as a throbbing headache that refused to subside. It had been hours of tossing and turning in his tent, willing his body to settle, forcing himself to ruminate on the past few weeks.

Before he joined this disgustingly merry little group of adventurers, hunting rabbits and the occasional boar had been enough to sustain him. In fact, dining on larger animals had been a significant upgrade from the meager flies and rats he’d become so accustomed to under his master’s rule, but that was before all of this incessant hard labor.

He could feel his strength waning over the last several days. His senses were dulling, his reflexes numbed. Just this morning, he had failed to gain the upper hand with a particularly nasty kobold. He paid for it dearly when the damned thing all but pummeled him into the ground.

Luckily, Lae’zel had been there, hammer at the ready to divorce its jaw from its head. Beautifully done, by the way, but his blunder did not go unnoticed. All this sneaking around for barely a nibble during his watch was beginning to take its toll.

Astarion knew he was on thin ice, considering his relationship with their fearless, incomparable leader began with him pulling a knife on her and grappling her to the ground - in front of the damn wizard, no less. Some friction was to be expected.

But things hadn’t progressed much between the two of them since then. The pair rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and she seemed to have an innate passion for berating him over his unwillingness to stop for every single injured bird or helpless child as they traveled - as if playing the part of a hero was a favorable distraction from the literal time bomb in both their party and their heads.

“The world is full of potential allies, Astarion,” she had told him, sprinkled with a hint of her usual irritation. “I’m simply expanding our network.” As if a group of starving refugees and mud-slinging tree huggers were going to find them a decent healer any sooner. At this point, he’d heavily considered taking his chances with the goblins. At least they knew how to have fun.

What made matters even more frustrating was that Evelyn was seemingly unaffected by his charms.

Just how exactly was he supposed to secure his place under her protection when the woman barely spared him a second glance? Surely he wasn’t losing his touch. He was a master of seduction. Thousands of others had thrown themselves at his feet for far less effort. He’s had centuries of practice. The mere notion would be ridiculous.

In fact, he couldn’t remember a single moment in the last two hundred years where his advances had been so callously brushed off. Every attempt to make her laugh with his (admittedly morbid) quips was met with her chastising him for being insensitive and making threats to send him back to camp. She dismissed every flirtation, even if her lovely little blush betrayed her. She seemed determined to make him play her little game. He just hasn’t quite figured out what the rules are, yet.

Astarion couldn’t afford to take any more chances. If sleeping his way into her good graces wasn't an option, he was left with little choice. He wanted to make himself indispensable, so he was going to have to take drastic measures to ensure that his strength and physical prowess would never come into question. At least, not again.

He would have to drink from a thinking creature.

The idea of it was as invigorating as it was terrifying. He had spent the last two centuries enduring unimaginable cruelty, starved in ways mortals couldn’t begin to imagine--for years--without any reprieve.

No, starving doesn’t even scratch the surface. No words could ever describe the tortuous, gnawing, ravenous hunger that consumed his every waking moment under the heavy weight of Cazador’s boot.

Though, Cazador wasn’t here now, was he?

Curious.

Astarion had spent some time ruminating on who to approach before settling on Evelyn, though his options were limited at best. The githyanki was entirely out of the question; gods forbid he get caught, she would make quick work of him without allowing him so much as a single word of explanation. Shadowheart was…tempting, but that mark on her hand frequently caused her pain, and who knows if that magic would have any affect on him or worse, her taste? And Gale, well, he would rather subsist on a diet of garlic sprinkled with holy water before he put his lips anywhere near that man.

So, Evelyn it was. The tiefling wasn't terrible to look at. She was a younger woman full of vitality, so surely she wouldn’t miss a bit of her blood. He would just have to mind the horns.

He would be in and out. A quick nibble, then he'd be right as rain. One bite, he tells himself, barely enough to leave a mark. Then, he’ll pass it off and say that they had been attacked by bats during his watch and, not wanting to wake everyone, he quietly dispatched them and saved the day. Unfortunately, not before one of those wretched little beasts managed to puncture their illustrious hero. It was the perfect plan. Infallible. They'll eat it right up.

He continues passing through camp undetected, catlike in his silence, but when he reaches the canvas entrance of her tent ready to pounce, he freezes at the sight of her.

She looked…different while she slept. Softer, gentler, almost; surrounded by a nest of fur blankets, snoozing away instead of attacking his ego. Her hair was puddled beneath her head and horns like dark, red wine; rich and unrestrained by her usual loose bun.

Another realization hits him: this is the first time Astarion has ever seen her in her sleep clothes, a simple basic black wrapping across her breasts. Practical. Of course.

Her skin is pale enough to rival his own, even with the warmth of the firelight. She’s lying on her side, her uncovered shoulder lightly dusted in freckles, much like her cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted, and in the silence of the night air, he can hear her light, even breaths.

Cute, he thinks to himself. He could almost forgive her for being so maddeningly aloof with a face like that. Almost.

Astarion leans over to brush her hair away from her neck; the strands softer than he had anticipated. The thrum of her pulse underneath is magnetic. It pulls at his very being, beckoning him closer.

Settling on his knees beside her, his arms form a cage around her body.

He takes in the image of her form one last time and allows himself a moment to savor it. She is toned and lithe, much like himself, but smaller. Perfect. Delectable.

He bends closer, feeling her gentle puffs of breath on his shoulder; the warmth of her body. His ears ring with anticipation; manicured nails clench the sheets by her head.

She’s going to be so-

Something brushes his leg, hidden beneath the furs.

Her tail. He forgot about her bloody tail.

Evelyn stirs, and fully awakens right as his teeth are at her throat, eyes meeting his.

Shit.

“Shit.”

With incredible speed, she reflexively reaches for the dagger closest to her pillow, lunging at him. He just barely seizes her arm in time to save himself from being skewered.

“What in the hells are you-” he clasps his palm over her mouth to silence her.

The girl’s eyes are wild with panic, their golden hues burning a hole in his skull. He notices them flit down to where his body hovers over hers before she begins to struggle against him. “No, no, shh,” he whispers. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear.”

Her expression shifts from panicked to confused. She ceases her squirming. Good. Well, not good, but better. He can work with this.

“When I take my hand away, you have to promise not to scream and wake the whole camp,” he continues, hushed, “unless you’d like for them to find us tangled up in your bedroll. You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression now, would you, darling?”

Her eyes widen. Her face flushes deep red, warming his palm against her skin.

There, he thinks, that should-

Her body turns, and suddenly he feels the hard edge of Evelyn’s knee make contact with the corner of his ribs. A direct hit. Pain shoots up his chest as he rolls off of her and onto his side, clutching himself and coughing, heaving air back into his lungs.

She hurriedly covers herself with her sheets, glaring at him as he struggles to collect his breath. He can see her fuming through the tears forming in the corner of his vision. If looks could kill, he’s sure she would have him skinned alive. Maybe use what's left of him to scare away the crows.

She’s still holding the knife out toward him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What do you think you’re doing in here?”

A fair question, one he was not prepared to answer. Perfect. He’s just going to have to wing this. Possibly with two broken ribs. He can’t believe he expected this to go any smoother.

“I-I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He raises a hand and falls back on his thighs with a grunt, grimacing in pain. His other clutches his side, a bit of sweat forming at his brow. “I just…”

Okay, this is it. He’s got this.

“I just needed, well,”

Aaaaand,

“Blood.”

There. Excellent form, Astarion. Good show.

“I - You needed what?”

She blinks at him, whether in disbelief or shock, he cannot say.

It takes a moment before his words start to sink in. She takes that time to scan over his body, purposefully.

He couldn’t quite tell if she was looking for something or if she was deciding whether or not to believe him, but then again, what other explanation could he give?

He works over his options in his head, considering just how difficult it would be to pass this all off as a terrible joke, but just as he’s about to open his mouth to start on damage control, he hears Evelyn heave a deep sigh. She lowers her weapon, then tosses it to the side, massaging her eyes in frustration.

Oh. Well, alright.

After some time, he watches her expression soften into understanding as a few notable things dawn on her. He’s never really eaten any meals with them, has he? Then there was the drained boar, which he so carelessly left out by the road. The damned beast hadn’t even taken the edge off that night, and he was so desperate to quell the nagging ache in his stomach that it lay there forgotten until she found it the next morning. He admitted to her himself that it had been drained by a vampire, after all…

A bit of silence follows.

Astarion doesn’t say a word, doesn’t dare move a muscle. He just allows her the time to process whatever she’s feeling. What’s important is that he’s still alive, she hasn't run him out of camp, and she hasn’t screamed for help.

He may be able to salvage this, yet.

She scratches the back of her head, carding her fingers through her hair to ease her irritation before finally meeting his gaze.

“Astarion.” The sound of his name leaving her lips pulls him from his thoughts. He can see the disappointment on her soft features just as plainly as he can feel it humming through their psionic link.

He didn’t think himself capable of guilt, but there was an emotion akin to it brewing within his chest. Ugh. He breaks eye contact, searching for anything to pull his attention away from his discomfort. The miscellaneous bags of clothing and trinkets she had scattered about her tent were just oh so fascinating. And was that a new hairbrush? Hm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s taken aback by her question. He expected a more offensive reaction. A few insults, maybe ones pertaining to his sharp teeth or bloodlust, but an olive branch?

After all the lies, the invasion of privacy, and the failed attempt at assault?

She really is just full of surprises.

“Well, we aren’t exactly close, you and I. Though, you must admit, I’ve made several attempts to…” He waves a hand between them for emphasis, “mend the gap, so to speak.”

“Well, have you ever considered maybe not being such an asshole?”

Ouch.

But in fairness, no.

“I…” He thinks carefully about what to say next. The buzzing behind his eye socket acts as a threat, reminding him of the very fragile barrier between their minds. Should she choose to dig her claws in and pry the information out of him, she may find more than he's comfortable sharing, so Astarion makes a decision that surprises even himself.

He chooses to be genuine.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.” He gestures towards the dagger at her side. “But believe me, I’m not some monster. I’ve never killed another person.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, not for food,” he quickly corrects. “I’ve been subsisting on animals. Boars—like the one you found the other day—deer, kobolds, whatever I can get my hands on.”

“And what exactly was the plan here? You were just going to kill me and expect the others not to notice?”

He recoils at the accusation but fights to keep his expression neutral. “I had no intention of killing you. I would never do such a thing.” He leans in closer to her and lowers his voice, as if letting her in on a secret. “We need each other.”

Evelyn shifts to lean her weight on her arm as she listens, dark hair falling to the side of her shoulder. With the new level of exposure, he can hear her pulse settling into a more comfortable rhythm.

He swallows. Hard. His hunger is rearing its ugly head again, just at the sound of her.

Oh well, might as well lay all the cards out on the table while we’re at it.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and continues, “As it stands right now, I’m too slow. Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” There is a question hidden in his words, a favor to be asked.

She seems pensive as she considers him, mulling over everything he’s said in her mind. She lifts a thumb to her mouth and starts nibbling on her nail, no longer looking at him. Nervous too, no doubt. How could she not be with what he’s asking of her, as if he had any right to ask in the first place?

“I understand you detest me, but-”

Evelyn appears to snap to some conclusion, sitting up straighter and placing her arms to her sides before she responds.

“No, I should detest you, Astarion, but I don’t. You just don’t impress me.”

Wow.

It feels as though he’s been slapped. He barks out a laugh that’s a bit too loud for the intimate setting, trying to mitigate the damage to his ego. “Excuse me?”

She has the nerve to shrug at him. “I’ve seen every trick you’ve used to fill your little black book, probably a thousand items over. I’ve used them all myself. So, frankly, I'm uninspired.”

For the first time in his undead life, he’s totally speechless. His face contorts in indignation, disbelief. This devil.

There is something dangerous in her expression as she leans further forward, neck tilted, exposing herself to him. Her eyes are hooded, with long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. Her shoulders relax as she lifts her chin to stare down her nose at him, sneering.

He works his jaw, clenching the muscles unconsciously.

“Astarion, men are idiots. I’ve spent my entire adult life toying with them and robbing them blind. I’ve heard and seen it all. You really believed a few empty praises and mediocre jokes would have me jumping into bed with you?

Wha- Mediocre?

He opens his mouth with every intention of retaliating, but Evelyn’s palm unexpectedly rests itself on his calf, and the action stuns him into silence. She begins leisurely dragging her nails up towards his thigh.

His body responds involuntarily; eagerly, frustratingly, the delicate little motion leaving his skin prickling with excitement.

She regards his chest, admiring the hard planes of muscle. Then, her attention slowly inches down the toned curve of his abs until, finally, they stop at where his cock hardens disobediently beneath his pants.

“Your pretty face doesn’t detract from the fact that you’re still just a man.”

It finally clicks.

She’s baiting him, attempting to get a rise out of him.

Hm. Impressive.

Normally, at this point in her little game, he assumes most men would take her flirtations at face value. They would likely mistake this performance as an enthusiastic plea to bed her, but Astarion is not like most men. He sees her little game for what it is and recognizes it with ease because he has spent lifetimes playing it himself.

She leans back, satisfied with her little show, and smirks at him.

“So, you admit I have a pretty face?” He teases, his own smile twisting, becoming more mischievous.

She rolls her eyes, but this time she laughs. It’s a soft sound, genuine.

A pinkish hue crawls up her face and paints the tips of her pointed ears, but he can’t discern if that's supposed to be part of the act or, more likely, an unfortunate side-effect of the living experience. He’s finding it hard not to admire her dedication, regardless.

Well, that’s quite enough of that. Back to business, then.

“It’s settled,” Astarion clasps his hands together, “I’ll just need to impress you with my more eclectic talents if I am to earn your favor. We can start by gracefully slaughtering a few goblins, depending on how the rest of tonight goes. Which is entirely up to you, of course.”

The tiefling squints at him. “Oh no, if you want something from me, darling, you’re going to have to ask politely. With manners. You have those, don’t you? Familiar with them, at least?”

Under normal circumstances, he would find this amusing; nothing like a little role reversal to spice up the evening. But this feels different, heavier, as if her feigning indifference will alleviate the weight of what he's asking of her.

Fine. He supposes relinquishing a little bit of his pride is a fair price to pay.

He takes a deep breath. "Please."

"Please, what?" She lifts an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Come on, Astarion. Use your words. I know you’re quite fond of them."

He scoffs at her shamelessness, and for a moment, he honestly considers whether this is worth it, but he can't back out now. He'll make it through this, surely. He's been through worse.

Through gritted teeth, he barely spits out, "Please, may I drink from you?"

Gods. He's going to be sick.

"Good boy. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He’s going to fucking kill her.

There is an uncomfortable silence that follows. So many unspoken questions and a rising suspense that makes Evelyn adjust herself uncomfortably where she sits. Astarion is also musing to himself, still wondering how it's all come to this. Why did he choose her, again? Something about her not killing him right away? Death may have been preferable to this, actually, but he is pulled back to reality when she finally speaks up.

“So," she's picking lint off one of her pillows, avoiding his gaze as she asks, "how exactly should we do this?”

Well, it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know. He understands the mechanics behind it, of course, but how exactly were they supposed to go about this?

Should he tell her that he’s never actually fed from a person before? Would it make her more or less comfortable to know that he’s just as clueless about this as she is?

No. He decides against it. Astarion has always done best when he’s playing the role of the confident seductor. This should be no different. He’ll just treat this as if he’s bedding a virgin: guide her, take things slow, and she’ll no doubt be begging him for more soon enough. It’ll be easy. All she has to do is behave.

“Lie back and get comfortable.”

He moves himself closer to her, settling at her side as she does what she’s told. The flap of the tent remains open, letting in the faintest amount of warmth and illuminating Evelyn’s features. With such close proximity, he can see the gold flames within her irises flickering and dancing, a genetic trait attributed to some luckier members of her race, and a feature of her’s that Astarion would have never otherwise noticed.

He can hear her pulse quickening as he closes the space between them, lifting himself a bit to settle above her, once again caging her between his arms. One of his knees parts her legs, and he can tell in the quietness of her tent that she’s struggling to hide her uneven breaths. Her stare is intense, but he can’t read the meaning behind it.

He decides to give her another out, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

“We don't have to do this, you know,” his voice is composed, as if his body wasn't currently screaming with anticipation. “I appreciate the consideration, regardless.”

“I’m fine.” Her response is clipped, dismissive. Her face remains stoic though her fingers fidget with the blankets at her sides. She had moved the furs to give him better access to her body. The darkness inside him preens at the concept.

Best get on with it, then.

He leans down and, unable to help himself, takes in the scent of her: woodsmoke and the faintest hint of vanilla, which he had watched her pick up from a merchant in the grove just the other day. “For Gale’s cooking,” she amended, when he gave her a questioning look.

He gives her one more moment to stop him.

She doesn’t.

A bit of pressure on the skin before it snaps and gives way, his fangs finally sinking into her. He can feel Evelyn’s body tense at the sudden intrusion. She hisses through gritted teeth, her arms involuntarily raising at her sides, reaching for him, but she stops herself before she touches him. He wants to tell her it's fine, expected, even, the need to ground herself, but all of his higher thoughts are plunged into complete chaos when he finally registers her taste.

Every cell in his body awakens.

The iron flavor of her floods his throat and sets his nerves ablaze. Its heat fills, expands, and splits every crack in his self control into deep, cavernous fissures.

A groan escapes Astarions throat before he has the chance to quell it. Of course it would be like this - drinking from a thinking creature. Drinking from her. He understands now why Cazador forbade this. Before, he had assumed it was a matter of keeping his spawn weak and compliant, but this was entirely different. This was far more than a method of control. The bastard had been withholding ecstasy greater than he’d ever known.

A feeling swells in him, crashing like waves through his veins. Warmth. It invades him and fills every fiber of his being. He wasn’t naive enough to believe his first time wouldn't have some sort of great, emotional impact, but this?

This was everything. How was he ever supposed to come back from this?

"Agh - Astarion," he barely registers her pathetic little whine through the haze. She finally allows herself to grab onto him, the loose sleeve of his nightshirt tightening in her fist. For purchase, he tells himself with what little is left of his consciousness, practical. That is until he lowers himself fully onto her in an attempt to relieve the strain on his biceps.

With no space left between their bodies, he doesn’t anticipate the blazing heat of her core on his thigh, even through the several layers of clothing. She gasps at the sudden pressure, fingers twitching, nails digging little crescent shapes into his skin. What surprises him most, though, is when the taste in his mouth melts into a flavor so much sweeter.

Something primal within him recognizes it instantly; it twists in his gut and sits there heavily, as if the emotion were his own: arousal.

Oh.

She is burning for him.

Good.

After all of that teasing, the woman he’s spent weeks enduring endless lectures from actually does desire him, or at the very least desires his body. Which is just as favorable, in his opinion. It’s just nice to know all his hard work hasn’t gone to waste.

If she lets him live, he's going to spend every waking moment tormenting her over this. His lips vibrate against her skin as he chuckles to himself, causing some of her blood to run down his chin in hot rivulets, blooming new stains onto her sheets.

He knows he’s had enough. He means to let go, he truly does, lest he end up draining their groups' only hope of survival. Surely that wouldn't go over well with their companions. Pitchforks, and all that.

But her whimpering, her heat, coupled with the ferocity of his hunger, all provoke a feeling that has been building beneath the surface which he’s unable to name; it's desperate and possessive, a predator guarding its kill from hungry scavengers. The monster in him casts a dark shadow over his mind as he feeds. His body no longer feels as though it is his own, betraying him; a slave to the demands of his appetite.

He needs her, needs all of her, and he cannot will himself to stop, too lost in sensation and the sound of her mewling to bow to his higher thinking.

He mindlessly rocks his weight into her and grunts—a slow, unintentional grind against her mound. The motion comes easy to him, like breathing - instinctual. The blunt edge of his clothed cock drags deliciously through her parted thighs. Evelyn’s breath hitches at the feeling, her squirming beneath him giving him the sickest form of satisfaction, but the animal within him demands her compliance.

His hand gathers her loose hair and pulls, growling, warning her to keep still. She whines at the force, back arching. The other grabs her arm, pinning it down, and tightens, thumb gently stroking against her wrist.

"Astarion,"

She’s no doubt making a mess in her smallclothes as she quivers beneath him, all flushed cheeks and furrowed brows. She may deny it later, but her taste tells him everything he needs to know.

Her body is burning against his cool skin, and her gasps are only spurring him on. He laps at the wound, dragging his tongue up the length of her throat, indulging himself in her. It's too much.

He feels her pulse weakening, her rhythm slowing.

It isn't enough.

He's about to latch on to her again, teeth at the ready and blinded by his eagerness, when he suddenly feels a piercing sensation behind his eye - the tadpole, he assumes, writhing in panic. Screeching at him to open himself to it. The discomfort is just enough to pull him back into his body. Then Evelyn's voice invades his mind.

‘Astarion, enough!’

He disentangles his limbs from hers, practically jumping off of the poor woman. He’s gasping for breath as he comes to his senses, the mix of her blood and his saliva staining his lips pink. It dribbles down his chin. He wipes his face with the back of his knuckles and licks them clean.

But then, the cold realization of what he’s done is thrust upon him like a bucket of iced water, shocking him back to the present. He’s going to need to come up with one hell of an apology to get himself out of this one. Or maybe he should just run? Baldur’s Gate is really only a few weeks travel at most.

“Shit,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. "Are you alright, dear?"

Evelyn's eyes meet his. Her pupils are blown, almost entirely overtaking the gold of her irises when she glances away from him to assess the damage.

"Gods damn it," she quietly groans and applies pressure to the wound, thankfully finding that it isn't too deep or particularly painful. She tends to it, wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her brow. She searches for a rag as she avoids his concerned stare

A deep purple bruise spreads across her pale skin. Small red droplets trickle down the length of her nape, dampening her black breast band before soaking into it and disappearing entirely. He collects himself, willing his mind to cease its incessant urge to lick the damned liquid from her neck. She is flushed and sweating, unbalanced, panting from exertion as much as her own embarrassment. Her dark hair is a tangled mess from his attention. She looks ravaged.

It… suits her.

Astarion clears his throat, trying his best not to get caught admiring his handiwork.

She was right about one thing. He was, at least in some respects, just a man...

“Here,” he insists, grabbing one of the smaller furs and holding it up to her. She takes it from him without acknowledgement.

“I -” He begins, but he’s at a loss for words. What does one say in this situation? ‘My sincerest apologies. I don’t know what came over me! I must have gotten swept up in the moment!’ as if that pitiful excuse would overshadow the fact that he manhandled and almost devoured her.

He wants to laugh, but the sound dies in his throat.

He begins to worry that she really may not forgive him. He fears she'll wake the whole camp, or maybe finally cast him out like the monster he is. He wouldn't blame her. She took a great leap of faith in trusting him with this, and he rutted against her like some horny bugbear. Or worse, a teenager, he sneers.

Evelyn pulls the rabbit skin away from her neck, examining it. The brown hairs are matted and crimson, but the bleeding has stopped. She runs her fingers over the puncture marks, feeling the skin dip slightly where his fangs pierced her. She sighs with resignation, surely thinking about how the others will approach her with a plethora of questions tomorrow morning, face reddening at the idea.

“You could have warned me, you know.” She rolls her eyes at him. “I didn’t realize I was agreeing to…all of that.”

His heart sinks.

Of course she thinks it was on purpose. I mean, look at him. He’s all but thrown himself at her since the moment they met. He’s spent this entire time playing the part of the rake. It's only natural she assumes the worst.

“Evelyn, darling,” speaking her name aloud brings her focus back onto him.

The gravity of it is suffocating, condensing the already small space they shared. The tension pulls at something undefinable within him that he thought was long dead—a sincerity that betrays the character he’s been crafting for as long as he can remember.

It sways him.

More truths to forgive more transgressions, then. A fair transaction.

“I’ve had this condition for over two centuries, but, truth be told,” he clears his throat again, because ugh this is awful. And why does she have to stare at him like that, with her earnest, wet eyes? “You were my first. I’ve only ever fed on beasts.”

The implication is there: how could he have known?

His confession takes her by surprise. “You don’t…” she pauses, taking everything that transpired tonight into consideration. He must be giving her a look akin to pleading, because she takes mercy on him and disregards whatever question she was about to ask.

“Please tell me you didn’t do that to the boar.”

Seriously, a joke?

He barks out a laugh before he can stifle it. Whether it's from the sheer ridiculousness of the question or the disbelief towards her acceptance of it all, he truly doesn’t know.

“No, my dear. Just you, and you were delectable.”

Her expression is difficult to read. She’s not looking at him; refuses to, when she replies, “So then, did it work?”

Astarion moves to stand, peering down at her form. He exhales in relief, feeling as though he is a century younger. His muscles are lax; all the stress has been drained from his body. A novel experience. “Yes, I would say so. I feel stronger. My mind is clear. I feel…happy.”

He adds the last word in an effort to appease her, but it does ring true. His main source of joy since he contracted this affliction has been causing others pain, ripping out throats and such. This feels distinctly different, less exhilarating, but pleasant all the same.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you fight.”

He acknowledges her, then stretches his back out, extending his arms to the sky with his hands clasping behind his head. The motion pulls the rest of his nightshirt out of his trousers and tugs it upward, exposing the hard edges of his hips. He can’t confirm it, but he swears he sees her eyes flit quickly towards them before making an expeditious retreat.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing.” He lifts the flap of her tent to peek outside. No sign of anyone stirring, and the night is still young. Knowing the wildlife in this area, he may still have a chance to sate himself. With his newfound strength, he may even be able to wrangle up a bear. What a feast that would make.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” He bows his head to her in thanks.

He’s about to step outside, one foot exits the canvas before the rest of him, when it hits him that he feels…odd, uncomfortable leaving her like this. He can’t place his finger on why. He’s ridden atop many women and left without saying a word.

But, he supposes this is dissimilar.

Evelyn listened to him tonight, heard him out when anyone else would have carved him into pieces without second thought. She let him drink from her, forgave him for getting…carried away.

The most shocking part of it all is that regardless of her dismissiveness, he now undeniably knows that she’s attracted to him. Yet, she didn’t capitalize on the opportunity when it arose to take advantage of his altered state; of his needs. With that, she’s shown him more kindness in the last hour than he’s experienced in his entire undead life.

He likely owes her for this, of course, but there are worse fates he could endure.

The elf looks over his shoulder at her and catches her watching him intently, as if she wants to continue this conversation but can’t quite figure out what she wants to say. The intensity of her gaze almost forces him to turn back towards her, drawn to her by an unfamiliar ache; a thrill in his spine, the compulsion pulling at his chest like some sort of spell.

“This is a gift, you know.” The words escape him, hanging in the air between them with raw authenticity. He means to make himself sound more frivolous, but before he can edit them in his head, more truth spills from his lips, “I won’t forget it.”

His throat tightens. He considers her for a moment, wondering what he might find if he does turn to meet her eyes.

But, Astarion resists.

She must be exhausted. He shouldn’t take up any more of her time.

He leaves before she can respond. There wasn’t anything left for them to discuss, and he’s desperate to break free from the uneasy weight of her presence.

The second he steps fully outside, he feels as though he can breathe again, not that he needs to, being undead and all.

What a strange feeling, that was.

One he decides he’d rather forget. Best to not burden himself too much with it.

The taste of her lingers on his teeth. He finds himself savoring it for a moment too long before stalking towards the forest, confident. Ready to hunt.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion fic #astarion x tav #fanfic #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate 3 oc #im muting every bit of social media i have after posting this lmfao #evelyn

120 notes · View notes

to-the-stars8 · 11 months

Text

Breaking the Canon

Summary; When Miguel enters a world where he has a family, he's ecstatic to be playing the part of father and husband—Even when the consequences are catastrophic.

Hey Babes, this is just a little story I wanted to put out there. One day it'll be part of a whole story, but at the moment I don't think it's best to delve into that when I have so many others that need my attention. So, this is the first chapter, for now, to a possibly bigger project.

Changing universes wasn’t something that took days or years, it only took one decision and a leap of faith. Miguel tried his damnedest to convince himself that it was a horrible idea that would have just as horrible consequences, but he didn’t want to think too much about it. So, when he found himself on a familiar street of Nueva York looking at a dead version of himself, he weighed the choices he had made. Ultimately, the selfishness that possessed him won and he lifted his dead body onto his back, dragging it away from the scene.

Miguel made sure that he didn’t smell as bad as he thought he did, giving the under of his arms a quick sniff before opening up the door to his apartment. Unlike back in his original Universe, it wasn’t dark or dirty, instead, it was filled with an orange warmth with the smell of a home-cooked meal mixed with the crisp fall air dancing in from the open window.

He noticed the small shoes by the door first, little red Converse that were way too small for any adult, and it took him a second to realize they belonged to his daughter. Looking around more, Miguel was desperate to find any other trace of happiness that his other self had. There was a basket full of toys that were thrown about, varieties of Disney plushies along with dolls, and other things kids were into. He could feel the smile on his face before reality came echoing in, a sickening guilt was starting to chew at his consciousness.

There was no time to reflect on his life choices before a voice rang out, “Miguel, babe, is that you?” Babe. Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time someone called him that. If they ever had.

He must have been too slow to answer because suddenly he was looking at you, a stranger so perfect in every sense. Despite having just met you, seeing you for the first time in his life, he felt a great sense of love. There was a welcomeness and love to you so evident that it threw him for a loop.

You wiped your hands down the apron on your waist, already commenting how nice it was that he was home so early. He really couldn’t care less of a fuck if he was late, early, or anything in between—He was just happy to be there. Your smile was something he had only dreamed of, and, like you had done it a thousand times, you stepped forward with your arms open.

Miguel didn’t realize how cold he was until your arms were around him, pulling him to you so his face was in the nape of your neck. He felt you press kisses onto his shoulder, mumbling something under your breath. Initially, he didn’t know how to react—or, if it would be right to reciprocate what you were giving him. “Long day, huh?” You said, smiling against his shoulder, breathing in what you thought was the familiar scent of him.

“You could say that,” He said nearly breathlessly, still so shocked at the sight of you.

When you pulled back he watched as you admired him before confusion crossed your face, eyebrows knitting together with your lips pressing into a thin line. You wiped at his cheek before saying, “You have dirt on your face. What’d you do, fall or something?”

Miguel was quick to completely break the hug to wipe off his face, turning away from you so you wouldn’t see the guilt. Keeping you oblivious to the truth of your reality was already eating him raw, but with every second that he spent near you the insatiable desire to be with the family he had only dreamed about was quick to beat the guilt away.

“You okay, babe?” You touched his back, rubbing circles at the small of his back. “Come sit down in the kitchen for a few minutes while I finish dinner. My mom’s gonna be dropping off Gabriella—”

Before you could finish the door was opening again, and in came a little girl no older than six or seven who made a bee-line straight for you. Gabriella gave you a quick hug, then, when she saw Miguel, did the same with him before running off with the declaration that she had to pee. You laughed with your mom, saying something along the lines that things never changed much as you got older.

Miguel couldn’t help but be amazed. He had a family—the complete package that could only be seen in cheesy Christmas movies. Now he had it all in the palm of his hand, an entire world that seemed like a dream.

He stood there awkwardly when your mother greeted him, asking how work was going and everything in between. Trying his best to come off as natural as he could considering he was working with a blank slate. Miguel couldn’t help but notice the worry on your face growing and knew he must have said something wrong to throw you off. Your mom, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice at all. When she finally handed you a small blue backpack, she finally started to leave much to his relief.

“I’ll see you later, Mom,” You said, waving goodbye before shutting the door behind her. When you turned back to Miguel, there were still a few ounces of concern on your face. “Honey, are you okay? I…something just seems wrong.”

Sense overthrew panic as he cooly answered, “Yeah, yeah. Like you said, it was a long day. I’m just a bit tired.”

You didn’t seem fully convinced but didn’t push further. “Come here.”

He only did what you asked, stepped forward again to let his head fall onto your shoulder as your fingers threaded into his hair. Letting out a groan he didn’t know he was holding onto, Miguel slowly wrapped his arms around your waist. Somehow, it just felt so fucking good to hold you this way, and he wished he could do more.

You hummed as you pressed another kiss to him. “I love you, and everything will be okay, honey. I promise.”

Miguel found himself saying it before thinking, “I love you.”

He reasoned that there was no other choice but to say it. You would likely sense something was a bigger issue than he was more than willing to let on. After those three words broke from him, it seemed to break a piece of reality with it.

This wasn’t his.

You were a widow, technically, but he couldn’t give up something so fucking good. He’d promised himself a taste, but even the crumb of this life on his tongue was too sweet.

Now he wanted the whole fucking dinner.

Miguel quickly decided that he’d rather let the guilt bite him until blood was drawn than lose this dream, he could take the pain.

He heard giggling as little hands reached up to tug on the end of his shirt. The second his eyes landed on Gabriella he knew he’d set the world on fire before going back to his universe. She was hopping from foot to foot as she instantly went on to tell him all about the things that had happened at school and afterward soccer practice. Quickly, you cut her off, suggesting that she tell him everything while eating.

“Come on, you guys,” You finally managed to pull away from Miguel. Poking your daughter’s nose, you then added, “After dinner, for you little girl, it’s bath time. You smell like sweat.”

When she buried her face into Miguel’s side, she added, “Daddy stinks too, Mama.”

Taking a whiff, you stuck your nose towards him, then said, “Yeah, you could use a bath, too, Daddy.”

Miguel was not even going to touch on the effect you calling him Daddy had.

You went ahead first, leaving Miguel behind to see the perfection he’d created. He was jealous that this wasn’t his to begin with and couldn’t help but feel a sense of anger at the universe for it. Looking down at Gabriella, he saw the pieces of him reflected but found himself looking for the parts of you. She was only there for a second longer than you, still smiling up with childish giggles, before running off to join you in the kitchen.

You called him, telling him that he better hurry or you’d throw his food out the window if he was a second longer. Quickly, Miguel decided that if this had consequences that he’d deal with them later.

#gabriella o'hara #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel ohara #miguel spiderverse #miguel atsv #dad miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara angst #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you

332 notes · View notes