#.drabble

[nanaslutt]

minors and ageless blogs dni

nanami kisses the side of your thigh slowly, sucking the skin into his mouth, making you clench the muscles in your thighs. you have to bite back a moan at the tease.

“don’t hold back your noises from me, i want to hear you, sweetheart.” another kiss is planted on your inner thigh, closer to your clit this time. you accidentally do as he says, a whine spilling free.

you’re rewarded with his cheeks dimpling with his smile. the most handsome sight one could ever see. “feeling good?” you nod, locking eyes with his when he flicks his up to meet yours. “good. i love your thighs” kiss “so soft” kiss “so beautiful” suck.

you hissed in through your teeth, tangling your hand in his hair. it’s as soft as it looks, and the touch makes him purr against your skin. the vibrations tingle through your body, finding your clit with ease.

“ken… please. no more teasing” your voice is wrecked, pathetic, breathy. his pupils dilate at the sound of it, and you know you’re about to get exactly what you want.

“i could never deny you anything, honey.” you almost cry when his plush lips wrap around your sore clit. thighs twitch unconsciously around his head, and your legs shake from where you stand. his large, warms hands slide up the backs of your thighs, cupping your ass.

moan after moan spills from your lips when he shakes his head back and forth while flicking your clit with his tongue, a long groan in his throat, only adding to the sensation.

“f-fuck kento!” he nods, lapping his tongue to catch the wetness at your entrance between your folds. the feeling is euphoric. “you taste exactly how i imagined. i should have done this ages ago.” your toes curl where you stand when he dives back in to suckle on your clit perfectly.

his mouth is so warm and so perfect, it’s like he knows exactly how to get you off. you regret not asking kento out to dinner years ago, if this was what you were missing out on. one of his hands leave your ass to join his tongue in playing with your pussy, and you have to put extra effort into staying on your feet.

“i’ll be careful. i want to stretch you out with my fingers for a while before we have sex.” he whispers against your clit before pressing a kiss to the sensitive nub. “i’ve only read about this, so let me know if it doesn’t feel right.” what? he’s never?

your brain nearly short circuits when he slides his fingers inside you and crooks them forward repeatedly, rubbing against that sweet spot inside you and sending you spiraling. “is this your gspot? i thought it would be harder to find. you get really right when i touch you here.”

as if demonstrating, he did it again. “fuck! yes kento! this- you’ve never fingered anyone before?” you asked breathlessly, digging your nails into his scalp. he shook his head, eyes locked on where his fingers were disappearing inside of you like he was mesmerized.

“no, i’ve never gone down on anyone either. how are you feeling? is it good for you?” jesus. what a fucking question. you nodded dumbly, pushing his handsome face back against your clit, you hummed when he found your clit and sucked eagerly, timing his sucks perfect with his thrusts. his gorgeous eyes bore into yours, silently begging for a response. for praise. for reassurance that he was doing good.

“yes. so good. don’t stop.”

[cod-sins]

.ೃ࿐ Format: Drabble

.ೃ࿐ Ratings: Fluff/Mild NSFW.

Touchy!König who constantly makes you sit on his lap when you're trying to watching a movie just so he can trace and pick with parts of your skin.

Touchy!König who comes up behind you when your cooking dinner. His hands snake towards your stomach locking together as he plants sweet kisses your neck and nibbles on your earlobe.

Touchy!König who convinces you that sleeping over at his house is more important and that he'll make up whatever money you lost for coming in late to work that day.

Touchy!König who enjoys sharing a shower with you because he gets to properly examine your body. He won't keep his hands to himself, he's lathering you up making sure to cup and fondle your chest.

Touchy!König who let's you lay on his chest listening to his heartbeat while he plays with your hair and mumbles sweet nothings in German.

Touchy!König who plants a kiss on your forehead as you sleep knowing you'll be safe from the harm of the outside world.

[keigologies]

gojo knows he's far from boyfriend material, especially when it comes to his job: late nights, early mornings, the constant threat of death lingering over his head. it's a less than ideal situation, so he's never been surprised when nobody wants to stay; when the going gets tough, they always tap out and he's become so jaded that it stopped bothering him a long time ago.

so it surprises him when you stay. you, with your gentle heart and gentler hands and even gentler loving, stay. he comes home and finds you waiting for him, dozing on the couch, wearing one of his sweaters (too big for you, swallowing you whole in black cotton). he comes home to find you cooked dinner, left him a plate on the counter, covered in tin foil to keep it warm. he comes home to find you sitting at the dining table, first aid kit in front of you to clean him up after a fight.

he's never had someone to come home to before, not this many times at least. it goes on like this for months and even when he knows for sure that you would never leave this home permanently, he always finds himself worrying that one day you will, that one day you'll realize you deserve better, deserve more than what he can give you. but he keeps coming home and you keep staying and he hopes it goes on forever.

© keigologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[lskisms]

You asked for ghost requests?

I got an idea for Phantom cause from the clips I've seen. He's like a high-energy puppy.

Relaxing with his partner after a concert, and he's sleepy as he comes down from the high of performing or he still has unspent energy leftover. So two options: soft sleepy smexy times or doing it to release the rest of his energy. Feel free to choose either one.

can attest to the puppy energy !! he was all over the stage in austin and it was the cutest thing i’ve ever seen actually i was giggling at the barricade like a little schoolgirl

anyways bc phantom is SOOOO my baby why not both

sleepy and soft.

say he comes back to the hotel room and once he’s freshly showered, he’s got you in his arms, relaxed in bed and chatting about anything that comes to mind. the adrenaline, all that octane, has burned through him and smothered itself out, but still, he has this urgent need to feel you entirely. he kisses you soft and slow, pressing you back into the plush pillows. when he moves to kiss you neck, little fangs dragging lightning across your skin, you try to tell him he just showered, so he shouldn’t work up another sweat. he doesn’t listen to you, of course, just nips at the junction between your shoulder and neck, the soft skin pricking hotly, and whispers that he needs you.

and because you’ve always been weak to him, you let him shimmy you out of your pajamas and take you as he pleases. his hips roll against yours deliciously, agonizingly slow, but each press of his cock against that spot inside you that only he knows how to get to makes it worth it. his mouth is everywhere, muttering praises into your skin and swallowing up each noise of yours that dares to rise abovea soft moan. he makes sure you come first, as he always does, and his release follows just seconds after. his body eases into yours, skin against skin, breaths mingling between you. he refuses to pull out of you for quite sometime, but you don't complain (you never complain) because he fills you in ways undescribable, an otherworldly feeling of completion.

but he is thoroughly exhausted, sleepiness settling heavy into his very bones. he does get up eventually to clean you up and redress you, but each motion is slow-going, syrupy and languid and perfect. he takes you into his arms again the second he's back in bed, whispers of love confessions falling on deaf ears as you let the remnants of his warmth inside you lull you to sleep.

pent-up.

he doesn't bother to shed his clothes or shower first, doesn't even bother to kick off his shoes. the second he sees you in the hotel room, he's getting himself out of the offending mask and sealing you in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and spit. it's a way you have him often, messy and fumbling, but that always drives the experience of letting him have you from perfect to life-altering.

he barely gets himself out of his boots, his pants, or even you out of your own clothes, soaked with the sweat of yourself and the people you'd been with in the pit that night, crushed against the barricade. he gets you on all fours on the bed and slips inside without much of a fight, his cock straining against the slick of your walls. the pace he sets is brutal and it has you keening loudly; you're certain you'll have a noise complaint before he's even halfway decided to be done using you tonight.

his hands press bruises into your skin, claws digging deep into the plush of everywhere he can reach. the bite of each pinprick has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a delicious haze filling your head until all you can think of is his name and the earth-shattering way his hips drive into your ass. he pulls you up by the back of your neck, tongue sliding against the shell of your ear as he asks you who your body belongs to, who gets to use it as they please (it's yours, phantom. all yours, comes your reply, each syllable broken and stuttered). and when he's content with your answers, he pushes you down into the mattress, his hand pressing your back into a perfect arch just for him.

he overstimulates you, focused on nobody's pleasure, just on getting that livewire of energy out of himself. you're lucky he doesn't make you count how many times you come because you lose count after three. and when his rutting finally comes to an end, it's almost as agonizing to not have him inside of you as it is for him to keep fucking you. you're so limp and foggy that it makes him giggle hazily himself, proud to have been the progenitor of your undoing.

he'll do it again after the next concert too, he tells you, so don't worry your pretty little head. he knows how much you adore being brainless for him and it'd be awfully despicable of him to deny you that pleasure.

[extravagantliar]

“You know, kid.” He starts, being cut off and corrected as quickly as it began. 

“You know, I’m not a kid, right?” 

“I’m in my fifties; everyone is a kid to me.” Well, almost everyone he edits. It’s not stated aloud, but he punctuates the silence by shuffling his cards. They aren’t dealt, but it gives his hands something to do, almost a flourish. It keeps eyes on his hands and is not truly tuned to his words. “Do you want the damn story or not?” 

“I don’t know. Does it start with you drinking?” 

“Very funny. Did Harding tell you that?” The cards stop, and one is flipped facing up. A painted card is touched up through the years, not in ten years or so, not in some time. A hand rests on that tome, another thought for another time when the darkness fell, and he could allow himself the time to unpack it all. “No, kid.” 

“Not a kid, Varric.” 

“Well, you’re kinda like my kid.” He laughs, around the words, around the circumstance. “Humour an old man.” 

“An old man who can do a backflip, come off it, Varric.” 

“Nah, just got lucky; that hurt my knees something awful.” His body was starting to catch up with him; he remembers the older warriors in his Inquisition days and how they would complain about their joints; he was on the older end of it then and older now. His thoughts roll against the side of his head, and they are turned over like the cards in his hands, another a king and another, a queen - the last is another joker, and he flicks the joker at Rook - they catch it between two fingers before it slices through the air further. 

“Gold for your thoughts, Tethras.” 

“That’s bold, assuming you have gold.” 

“I might have a piece or two you haven’t seen yet.” Rook reminds, the flash of the card obscuring their face, obscuring the truth. “Come on, it might make you feel better.” 

“Oh, they’re a philosopher now,” Varric states, peeling the card from betwixt fingertips, and he’s still lost three different times. How many times had he taken drinks with someone, and his life had been course-corrected to somewhere else? 

That thought is shaken far and very wide. There is not enough time to fixate on the missed marks of his life, even if he chases one of them now. 

“You know,” Rook’s cadence sounds like his for a moment, but it lulls forward into the comfort of their home, “You may be the most stubborn person to walk this planet.” 

That rips a laugh from Varric, one that he didn’t even know he had. As those words Rook lobbies at him are the same words that an apostate once volleyed over a fire, over a bruised shoulder and wounded pride, and Varric had laughed then, much like the laugh now, it fills the room, and his hand comes down on the back of his pant leg. “No,” He catches his breath and answers in spurts, “There’s someone more stubborn than me, I fear.” 

The man who had wished him well, the both of them hoping for a long and safe journey. An inquisitor asking for help, unsure what could come, there are so many memories that play across his mind, and they are all his. There are people, the people he loves dearly, cast across this world and lost to him, so he gathers these thoughts. 

“I’d like to meet them if that’s the case, nag them to knock it the fuck off.” 

Varric laughs, pulling those cards into his hands; the fifty-two are placed against his chest, against many things he carries, as a reminder he’s out there for someone and something. “Well, all things considered.” He stops; there are words that nearly come - that if his math was bad, if he gambled and made a mistake, it would fall all to this kid. It eats at him, and he smiles through it, ruffling their hair as he pushes the chair in with his foot. “You might be the one to get through to my friends if I can’t.”

“Varric?” Rook’s tone is questioning, but Varric turns and throws a hand up in parting, a shitty goodbye. “See you in the morning, old man.” 

“If we’re unlucky.” He answers, boots moving him forward, trudging him up another unknown stairwell, and it reminds him of Kirkwall, of the Hinterlands, of a fire in the middle of nowhere, an argument that leads to nowhere - a fisherman on a beach, taking in the sun. How, he once dreamed he would be the man who would lose everything and take a moment longer in the sun to find a warm ending, now it’s like it is designed. He leads and jokes, and the night falls, and he is left with the ghosts to wrestle and pin into a warm ending. 

The key slots into the door of his room, and he pushes it open - years ago, he would have expected some of his friends strewn across the floor in various stages of intoxication, or a friend - one willing to play cards or needing noise while painting. 

It’s empty. 

All of it is empty. 

The space between his lungs, the room, his heart, the cards in his coat, and his very head - for his memories have all spilt and rolled like glass marbles across a floor. Bianca comes down amongst them; she’s another one of those radiant glass beads, like his long march. 

His coat falls against a chair, the cards falling forth in an arch and spilling against the floorboards. He watches them, and the last card that falls is the fool - a rule card, one that has been drawn over, painted over by many, and he finds it first. The paint is textured in his hands, and he can run his thumb over those high edges and find the memory attached to them; he flips it over, and there’s no signature. Instead, it’s an impression from the artist, and his thumb glides over the pattern, just for a moment. 

There are just ghosts here, he lands on, and he is just another in movement, trying to get back to the people he loves, that dwindling number he can count on one hand - on fingers over and over. The cards are placed on a table, placed face down so he doesn’t have to look at them, so he doesn’t have to see them like the memories in his head, like the letters in his pack, like the promise for a long and full life. 

It’s bullshit. 

Love is bullshit, and he is bullshit at it - an archer who misses every target, who misses every sign as if he had blinders on the entire time, as if he missed every single warning and flickering candle of doubt. 

It’s easy to do; when one is consumed in grief, he lands on - looking at himself in the mirror. The reflection has changed, less like Bartrand and more like a ghost, older than any Tethras had ever been, more grey than brown, more wrinkles and age, it marring him like the scar over his brows, down his cheek ( he’d been lucky - it clipped his eyelid and a healer had saved most of the eye ). 

Things change, he doesn’t. 

So he changes, rubbing out tried muscles as he does it, slow as he goes. 

It has to be him, he knows this - there’s a letter for him, warning him, but he’s never been good at putting anything or anyone down.

It’s love, he guesses, it’s love, but he leaves the letters in his pack and instead summons glasses and his quill - he takes a moment, and the words find their way across the parchment, a steep reminder that he was tasked to try and make a difference, tasked to talk someone down. 

It’s love. 

The ink blots against the page, the quill snaps against his thumb and forefinger, and the ink splatters and shimmers against the candlelight. He does not go for his knife or wipe the ink from his hands; instead, he stews at the end of it all, a long winding road peppered with missed shots for the world’s shittiest rogue. 

Fuck. 

Maybe he should have sent someone who would have cared less.

[thebrandywine]

Ohhh it's so hard to pick one, I see what everyone else was saying now...

🦷+ Leon, please? :)

🦷 Bite down on this

"This is going to hurt," Piers says grimly. "I can tell you that from experience."

Leon laughs raggedly, eyes too wide in his face, pupils so, so dark. "Just get it over with. We'll match."

Chris tightens the tourniquet above Leon's right elbow, the man spasming at the pain, the pressure. "We really need to talk about your sense of humor."

Leon just laughs again, already peaky in the face as he glances down at his arm, at the rebar that has him pinned to the poured concrete floor, the curve of it locking him in place and keeping him from sliding off the metal. There's no time to look for bolt-cutters, the building already shivering under their feet.

"It's fine to pass out," Chris says as Piers gets to his feet, jogs across the room to bust open the glass case holding the fire axe with his elbow. "I can throw you over my shoulder without a problem, alright?"

"No bridal carry?" Leon asks, and he's laughing again, higher pitched, panicked, edging on hysterical.

Piers grabs the axe and darts back to Leon's side as Chris adjusts him so that his arm is fully extended, perfectly bared. He hefts the axe with a shaky breath, making eye contact with Leon and reading the distant horror there with sickness and grief in his throat.

Chris presses his belt to Leon's mouth, says, "Bite down on this."

Leon grins up at Piers sharp and savage. "Don't miss."

[exurgedomine]

🎧 "And from dusk to dawn we suffer from our immortality" or from the same song "After the dead lover's kiss you fall into a dreamBut with your second birth you're a prince in our mournful realm" I simply could not choose between the two. Nagato and Orochimaru

🎧 Drabble || Accepting

Pale, sickly fingers caress over the contours of a dead jaw. Pads tracing over all the angles of a dead man, marking the features of a cadaver that had once lived, yet now lived again in undeath. 

It was a precious item atop God’s lap.One of his many deific masks of which he postured for worship, gathering both the admiration and ire of those who seek either conviction or forgiveness.

God stared down upon its resting face, a body present, his thoughts absent; he was ignoring his guest.

Orochimaru. The Ouroboros. The legendary sannin. Nagato committed the rumored titles well into memory, especially after the sweet fondness his previous master used to speak of it. Though, the old sage spoke of his companion as a man with ambition and personality, yet all God sees is inscrutable living-flesh chasing the supplanted pleasures of accrued knowledge. 

Chasing? Hunting. 

Nagato’s companion here felt starved for eternity— seeking immortality with a subtle urgency. To a Layman, the ravenous desire was not obvious, but Nagato was not any man, for his eyes burdened him with far too much.

Insofar, immortality has not graced this man in any divine way other than under the suggestion of a steel scalpel and borrowed technique. And yet, it seems the concept was the connecting bridge between God and this non-believer.

Eternity was of latter concern. God’s work was in the present and will not be finished until his goal is complete. However, he supposes that he could live a life infinite. It only crossed his mind whenever Orochimaru drew near with a golden gaze that itched to swallow Nagato whole and curious hands that longed to drink all such potential from whatever remained of his holy body. 

Perhaps he is mistaken. Perhaps, he wishes to be mistaken. The longer the other lingered, the more this meddling feeling troubled his divinity, this idea that what connects these two men was kinship. 

Kinship under bloodied, conquered immortality. 

God’s doubt deluded him that the white snake found itself an ephemeral match of no comparison. Beings of a higher consciousness with a timeline as generous as a millennium. Orochimaru’s touch was warm against his cool skin, his voice honeyed with deceit and innocuous interest. He touched on him with what felt like envy, but grasped with what tasted like fear. Death chased him like how fire clamored after the wax on a candlestick and while Nagato was not the answer to his solution— he was a step in the right direction.

Deities were iconographies. Ideas to behold, philosophies to be pondered. God did not mind extending his mercy and grace towards this wayward soul, yet it seemeth the more he flayed his dermal flesh towards the snake, the greedier he clung to it, sinking his teeth into the ever-rare warmth in a world so terribly cold. 

It was beyond Nagato’s understanding what Orochimaru wanted. Truly wanted. What he had yearned for, nor did he care to know. 

“ Orochimaru, “ God breathes, removing his loving hand from his favorite corpse and laying against the sunken cheek on a skull with its flesh strung too tight, “ indulge me your desires. “

[dcccivcr]

Ji Xinzhan was a stern, but ultimately caring man. He was cold and strict in his affections, but gentle in his scoldings. He had an undeniable soft spot for his only son, as the eldest of four siblings who often starved growing up. The death of his youngest sister only accentuated this tender nature until it became more of a vice than a virtue, nearly ruining himself supporting the drunk of his own father. He never openly expressed his relief when speaking about his passing, but Xinyuan has always had a keen instinct for reading between the lines.

Because Xinzhan was raised a survivor, he trained his child for honor and glory, Xinyuan remembers fondly. And what greater honor than to serve the Emperor. Humbler goals were of equal help to their glorious nation — teachers and civil servants are equally reputable pillars of it —, but Xinzhan dreamed with seeing his son earn a place in the Chinese court. He fantasized with the image of visiting the capital in his elder years, and being greeted by the product of his hard labor serving the imperial family themselves.

And so, he taught Xinyuan everything he knew, and whatever he did not know, he hired others to teach him. By the age of twelve he could recite entire passages of the military classics, which his father asked him to do every morning. He was taught to shoot a bow as soon as he could hold one, and ride a horse as soon as he was tall enough to. His father spent a small fortune in an old, bony beast for him. Ri Chu was unremarkable as far as horses go and had seen better days, but Xinyuan's eyes light up when he reflects on the excitement he felt when his father first brought him home.

He wishes he had known the sacrifices the man had to make for him, if only to appreciate them when he still had the chance to.

Ji Xinzhan was a humble and truly wonderful man, Xinyuan recalls.

The greatest man he's never known.

🦂

[nanaslutt]

uraume topping reader for the first time

minors and ageless blogs dni

their eyes catch on yours when they push the tip of the strap into you and are met with resistance. you gasped, but quickly pulled your lip between your teeth to hide it. “does it hurt?” they ask. you shake your head.

with a nod, their eyes find the place your connected, watching enraptured as your cunt swallows the strap inch after inch. “rume, fuck… fuck how do you take this?” you whine, clenching around the intrusion. the stretch is a lot, but it feels good to. the pain and pleasure are conflicting feelings in your brain but they’re blending into one, blurring your sense between the two.

“you’re taking it well.” the praise goes straight to your head. “i’m… almost in. your really tight.” you know they’re taking abt the resistance they feel pushing in, but the way they’re talking like they can actually feel you around the silicone cock is dizzying.

you place your hand on your stomach, feeling full. “it’s in.” they say, more breathless than before. “god… it’s… it’s in.” they sound mesmerized, eyes glued to where you’re connected.

“how does it feel?” you ask, locking your ankles behind their back. they bite their lip, pupils blown. “good. tight. it’s like i can feel you.”

you smile at that, knowing this is wildly affirming for them. you decide to milk it a bit. “i can feel you throbbing, rume. you’re so deep, i can feel you in here.” they inhale sharply through their teeth.

got them.

“can i move?” you hardly get a nod out before they’re pulling out and slowly pushing back in, getting used to the feel of the strap, finding the right angle. each time they pull out, their mouth opens in a silent moan before they release a breath. “i’ve never felt anything like this.”

“g-good?” you ask, trying to keep your composure.

they nod, “i like this. i like that it feels like im really inside you. it almost feels like i am.” you clench around them, wrapping you arms under theirs to bring your face closer. their small tits press against your chest, lips hovered over lips.

“because you are,” you whisper, so quiet only they could hear. “you’re inside me, and you’re hitting- fuck-“ thrust “right there?” you nod mouth agape.

their lips crash against yours in a messy kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. their thrusts pick up speak considerably, and you’re unable to hold back your whines that they swallow up greedily. uraume pulls away from the kiss to moan while rubbing their hips in a circle, fully pressing the strap inside you.

“god, that feels so good.” you whine, tipping your head back. uraume burried their head into your throat and moans, their grinding getting weaker and choppier. “it feels good. r-right there it feels good.” they breath into your neck. watching them get so caught up in their fantasy is pushing you quickly twords the edge.

“uraume im gonna cum, cum inside me, please.” their lithe fingers sloppily find your clit in a rush, rubbing to the best of their ability. “say- say that again.”

gripping their hair, you drag their mouth against your own, locking eyes with them while keeping your ankles crossed behind their back. “give it to me uraume, fill me up, cum inside me.” their face screws into pleasured agony as they reach their high from nothing but strapping you down.

their body shakes and convulses on top of you, the jerky thrusts making you finish as well. the high is unbelievable, clearing your brain entirely, and their weight on top of you feels better than expected. they keep the strap inside you even after you’ve cum, breathing heavily into the crook of your neck.

when you pull their head up by their cheeks, their pale face is flushed, eyes all unfocused and cloudy. “how did that feel?” you ask, smiling. they just nod, their bottom lip twitching.

you smile and roll them over, straddling them with their cock still inside you. “you did so good, uraume.” they avert their eyes when you start pressing kisses all over their face while cupping their small tits. “so.” kiss “fucking.” kiss “good.”

“this is horribly embarrassing. i cannot beleive i said all that.” they mumble, trying to turn their face away from you, but you won’t stand for that. you punch their cheeks in a strong grip, forcefully pursing their lips together to make them pout.

“there is absolutely nothing wrong with filling your fantasies. everything you said was hot as hell, uraume.” their blush deepened but they didn’t disagree. “i’ll bounce on your cock while saying all sorts of dirty stuff to prove it.” you tease, shaking your hips on top of them, the strap burried inside you rubbing against your walls.

“another day… i would like to just… calm down right now.” you smile, lowering your mouth to their ear. “if you wanted cuddles you shoulda just said that, dibs on being the small spoon.” they grumble, and you can’t help but laugh.

[cod-sins]

Something about Ghost with a sir kink.

He secretly gets off to his favorite new rookie who'd get on their hands and knees to please him.

"Can I fetch you some water sir?" "Is there anything I can do to help you sir?" "Anything to pleasure you sir!"

He notices the slight glimmer in your eye with that last line. It's only a matter of time before he pulls you into his office and has you bent over draining the cum from his balls.

[keigologies]

this is wrong, so wrong, and alhaitham knows it, but he can't do anything to stop it. he won't, not when it feels so good, so perfect despite the perverseness because how can something like this possibly be bad when it feels heavenly?

language escapes him when he looks down at you, knelt so beautifully between his legs, your throat taking his cock so well it nearly makes him short circuit. your tongue, your mouth work him over so entirely he can't help but think this is something you were made for this, for him.

but it's not possessiveness that overtakes him, it's piety. and it's you who he's worshipping, panting out your name like a prayer, a near beg to give him the release he's so desperately in need of. and you do, you give it to him. he finds that he doesn't need words when this is the language you're sharing right now, primal and unbridled pleasure.

© keigologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[classyrbf]

cheerleader!reader riding nerd!toji in the locker room afterschool. You’d basically be shunned by your team if they ever found out you were fucking a nerd, but you just couldn’t resist him. He wasn’t an ordinary, stereotypical type of nerd. He was the type who kept to himself, very nonchalant, and only conversed with a few people, but he also was very smart, not to mention muscular (he must hit the gym in his free time). It’d be a shame if he didn’t put those muscles to use. You’re a bit of a slut, practically slept with the entire football team and none of them had you whipped like Toji. His big hands, his thick cock, his muscular arms, they all just fit so perfectly in or on you.

Your skirt is hiked up, panties pushed to the side as you ride him on the bench, the loud sound of skin clapping echoing through the locker room. “Nnngh—fuck! Your cock feels so good!” You pant, slamming your hips down on his, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. “I swear—ah! Don’t tell anyone about this! I’ll make your life hell!” You threaten through your moans, biting down on your lip.

“I…I won’t.” He shakes his head, running his hands over your inner thighs, eyes glued to the way your pussy sinks down onto his glistening cock. “Fuck…your pussy feels too good,” he rasps, his hands reaching up to grip your waist.

“Don’t you dare cum in me! Mmmph, I can feel you throbbing!” Your mouth is saying one thing but your mind is saying another. You’d absolutely love to see his cum dripping from your pussy, but you can’t take any chances. But your hips keep on moving and your pussy keeps on clenching down on him like a vice, milking his cock.

“Shit, shit! S-slow down!” He tries to halt your movements, but you slap his hand out the way. “Stop! You’re gonna make me fucking cum! Ah! Nnngh!” His eyes squeezed shut as you went faster, bouncing on his cock like a bitch in heat.

“I…I can’t…stop.” Your eyes glaze over, like your in a trance, your sloppy pussy squelching with each movement and before you know it toji dumps his hot load inside of you, the sheer feeling making you cum with him. “Oh my god! Yes!” You rock your hips back and forth, his cock massaging against your g-spot. Your body twitches above his for few moments, both of you catching your breath. “Keep your mouth shut about this.” You warn, slowly lifting your hips, his cum oozing out slowly. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you stand to your shaky feet, fixing your skirt. “Ugh now I need to get a plan b.”

“I told you to get off,” he plainly said. “Not my fault.”

[lskisms]

pairing steve harrington / gn!reader genre romance, fluff warnings steve is a sweetie

you really hadn't meant to fall asleep, really. you were supposed to just be studying, but steve had convinced you to do your assigned reading in bed and because it's steve, nothing could ever go the way you planned it; he's always had too much power over you like that.

when you open your eyes, the sun has long since set; the clock on your bedside table declares just a little bit after ten pm. you inhale deeply, stretching your legs, toes brushing against steve's calf. shifting to get a little more comfortable, you look up and see steve is stirring too.

his arms tighten around you and he groans sleepily, pressing his cheek into your hair. "did we fall asleep?"

you flush at his groggy just woke up voice (doesn't matter how often you hear it, it'll always have an effect on you), thanking god he's still trying to fight to stay asleep. you hum in assent, not wanting to move your head and disturb your cute boyfriend. "yeah... i think so."

steve hums and lets out a sigh, going quiet afterwards and you think for a moment that he's gone right back to sleep. you wouldn't put it past him.

"what time is it?" his words are warm against your hairline. when you tell him, he laughs silently a few times before tethering you to him even more. "let's just go back to sleep."

you want to protest, but you are still tired and the homework you were supposed to be working on isn't due until next week anyways. so you snuggle in close, shut your eyes, and let his breath lull you back into the dark.

© lskisms 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[extravagantliar]

The pavers are uneven in this part of Lowtown; they end up loose, and people pry them out of their spots and sell them if they can. It’s why the carts only go so far before people carry things by hand. He cannot remember why he’s down here. He can; it’s just muted by the buzz of people, muted by the things and the how of his fair city. There is chatter he has not heard before, and the air is still kissed by sea and less and less by chokedamp; it is home. It is a bustling section of Kirkwall spun to life nearly as if there is the gold and silver thread that runs through his clothes keeping her together; the pavers are still uneven as he walks, finishing up the job of picking up papers for Bartrand, another thing.

Lowtown is alive in the worst ways. He sidesteps someone throwing something out over the street, and it cascades down, running over the stones and sticking in those open spots. Someone else is shouting about some fresh meat, someone else about fried bread and other wares, more chatter as he pushes his way through, knowing these streets better than the words in a book he should know better, finances he should know better, and jobs he should be more mindful of, but instead he’s pushing the doors open to a familiar tavern, smoke filling his lungs, shavings and hay on the floor, a risk to open flame sitting too close on a table - another kind of home. His name is said repeatedly as he ducks in, down and around, avoiding folks who only ask, and he avoids most - only taking a moment or two with someone he knows, but he pushes through that, finding a table well worn, empty, save for a redhead nestling a tankard. 

He has papers in his hand for Bartrand, but Aveline sits at a table already worn. He already knows her name, but the documents in his hands are a mess of words, something he cannot read, but he knows what they are - they’re for Bartrand, processing paperwork, an estate closed - a body burned. It hits him in the lungs; it hits him like someone has meant to knock the air out of him, like all the people who have tried to do it in this bar, like the man who nearly caved his skull in one time in Lowton, and things are wildly out of order. Aveline is too old for this to be a memory, and the documents in his hands are the very ones on a desk lost in the Frostbacks, reminding him he sold that part of the estate for the docks, new pavers, and lumber.

This isn’t real; it never happened, as Kirkwall lies wasting away, Aveline handling the shit while he’s toiling in the muck, but she’s sitting there and looks right at him. “How did it go?”

“Swimmingly.” He answers, words are his, but it is more like he’s moving as if he’s a part of a play, just in a part, as if these are lines said over and over. “Building on Moors sold, and I closed Bartrand’s account; we can manage even if Highland pulls her money out of the banks.” 

“That’s not the worry, Dwarf.” Aveline sighs, and she lets go of the tankard, but she doesn’t still, instead she starts peeling the gauntlets from her hands, and he ends up settling in front of her, watching her movements, the gauntlets coming apart as her tale unfolds. “Even with the money - that does not quell the issue of the Chantry.”

“Hawke’s gone, Red, they’ve been gone for - ” He guffaws at Aveline a moment, and he fears it will not stay boisterous. Feeling that deep down, the following words would strangle him, and he would nearly choke as if he had to say those words to himself, to not stumble and fall over them, to impale himself and spill his blood, his thoughts, his whole being out and all over the table. But he does not - the story goes on, the laugh dies, and he does not stumble over the words; instead, the pause comes off as reflective. “Years, long enough for it to not matter - shit is kicking off in the South, they should worry about that.” 

“Hawke isn’t there?”

“No, it’s why I’m being interrogated.” 

“Then why is the Chantry on all sides of us?” 

“Because I’m a liar.” 

“Varric.” 

“They want to starve us out.” 

“What?”

“It’s a march, Aveline. A soft-handed one - we have a Seeker here interrogating me, the docks are a mess, so post people at the gates - we can’t get people in or out.” They never had this conversation, this he knows, as Aveline shakes her head, digesting his words and the tempo of the bar. The populace is happy; the city is bright - so they are doing this quietly. They are talking in the dark, and it all dims on them as if there is a spotlight and Aveline is playing through the motions on a stage. “What does Bran think?” 

“He’s petrified; he has no Chantry Mother and no real power to negotiate with.” 

“The election?” They never had an election; someone was stuck somewhere and couldn’t get in due to the dock, and he had been placed on a boat before they could all choose anyone but Bran, but it came out of his mouth like it was natural, like it has been discussed before. His body moves, pulling the tankard to him. Aveline looks at him unimpressed but does not admonish him for flagrant sticky fingers - her gauntlets come down on the table.

“Next week. Are you going?” 

“Might as well, someone has to clean up.” 

“Varric.” 

The tankard comes to his lips, and he’s reeling. The beer tastes like nothing, near the truth of what was any swill from The Hanged Man, as was most of the warm drink of Kirkwall. 

“If you go.” She pauses, and her hand comes to the table, grabbing his attention, grabbing his eyes. They are looking at one another, juxtapositions of justice and mercy, vengeance and cruelty - and he knows the words before Aveline speaks them, before they even leave her lips as if he knows the script but cannot deviate from it. “If you go, you will be elected.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Varric.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to die that badly?” He laughs. The world shifts around him. It isn’t real, yet it feels like such; it is the same look to the bar, the same worn look that Aveline gave him time after time, just his mind mending the gaps, giving her age, talking about things still ongoing in letters, the bottom falls out, and the lights flicker around him. 

There are words that fade among that laugh, and the lights flicker with it, again. Rather than a proper ending, he moves up the stairs, walking to that old room; instead, that does not lead to a room, it leads down a long hallway, greying out to a world lit to fire, a Kirkwall lost to a blaze, a Kirkwall that falls long under three dark shadows, cast wide at his feet and it is the noose likely looking for him, an axe seeking his neck. He moves as if he cannot stop, and he is led to the echo of Aveline’s words, a choir of whispers of his ineptitude, the way he leads them all to death, a dirge somewhere far off. 

Do you want to die that badly?

He knows all of those words would have been true; he would have walked that path that would have become a long shadow looming, and he finds himself falling against the darkness, against the moor, against the fever of his mind. He remembers magic; he remembers something settling hot in his stomach, making him ill as he hit different pavers, as he clawed at different stones and skittered off lost to the throngs of people, lost to the crowds of dying, mourning and grieving in Adamant. He barricaded himself somewhere dry, somewhere warm enough as that heat in his stomach became physical, leaving him with the fever that now runs through his mind, his veins as his mind crafts something else as he falls and keeps falling. 

Those words - Do you want to die that badly? 

No, but there are three long shadows of his family, of his city, of all the places he still has to go, all the muck he will still need to wander and wade through, all it still churning - the nightmare of facing death and what was still to come. 

The long shadow left by Hawke, by the Inquisition, and even by the very people who wedged themselves past those walls, finding the inner circle of a tender and bruised heart. Those shadows always twist, but he moves, stepping away; shadows always have a light source.

There are other echoes as he finds himself piecing it together bit by bit, another place coming to mind, another place in Kirkwall, another person he nearly wanted to summon, rather they were gone, locked against this place, and he cannot even summon them here, as if he’s not able to control his own dreams, the word he doesn’t want to give it as it feels like hell, it is something more of a nightmare and he has to be a puppet along with the next piece, a meeting - Bartrand, and that too ends - that too ends in blood, rather than a bolt in Bartrand in a manor he has long locked, he watches his brother bleed out, a face flickering to Hawke, to everyone else, to his mother, to Aveline, to those waiting on him in Adamant. There is that sick drop again, no wailing, no, he just falls, and the blood on his hand comes to gloves, and Bianca is back in his hands, and there is snow on the ground. 

Yet, he is pulled back. A hand is in the back of his jacket, pulling him out from danger, pushing him aside as a barrier is cast wide, and it feels differently this time; it feels wildly like a quick calm, a beat on the streets of Kirkwall, and he turns and faces the elf. This he knows, but all of this has been wildly out of order. 

“You are wildly out of place, Master Tethras,” Solas states, as if he can see this is somehow out of sorts. “Perhaps, a remnant of the fade, latent magics.” 

“I’m dreaming.” He simplifies. This time, he can speak outside of turn, as if he understands this a little better. “This shit is weird.” 

Haven no longer exists; it hasn’t for some time. 

“Then wake up.” 

“Wonderful idea.” 

That earns him a frown and a push away again, still somewhere under the barrier of that spell. “You always have a choice to wake up.” Just like a spell, those words push him. 

Breath catches, and he sits up, sweat still on his skin, and he blinks, coming to somehow, running through everything a hand on his pack, on his jacket, finding a bit of parchment, finding bits of notes, coin, his cards - the joker is pulled first, turning over in his hands, he is the fool, just like the card and it is tucked away. 

He’s still sick, but he is awake, so he moves out of that tent and finds somewhere else.

[thebrandywine]

Hello :3

17 and chreon, please? :)

Jesus He Knows Me by Ghost!

"For fuck's sake, Leon!" Chris yells. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

Leon is shoving his clothes into the duffle bag he'd brought with him. The weekend visit had started well, an all too rare occurrence with his best and oldest friend, but Leon had mentioned work and Chris had made a snarky comment and Leon had bit back and--

"You say that like I'm not fucking aware of it," Leon grits out. He zips the bag shut violently, zipper snagging on a shirt sleeve that's poking out. "Why don't you look in the mirror one of these days?"

Chris, stung, draws short and says, "Don't redirect."

"No, that's exactly what I'm going to do." Leon slings the bag over his shoulder, boots in one hand as he glowers at Chris, steps close, and jabs a finger in his chest. "Get off your fucking high horse. You do just as much reckless shit as I do. It's not different."

"Yes, it is," Chris seethes. Leon goes to step away but Chris locks his hand around the man's wrist and yanks him back in. "I have a team to back me up. When's the last time the DSO sent you in with anyone other than a single partner?"

Leon doesn't say anything to that, just yanks fruitlessly against Chris's grip.

"You tow the party line like you actually believe that they care about you, that they're going to keep you safe," Chris says. "Just-- just fucking explain it to me! Why do you do this?"

"You think I wanted to?"

After a beat, Chris says, "What?"

"I'm not fucking like you," Leon says, managing to rip his arm away with the expletive. "I didn't form my organization. I didn't sign up for this. You actually think that I like being sent to the end of the world alone? No one's going to come after me, Chris. It's in my fucking contract."

"No."

"Oh, yes," Leon says viciously. "I'm going to die out there. I'm lucky that I've made it this long, you know? So I'd really appreciate it if you stopped acting like I pull this cavalier bullshit for fun--"

Chris kisses him. It's hard and desperate, his hands locked on either side of the man's face as Leon punches at his shoulder twice before shuddering into it, sinking, going boneless and grabbing him back as the duffle bag falls to the floor along with his boots.

"No," Chris says when they part, voice shredded and angry. "They don't get to do that to you."

Leon laughs sadly. "Chris..."

"I'll fix it," Chris says before kissing him again. It's no less intense the second time around, all of Leon's weight on him, Chris holding him up without complaint. "I'll get you out of it, okay? I can fix this."

"No one can," Leon says quietly, eyes dark. When Chris strokes his thumb over one of the circles, Leon closes them like the affection is painful. "It's just this until the day I die."

"Bullshit," Chris says. "Do you trust me?"

"With everything I have," Leon says.