#.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]

They line up like chattel.

Cattle.

Oxen.

Steer. 

He summons other words to keep his mind abuzz. He's heard all of this before, how to step in time, how to play the game, but the sky is split, and he's in a room with Tiny, Curly, Chuckles, Hero, Sparkler, Cole - the kid, and him on the end. Height order and all, and all always on the fucking end. Solas is somewhere in the middle, having something shoved at him (  hat! Solas owes him! ), and Varric laughs too soon as it catches the eye of the ambassador, and Varric finds himself trying to remember how to fall in line.

He's not a soldier, and he’s barely a rogue, if he's honest. Barely present for this as there's a nagging pain in the back of his head from drink and low light. “Master Tethras.” It’s said like a Chantry sister scorning him ( true! He had admitted he did not know the chant, and Chantry boy’s mentor had laid into him for it - as if he was lapsed. No, not lapsed, just stubborn ). Alas, and thankfully, Josephine is nicer than a Mother - when not crossed, when not on metaphorical pins and needles.

“Now, Master Tethras was my father.” He reminds as if he were some great jokester, as if he never gave up his position as jester in Kirkwall - as if that was the mask that hid the true face. Solas laughs. Good, at least one of them has a sense of humour. “Ruffles, is that a coat?”

“Yes, and it has buttons.” If they expect Varric to groan at this remark, they do not know him well enough, which is fine by him.

Great. He honestly doesn't mind, but the wool is red and rough against his hand, the sash a royal blue. “I thought our official colour was navy?”

“We - we cannot wear the same colour as the Empress.” 

That, that makes sense. “Ah,” he ends up holding the jacket like it is a snake waiting to strike.

Another laugh, this time from Dorian and a thoughtless, thoughtful word from Cole. “Is crimson not your colour? Or is it fixation on a navy-clothed figure, lost? Lost and found, against odds?”

“Kid, stop saying odd shit.” Something he nearly hushes without a thought, and it pulls a peel of laughter from not only Solas but from The Iron Bull. That causes him to frown, the wool crumpling in his hand, “Ha-ha…are we sure it is a smart idea to bring those two?” He forks a thumb at Solas mainly, but Bull is behind him, repeating another joke from another mission. Yet, Josie is firmer than anything said, silencing Bull with a glance, and Solas’s eyebrows would disappear into his hairline if there had been one.

“Mean,” Cole repeats for the class, as if he's pinging off Varric's thoughts. So he scowls, and Cole cocks his head to the side as if he's questioning him on a deeper level. “Is it not?” 

“Stop.” It is not Ruffles or Josie who says those words; instead, it is the Ambassador who draws them to a hush, causing all of them ( but Cullen, who was not complicit in at least this ) to fall into line. “Those who have uniforms and orders, or are Master Tethras - can go.” He moves before the others; he doesn't mind the missed manners here, as there's not much that can be done. After all, he is the lost one ushering others to the door with a nod of his head - yet Solas is the only one who moves in time with him.

Makes sense, well, mostly. If he's honest, this stopped making sense when Solas grabbed him by the back of his jacket - the both of them wide-eyed as the conclave became nothing but ash, the elf’s hand grabbing the back of his jacket as he moved, thinking the explosion was something else, somewhere else even. He shakes that time, that time he sees too often, from his vision. 

Solas holds up the ugliest hat Varric has ever seen.

“That’s…a choice.” Varric states, shaking out the wool of his own uniform. It is also a choice, a shade paler than the crimson he normally sports; maybe he can finagle his Kirkwall pin onto the shash.

“A strong choice.” Solas agrees; for a moment, Varric wonders if the elf is debating setting it on fire in his hand. It reminds him of a trick Bartrand taught him, how to lean into a flame and catch parchment - but not sleeves. “Consider yourself lucky,” the man states, holding up the hat one more time.

Varric laughs, “You owe me.” 

“I have no recollection of agreeing to those terms.” 

“Oh, you don't?” Varric laughs as they move through the Keep. “I think I could summon the conversation if I tried hard enough. Didn't you have the winning hand and the call card in yo—” He doesn't get the chance to finish.

“Well enough, Varric.” Solas finishes for him, yet the hat is still one piece. Varric frowns at that. It's a stupid thing to frown at, but they need the smallest wins these days. They close their eyes and celebrate the smallest things. A meandering stroll that ends at a fireplace and a wall, a door ( their meaningless partition ) and meaningless darkness. Written word or fresh fresco, finding either of them.

“Well enough, Solas.” Varric parrots, stopping in front of the fireplace, he half calls home, half calls a refuge. “You’ll be alright?” 

“Well enough.”

“That is not what I asked.” Semantics matter, after all, and Varric runs his hand against his uniform again. Thoughts always swirl, always leading him to some sort of what-if, some kind of world where it’s penned in tandem rather than the bleary singular. Rather than the dull grey he finds at the edge of his vision, yet a smirk is present ever still as fast fingers grab the hat and tuck it among his things. “Oh no.” 

Solas laughs. 

The big things do matter, but these small matters end up as one, one bigger matter they all seem to be clawing after, some sort of survival. “Cards?” Varric offers, stepping away from the fire - away from the shared wall, sure does it blur, but he ignores it and the glimmer of white-hot fire.

“Drinks?” Solas counters, all but missing that damned hat. Hand on that doorknob.

“And bets.” Varric cements, holding up the hat, nearly ready to fling it wide into the fire. Yet it is handed back. “This will look hideous on you.” 

“Noted, but you will look like a holiday roast.” It’s the best insult he's heard in years, so he laughs at the dichotomy this all is. So Solas disappears beyond that door, and Varric walks away.

Points tend to divert anyway.

[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. “

[parasitxs]

the thoughts in his head - he knows they aren't always his own. the ramblings of many men and women ---- all at once. he thinks on the past and can't help the hatred that fuels a fire someplace inside. a sharp pain, their memories are the twist of a knife; the searing scream that comes with the agony of grief. a memory he'd not lived but one he can recall.

his people, taken. ' loved ones ' -- gone.

to close his eyes is to see the smiling faces of their oppressors - the saiyans, ever so proud in their grizzly pursuit of power. beneath their heel, a tuffle's skull. to feel it has him furious, to close his eyes and see such a thing - has him haunted.

truthfully, it's a curse. to know how they felt, to see what they saw. but it must be done. his curse must be carried for the weight of their burden will offer unto him a strength. a will. the power to do what they couldn't. death to the oppressors; vengeance on behalf of his people.

he furrows his brow; a second lost to thought, a second too long. breath exhaled and heels hitting the ground, he casts eyes across a long landscape before him. the dirt is settled, the soil - still. in the air, he smells something sweet and in the close distance, he can hear the hustle and bustle of village vendors and shoppers alike. what a shame that they should die.

would the people of earth one day remember his kind as he sees the saiyans? perhaps. but in truth, he doesn't want to think about that and in truth --- he doesn't really care.

[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.

[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 truth is a matter of circumstance. ❞ from Maxima, I'm not quite sure on context BUT I'm thinking about late night warm wine drinking during veilguard after the incident

He doesn't usually take visitors.

He can't, as that is a part of hiding, a part of being a ghost.

Some believe the words in the papers, the words on the lips of the people he knows best, forcing them to lie through gritted teeth and clenched fists. His words about this had been firm - that Chuckles, Solas - would use his death, his discardment from the board, as an opening to move regardless of what the play was. It would hurt, but it would push the board forward in this tremendous unwinding game.

If he's honest, and he rarely is, he wouldn't take visitors - but the knocking had been incessant, and someone had been kind enough to fumble with the door in his safehouse until one of the many aides had stepped through and started there was someone - not Dorian, not the inquisitor that was demanding an audience with him

"Lady Morrigan?" He asks the aide, but they just skitter away. A handful of people know this hidden corner, an almost Darktown - his life is full of - well - near misses. So he lifts himself, much to someone's dismay and waves them off, a cane pressed into the palm of his hand. Someone had dropped this off - Tevene in origin and it would bite if pressed right on the flat of the head. Their skittering means it's not her, which leads him down a laundry list of names.

Mae knew. The Inquisitor and Dorian had collected him, right time, right place - that had allowed Morriagn the right to know, along with a few lofted high among the echelons of the inner circle. He's unsure if Isabela knows, but he moves through the narrow hallway, one hand on the cane and the other on the wall, catching his breath for a moment - punctured lung, shattered ribs, a lacerated jugular, a removed spleen - he should not be alive. He shouldn't. Yet, like all those who walk before him, he endures, catching his breath before this new foyer comes into view and he's met with the face he should have never left off that damned list. "It's alright, Charter." He placates, "It's just Max."

Just Max. There was nothing, just anything about Maxima.

Charter flits for a moment, a keen word, a barb that is nearly placed, and Varric smiles, a looping smile cracking wide over his face as the nagging becomes more and more. Yet, he's no longer a spymaster, he's no longer piece on the board, he is just a dwarf with a cane, and he doesn't answer any of Charter's prattlings, knowing this will get back to someone somewhere who will nag him later for his safety.

"Hey." It's breathy, but he's lowering himself into a chair, leaving the cane resting against his palm as he settles before his friend and readies himself for the impending storm that nearly always follows when he is found out. Alas, there is no storm; he is given the breath of silence, and Charter vacates the space to allow the mage and the liar this moment.

Dead men tell no lies after all, so the story spills out of him like the first spring of water after a desert of stagnant and dry air. There are people who ask them what they need. Maxima has long settled on the sette across from him, things perched next to her as she's the epitome of put together when he is black and blue all over, barely finding the words, but then he stumbles over the last bit of the story and she slaps at his hand, reminding him of their times mucking through the worst of it all. At some point, they have served her wine and him something horrible and medicinal, something that he's sure the Inquisitor (bless her) dug up on their way back up towards the north.

So while she sips wine, a glorious red wine, he apologises and refuses his tea. "If it means anything, I didn't get a lot of choice in who I told about what happened; I was in a coma for - how long?" An aide answers, something closer to two weeks, closer to a month than he would like. Maxima tuts as if his coma is an excuse, and he laughs.

How long had it been since he could lie to her? Years? A decade?

Somehow, life is more complicated and more simple. He wants to ask how she found him, but he also doesn't want to know all the things laid bare in the world, not just yet. "The truth is a matter of who tells it." He reminds, the pain in his chest is a little more present now, so he sips that awful tea. It works, but it is still the worst. "And, if I am to be considered, nothing is as it seems."

So he smiles again, wide as ever, "Thanks for finding me, Max. I missed you."

[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.