#You can feel the vulnerability

[atlantis-area]

ONEW - Rain On Me (Music Bank, 230317)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Why are you running?

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[hiruseki]

god i seriously am never getting over That Scene in orv. kim dokja has so little compassion for himself that the only thing he can think to do upon being confronted with the most powerless, frightened, vulnerable version of himself is to try and murder it with his own hands. even when everyone is sobbing and begging him to stop, even when everyone has already forgiven him without reservation, even when yoo motherfucking pilgrim of the apocalypse joonghyuk cannot muster any animosity, kdj will not stop trying to convince them this trembling little boy needs to die. it had been well established by that point that kdj is self destructive and self loathing, but he was good at maintaining some emotional distance from his actions. but the moment he steps off that train, recognizes his own drawings, realizes what's happened, that impassive veneer shatters and he becomes desperate and vicious. this man hates himself so much. seriously, can you imagine how it must have felt to be oldest dream? you're an abused, lonely, depressed child. profoundly alone in this world, betrayed by everyone you've ever loved. you are so frightened of everything you can't bear to live in reality. you meet yourself from the future, but even he has no sympathy for you. no, he hates you. he hates you so much he wants to kill you. he would point a broken sword at his own throat if it meant he could erase you. you don't know what you did wrong. you never do. all you can do is cower from the monster and hope he doesn't get you.

like it's so fucked up. orv is so fucked up.

[kenjakusbraincum]

Sukuna is old. He is also weirdly cultured for the monster that he is. With so much time on his hands, he loves indulging in arts and literature, and as with everything else he tries, he's good at it. You wouldn't know this, of course, you are only his pet. The time you spend with him is limited and hardly consists of intellectual conversation. You are there to serve one purpose and you know that quite well. So when you wake up in his bed one morning, two things come as a surprise. First that you're even here. It's one of those rare occasions when Sukuna couldn't be bothered kicking or carrying you out of his chambers once your time together was up. Second, he's awake, bent over his desk and so concentrated on a little figurine in his hand that he doesn't immediately notice you've shuffled awake. Once your eyes focus, you see that he's holding a tool in his other hand. He's carving wood. You're almost hypnotized by the scene. The scene feels so private that even for a pet like you, who knows Sukuna in the most intimate way, it feels like you shouldn't be watching. But you can't look away.

"Awake?", he asks, without sparing a glance at you. You apologize for staring, and look for your clothes around the bed. You throw them on just precisely enough to cover up until you reach your chambers, just wanting to be as quick and innocuous as possible. You wait for Sukuna's approval to leave. He gives you a simple nod, once more avoiding to look at you. You leave feeling conflicted. Special, because he allowed you to stay and watch (even as little as you did), but saddened because he barely looked at you, once more solidifying in your mind that you're only interesting to him when you're naked and bent over. As long as you've been here, you could never stop wishing for his validation.

Sukuna knows when you get insecure too. He notices the way your eyes droop, the way you close in on yourself and seem absent in his presence. He justifies this excessive worry about you by telling himself he likes to be the only thing that bothers his pets. All the way until he realized he already is the only thing that can make you sad. This realization falls upon him one time he lashes out on you and sees the immediate change of heart on your face. Now, he isn't one to apologize, especially not to someone who is as low under him as his pet. But why does he feel guilty when he sees this one act of his ruin your day? When he catches a glimpse of you sitting in the garden with your head hung low, or leaving more food on your plate than you usually do. If only you knew the way you really made him feel.

He beckons you to his chambers, and you follow three steps behind him like a good pet does. You didn't expect this time to be any different than others. You've become used to serving Sukuna on days you loved him and on days you hated him. But when he tells you to close your eyes, you know something is different. You obey, of course, and listen to his footsteps as he fetches something from the room. His hand takes yours and opens it, placing a piece of wood onto your palm. You already know, but you wait for him to allow you to open your eyes. He lightly presses his thumb on your cheek under your eye, and when you look, you find a small wooden fawn, curled up and asleep in your hands.

"Master!!..", you start, but nothing else can leave your mouth. You turn the figure around in your hand, inspecting and admiring the details. He's given you gifts before, but not ones carved by his own hand. Not ones made with love.

"You don't have to squint anymore.", Sukuna says, almost jokingly. But his face is as serious as ever as he looks at you, his muse. He thinks of the first time he's exhausted you to the point of passing out right after your nightly meetings. You were relatively new and very unsure of your safety. He thinks of your small body curled up in sleep on the edge of his bed, knees pressed to your chest in a primal, subconscious attempt to protect yourself. His little pet, his fawn.

You slur on and on about how beautiful it is, how you don't know how to thank him, the usual when you receive a gift. And as usual, Sukuna shuts you up with a kiss. You welcome it and wrap your arms around his neck, giving yourself in to him and letting him take you to the bed.

And he takes things slow tonight. He's gentle and so, so giving. Every sensation is delicate, prolonged and heightened to exhaustion. You cling to him, pull him impossibly close, and come apart under the comforting weight of him. Afterwards, you hold his hand to your face and kiss it softly. His hands, so large and strong, capable of such violence, yet for you they craft gifts, cradle, caress, love... in a very subtle and distant way, of course. With these thoughts your hands slip away from his, you turn around and quickly drift off.

He looks at you now, sleeping so close to him. Trusting him with your back, and turning your curled up form to the outside world. As if he is no longer a perceived danger. He smiles to himself in victory, and plants a chaste kiss to your shoulder to wish you one final goodnight.

[vaguely-concerned]

sometimes I think of all the on-the-surface warm, well-meaning but deeply ineffectual advice and attention john gives harrow through harrow the ninth (make some soup and get some sleep! get a hobby! don't be so hard on yourself! self care harrow! as long as I need take no actual responsibility in this relationship whatsoever I would have loved to be your dad!) set up against the stark truth that with his other hand he has been staging her attempted horrific murder again and again and again like a living nightmare on the logic that it will 'put her down or fix her'. and then I find that I wish there is a hell. a special hell where twitch streamers turned necromantic death emperors go

[minimujina]

wanderer in his season of healing makes me so happy. i love that he is safe enough to become softer again, that he is regaining some of his previously “weak” attributes and finding peace with them. he is becoming measured and introspective, and thinking before he speaks, perhaps a result of both his healing and his melancholy; i think it’s beautiful that he is finally able to safely feel his sadness and process the things that have happened. he is simultaneously finding peace and feeling all the difficult emotions he previously consumed with anger. it is painful, but right.

his sense of humor is still intact, certainly rough around the edges as you’d expect, though much less biting than before. it’s easy to tell that most anything aggressive he says is a front, a front that he is no longer concerned with presenting as absolute truth. perhaps the front is his sense of humor, and his affection is all thinly veiled behind jabs and sour grumbles—he is not willing to divulge the intimate details of that, however, preferring to leave it up to interpretation.

i just think of him and his healing and i feel like if he were to fall in love, it would be such a sweet and gentle and quiet sort of thing, just like his newfound peace. he ponders over many things, brooding by himself as much as he can, though he occasionally allows space for others to brood with him. that, i think, is something unique he may grow in. there are people who cannot tolerate strong emotions in themselves and certainly not in others—but he is the kind of person who can. he is the kind of person you could sit with and exist in your sadness and just be sad, and that’s okay. he’s not offering words of comfort or anything, but he doesn’t need to. anything he’d say would be useless anyways, he knows what it’s like and knows that a presence is enough and existing in your emotions safely is enough. he can appreciate someone who is straightforward about feeling unwell, who doesn’t seek pity, who is alright with sitting in the mud. he will gladly sit with you, then, as long as you don’t expect him to get all mushy about things.

he would do well falling in love quietly, not having to beat around the bush. naturally, pieces would fall into place, and he’d find himself yearning to be in the presence of another in a way he’d never before experienced. he had never really wanted to be around anyone, had never sought out anyone’s presence. but once he has been treated gently, has fallen softly into the arms of a likened soul who has the patience and understanding to touch his rough edges without recoiling, he finds his third space being with this new safe person.

and despite his reluctance to be anything but mysterious and nonchalant, i believe wanderer in his healing season would become quite the romantic. not in the sappy sense, but in the quiet love sense i’ve been talking about. firm and protective, subtle and gentle, almost gentlemanlike if it weren’t for his falsely rotten attitude he enjoyed projecting. romantic in a princely way, in a reverently respectful way, in a grotesquely wholesome way.

only the most chaste touches and kisses; he’s still getting used to affection, and would abhor pda. in private he’s much more open to being touched, because he is safe. if he is not safe, he is deeply conditioned to be conscious of his vulnerabilities, and it’s something that will take a lot of time to override, if even at all. but it’s a massive and beautiful step that he is even willing to receive affection at all, that he would want it from a partner in any amount.

hates eye contact, likes playing with hands. likes tracing veins and creases in skin and freckles and scars; he finds them fascinating, as he has nothing of the sort on his artificial body. one of his unique ways he shows affection is what could be called “studying” you. he likes to brood (with you there; perhaps it could be called parallel brooding) and take your arm and trace all the splotches, imperfections, veins, tendons he can find. he likes to touch more than he likes to be touched i think. perhaps he becomes amusingly selfish in this way. perhaps he is more averse to receiving than giving the affection because his disgust towards himself still lingers. perhaps he still has harmful core beliefs to unlearn.

i think he is full of a love that is strong and quiet, a love that he gives so sparingly, and only in pieces, never all at once. unless, that is, someone comes along and manages to drag it all out like a magnet—his carefully crafted exterior is in pieces, just like that! but oh, once someone is in possession of his love, he begins to know them so intimately, more intimately than he lets on. he so deeply knows who he loves and he knows how to give and to take action and so he does it, silently, for he is adept at perceiving the needs of his loved ones. reading body language and facial expressions is second nature to him at this point; nothing can get past him.

he studies you wordlessly with the expression of a cat who loves and reveres its human, except it’s the kind of cat who believes it owns the human, not the other way around. you’re his responsibility that he has taken on like an extension of himself because he loves you, and you have loved him, and now he hardly wants you out of his sight. his journey of rediscovery and learning self acceptance has been mentally and emotionally arduous, but ever since you came in and made loving him seem so easy, he’s felt much more at peace, and has had the capacity to reflect and process with much more freedom to sincerely feel.

stupid fictional character i hate him i hate him so much he is not real and i hate him

[angryducktimemachine]

Aromanticism Zine but it's just my incoherent thoughts.

[signanothername]

Dream’s room within Nightmare’s castle

This comic takes place after Nightmare’s theoretical death that I discussed before >:)

A bit of context under readmore

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: [Astarion x Reader/Tav] Wilful, witty, vulnerable and endearing, Astarion blossoms slowly under the ever-present sunshine of your love.

CW: Explicit sexual content, mentions of past trauma.

Banner art: by Steven Nederveen

Dividers: @aquazero

" ... time and again

No fire where I lit my spark

I am not afraid of the dark

Where your words devour my heart ... "

~ lyrics from Distant Sun (by Crowded House)

His scent infiltrates your dreams, the dry floral notes and the rusty tang of old blood, the unique underlying essence that never fails to bring his face to the forefront of your mind.

When he falls asleep, back pressed to yours, it is merely a prelude to how you wake the following morning, with his head tucked into the crook of your neck, or pillowed between your breasts, the soft white curls grazing your cheek as you keep your breathing light and even, so as not to interrupt his slumber. You know the gentle scent of his scalp better than anyone has a right to.

There is something that goes far beyond the pleasures of the flesh when you are together like this; two easily doused candle-flames that reach for each other, flickering, across the distance of bleak memory, pain and loss.

Such a tenuous connection, so easily fractured. Yet, even through all the trials you've faced thus far, losing him had somehow transformed into an idea you simply would not countenance.

The land might burn, your enemies might dance on the ashes of the people you had failed, but Astarion's fingers winding uncertainly through yours would be the only sensation you wanted to experience at the end of the world.

You thought about it now, as rain pattered on the roof of your tent, the inside dry and warm from the heat of the enchanted lamp. He had joined you a short while earlier, wordlessly, as was his habit. To give voice to the immensity of what he had to overcome, every single time he entered your tent of his own free will, would be more than he was capable of fully processing at this time.

He lay beside you now, with his chin propped against the top of your head.

He was awake.

"Astarion?"

"Darling."

"What kind of weather do you like best?"

He was silent for a while. You lay still, relaxed. Sometimes, pauses in conversation could stretch out for ages, because time ceased to place its shackles on either of you. Even the most mundane topic was up for discussion. Words filled space with comfort. Stolen time was sacred time.

"Hmm. Weather like this, I suppose. It makes being inside feel ... somewhat better."

"You certainly weren't born for the outdoors."

He raised his fingernails for you to inspect.

"Absolutely not! Look at these beauties. Imagine if they became stained with grass, or earth, or worse still ... chipped."

"That would be grievous indeed."

A low rumble of amusement made its way up through his throat.

"What about you, my dove? If I could guess - "

"Cooler weather. Maybe breezy."

His touch skimmed, feather-light, up your arm. In times past, such an action would have been a clear provocation, an invitation to something more intimate. You acknowledge it in your mind, absorb it, like a plant takes in sunlight. Astarion is your sun, small and fitful, burning you down to the bone when you least expect it, fighting for his place in your universe.

You reached out, fingertips brushing his. He paused, allowing your hands to connect, palm to palm. His fingers are longer than yours, strong, clever. You've seen him take apart complex locking mechanisms with such ease, the same ease with which he'd unraveled your body the first time you'd been together.

"Where did you learn to pick locks?"

He lowered his hand and lay back, staring at the roof of the tent. You splayed out at his side, two children watching the imagined turn of the heavens.

"I ... think I learned it from a criminal. One I represented in a case, long ago. He was talkative. Couldn't shut him up, really. Told me how he had cracked a simple safe. I followed his instructions on a similar safe, as a demonstration."

"And you succeeded?"

You could almost sense the curve of his mouth.

"On the first try. He was so proud. Ha. Called me a natural."

You turned your head, smiling slightly. He looked self-satisfied, in that manner of a cat that gets into the choice cream.

Gods, he was lovely to look at, here in your tent, with you. Your gaze traces the impossibly artful tangle of pale curls, the elegant bridge of his nose, the sharp corners of his scarlet eyes and the movement of his perfectly curved lips.

He cocked an eyebrow, expression growing predatory, knowing.

"Darling, you're staring."

You laughed.

"Do you blame me?"

"Honestly? No."

He propped himself on an elbow, playfully prodding at your face until you were forced to swat at him. He sobered suddenly, hands falling away. You suspected you knew what he was about to ask. It was never far away from his thoughts, after all.

"Is this enough for you? Just talking? Just falling asleep together?"

You also knew by now that words weren't adequate to allay his fears. Turning over on your side, you faced him, fingers tracing softly over the profile you'd admired a few moments ago. You smoothed out the worry lines on his forehead, the skin cool and smooth as marble beneath your touch.

"This is more then enough. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because these are the things I've always wanted."

Your index finger trailed down to the tip of his nose, where you decided a kiss needed to be placed. He leaned forward, unknowingly.

"You wanted ... this? How we are now?"

"Yes. A lover is nice and all, Astarion, but I've always wanted a partner. Someone to laugh with. Someone to grouse to. Someone to sit with their back to mine in the cold and share my bread with me. Someone to whisper to when the darkness grows closer."

He was silent for a bit, hesitating. You passed your thumbs across the high cheekbones, watching as he fell slowly into the comforting familiarity of the contact. When he spoke, something bitter caught in his throat.

"But I'm not ... capable of some of those things, you know. I can't keep you warm with my body. I can't laugh like others do. I can't eat with you, nor can I claim that darkness hasn't found a permanent home inside me."

You stroked across the corners of his mouth, avoiding his lips and then tracked upwards once again, along the delicate point of his ears, into the feathery silk of his hair.

"That's all right."

"It is?"

"It is, because I say so. Astarion, very few people actually end up inhabiting the castles they build in the air. Sometimes, they find a real home. A home that's so much better. A place they belong."

His voice had now sunk to a whisper.

"Am I ... that to you?"

"Yes."

He was silent, and you didn't press him. Sometimes, it was better to inform him of the way you felt, and to give him time to mull it over. He shifted, restless, before planting a sudden, rather solid kiss on your lips.

There was no artifice behind it, no coy seduction. It was surprisingly factual, a statement of feeling, of earnest intent.

"I'll have you know," he stated seriously, "that I won't have you comparing me to some homely log cabin. Oh no. I'm nothing short of a stately, luxurious home, built on the side of a sharp precipice, overlooking the most glorious snd treacherous sea."

"That's a rather precarious position to be in, don't you think?"

He sat up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes now animated and captivating.

"But that's half the fun! Will a terrible tempest come along and sweep us away? Will a sea monster rise up from the depths and capture us in its jaws?"

His feral grin was now infectious. You straightened and faced him.

"You're only thinking in terms of disasters! That's poor planning. What about the subtle magics of the air that work directly against rock over time? Erosion is as dangerous as any sea monster, you know. Just a tad less showy."

"And what, darling, do you suggest we do about this mortal peril we find ourselves in?"

"We do exactly as we've done so far. We hammer the walls furiously into place, then drink wine and dance and stamp our feet to see how the repairs hold up."

He threw back his head and let out a laugh, warm, heady, the kind that roughened around the edges and brimmed with the wicked delight that you knew had kept him alive, for all of this time. Unable to help yourself, you placed a gentle kiss to the curve of his throat, moving away again, until he grasped your chin firmly and tugged you back.

His mouth was a stark contrast to the way his fingers sunk almost desperately into your cheeks, a gentle mapping out of teeth, tongue, sealed with the exquisite drag of his fangs across your lip.

Forehead pressed to yours, he breathed out the words, as if they'd been chained in the heavy confines of his chest.

"I want to ... I want ... you. I want ... this."

He had said something similar before, under different circumstances. You knew what he was referring to. Gently, you pushed him back. The dim light turned the red of his gaze to the flesh of a pomegranate, tempting, yielding, so easily crushed between your fingers.

"Astarion ... you don't have to - "

"I know. I know you'll wait for me for God knows how long, and I don't know why, because I - "

He bit his lip, but changed tack.

"The reasons ... are important. I know that better than anyone. But I don't want to think. I want to feel. I want to be able to just do this without - "

Worldssly, you drew him towards you, cradling his head against your chest, a return to the familiar. It's the only message that's ever mattered, at least, to you. That he always had a place, whether in your open arms, or across the breadth of the world, or in another realm altogether.

He'd occupy a space that can be filled by no other, with his easy charm, his bruised smile, the bitter twist of his spirit and every sharp edge that sliced you open and infiltrated the furthest corners of your heart.

"What do you want, Astarion?"

"To feel you."

He spoke into the hush of your tent, his breathing laboured. If you had been anyone else, you might have mistaken it for sheer arousal, nothing more. You knew better.

He was nervous. He was letting you see it.

You placed your hands on his shoulders and he lowered himself, propped on his palms on either side of you. You considered him, warmth and sorrow blooming simultaneously in your chest.

"You'll tell me? If anything I do makes you feel ... "

"Yes, my love. I'll ... yes. Right away."

"Stay still. Keep your eyes on me," was the soft command you gave him.

You undid the laces of his shirt, sliding it from him. His skin gleamed with otherworldly pallor, and the knowledge of what had been carved into his back filtered into your mind. You coudn't make him forget, but you could remind him that touch could be tender too.

Such was the way you handled him, as the shirt was pulled away from his torso fully, the ridged planes of his lean abdomen fluttering slightly under your fingers. He was hyper-sensitive to the sensations you brought, a temporary spike in his breathing.

This was nothing like your previous encounter, when he had confidently displayed himself, instructing you on how to please him. You watch the lift of dense, dark lashes, the hesitancy in his glance, the way he raised his head and arched his neck to gift you the same vulnerability always granted to him when you let him feed.

You kept your palms flat against him, grounding him, as you ran them over throat, delicately traced collarbones, stroked down over the curve of his pectorals, down, down, until you stopped right above the buckle of his belt before repeating the process.

His breathing evened out. He leaned down to capture your lips, a little more steady and with more of his old flair. He nipped lightly down on your chin, playful.

You didn't want him to inhabit the persona he'd worn for so long as some kind of defense, and this definitely felt different. As fraught with nerves as he was, he was regaining some of the self he only showed when you were safely ensconced away from the world.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, and he let out an involuntary groan, low and wanton, a sound that spiked jagged heat all the way down the front of your body.

Before you have time to register his actions, Astarion lowered himself, pressing you into the bedroll. There was no art to the way he rolled his hips against yours, no finesse to the way he clumsily mouthed your neck, eager, warm.

"Astar - ahhh - slow down, you - "

"Can't, my sweet - oh yes - I feel - want you so much. I - "

He tugged down your trousers, dragging your underwear away with it. As much as this seemed far more organic that anything he'd done before, the heated throb of arousal didn't distract you from the fact that he was rushing things, perhaps in a frantic bid to prove that he could do this.

You clamped your thighs together, temporarily denying him access and he sat back on his haunches, panting. The raw hunger with which he regarded you made you as slick as melting ice. You had both gone so long without sex, something you were more than happy to accept. You knew all too well, however, the cost of succumbing to pure lust when there was something far more significant at play.

"I know what you want - "

"Then let me have it. I'm no fragile bloom, my sweet - "

"Astarion."

You stifled a smile as he huffed and folded his arms.  

"Fine. I'm listening. But don't delay. I need you."

The ache in his voice almost has your legs falling apart again, but you hold firm.

"Can you take everything off?"

In reply, he stood and unbuckled his belt, but then paused and shot you a mischievous look.

You knew that look. Your mouth twitched.

"What are you up to?"

"Giving you a show, that's all."

"Oh Gods, is now really the time for - "

"Well, since you're being so stiff, let Hortensius help you along."

"Please, not Hortensius."

"But darling, he's already here. Now, be nice."

He sucked in his cheeks, in the manner of one of the high end fashion models of the Upper City and wagged his hips from side to side, lips projecting in an exaggerated pout as the pants slid from his body. Your smile turned to a helpless quiver of suppressed merriment as he kicked the offending article away and then grasped his rigid member, advancing on you without ever losing the expression.

"My name is Hortensius Dickanthropus and you, my dear, are about to be subject to a most thorough porking."

You lowered your voice, soft and breathy.

"Oh my, Hortensius, I don't know how my poor little flower will take all of that."

Astarion dropped to a predatory crouch, crawling over to you. His grin was wide, canines toothily on display.

"Ah, my blushing maid, don't be shy! I may have a horse's cock, but I'm going to be as delicate as a pixie."

You covered your breasts in false modesty as he sidled down alongside you.

"A pixie? I saw a pixie in my bushes last week. They're so ... naughty. And fast. Are you going to piston me into the middle of next week, Hortensius?"

"With pleasure. I'm going to piston you like the Steel Watch itself is between your legs - "

Your composure gave way and you slapped at his shoulder.

"Not the fucking Steel Watch, for God's sake - "

"Why?" His fingers danced over your hips. "Maybe create another little Foundry down here - "

You're now shaking with laughter and Astarion watched you, the cheeky smirk slipping by inches, eyes kindling with an infinite warmth and adoration that only you are party to. You realised, as your mirth faded, that you had been carrying a great deal of tension too, and that he'd effectively dragged it away from you, deconstructing the last barrier; your fear of hurting him.

In spite of your earlier fervour, you clasped his cheeks between your palms and pressed his forehead to yours, staying like that for a while. He did not object, nose nudging sweetly against yours.

"Astarion, I want to try something."

"Go ahead."

In truth, you'd learned this minor illusion from Gale, whose knowing smile had almost had you running for the hills when you'd first asked him to teach it to you.

Fingers extending upward, you closed your eyes and focused on the Weave, drawing it closer to you, shaping with precision. Astarion exclaimed softly and you dropped your hand, ready to behold your work.

A fall of many-hued petals, delicate as snow, drifted down from the roof of the tent, each disappearing as they settled on the bedroll and your reclining forms. A pleasant scent, earthy and reminiscent of a forest clearing in the springtime, permeated the air. Soft golden motes danced between you, each emitting a delicate luminosity.

Astarion was watching the display with amused delight, allowing you to catch him off guard. Tipping him over onto his back, you took in the sight of him, fully nude, satiny skin and curls dusted in the remnants of illusory wildflowers, indigo, variegated red and yellow, rich royal purple and the dusky blush of dawn.

"You're so lovely. And free."

You banished petals with your caress, all the way down to the perfectly carved valley of his pelvis.

"I want the world to stand still when I look at you because there's no room for anything else in my mind."

He stopped you with a finger to the lips, rising so that you were both lying on your sides, facing each other. He wore his composure well, through long habit, but there was something wild and desperately cast in his eyes.

"And I'm free because of you. Don't you forget it."

This time, nothing interrupted the slide of his skin on yours, the crushing, breathless intimacy that knew no bounds. There was no artifice here, no subtle trick or sly gleam of eyes watching you beneath hooded lids.

Astarion kept your faces close together, watching every contortion of your features, drinking you in and opening himself to you entirely. He raised your leg onto his hip, still facing you as his fingers slipped down, down, between your bodies.

You gasped as he stroked over your folds, his mouth coming down on your throat. His fangs sunk in, only breaking the surface, right at the moment his fingers breached you. Crying out, you clung to him, drawing answering moans as he rocked against you.

His lips brushed yours, un-coordinated, wet against the sides of your mouth. You tasted the slight metallic tinge of your own blood, lost in heady ecstasy as the heat of his exhalation mingled with yours, rough and uneven. He nudged you when your head tilted back, keeping your eyes on him.

His fingers were now coated with the dewiness of your arousal, and he dragged them up between you again, surprising you with just how wet he had made you in such a short time. You watched, breath hitching, as he slid them over his own hardened flesh, tracing pearly fluid down from the tip, coating himself.

You turned to lie on your back, but firm fingers grasped your hip, holding you in place. He tugged your leg further up on his waist, earning a soft gasp. You're more accessible to him like this, more vulnerable.

"Darling, I can't wait any - "

"Astarion, please."

Your soft plea triggered an almost animalistic movement from him, as he ground upwards, pushing against your entrance. You were almost sobbing now, clutching at him, begging him. At his mercy, you bit your lip hard when he worked himself in, sliding into the tight grasp of your heat.

He was trembling, you realise, ecstasy and agony in equal measure, chasing each other across his face as he pushed deeper, burying himself within you, staying with you. Even with the intensity of what you were both feeling, he kept you in place, the hand that had stroked you now holding your thigh over him.

He began a measured pace that quickly devolved to one of instinct, slowing down so that you clenched around him, speeding up until your back arched, swallowing your disjointed whispers as he watched you come undone, and in doing so, came apart himself.

In this golden time, you understood that you have never been more completely aware of another, of the muscle that rippled under alabaster skin, of the rapidly cooling sweat on his chest, of the way his scent wound around you, the way his body moved against and inside yours. He had taken your blood into himself, so many times, consumed you in so many different ways, and yet, this was wholly new.

Astarion wasn't teasing you endlessly. He wasn't bringing you to the brink, and releasing you, which was his specialty, as you're fully aware. He's throwing himself headlong into the passion of a true union, every thrust bringing you both closer to the dazzling precipice.

He was reckless in his lovemaking, somehow striking that balance between base urgency and shattering tenderness. You could see the building euphoria when your eyes met his, the knowledge that this moment belonged to both of you, untainted, spun out in indestructible threads that bound you to each other.

You were close. You let him know, through the pale crescents your nails left on his shoulder and side, through the way your voice rose, the way your hardened nipples pushed into him as your whole body stiffened and prepared for mind-numbing, white-hot pleasure, the way you took his fingers into your mouth with hedonistic abandon.

He drank it all in, tracking every movement, every glimmering bead of sweat, every minute crease between your brows. Fighting back years of conditioning, he held you impossibly closer, your body a shield against the memory of every meaningless, sordid encounter.

Your eyes dragged open, tears glistening where they had gathered at the corners, slipping down across the bridge of your nose, bringing the sight of his face to sudden clarity.

You let him see it, all of it; the moment your climax crashed like a wave over every sense, that most secret of faces. You let him see that he was the only one who could bring you to this place, this endless horizon that curved across your vision like a shard of jacinth.

Astarion was now gasping endearments. They fell from his lips in a litany, one declaration melding into another. You held onto him as your own mind slowly cleared, senses thrumming with the aftermath of the pleasure he had brought you.

He was close.

You surrendered complete control to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hips lifted from the bedroll in fitful abandon, his teeth sinking into your shoulder and releasing.

"My ... my sweet, I'm - ah - you're so - don't know what you - "

At any other time, seeing Astarion, with his mastery of seductive words that bordered on legendary, in this barely coherent state, would have been cause for wonder indeed. As with all else, however, you took things as they were, treasured them.

Here, with you, he didn't have to be that. Here, he needed no flowery phrases and practiced gestures. Here, he was yours, in wiry strength and hidden fragility, in biting humour and those rare moments of stark realism, when he did his best to protect you from a world who's cruelty he had experienced all too many times.

When he finally reached his peak, lips drawn  back from teeth, brow furrowed in supreme pleasure, tendons standing out on his neck as a series of guttural sounds escaped him, you smoothed your hands up and down his back, bringing him slowly back to you.

You pressed soft kisses across his nose, along his jawline, his body giving one last shudder as your lips ghosted over his ear and you nuzzled into his hair. Regaining focus, his gaze fixed on your face, a slow, radiant smile gathered, a stray ray of sunshine burning through overcast skies.

Something bubbled up in his chest, overflowed into the almost non-existent space between your bodies. A peal of laughter, so bright, so free of pain, lancing through you like the keen point of an arrow, the barbs lodging somewhere deep in your chest.

You could listen to him laugh like this forever.

He finally released you, rolling over onto his back, that same giddy smile refusing to diminish. One of his arms extended, drawing you close so that your head now rested on his chest, your shoulders encased in the solid curve of his arm.

"My love, my light, that was - "

His chest heaved again, and his head moved from side to side in cheerful disbelief. You couldn't help the grin that broke across your own countenance.

"Careful, Astarion. You sound happier than the first time you drank from me."

"But this is better! This is - "

His enthusiasm cut off, faster than words escaped him. Something choked him, held the rest of sentence prisoner until he took a heavy breath, released it. The catch in his voice added strength to your grip on him.

"This is perfect. This is ... everything I want it to be."

You remained silent, not trusting your own voice now. When he spoke again, it was so soft that you almost missed the words.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. Never for this."

Later, as the outside intruded once again into the sanctity of your tent, when the rustle of the wind in the trees, the crack of new firewood given up to the hungry flames of the campfire and the distant song of nocturnal birds echoed back to you, you placed your hand over where his heart should beat.

It had been somewhat disconcerting, the first time you'd felt the lack of that steady rhythm beneath your fingertips. Now, however, you felt something entirely different.

This was no empty void, no echoing palace of yesterday's torment. Astarion had come so much further than that. He was here, beside you, of his own free will. There was no such thing as true emptiness, not in a life as rich as this one, that of a man who had given up so much to walk, just once more, in the sun.

No. This space where vitality should make itself known was threaded through with so many scars, but from that barren landscape, verdant new growth came, tended carefully. You could see how it stole over him, and you, in every shared touch, every wound bandaged, every battle fought side by side, every new delight you found in each other.

It came like a thief, robed in night, and laughed as it took the title of queen, enthroning itself in your hearts. It had taken up the sceptre, usurped your earthly kingdom and banished all notion of loneliness.

Such was the nature of love, and so it would remain, until that final red sunrise came to claim you both.

@tattoo-of-a-bird Finally got the courage to write this one.

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Peter Weir: ok this is the big finale and probably the most important moment in Todd’s whole story, showing the audience his growth from the shy awkward kid who couldn’t speak in class or participate in anything into this changed person

Ethan Hawke: don’t worry, I got this

Ethan Hawke: 🧍

[hawnks]

I'm having this thought of Yuuta simply inserting himself into your life as Your Alpha. He doesn't ask, doesn't really even imply that he wants to be your alpha, one day he's just handing you a hoodie for your nest, he's talking to your boss about you having to take time off next month, he's making decisions about where and how you're going to spend your heat. Like you belong to him.

And, god help you, you're letting him.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Bare skin, bare feelings.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[melonyfelonyfellonme]

Thinking about how Lucanis can never relax and is always on guard, doesn't even take a moment for himself, always needing to work to take his mind off things, and maybe if you romance him, his first thought is that he doesn't trust your intentions

But then maybe later on... he manages to sleep a full night, entirely vulnerable around Rook

It's a seemingly small thing, but it's something that got me with Cullen's romance too tbh, having nightmares and struggling to relax so throwing yourself into your work, for one person to go "I'll take some of your worries, you can trust me"

And you actually do manage to relax for the first time since... Well, when was the last time you were able to relax?

[casualavocados]

You've never done that when I got close to you before. Why? None of your business. Tell me, or you can't leave.

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 10

[archie-sunshine]

Not really a question but I wanted to say I appreciate the soft and tender intimacy you show in your work sometimes. Sex is weird and really scary to me personally because of past shit, so when I can just see something be done lovingly… it’s nice.. it makes me remember that’s it’s not so scary. Sorry if that’s sharing too much, I just like your art 

ok so this ask inspired me to go on a bit of a rant, NOT DIRECTED AT YOU, im really genuinely glad that my work helps to make sex seem more fun and less scary. that means a lot to me.

so much of the time sex is shown to be like. this serious, meaningful thing, when really sex is just. normal! just as normal as not having sex. it's as regular as feeding yourself, or pissin or scratchin an itch. And like the whole world(catholicism) has just made it out to be this TERRIFYING AND SINFUL ACT. This SCANDALIZING AND POLARIZING THING!! but really like. its a completely neutral action, the same as washing your hands or blowing your nose!!! its just our bodies doing something that they (for the most part and up to personal preference) were made to do!!

like idk, i might be a hedonist but i feel like people were more likely made to walk the earth fuckin nasty smoking pot and cooking animals over a big fire than they were to like. feel bad about themselves for their appearances. or work at starbucks.

but i digress!!! GENTLE AND CARING SEX IS COOL MORE THAT!