#cw: healed burn scars

[mbirnsings-71]

OC posting on main-

so like not my usual content but in preparation for Art fight I've been doing OC Ref sheets so like I wanna post two of them here!! If you don't wanna see them you can just not click below but like yeah <3

OCs under the cut!! Content warnings for Healed burn scars and Blood + Injury basically

[theysangastheyslew]

Dawn is bound to break

When the night is done

Always darker days

Before brighter ones

Lol sorry I know you all were thirsty now I feel bad 😅 I know post-op knee exercises aren’t sexy but they are important 👍

[rhymeswithfart]

I made a character based on the song "Hamburger Lady"

She knows your suffering. She understands your agony.

[atypi-cals]

burns are wild they'll start out looking like a slightly inflamed piece of skin and then 5 days later that same skin is sloughing off

[temporarytemporal]

cling to me

I know I said I was going to distance myself from this piece of media because of all of its terrible connections, but these two characters seem to have taken root in a permanent place in my heart, and I can't let them go.

Anyway, here's some character design notes below the cut for the one person out there who's obsessed with these characters as much as me.

Early DSMP: the era of childhood innocence

Bandanas: They sport each other’s bandana’s (they’re hidden in the design for every era). I love character designs with complementary colors (and I love how red and green are also cranboo’s colors)

Disks: Early on, cat and mellohi represent the peaceful moments ctommy shared with his favorite people, but they went on to be a symbol of victory and independence from the people who have hurt him.

Flowers: Ctubbo collects flowers and tries to memorize the meanings and symbolism tied to each type of flower. He also collects them for his bees.

L’manberg: the era where children became soldiers

Horns: Ctubbo’s horns start to grow in here.

Pogtopia: the era of an exile and a secretary of state / spy

You can tell I joined the fandom at the end of this era because I don’t have many notes here or for the l’manberg era.

Exile: the era of an exile once again and and a president too young

Hair: Ctommy’s hair starts to grow longer as he neglects taking care of himself.

Clothes: Ctommy’s clothes are tattered; one shoe is destroyed and he took to wearing cw-lbur’s (f-ck ccw-lbur btw!!) trench coat.

Bandages: Ctubbo’s wrapped in bandages from his recently earned firework burns. He’s gone blind in his right eye, and he’s missing the ring and pinkie finger on his right hand.

Compasses: They share their matching ‘your tommy’ and ‘your tubbo’ compasses

Hog Hunt: the era where one sought to kill the blood god while the other sought refuge there

Stolen goods: Ctommy’s has his antarctic empire outfit plus all the goods he stole from ctechno like the turtle helmet, golden apples, and the axe of peace.

Bedrock: Ctommy wears his counterpart piece matching techno’s from his ear.

Prosthetic: Ctommy’s right foot had to be amputated after he loses it to frostbite in the trek to cemeraldduo’s cabin. Ctechno gives him a simple prosthetic.

Disc Finale: the era of mended relationships and a final stand

Headband: Ctommy begins to wear a devil headband to fit in more, as he’s one of the few humans on the server. The devil horns were chosen to resemble ceryn’s real ones.

Patchwork: Ctommy learns to sew, and he fixes his tattered clothes from exile.

Post Revival:

Devil horns: Ctommy’s devil horns (plus a tail) become real after revival, and he gets a white streak in his hair.

Prime cross: The bad things that have happened to them both that they survived strengthen ctommy’s faith in prime, whereas they weaken ctubbo’s faith.

Sweater: Ctommy makes himself a sweater from friend’s wool.

Mechanical inventions: Ctubbo pursues his passion for engineering more as he makes mechanical bee drones and studies nuclear physics. He also makes himself prosthetic fingers, and he upgrades ctommy’s prosthetic foot.

Marriage ring: Ctubbo marries cranboo platonically and wears the ring on his horn. He also founds snowchester so he can have a place to protect his loved ones and raise his son. He grows out his hair to avoid eye contact for cranboo and to cover his scars.

Body type: Ctubbo gets chubbier and gains some muscle as he gets a bit happier in life.

Post DSMP:

The prison break and everything after it never happened. These are my OCs, and I make the rules because every actor/writer who played a part in their creation either abandoned them or turned out to be a terrible person. Cbenchtrio live happily ever after and begin their journey of healing while cdream rots in prison forever.

[dmitriene]

cw: references to simon's past.

there's those moments amidst the deep night hour when simon riley wakes up from his troubled slumber, pulled out abruptly and shaken wholly, with cold sweat dewy on his paled, moonlighted skin, beading drops drenching in the linens below, sticky, wet to the point where it's itches against his shivering body, making him run away from the feeling, from the warmth of the bed and your curled body beside.

run from his ugly self, from the plaguing fear of letting anyone, you, see what he goes through, what he hides under all those grimy, scarred layers, trying to stay unbothered, to be a ghost, but if you couldn't see through it all, peel, you wasn't going to be with simon in the first place, and the moment his footsteps paddle over to the living room, you wake up.

simon sits on the couch, hunched over, the cushions crumpling under the sheer weight of him, and every line of his body, filled out with outstanding fat and muscle, is highlighted in distress, it's seen in the uneven, rippling line of his spine, the quiet bounce of his knee, starting to tap against the floor when his feet lands down, and the wet, choked gasp that heaves up from his expanding, contracting ribs, making you move.

it's not the first time he cries, always hiding from this feeling like a little kid, forcing the bubbling whimpers and stinging tears down, melting in the bile that fills his tightening throat, burning, never escaping, not like those salty, clear rivulets streaking down his warming cheeks, skin raw from the inside, where simon sinks his teeth in to silence all the sounds, until you lean in, draping your body over his quivering back.

holding him, you brush feathery, ginger touches over the slopes of his body, the rolls of fat, filled out with scars and stretch marks, that grow out from beneath the waistband of his boxers and cracking up towards his waist, where your fingertips rub in, caressing, feeling higher, over the tissued skin, sacred scars, your palm flat over the memory on simon's once skewered rib, and if you close your eyes, you can imagine the viscose feel of his blood.

if simon falls asleep after, it's only in the hold of your caressing hands, healing, he curls in your chest, head bowing in the crook of your neck, brushing atop your collarbones, he would've kissed you, drowned himself in ringing sounds of pleasure and desperate, borderline animalistic sex, but his eyes flutter heavily, paling eyelashes tickling over your tender skin, and he limps back to slumber, knowing he doesn't needs to run no more.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 24: 𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍

title: milk me synopsis: usually demons' poisons just kill whoever was affected by them. this time, it served for something else. something way better. [2.1K] cw: established relationship, eye patch!kyojuro, crystal hashira!reader, sex pollen, public sex, pussy drunk, forced orgasms, overstimulation, oral (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), p in v, dacryphilia, spit, nipple stimulation, accidental voyeurism (we'll say: sorry miss shinobu).

PREV POST ✰ NEXT POST

Monsters, echoed in the demon’s head as he ran deeper into the forest. His arm reattached to his body, fully healed but burning still. With human blood dripping from his mouth, he cursed the slayers after him. Monsters. All of them.

The bastard decided where his body would rot. He was the one to decide over his path. Lurking among the branches, you waited. Concealed by the night, Kyojuro chased. And as the demon laughed, believing to have outwitted the slayers, fire and crystal cut through his neck in union.

Blood burned into ashes on your nichirin sword. As the head rolled, you gazed at the starless sky. Using the moon as a reference, you knew this hunt was too easy. “It’s not even midnight yet”, you frowned. “Sanemi spoke the truth on our last meeting. Those slayers begged for our help to end this weak thing?”

Hypnotized by your presence, Kyojuro cupped your cheek. The head between you two screamed and cursed, but his voice meant nothing for Kyojuro. Talking is a privilege for the living, and he won’t allow a beast to stop him from admiring you.

“Only because of your flawless strategy, flame of my heart!” Kyojuro laughed, thumb caressing your lower lip. He blatantly ignored your last statement, determined to not let worries take you away from him. “How glad I am to fight beside you!”

To feel his hand full of scars, hear his voice full of love, made you come back to the present. Kyojuro knows how easy it’s for you to get lost inside of your own head. Soothing you back into reality, you were the flying pipe and Kyojuro the stone.

How could you care about any other thing when Kyojuro burns this bright? All concerns about the level of those new slayers were quickly forgotten. Moving your face, you kissed his open palm. He was so warm. Welcoming.

“You flatter me.”

“I only speak the truth”, Kyojuro pulled you closer. “As you deserve.”

Peace was disturbed as bones cracked. You looked down to find the demon’s jaw wide open, tongue contorting as he choked on it. You assumed it was agony, but Kyojuro recognized it as a last act of violence. From stroking your face, Kyojuro spared no strength to shove you as far away as he could.

You were about to do the same to him.

As you rose from the ground a heavy, yellow mist came out from the demon’s mouth. Covering your face with your emerald haori, to hear his coughs made your heart stir. The more desperate Kyojuro becomes, the more this pollen will infiltrate his nostrils. The more this wretched demon would hurt your dear Kyo.

In an act of pure logic, you kicked the head away. In an act of pure hatred, you did so with so much strength the head exploded in pieces against a tree trunk.

You turned around in time to see Kyojuro’s nose scrunching.

The pollen was already gone, scattered in the wind. You let go of your haori and held his chin, looking for blisters or burns were the mist touched. As you moved him closer to you, Kyojuro sighed.

More carefully now, you tilted his head. Moonlight revealed his flushed cheeks, forehead already soaked with sweat. His owl eye, always brimming with excitement and joy, never looked so dark. You found nothing. Not a wound, not a scratch.

“Focus”, you demanded, voice stern. Now you weren’t his wife, only a hashira telling a hurt person what to do. “Slow down your heartbeat. Fight the fever. Kyojuro, I need you to breath.”

That damned thing. You doubt that demon could create anything stronger than a common poison. After a whistle, your crow landed on your shoulder. Looking into its purple eyes, you gave the instructions to warn Shinobu of your position.

“Kyo!” You almost lost balance when he collapsed against you. “Listen to me! You need to keep on breathing.”

His arms intertwined around your waist, his hold so tight you could feel his chest moving up and down with every shaky breath. Kyojuro’s knees failed, his weight making you stumble back.

Your mind was a torturous place right now.

Usually, he would fight back. If only his body was threatened, Kyojuro would have stopped that poison by now, but it clearly affected his mind too. You can’t count on Kyojuro tonight. He needs you now.

The best thing is for Kyojuro to get healed immediately, and the only one that can assure that is Shinobu. You want to take him in your arms and run. The sudden movement, the change in temperature, his aching lungs. You want to run, but maybe that would only work to weaken Kyojuro even more. But to stay here, holding a suffering Kyojuro in the hopes of being found? That would make you insane!

And again, you were the pipe flying away, lost in the winds of your head. You need your stone. You need Kyojuro to be fine again.

Kyojuro inhaled deeply your scent, and for a moment you thought he learned how to deal with the poison. Him shamelessly ravishing on your skin made you second thought that.

“Dear”, you whimpered. Trying to move Kyojuro away, you stumbled back once more. This time, Kyojuro stepped forward, putting more of his weight on top of you. “Kyo… What are you doing?”

His warm tongue licked the crook of your neck, tasting your sweat. His nose brushed against you, drowning in your perfume.

“I am hungry”, Kyojuro whimpered, mouth closing around the sensitive skin where your shoulder and neck meet. His lips, soft and plump, stole a little whimper from you. “I burn for you.”

At that, your eyes widened. Aphrodisiacs! That explains why those slayers were so quick to avert his curious gaze and your careful touch. Why they cried as they moved, although they carried no wound. Why you feel something poking at your belly.

His teeth sank on your neck, expelling every thought from your mind. It was strong enough to bring you to tears. A deep moan echoed through the night; a sound so primal a part of you mistook it from an animal’s doing.

Your heartbeat increased, and you knew Kyojuro heard it too.

“Kyojuro Rengoku,” you hissed. It made him froze. “You need to stop.”

Taken back from your harsh tone, Kyojuro tilted his head towards yours. You were mad at him. No, no, no, no! That… That can’t be. He can’t make you suffer. He promised to never make you suffer.

“Forgive me,” he begged. Kyojuro sounded more like himself. Still clouded, flying like a pipe, but real. Caring.

In a merciful act, the moon shone over you two. And in its glow, you saw Kyojuro crying. Heavy tears rolled down his face, sobs forcing out of him.

The great flame hashira reduced to such a beautiful mess.

“I need you”, Kyojuro whimpered. He closed his eyes, all the voices in his head bringing him step by step closer to the abyss. “I feel as if… As if I will go insane if I don’t have you. I am… sorry.” You saw fire inside his eye, heard certainty on his voice. “I just need to… Yes, my flame, I just need to…”

His warmth turned into heat, and Kyojuro moved before you could decide over your next action. Not a second later your back was on the ground, eyes wide as you stared at the predator lurking above you.

Kyojuro kneeled down, thighs closed between your legs. His rough hands tugged at your haori, trembling as he pulled it apart. Like a beast, Kyojuro cut through all the fabrics between you two. He stopped when your breasts spilled out, nipples hard as the wind touched them.

His deep breath made you pay more attention to Kyojuro’s details. Fingers hesitant to touch your skin. Tears staining his face. Lips open, drool falling over you. The sound of his pitiful cries pierced your skull.

Without any words, Kyojuro begged. He begged for your forgiveness. For your help. For you. And how could you deny Kyojuro of what he wants so badly?

“Do it”, you said. You allowed. Supporting your weight on your elbows, back leaving the ground, you bit your tongue. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thank you, my flame”, Kyojuro cried. So beautiful. “Thank you, thank you.”

His warm mouth closed around your nipple, eyes widening as he sucked on it. His fingers yanked the other, rolling it between his fingertips with just the right pressure.

Kyojuro bit your shoulder, this time less feral. It wasn’t possessive, only a need to have you between his teeth. Marking your bust, leaving not a single inch untouched and unmarked, he covered you on his spit.

He is a selfless lover in a way the most selfish one could appreciate. There isn’t a single moment Kyojuro doesn’t think about your pleasure. He is always seeking for it, drowning himself on you and only coming back to surface when you beg for rest. It’s nothing but a mere coincidence that Kyojuro takes his own pleasure from yours.

The more you whined, hips twitching beneath his broad body, the more Kyojuro gave to you. You hissed when his teeth closed around your wet nipples, and Kyojuro saw that as a sign he needed to keep going.

Even in this condition, your man really can’t bear having an empty mouth.

Kyojuro bended your legs, feet high on the air, laying down on the ground. He forced your thighs to close around his head, fingers drawing circles on your hips. You felt his shaky breath against your ignored cunt.

“Itadakimasu,” Kyojuro whispered. Not for you, but for your pussy.

And so, he dived into you. There was no technique, no method on the way his tongue moved. And that’s why you always loved to have his head between your legs. With Kyojuro, you never felt as if your time was running out. As if you had to be quick, so he would finally feel pleasure too. Eating you out, Kyojuro never thought about the quickest way to get you to cum.

He does that for himself. Tongue deep into your walls, Kyojuro rejoices. Teeth pulling at your clit, Kyojuro salivates. Every noise that you make, from sheepish whimpers to weary cries, is a full meal for this hungry man.

You’re in for a long night.

Kyojuro licked your slit restlessly. In his place, your jaw would stumble. His big tongue slipped inside of it, back to his home. The soft and trained muscle, curling at the perfect spot inside of you.

But he never stayed inside of you for long enough, as another part of your glistening cut looked deserving of his attention too. Torturing you, all you did was pull his golden hair and take it.

After the fourth orgasm, his fingers filling you up without mercy, your mouth hanged open. You couldn’t close it. You couldn’t remember to close it. All you wanted, all you could think about, was for Kyojuro to have his fill. To get better. To just drown already and let you rest.

“Inside of me”, your voice echoed, but you had no time to be embarrassed about your screams. Pushing his head away, you tried to bargain with his desire. “Just get inside of me already, Kyojuro!”

But he refused you. Nodding, Kyojuro nuzzled at your core. Impatient, you groaned and pulled his hair harshly.

Kyojuro saw you. All of you. The redness of your tearful eyes. The bite marks around your collarbone. Those half-closed eyes, tired but energized still. Those breasts moving up and down, up and down.

“Now”, you ordered, clenching your teeth.

As if he would be punished by disobeying you, Kyojuro freed his leaking cock and pulled you closer. Rigid for you, sensitive because of all the pleasure he gave you, ready for you.

Your flame hashira, more than ready to burn you alive.

His body was on top of yours, involving you completely, as he thrusted into your walls. He licked your lips, eye as heavy as yours. “You taste so good”, he said against your mouth. “The best meal I ever had.”

Looking into his eyes, you melted. Your legs shaken around his hips; eyes rolled back as Kyojuro used you to get off. Watching Kyojuro finally fell apart, head finding solace in the crook of your neck, you smiled. “Better?”

A husky laugh vibrated through you. “Better.”

Shinobu thanked darkness for hiding her burning cheeks.

taglist: @ffinosie @lovelyy-moonlight @alzaira @s2-angells @eyes-ofhell @inlovewithmariah @chiiyohiimee @shaquilles-0atmeal @bloodyziggy @salemey @kcch-ns @notanalienindisguiseblink @py-schi @miyanosm @idonthaveanameforthisacc

© all rights reserved to MADWOMANSAPOLOGIST

[criminalamnesia]

thinking about the cod men with a reader who gets injured/tortured and is hurt pretty badly.

cw: mentions of bruises, cuts, stitches, scars, & other medical stuff (nothing too detailed)

you’re all cut up and bruised. deep gashes and broken bones. stitches and bandages and the whole nine yards. pieces of skin that won’t heal quite right— that will never look the same.

your face hadn’t escaped unscathed. you’re sporting new, ugly scars. jagged things that cut through your eyebrow, across your face, around your mouth. maybe burn marks that discolor your skin and hurt like a bitch.

you’re scared that they won’t love you anymore. that they won’t think you’re pretty. you don’t tell them this as they take care of you. they change your bandages and check your stitches, all while whispering praise and words of love.

but you hate it— hate yourself. the first time you look in the mirror after you’re healed enough to stand, you don’t recognize the face staring back at you.

you start to pull away from them, much to their dismay. they ask you about it one day as they’re checking some stitches right above your eye.

“what’s wrong, love?”

you shake your head, trying to ignore the love in their eyes.

“nothing.”

“it’s obviously something.”

you sigh, reeling back from their touch. your fingers twitch in your lap— a telltale sign of your nerves.

big hands grab yours gently, rubbing soothing circles on the skin of your palms.

you bite the bullet and come clean, then. no use in hiding it anymore. you admit that you’re expecting them to leave— that you’re not who they fell in love with. you’re broken now. damaged goods.

they shake their head, thumbs coming up to wipe at stray tears on your cheeks.

“no, love. you’re perfect. you’ve never been more beautiful, and that beauty will never scare us away.”

—————————————————————

author’s note:

listening to Mary On A Cross by Ghost and the line “your beauty never ever scared me” inspired this.

also feel free to picture whoever. I wrote with poly!141 in mind (bc I’m a slut for them).

I’ll try to get to asks this weekend! I’ll have more free then to write something more fleshed out! :)

[the-s1lly-corner]

Can you write some scar fluff/comfort? As in kissing slashers scars (And trying to not get stabbed /hj) or vise versa? Maybe with Jason, Micheal, Brahms, and Thomas? (Feel free to change them up)

Kissing their scars (Jason, Brahms, Thomas and Michael)

and the days writing begins! hoping to get a lot done, even if a lot of it wont be posted today to avoid spam- wooo!! notes: reader is gn, you kiss their scars, michaels part is admittedly short mostly due to the admin still not totally used to writing for him yet- havent quite felt ive got his personality down cws: healed injuries, nothing intense but i like to be safe than sorry

JASON

he has more than his fair share of scars, and honestly? hes not all that worried about them, hes not ashamed of them- he takes them as a sign that hes been doing well with protecting his space as well as you

still open to you kissing them, theres lots to choose from.... hes got them on his hands, his back, shoulders, youre sure if you look there would be a scar somewhere

the moment is so tender that he may shutter a little with some emotion, being slightly more emotive than he normally is

take his hand and press his scarred knuckles to your mouth for a gentle kiss and hes going to be melting in your grasp

its not much different than the kisses you press onto his mask but the intention feels different- if that makes sense.. hes bad at describing things...

BRAHMS

does not like his scars at all- he thinks they look unsightly and they feel uncomfortable against his skin thats not scarred over

covers most of them with his mask and clothing, but you can see some splotches here and there

he... doesnt quite know how to feel about it when you kiss them, but hes not going to deny himself the extra attention and affection that youve giving him

with time he may grow to accept them; whether or not he stops covering them up is a totally different thing, though...

one thing is still the same, the second you give him some extra loving hes going to expect that to be the new normal- surely you wont mind cuddling into him while trailing kisses up and down his body where his scars reside!

MICHAEL

similar to jason, he doesnt mind his scars all that much... in fact he doesnt care about them at all, and you probably wouldnt have known he had them if you didnt see him without his usual coveralls on

shows no visible reaction to you lightly pressing kisses to the scars he lets you get close enough- usually reserved to the ones on his hands hes gotten from minor burns or nicks

does not seek affection, but its a good sign that hes not pulling away or otherwise getting you to stop... because if he truly wasnt interested in it he wouldnt indulge you

doesnt quite understand the sentiment behind kissing his (now healed) wounds but you do you

THOMAS

you make him feel better about his looks, youre always uplifting him so you kissing along his face- especially concentrating it around where his nose once was- makes him feel.. nice

it does come as a little surprise at first, though, not that he thinks youre revolted or not fully willing to show your devotion and love for him... its more so the act never crossed his mind until you did it

youre cupping his head in your hands, fingers lightly tangled in his hair... perhaps even massaging his scalp as you lean in for another kiss

truly he is in heaven as you give him all of your love, youve never seen someone look at you with so much love in their eyes... much less look at you like that

it does make him more willing to take his masks off around you, now fully reassured that you dont mind his appearance at all and that you like the face he was given

[lemonerix]

I was thinking about the nations' healing abilities and ik they've definitely lost a limb or two in their lifetimes.

headcanon below the cut (cw: dismemberment and decomposition talk)

there's three types of injury that can befall a nation:

an attack on the actual landmass/people = long lasting injuries, wounds eventually heal but will take a long time, and can manifest as a sickness sometimes

an attack on the personification's physical body by another personification = heals relatively quick, but has long lasting effects, and permanent scars, self inflicted wounds also belong to this category

an attack on the personification's physical body by regular humans = short term injuries, no scars, no lasting effects

resurrection is a normal occurrence too, as long as a nation is a nation, they'll be fine.

dismembered country body parts tend to decompose faster than normal, so it's best to bury it or burn it to keep diseases at bay.

the acceleration of decomposition is probably because of the nations' special property that keeps living things that's in close proximity to them most of the time semi immortal, so when a limb disconnects from the body, it essentially makes up for the time it wasn't aging.

[mbirnsings-71]

more OC posting on main

again if you guys don't wanna see it, I'm gonna put my OC art under the cut but I'm really happy with this okay listen I love overlays- I will say before I do however you guys should listen to this song, it kinda inspired the art piece (I blame you @lookatthissh-t)

Eyes my beloved <3

[wearysparrows]

Never Quite Heaven

ao3/masterlist

Part 1 (here) / Part 2

Summary: After he had rejected your initial advances, you and Sylus had become the closest of friends. But your relationship still takes on a shape neither of you can quite define. Sylus regrets. You’re kept in the dark.

cw: AFAB reader, term 'sister' is used, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, hurt and no comfort, Suggestive Themes, Cigarettes (Sylus smoking), depictions of Sylus hurt and healing, Sylus POV and your POV, no use of 'Y/N', reader is MC, written in snippets, Not Beta Read

Sylus had been your closest friend for years now.

When the two of you had first met, you had tentatively hoped for the possibility of more between you. Sylus had everything going for him – and what did you have to lose? After the deaths of Caleb and Gran, hardly anything fazed you, anymore. You had joked about the prospect once – you and Sylus as a couple, in the early days. He had quickly dismissed the possibility, telling you not to be delusional. You didn’t need to be told twice. One rejection from Sylus was enough for a lifetime. Still, he insisted on staying in your life, so much so that he carved out a permanent place in it. The two of you carried on as friends, and had grown into a deep, easy closeness that only the passage of time could bring. The wound had smarted, initially, but now it only occasionally ached with a dull thud, like an old scar you accidentally raked your nails over.

Sylus had come at your request to an upscale bar, following along with your intentions to meet up with your other close friend – Tara. There wasn’t any reason for you to invite him, but you did. It felt wholly unnatural to be away from you, anyway. Sylus always came. It was as if you were one of his essential organs – your removal would spell his end.

You had frequented this place so often that Sylus had opted to purchase the bar. The alcohol was replaced with something of a higher quality, the lights dimmed just a little. You had complained of their burning blue fluorescence, once. Now, they glowed a soft yellow. You had commented on the changes, seeming pleased, but were none the wiser to his meddling. Sylus said nothing of it.

He had one arm perched innocuously on the dark wood of the booth behind your back, fingertips just barely a ghost on the skin of your shoulders. A touch that told others you were his – even if you yourself weren’t aware of it. The booth was large enough that he could spread his legs wide, and his knee touched your thigh under the table. None of this seemed to faze you in the slightest. You were deep in conversation with your friend, gesticulating excitedly with one hand. Your other, ever needing something to occupy it, had been threading its fingers in and out of one of his belt loops, repeatedly. Tugging on it. Stroking the etched leather of his belt, dragging a nail over the texture. He let you, wordlessly. You always touched him like this – mindlessly, assured that it didn’t affect him. He watched the curve of your lips as you spoke, as you drank from your straw, as you opened them to eat. The soft spread of the muscle of your thighs on the deep green leather of the booth seat. His pants had been uncomfortably tight for nearly the entire night. He never lost his composure in front of you, though. Composure was something he was very, very good at. He had been given nearly infinite time to practice, after all. Still, he didn’t need you seeing him like this. He excused himself with a low word to the restroom to collect his faculties.

Sylus thrust the cold running water from the sink onto his face with open palms. It cooled his skin, and his nerves. He was so tightly wound around you. And he was always around you. His arms, the span of his body, his spirit. His muscles were endlessly taught with his grip on his self control. Sylus looked at his reflection in the mirror. Nothing was out of place. You looked best standing next to him, and he next to you. This body, clad in leathers instead of scales, moved with singular purpose.

His pupils had returned to a normal degree of dilation. The tightness in his pants was beginning to ease. He adjusted his belt, touching the places your fingers had left their traces. Exhaling through his nose, he stepped with trained silence back out into the adjoining hallway. As he walked, Tara’s voice reached his ears, just on the other side of the adjoining wall.

“Why don’t the two of you date? I mean, the only thing that would change would be the addition of sex, right? Everything else, it’s like you’re already together. You have his black card in your wallet, for fuck’s sake.”

Tara’s question made Sylus stop in his tracks. The hallway to the restrooms hid him from view, and he leaned against the wall there, listening intently for your response. Your voice, the sound he adored so much, more than any other. You spoke of him. 

“Remember when I called you years ago after I first met him? He told me I was–”

“Delusional? Yeah, I remember. Don’t you think he could have changed his mind by now? That was a long time ago. Have you ever brought it up?”

Barbs weaved and clenched around Sylus’s insides at the memory. He hadn’t been truthful in that moment – he was a creature that hadn’t experienced love for an age, and suddenly having it thrust in front of him from the one he desired the most – he lashed at it. His words had been biting, teeth snapping at the one person he didn’t want to sink them into. He had been more than careful never to imply anything of a similar nature since. Now he was careful. Calculated. He became everything you needed, and a little more. You molded him now as you had then.

“No way. He just doesn’t see me like that. I mean, I’ve been practically naked in front of him more times than I can count, and he never bats an eye. I think he sees me like a sister, or,”

Sylus’s hearing was so acute that he could hear you pause to swallow your drink. He could hear it slide down your wet throat. Even from this distance, he could catch the faint sound of your heart beating in your chest, so long had he been attuned to its particular rhythm. The delicately powerful sound of your existence. Supporting your body that had carried you through so many trials and tribulations. You had only become more beautiful for it, and Sylus had the grand privilege of watching you change and grow.

 Your words, however, caused him to pinch the bridge of his nose. A headache threatened to overtake him. Never bats an eye? He must be doing an excellent job of hiding his true feelings for you. So much so that it had only driven home his original lie further, a permanent nail in his chest. Even just the sight of you getting into the passenger seat of his car (an ancient thing with a stick shift, because you said you liked men who drove them,) got him half-hard, let alone the times he had seen you practically naked. But he would rather have shot himself in the chest a hundred times over, feeling the flesh sew itself up over and over again than make you feel uncomfortable with that knowledge – so he held back. He was always holding back. Restraint had become second nature, the thing he wanted most tantalizing him all of the time. He had an iron fist around the shape of his desires. Sylus found any excuse to keep you as near as possible. He had endless excuses, endless reasons to be by your side. He made certain he was the only man you needed in your life. And you had grown to need him. Of this, at the very least, he was certain.

“No, that’s not quite right. Maybe I’m like, a concept to him?”

The barbs dug themselves further into Sylus’s insides, twisting, threatening to shear him in two completely. Your habit for reducing yourself in the ways of which he thought of you was a particularly nasty one. Not even a sister, but a concept? He couldn’t fathom what dark directions your mind must have taken to draw that conclusion. Sylus was angry – not with you, but with himself. He had dug his own grave, years ago. As if he wasn’t thinking of you all of the time. As if he didn’t acquiesce to your every whim. As if he hadn’t modified Mephisto to watch your every move, to ensure your safety when he couldn’t attend to it personally. As if he didn’t give you everything you asked for – which wasn’t much. He wished desperately that you’d ask him for more. That you’d be a little greedier with him. If you had asked for his still beating heart, he would have torn it from his chest and given it to you. But you did no such thing. It rotted inside him, instead.

Sylus wasn’t a man who was free from sin – and he knew you knew that, too. But you didn’t know how he kept other men away from you – intercepted their paths, ensured no one ever got close. Those others who had predated his entrance in your life were allowed to stay only because he knew you would never forgive him for removing them from yours. You would know it was him, even if he did the work to make it look like an accident, because your mind was endlessly sharp. There was your work partner, with a certain darkness behind his eyes that you didn’t seem to acknowledge. Your doctor, who had chosen his life path to change the course of your own. That artist friend of yours who had attended your college as a professor, watching you from a distance. He had vetted them all, and couldn’t quell his jealousy or suspicions of their place in your life. But despite all your acuteness, your hypervigilance that you couldn’t turn off, earned through struggle –  you seemed not to notice the way they looked at you. Sylus did, because they were the same eyes that he had for you. He knew you needed people other than himself, emotionally. Friends. Coworkers. That was healthy.

All he wanted was you.

Sylus peeled himself from the wall, righting himself into his usual posture of confident ease. He returned to the booth, and leaned close to you to speak into your ear. Your instincts were sharp – he knew you heard his approach, even after a few drinks. From his vantage point, he could see the glowing drip of the red gem you wore around your neck decorating the slope of your collarbones. A gift from him. You never took it off, anymore. He spoke against your ear. Softly, gently. It came as barely a rasp.

“We should head out soon, kitten. It’s getting late.”

He felt you lean into his words, against his lips, like you were trying to hear him better over the din of the other patrons. So close that he could have licked the shell of your ear, had he let himself. How many times had he wondered about the taste of your skin? Of your insides? There were nights where he watched you sleep – and he had practically outright told you as much. You were wholly unperturbed, teasing him for it, instead. Telling him he needed to rest more, but not too much, because you liked those dark circles under his eyes.

“Damn, you’re right. Let’s go before it gets too cold out.”

You had turned to him to speak, and now the soft line of your mouth was practically touching the side of his own. Sylus thought about grabbing your chin. About putting his tongue down your throat. 

He righted himself instead, admiring the soft curve of your back from behind as you stepped out of the booth after him. His hand frequented your lower back, especially in a crowd. You were saying goodbye to Tara, hugging and ensuring her that you would see her outside of work again soon. Even the top of your head was perfect. It was what he saw the most when you weren’t looking up at him with boundless depths of trust in your eyes. So sure of him were you that he could hardly stand to keep up the facade of lack of feelings – but he must to keep you by his side. Selfishly, selfishly. 

He couldn’t betray your trust with the burden of his own emotions. There was nothing to do but bury his love in the hot sand.

Sylus had stepped outside for a smoke, and you had insisted on coming with him. You could have stayed inside, protected from the stinging nettles of the winter air, but so used to Sylus’s presence were you that being away from him was a strangeness you were unwilling to bear. Linkon’s buildings, dark and made of fragile glass, towered over your view of the sky. Sylus was leaning against a wall of red brick, looking like he was born from the sulfurous fires of Hell itself, all red and white. He lit a cigarette, long and black. Cloves, which he liked so much. The scent clung to him, if only you came close enough to inhale it. He used the lighter you had purchased as a gift for his birthday the previous year to spark it up. The engraving on it read thus:

‘WHEN I GO TO HELL

COME WITH ME.’

 Soft snowflakes had begun to fall from the dull greyness of the air, the large kind that seemed amalgamations of many little ice crystals.You shuddered, despite your jacket and scarf. The cold was creeping underneath them. There was a time in your life, before Sylus, when you would have intentionally sought the feeling of the breeze tearing your skin from your flesh. Not now. You felt Sylus turn towards you, and you met his gaze. The lit cigarette was hanging from his mouth, and the red of its end was nearly the color of his eyes as he looked at you. A color that burned. He opened his coat. 

“If you’re cold, just tell me.”

You settled into his open coat without question, your back leaning against him. He wrapped it around you with his free hand, keeping it closed around the two of you. You could feel the hard line of his muscles underneath the places where your bodies touched. Capable, unwavering. He was the embodiment of assurance in your life, always heeding your call.

“I don’t need to tell you. You can basically read my mind at this point, anyway.”

Sylus chuckled at your response, a sound that made you feel secure in him. His warmth was already radiating into you. You weren’t certain that Sylus even got cold – it was like the jacket was merely a formality. You were frequently inside of it, flush against him, like now. The snow melted on him before it could touch you.

“If I could read your mind, my life would probably become much easier.”

His voice was full of his familiar teasing mirth. You elbowed his side underneath his coat. Gently. Sylus ashed his cigarette, flicking it with a lithe finger,  holding it away from you.

“And what if I could read yours?” 

You leaned against him a little harder as you asked, looking up at him. He looked down at you in kind, expression unchanging. He took a moment to answer, as if he were searching for the right words. His eyes flicked away from yours, and then back. You never grew tired of that red. To your ears, he sounded strangely serious when he spoke. 

“You probably wouldn’t like me so much anymore, kitten.”

For someone with such an impenetrable mind, Sylus had these strange moments of deprecation that you couldn’t comprehend the origin of. He was without quarter in nearly everything, but it was as if there was some strange hole in him. He was carrying some sin he couldn’t put down, and he wouldn’t let you share in his burden. You loved him for his strangeness, but were unsure how to console him for it. Nothing you said could seem to convince him of the hole he had filled for you.

“Bullshit. I know everything about you.”

You were lying. It would have been more truthful to say that you wanted to know everything about him. There were many things you did know – and many things you didn’t. Sylus didn’t offer a response, and instead wrapped his free arm around your midsection. His hand was flush with your ribcage, and he rubbed idly between the bones there, as if he was making sure none of them were missing. The steady rise and fall of his chest caused you to rise and fall with him. You eyeballed the lit cigarette in his fingers. It was stark on the color of his skin. He got much paler in the winter, and tanned in the summer.

“I thought you were going to quit?”

You gestured to the offending object in his hand, but quickly retracted your fingers back into his coat when you felt the nip of the air against your bare skin.

“Yeah.”

He took a drag, like he was mocking you. 

“You always smell like cloves.”

You turned towards him in his hold, pressing your face into his chest and inhaling there, as if to prove your point. It wasn’t just the smell of smoke that clung to him – the mix of his cologne and the scent of his body were there, too. So familiar to you that you could recall it even in dreams. You would recall it when you were six feet under. Sylus looked down at you. He pinched your waist with two fingers.

“You like the smell, though.”

Sylus had it backwards, you thought.

“I mean, it’s your smell. Of course I like it.”

Sylus’s arm around your waist squeezed you even tighter. It almost hurt.

You were in his home now. It had shocked you at first, with its over the top gothic decor and blackout curtains hanging from every window. Not a speck of light could make an unwanted entrance. Now, you were as used to it as your own apartment. Maybe even moreso. You preferred to be here, with him. You had opted to steal one of Sylus’s shirts to wear for lounging purposes. You had found it rummaging around in one of his many drawers, all of which you knew the contents of now. Sylus had wordlessly watched you pilfer through his belongings. The shirt came down to the tops of your thighs. Pants just weren’t a necessary affair, anymore.  You crawled into Sylus’s lap, and he accepted the intrusion, adjusting so that you could straddle his thighs. He draped a blanket around your back, tucking it in underneath your calves so it wouldn’t fall. You pressed your cold cheek against his neck. You could feel his pulse thrum there, against your face. It was always quick, it seemed. No matter what. Sylus adjusted your hips with his hands, slotting them further away from his own. 

His house had taken a turn for the warmer, these days. When you had first begun spending time together, it was always cold. Now, being against him was almost too warm. You spoke into his neck, the words coming out muffled against his skin.

“Whoever you end up dating is lucky. They’ll have their own personal space heater. I’m going to soak it up while I can.”

It was something you knew would happen eventually. Sylus was perpetually occupied with his work, and hadn’t taken a lover in the time you knew him – at least, that you were aware of. You supposed it was possible, but you didn’t think he had a good reason to hide such a thing from you. He was a man, after all. A good looking, successful one. It was only a matter of time. Your heart threatened to sink at the thought, but you dragged it back up, hauling it by a chain. You would be happy if he was happy. You really, really would. Time had helped you accept it.

Sylus snorted above you. His big hand was supporting you by the small of your back, warm and firm. He spoke in a near whisper, voice vibrating pleasantly through his throat against your cheek.

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

You looked up from his neck, peering into his face. You were so close, practically nose to nose. You could see the bags under his eyes. They darted around your face, red-hot like brands, before settling back on your own. 

“Why not? You haven’t dated the whole time we’ve known each other, right? Guy like you has to have options. You’re handsome as hell, good with your hands, capable…don’t tell me you don’t have options. Or that you haven’t thought about it. Or is there already a special someone that you’re keeping from me?”

You poked him in the chest, accusatorily. He picked up your hand, and pressed it against his jaw. You could feel his stubble, there. It was virtually invisible, between the hair being white and him somehow always being freshly shaven. His eyes slipped closed. Touching Sylus like this felt good. It was right. It was practically second nature to you, now. At first, his desire for platonic physical contact from you had surprised you – but these days, it was stranger when he wasn’t touching you in some way.

“I’m not keeping anyone from you. Keep praising me, though, and I might share what I focus my attention on instead of dating.”

You rolled your eyes at him, though he couldn’t see the movement. You already knew what he would say. Running Onychinus kept him occupied enough. He was married to his work – though he seemed to make time for you, anyway. It was good enough. Any time spent with Sylus was good enough. You scratched your nails over his stubble, and he leaned into the touch.

“Fine, keep your secrets. You know you can tell me anything though, right?”

“I do, my dove.”

Sylus rarely shared what he was feeling with you with words, in the beginning. He shared other things – thoughts on art, music, philosophy. He shared meals with you you couldn’t have even fathomed in your dreams. You had traveled more places with him on his dime than you could count. You gathered that opening his world to you was his way of connecting without the need for emotionally charged language. So you accepted him as he was, and he opened to you more and more. Now, his were the only words you hung on.

“Sy? Sylus. Please. Sylus!”

Your voice came to him through a haze of nerves reconnecting, blood vessels reattaching themselves in their rightful places under his skin, fragments of bone slotting themselves back together, one by one. The same puzzle, taken apart so many times in so many different ways, a brilliant pain so familiar. 

Sylus could feel his left arm – his dominant arm – knitting itself back into place. Nearly shorn from his body. Hardly a part of him. Above the pain, more important, your voice. Your hand, cupping his face, skin unusually warm from your exertion. Sylus focused on these feelings instead of the gnawing his flesh did to reconstruct itself into the shape of a man. His eyes slipped open. There was a reason he had this body, and it was hovering above him, cradling his face, cheeks wet with angry tears. He needed this body, for you. He willed it to recover more quickly.

“Why do you always do this? Do you think I’d prefer it to be you instead of me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sylus couldn’t control his face. Not when you were like this. So passionate, so stalwart in your loneliness and goodness. Your attention was fully on him when things were like this. The sweetest of blisses. When he was hurt, it was always like this. A smile slipped over his lips. Speaking disrupted the feeling of the alveoli in his lungs reinstating themselves, a shuddering breath racking him. But it didn’t matter, because your eyes were on him. With his good arm, he brushed hair that was stuck to your face from its wetness away from your cheek. The sensation had to have been uncomfortable on your skin. He only wanted you to feel pleasure in this life.

“How,”

He had to try again. Get it out this time.

“ – how many times have I told you to use my body?” 

Another breath. His left lung, freshly alive again. Now came the incessant twitching of the nerves as they made their reconnections. He could feel each individually, thousands. His fingers spasmed involuntarily, full of an empty static. Still useless, unable to hold you. You were opening your mouth to say something, but he stopped you with his right hand, a thumb over your lips. Admiring their softness. The water of your tears had wet them, entering from the edges of your mouth. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he couldn’t. He said the only thing he could.

“I’d prefer it be me.”

The residual protofield was finally beginning to dissipate, crackling with the last vestiges of raw energy. The healing process could have gone faster had he resonated with you – but that would have slipped his pain into you. You would have had to share in it, to walk on your hands and knees for miles in the mud, repenting, to see the desolation of his interior. The only thing that truly still lived inside him was you. His body had remade itself so many times he was hardly sure he could call it himself anymore. You were him, and he was you. You were holding his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers in his. Pleading, desperate. Your voice. The name you gave him; all that he was.

“Please resonate with me. Sylus. Please. Pleasepleaseplease…”

You trailed off, your voice raw. A  desperately warm light from your palm, threatening to enter him. Offering sanctity, ease. A respite. His body wanted to accept it. His own dark mists wanted to crawl out, embrace your glow. To consume it. You inside of him, him inside of you.  One, just like you used to be. It was already flowing into his wrist, down into his forearm – but no, he couldn’t. If he sank his teeth in now, he would never let go. You would know the truth. It was the only thing he couldn’t give you, no matter how much you asked. It was already yours, anyway.

Sylus sat up, though every nerve ending screamed in protest, still static and limp on his left side. He drew you in between his open thighs, your head against his chest. He hated that you sat in the dirt. You were meant to be high up above everything. You both were.

“Why won’t you let me help you? What are you trying to protect me from?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Sylus steadied the beating of his own heart underneath your ear. Hoping it would soothe you. The sound of a body undying, cursed by the one in his arms. He held you a little tighter.

“Pain.”

[kechiwrites]

gentle touch

könig x massage therapist!reader kinktober countdown day 5 (body worship)

synopsis: oh, the military boys were your favourite.

wc: 2.8k

cw: massage therapist reader doing bad medical-ish practice, body worship, light sub!konig, mentions of edging, hand jobs, a little oral as a treat, biting, konig being petnamed as he should (honey), size kink, hints at touch starvation, groping, begging, uncut konig, afab!reader, no gendered pronouns or language.

author's note: i know his dick hex code and it's glorious. mdni.

He’s your last appointment of the day. And what a fucking day it had been, ten hours that should’ve been eight, cinnamon scented candles instead of eucalyptus, a rushed lunch because a client had shown up early, not taking “I’m on break” for an answer.

You knock on the faux bamboo door, waiting for your appointment to allow you entry. When he does, so quietly you almost miss it, you open the door, only for your eyes to land on a broad, strong back, still wrapped in a dark grey long sleeve. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see the thin stubble on his chin, cheek and jaw.

"Hello! I didn't catch you undressing did I?" This time he turns all the way around and you are sure your swallow is audible. Hell, you hope it's audible, you want this dude to know just how impressed you are with what you're seeing.

"No." He shakes his head, rubbing his aquiline nose against the inside of his wrist. It must’ve been broken once before, if the uneven bump on his bridge is anything to go by. Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You eat up the motion, eyes tracking every twitch or movement of his massive arms.

“Oh…" you're ogling him. You need to stop ogling him. "I actually need you to strip down.” The words burn on your tongue. You must say that a thousand times a work week, but this time, when you say it to him, it sounds…dirty. Like a shitty porn set up. Makes your clean white polo feel vacuum sealed to your skin. He takes a step towards you and you shudder a breath, tensing until you realize he’s getting closer to the lockers to your left.

He’s huge, you think, and when he still doesn’t look up at you, content to let the strands of dark brown hair, nearly black hair, hang in his face, you figure he’s shy too.

Cute.

“And you can use the towel to maintain modesty, Mr. König.” You get the inflection of his name wrong, you know because you’d googled it prior, held your phone to your ear in the staff washroom and listened to a soft spoken German man lilt it to you. There’s a hard ‘g’ on the end where it shouldn’t be, and you apologize, trying again to master it. “König.”

“Right.” He murmurs, “Just around my waist, yes?”

Or it could go on the floor and I could rub my clit on your abs.

“Yes, sir. Around your waist.”

You exit the room, closing it softly behind you. You figure you’ll use the few minutes you have to get a bottle of water, or a sedative. Something strong enough to bring you back down to your customary professional detachment.

When you return, he’s where you expect him to be. Face down on his stomach, his head in the cushioned hole. “S-sorry.” He speaks, voice muffled by his position. The apology comes immediately upon the sound of the door closing and you worry his large frame has cracked the massage table or something. You peer around him, looking for any chunks of polished wood or loose screws.

When you don’t find anything you realize he’s apologizing for his scars, the pit marks of bullets dug out in haste and healed with spite, lacerations haphazardly stitched, then redone a second time with the careful, practiced hands of a doctor in no rush.

“Oh, please don’t be. We get military boys all the time. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You murmur, and it’s a lie of course. Not that you’ve seen scars, of course, you’ve seen some really storied skin in your time here, being near a base and all. No, it was the man who was an oddity. Mandy at the front desk told you that he’d had to duck through the front door.

His skin is also ultra pale in a way military men usually aren't. Near transparent, the sprawling blue lines of his veins thread underneath his skin, and you can see yourself getting distracted tracing some of the pathways with your fingers.

He hums, and you hope you’ve put him at ease a little bit. You haven’t even touched him yet and the tension in his back is glaring. Anxious people tended to hold a lot of stress, anxious soldiers? You’re just glad he’d booked a two hour instead of the customary hour and twenty.

The oil is cold straight from the bottle and you warm it between your palms before you make contact. He’s warm to the touch, bridging on hot, and he flinches when your hands meet his skin. “Was that too cold?” He groans, but doesn’t affirm or deny it, so you figure it must just be the contact. Slowly, you begin with his calves, tending to and pushing on knotted muscle and tense areas, working out kink after kink, soothing his compounded aches. The oil smoothes down his leg hair and you must be going insane because even that is hot to you. His thighs are even worse, strong and muscled and dimpled in the sweetest places. He shivers when your palms glide over his inner thighs, and he clenches them together when your fingers brush the hem of the towel shielding his ass from your greedy view. As quickly as it happens, he relaxes, murmuring another apology. You hum your own response, and push your thumb into an adorable cluster of moles you see just under the towel.

By the time you get to his lower back, König is almost purring, his gentle breathing often interrupted by drawn out, guttural moans. Whines and whimpers that make your blood hot. He’s holding the worst of his tension there, and you have to lean almost all your body weight into the motions of the massage. His hips jerk up and then down just as sharply when you crest your palm over her shoulder blades, and you don’t imagine the keening noise he makes as he grips the massage table. You’re used to military clients being a lot more stoic but it seems Mr. König is most assuredly not the sort. You reach his neck, framing his throat with your palms and using your thumbs to rub firm circles into his nape. His breath hitches and you find yourself cooing. “Breathe for me, I got you.” The soldier’s hips snap downward again, this time hard enough to shift the table beneath him. Which is more than enough to make you pause. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

The soft music and sound of the water feature on the wall nearly drown out the curse König whispers, but you catch it, and can’t stop your lips from curling into a pleased little smile. This was just too good. You start to finish up his neck, brushing some of his hair out of the way so you can rub your fingertips into the skin just below his earlobes. You guide him to turn over and when he doesn’t respond, you wonder if he’d fallen asleep.

“Mr. König?”

He makes a wordless groaning noise low in his throat, laying motionless.

“I need you to turn over, honey.” You don’t even realize you’ve pet-named a grown man you don’t know. Which is just as well, because it seems to be what the soldier needs, and he rises from the table, clutching the towel in a tight fist to maintain his scant modesty.

You turn towards the side table, pouring more oil into your palm. When you return to face him, you witness why exactly he was so reluctant to face the ceiling.

He’s at least half-hard, a very noticeable ridge lifting his towel. You can’t stop staring at it, even though you know König is trying his best to ignore it. You circle around him, and begin at the foot of the table, going through the massage cycle again; feet, calves, thighs, arms. You zone out, following through your motions, listening to the man beneath groan and sigh his contentment. You reach his chest, spreading your hands over his pecs. They’re big, just like the rest of him, you think and it’s hard not to fucking drool on him. He’s firm but soft, still pleasantly warm, despite being exposed to slightly below room temperature air. He shifts again when you hit a stubborn knot right below his collarbone, and you pause to check in.

“Still good?”

His breathing is uneven, shuddering and laboured. His hands clench and relax from white knuckled fists.

“Yes.” he hisses through gritted teeth, and you’re worried he’s undoing every bit of relaxation you’ve tried to bring him. It’s painfully clear where the stress is coming from, hidden underneath a paltry white towel, the enticing elephant in the room. You put your hands back on him.

Still got 45 minutes left, after all.

You try your best not to look smug, and you fail miserably.

Every stroke and rub you perform across his chest makes his cock jerk and twitch under the towel. You can practically see the cloudy drops of precum that’d be beading as his tip. Your thumb nail skates across his pectoral and catches his nipple and the whine he makes is so sweet you just have to do it again. Soon, you’re barely massaging him, groping the poor man under the guise of your job. A weak grunt snaps you out of your reverie, and when you glance down his abdomen at that godforsaken towel, you can’t stop the quiet gasp of shock you release at his erection. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Very sorry” His flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, a gorgeous stewed cherry colour that overwhelms the pale skin you’d worked into submission. His eyes are screwed shut when you can bear to drag your eyes from his cock to his face. His soft, pink mouth is pulled down at the corners, and the heavy, dark slashes of his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating a wrinkle between them you want to smooth out with a kiss.

“It happens all the time. Are you alright to continue?” Your voice is deceptively calm, serene and soft, when all you really want to do is snatch the towel off the battering ram he’d smuggled in here. Your blood thrums, and you ache at the sight of it, at the mere thought of the ungodly stretch he’d put you through.

You will yourself to keep your hands where they are, force yourself to look literally anywhere else. The faux waterfall ahead of you, the wireless speaker droning pleasant, melodic mood music, fuck, you even try staring at the dimmed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. But every cry and whine forces your eyes down, tempts you to catalogue every inch of flushed skin and threaded muscle. You gnaw on your own lip, and find your hands drifting down, back around his abdomen. You’ve worked through the area already, there is no excuse to be down there, to slip your finger tips under the towel, to push your digits into the skin around his pelvis. “Is this okay?” You have the gall to ask, when you push your fingers lower still, and basically sign your own severance package. Oh but it’d be worth it, to get what you want, to make this big strong man sob with pleasure, to have his mouth on your throat while you stroked him to completion. The memory of his cock in your hand will keep you warm in the unemployment line.

König nods, turns his head towards you but doesn’t open his eyes. His hips cant upwards again, and his towel shifts, parting to reveal his angry, desperate hard-on. He raises a hand from the massage table, letting his mammoth paw land on your hip. He squeezes you, and exhales sharply through his nose when his thumb touches your bare skin, skating over your flesh underneath your work shirt. “Say it.” You mutter and his eyes crack open, just wide enough for you to spot the crystalline blue of his irises between his inky black lashes.

“Please.”

And that’s all you need.

He’s uncut, and the veins blanketing the length of his cock are visible under his foreskin. Pretty in a way you aren’t used to, a denser blush than the rest of his body, but still quite pale. It feels like your hand is moving in slow motion towards it, your fingers twitching in anticipation. The heat of his dick warms your skin before you even make contact, and when you do, wrapping your fingers around the root of it, your fingertips can’t touch. You press your lips together and try not to squeal happily, glee crinkling your eyes.

God is real and he’s an uncircumcised cock on a shy giant.

König’s erection is searingly hot. Soft skin and hard core, jerking in your palm, leaking steadily, nudging at your hand, insistent. Your brain is working full steam and connections necessary to utilize common sense are still not being made. Slowly, you tighten your hold on him, the weight of it is so imposing, you wouldn’t be surprised if imprints of the veiny surface were branded onto your hand once you withdrew. If you ever withdrew. You should fucking withdraw.

You do not withdraw. Instead, you slide your hand up slowly, choking up on the head of his cock before dragging your grip back down. You chance a glance up at his face, watching his Adam’s apple bob with each laboured swallow. The poor man’s jaw clenches and relaxes while you slide your palm over his flesh again and again. Somehow, he hardens further and your eyes widen impossibly larger, the pit of your stomach doing somersaults at the idea of where you want that thing to go, what you want it to do. You get fevered flashes of König bending you over the massage table in your mind, hands on your hips, rutting without sense or logic into you, so hard the surface scrapes against the floor, all while he sobs, his overwhelmed, overstimulated tears splashing against your back while he rearranged your insides. The head of his cock is exposed every time you slide your hand down towards his pelvis. By the third peek, you’re dragging the pointed end of your tongue over the tip of his dick, licking against his head, and coating your mouth with the taste of him. He grips at your side harder, his fingers digging into your hip as he chases the warmth of your mouth. He keens loud, almost mewling when you pull off him, using your spit to ease your hand’s path. By this point, your handiwork is audible, noisy and wet, König’s voice filling the small room. You use your free hand to guide his head to your chest, letting him bend toward you, press his nose into your tits while he begs for you to finish him.

“Are you gonna come, Mr. König?” You thread your fingers in his hair, letting your nails scratch against his scalp, drift down to his nape and up to his crown again.

“Yes, please, please. Fuck.” His voice is reedy and thin, and he wraps his arm around your waist, burying his face deeper in your chest. And then his whole body trembles, and his hips roll towards you, and for a fleeting minute you consider edging the poor bastard, sliding your hand completely off his cock and watching it twitch violently, uselessly in the air.

But he begs so sweetly. And his next session was already pre-booked.

The hand you kept on his head leaves his hair, and you rub the head of his cock with your flat open palm, jerking him off with firm, fast strokes. He bites down on the curve of your breast, and you’re grateful he still managed to retain enough brain cells to not break skin.

“Do it then. Come, honey.” You trill, feeling his tears wet your skin through your shirt. It’s almost instantaneous, so fast it’s kind of impressive. His body goes bowstring-tight, and he squeezes you so hard it almost hurts. Ropes of sticky white seed shoot from his cock, covering your hand and his spasming abdomen. You slide your hand up, milking just the first two inches of him through his orgasm, until he stops your movements himself, covering your hand with his own.

When you finally break contact, you stare at your hand for what feels like ages, thick beads of his cum rolling down your palm, sliding to your wrist. You extricate yourself from his hold, using your clean hand to brush his sweat damp hair from his forehead. You press that kiss you wanted to the space between his brows. Why start restraining yourself now? His body shivers periodically, and you turn to the sink, to wash your hands clean, clenching your own thighs together, his moans and sighs echoing in your mind. You turn to face him, grinning wide and cheery,

“So...I’ll see you next week?”

hoe, you are getting fired! at least you got a man outta it though.

support city girls who love gummy worms, reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

[itzy-bitsy-spidey]

Scars

Zoro x fem!Reader

CW: Angst, lots of angst, body image issues, self loathing, scars, injuries, mentions of nudity (nothing huge), trauma.

Word count: 1k

Notes: So many songs I could put with this, but mainly Labour, by Paris Paloma, and Us and Pigs, by Sofia Isella.

Her back felt itchy.

Chopper had said it would happen and the bruises had been quite nasty, so she supposed it was too be expected. Nonetheless it was still bothersome, and an awful reminder.

She didn't remember when it had been the last time she was this grateful that the Sunny was big enough to give all of the crew their own bedroom.

The sheets under her fingers felt soft, almost too soft, silk sheets that belonged to Nami without a doubt. The feeling was repulsive. Or was it the constant reminder? It didn't really matter, but it made her uncomfortable. No matter what position she chose she couldn't lay down onto the bed, so even though sleep felt very necessary it was an impossible task.

Her back was burning now.

The whole-body mirror stood right in front of her bed like a continuous mockery, the piece of fabric she had draped over it doing nothing to help with the remainder.

The reminders.

It seemed like everything around her served as one, the mirror, the feeling of soft material, and that damned feeling of burning.

She stood in front of the mirror. She knew it would disgust her, she was scared, of how much the damage would affect her if she truly chose to face it. The tips of her fingers caressed the fabric, her mind a mess, thoughts and indescisions fliying everywhere.

She closed her eyes, inhaled, her mind went quiet.

"Do it" like a whisper from herself, just a push so she would face it.

The first step towards healing, at least mentally. She exhaled.

Her grasp on the piece of cloth tight, the sound of air swooshing when she took it of the mirror, her knuckels white and her eyelids shut with a strength that could shake the entire ship.

"Open them"

No, she didn´t want to open them. Suddenly her back felt like it was on fire. She couldn´t, she simply couldn´t do it, so she turned her back to the mirror and finally opened her eyes, her gaze locked on the floor, the wooden boards marked with lines greeted her sight and she felt her eyes fill with tears, it made her wonder if her back looked anything like the wood.

Slowly, hesitant, she turned her face towards the mirror.

The sight was even more terrible than she expected; the markings of the whips had left no place of her back untouched, she had hoped it would had been only a few lines, she should have known better.

The bile on her stomach threathened to rise to her throath, bubbling angry, but there would have been no place for it to pass; her throath tightening under the sight. Her back and the tears in her eyes seemed to burn equally then.

Her knees felt weak and her eyes blurred, but she forced herself to stay standing and to look further, evey line every part of her that was healing messily, the knowledge that nothing of it would ever go away, her skin would protrude and never settle again.

She felt ugly, like she was mourning her own self. But saddness turned into anger, anger against the greedy marines who had done that to her.

An entire month tied to a pole outside their base like a fucking atraction, whiped whenever they felt like taking their stress out on her, sure, whip the pirate.

Anger turned to rage, rage about what was left of her and everything they had stolen too. Her dignity, her body, her soul and her hope. And rage was the one to throw the first punch against the mirror. The image cracked and suddenly there were even more reflections staring back at her.

She screamed, the voice scratching her throat, a gnawing feeling of dread at her own self. One punch became two, and then three, and four, until the biggest part left of the mirror could fit in the palm of her hand, her knuckles stained red with her own blood. With a final guttural scream she fell to the floor, and the scream turned into crying, loud and painful.

The door to her room opened with force, but she didn´t even look up. She recognized the sound of the heavy boots that belonged to the crew´s swordsman.

He approached her hastily, kneeling at her side and placing a hand on her back. The sting of his warm hand on her injuries made her push him back, retreating into a corner like a wonded animal, terrified for its fate. In her hurry and fear she couldn´t make coherent thoughts, she didn´t feel safe anywhere, she felt exposed and it was only then that she also remembered that she was still shirtless.

Shame piled up on her and covered her as though it was a very heavy blanket.

The green haired man approached her again, more carefully this time, with slow movements as if she could try to run away at any point. He raised both his hands by his head in a surrendering motion.

"Get away from me, I´m disgusting, don´t touch me" was what repeated constantly in her mind but she didn´t dare utter any of those words, she didn´t wnat him to see her as what she thought of herself, disguting.

So focused on her own mind was she that she hadn´t noticed how close he had gotten to her until his hand rested on her head gently, his warmth seeped into her skin and soon the tears were running down her cheeks once again. His eyes, usually a little dull and serious were as warm as his hands, they were kind, and they were worried about her.

Unlike what she expected, she found herself doing the next movement, practically jumping into his arms and sobbing on his shoulders, her hand tightly gripping his as if he was going to disappear at any moment. Zoro´s arms closed around her, one behind her head, holding her to him, and the other one on her lower back so that he wouldn´t touch any of her injuries.

"It´s okay" his touch said "I´ve got you".

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!! how are you?

i recently burned my thigh with my iron curler and it formed a big scar. it started slowly bubbling up and i accidentally popped it like 2 days ago so now i have fresh skin open 🥲 it’s extra sensitive and i have to patch it up. and when i let the wound breath it HURTS 😭

i was wondering if you could write about this with emt!marauders? or maybe just james? idk lol whatever you feel like writing it about.

AND IF YOUVE WRITTEN ABOUT THIS ALREADY, MY BAD 😃😭

Hi lovely, I'm good! I'm really sorry this happened, it sounds awful!! Hope it's feeling a bit better by now <3

cw: severe burn (no details)

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 786 words

“I don’t think we should do this.”  

“I mean,” says James, sitting patiently opposite you on the bed, “I don’t love it either.” 

“Then let’s not,” you bargain.

 He gives you a sorry smile. “What do you think we should do instead, angel?” 

You take a deep breath. “Leave it,” you say on the exhale. “It’ll heal eventually. Or it won’t, and the bandage will become my new skin. I could be fine with that.” 

“I’m somewhat attached to your real skin.” 

“We all have to make sacrifices, James.” 

Your boyfriend gives you an amused look, but there’s worry beneath it. You feel guilty for putting him through this. It’s bad enough that he has to change your bandages for you because you’re too squeamish to do it yourself, but now you’re also making him convince you as if it were his idea. 

You blow out a long breath, tilting your face up toward the ceiling. “I can’t see it.” 

“You don’t have to,” he reassures you. “You can close your eyes, baby.”

“How bad is a little infection really?” you ask, but you’re already laying back, succumbing to the plushness of your pillow. 

“I had a dog bite get infected once,” James says, pulling your leg into his lap. Strong, gentle fingers on the underside of your thigh. “I didn’t enjoy it.” 

“You got bitten by a dog?” You turn your head to see him, but he shoots you a look and you sigh, covering your eyes with your hands. “When was that?” 

“When I was little.” One of his hands stays cradling your leg, but you feel the fingers of the other probing carefully at the edges of your bandage. Apprehension climbs up your throat, mingling with the ache of affection that’s already there. You appreciate how delicate James is with you, peeling the bandage up gingerly by one corner instead of ripping it off like some might. “It wasn’t really the dog’s fault, it was just spooked and I didn’t know enough to stay away.” 

You hiss as the bandage sticks to a tender bit of skin, and James coos an apology, stroking the unharmed skin beside it soothingly. Then the whole thing comes off, air hitting the wound and making you tense all over. 

“What happened with the bite?” Your voice is somewhat strained. 

James hesitates. “There was a lot of puss involved,” he says. “You won’t want to hear the details.” 

“Mm, thanks.” 

He chuckles. You can hear him twisting the cap off the antibiotic ointment. Your fingertips press harder into your brow bone. 

“You alright?” he asks softly. 

“Mhm. I’m ready.” 

You still gasp through your teeth when the ointment makes contact with your skin, and James grips your leg more firmly to keep you from flinching away. 

“Sorry,” he hisses, working fast as he can with gentle, caring fingers. “Sorry, baby.” 

“Not your fault,” you squeak out, keeping your own fingers pressed tightly over your eyes. “Thank you for doing this.” 

James doesn’t seem to want to accept your thanks, and you let the silence sit. When he’s done, you both sigh. 

“Thanks,” you say again. For good measure. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“Definitely not,” James agrees. “I’ve no idea what we’re going to do when I’m hurt someday and neither of us can look at it.” 

You drop your hands from your eyes and sit up on your elbows, careful to look only at James and not down at your leg. It’s not hard. He’s a lovely sight, even with that sympathetic pinch to his mouth and worry tightening the muscles around his eyes. You reach for his hand, and his expression lightens. He wipes his fingertips off on his jeans before giving it to you. 

“We’ll have to call Remus,” you say, squeezing his fingers. 

A laugh startles out of him. “I thought you were going to say you’d put your squeamishness aside for me. Or that it wouldn’t be gross because you love me, or something.” 

“I would if it were true,” you reply, “but I’m afraid I won’t be much help if I’m gagging over you the entire time. I’ll hold your hand while we both don’t look, though.” 

“Mm, fair enough.” He scoots closer on the bed. His hand finds your opposite hip, rubbing a slow back-and-forth. “And you’ll distract me with kisses while I’m nursed back to health?” 

“If it’ll help.” Your voice is soft. “Though I should point out that I haven’t received any kisses.” 

Twin dimples appear on either side of James mouth as he leans over you, careful to avoid your hurt leg. “Patience, angel,” he murmurs as his lips brush yours. “I’m not done with you yet.” 

[vampiresfromxenon]

Kiss It Better

Astarion x gender neutral! Reader/Tav

Around 2.2K words 

Tags: Fluff, kissing, blood, soft!(ish?) Astarion, hurt/comfort, angst, 3rd person, no use of y/n

CW: Blood, deep wound on hand, existential thoughts (?)

Summary: After accidentally cutting your hand on your blade, Astarion is the only one in the camp to help you deal with it. You’ve been seeing him for awhile now, but this is the first time you’ve ever seen him actually care. Perhaps he does feel the same way about you…

~

With the daylight fading, you rest just outside your tent, wiping the blood off of your blade with a damp rag. As you sit there, shining it to perfection, you can’t help but analyze your reflection, thinking about the events that led you to having newer, fresher scars on your face. It’s been a few months since the start of this nightmare, since the start of having these things inside your head. The tadpoles weren't that bad to deal with, but your feelings were worse. 

You’ve grown to love all the companions you’ve met along the way, laughing and enjoying their company as you travel across the land, searching for answers, for a cure. You all keep each other safe in one way or another, and while you hate to get too attached, knowing this won’t last forever, you feel as though you found your family, especially since you can’t remember your real one. God, your real family. One you once knew but now have no memory of. Your past is a mystery, and it haunts you, much more than the gnawing idea that you could become a mind flayer at any waking moment. 

You want to remember. Oh, so desperately do you want to remember, but you can’t. That is not an option for you. And besides? What good would that do you now? You can only confront the horrors that lie before you. The thought of losing your friends, the thought of losing yourself. The thought of losing… No. You can’t bear the thought of losing him.

You find your heart sinking in your chest at the thought of him turning into a mind flayer. Your chest aches at the thought of where you promised you’d stab him if, Gods forbid, he turns. Looking into his eyes and seeing nothing, no life, no character, but a vessel. A vessel for these wretched things. It was becoming too much to handle. Your body begins to tremble from these false images enveloping your thoughts, these twisted and sickly ideas corrupting your mind for far too long. You’re so distracted by these terrors that you fail to notice the fact that you started to scrub the blade harder, or even more pressing, the fact that you dropped the rag. 

In one swift movement, your palm forcibly glides across the blade, drawing both blood from your palm and a string of curses from your mouth. The images disappear, fleeing your mind as you pick up the rag and crush it into the palm of your hand to stop the bleeding. The blade was no longer important in this moment, tossed off to the side for later. You storm into your tent, clutching your hand, searching for any sort of healing potion or power that you could find. Shadowheart and the rest of the camp had left to explore the town for the night, leaving you all to your lonesome, or so you thought. 

You sit on a cushion, exasperated and upset with yourself and your doomed existence. Removing the cloth, you take a closer look to see just how bad the wound is, trying to ignore the stinging feeling. Distracted by the blood, you fail to hear a visitor’s light footsteps approaching. 

“Oh dear, what happened to you?” A charming voice rings out. 

You turn to see a pale, slender elf standing in the opening of your tent, his white hair perfectly styled as always, his piercing red eyes invading your soul. Shoving the rag back into your burning palm, you attempt to hide your mistake, though you know he smells the blood from miles away. 

“I had a moment of clumsiness, nothing more.” You stated in a nonchalant tone, attempting to downplay your embarrassment. 

You turn your hand away from him, your eyes drifting around your tent, avoiding his gaze. He slowly approaches you, kneeling down on the cushion you are sitting on. He moves his head to meet your gaze, not wasting a second of eye-contact. 

“Mind if I take a look, darling?” He purrs, asking more nicely than usual. 

Your heart begins to race as he leans over you a little, prying into your personal space. If it were anyone else, you would push them away, but he invited himself in so much that you couldn’t help but miss it when he left. However, in this moment you did not want to feel this vulnerable, this embarrassed at your mistake; you couldn’t help but push him away just a little. After all, he is not known for having the best 'bedside manner’, if any at all. Meeting his eyes, you give him a knowing look.

“I’ll be alright on my own, thank you, Astarion. Besides, I thought you went into town with the rest of the camp?” You inquire, suddenly aware of just how much your feelings of being alone may have been an illusion. 

“I had no need to go, and honestly I couldn’t take any more of Gale’s whining about ‘needing to eat magical artifacts’. I know everyone complains about my diet, but let’s be realistic here for just a moment…” He looks away smirking, proud of his own snarky comment. Turning back to you, there is suddenly a shift in tone on his face. While he still has his typical look, one that is oozing with flirtatious energy, he looks a bit more serious, concerned even. You’ve never seen this side of him before, and it shocked you considering just how insignificant he’d find a wound like this normally. 

“Let me see it, please.” His voice was low, softer than usual, but commanding. One of his hands reaches across you, his hand ghosting over yours. You can’t help but lift your bloody hand so his palm touches the back of your hand. Never breaking eye-contact, he pulls your hand closer to him, gently pulling the rag from your white knuckles. Looking down, he notices just how bad the cut is, taking up most of your palm. 

“Oh, my dear… How did you do this?” His voice is more concerned now, his thumb gently rubbing circles into your wrist. His eyes soften, and you can’t help but think back to what put you in this mess to begin with. Your body trembles once more, eyes breaking his gaze as you stare down at your hand. 

“My hand slipped while cleaning my blade. It’s alright, I just need to wait for Shadowheart to come back…” You trail off. 

“Why wait for Shadowheart? I can make you feel better, you know…” His free, slender hand reaches down and grabs your chin, gently raising your head to face his again. You blush from his touch, his willingness to command your body. Your mouth falls open a little, unsure of what to say or how to respond to such a comment from him. You were used to his flirting, but this unlocked a whole new feeling in you. He could sense your speechlessness, and so he did the one thing he knew how to do best: make you even more flustered. 

“Would you like me to kiss it better?” He asks in his normal, teasing tone. This offering catches you off guard, breaking your immersion in this intimate moment. You can’t help but laugh, thinking now that he was only just charming you like he does everyone else. Continuing to laugh, you call him out. 

“Very funny, Astarion. Hilarious. Need I remind you of when I was opening up to you not that long ago and you said almost the exact same thing? Seems to me you’re running out of tactics here.” You roll your eyes, not amused by his antics.

You feel his grip tighten on your bleeding hand, pulling it closer to him. Looking to see what he is doing, you connect with his eyes one more time, seeing an almost predatory look. You stop laughing, your face heating up once again, your heart pounding as his soft lips connect with your wounded palm. It still stings, and you wince a little at the contact, but you can’t seem to look or pull away from him. He kisses all along your palm, and you can feel him gently sucking at the blood. Not only was he kissing you better, but he was feeding on you. 

If you weren’t so attracted to him, you’d be much more upset. Instead, you sit on this cushion while the vampire of your desires kneels before you, kissing and sucking at your wounded palm. You can feel his tongue lapping at your skin, his fangs ever so slightly poking out from behind his lips. Yes, he was feeding, but was he… actually kissing you too? His hands continue to massage the back of your hand and your wrist, trying to provide you comfort without completely invading your space. Eventually he stops, planting a final kiss on your wrist, his mouth covered in blood. He licks his lips, and you can’t help but tremble now but for a whole new reason. 

“Better?” He asks, smiling enough to show his fangs this time. 

“You just wanted an excuse to suck at my hand, didn’t you?” You raise an eyebrow, an attempt to see through him.

“I am always looking for any excuse to suck at any part of you, my sweet.” His voice is low once more, a rumbling laugh escaping his lips.

He finds a section of the rag not absolutely soaked in blood and pushes it back into your, now much cleaner, palm. Your whole face is flushed now, unable to think of any more witty remarks or comebacks. For the second time in just a few small minutes, he found yet another way to leave you completely speechless. The sly vampire decides to take advantage of your silence once more. 

Letting go of your hand, he leans forward, his lips connecting with yours. It’s soft, gentle, and new. To be fair, while you have spent a few intimate nights together, this moment here alone feels so much more real, so much more genuine. Almost as if he was kissing you… because he wanted to. A real, genuine want. His hand caresses the side of your face, his other landing on the small of your back as he continues to kiss you. Without hesitation, you lean into the kiss, your body elated by his touch. It’s not long before he deepens the kiss, his tongue parting your lips, wanting more from you. 

He tastes of iron, what more could you expect, but for once you don’t hate the taste. You invite it more into your mouth as he continues to lean even further over you. He begins to push you back, your body relaxing into the cushion. He breaks from the kiss, planting small kisses on your face, trailing them down your jaw and to the side of your neck. You can’t help but close your eyes, softly sighing as he kisses at your skin, sucking softly, his fangs once again poking you. He had been feeding off you almost every night now for weeks while you were dead asleep, and while it was unusual for you two, it was so much more enjoyable to experience it this way. He lifts his head, meeting your eyes as a way of warning you he was about to bite. He opens his mouth, his fangs protruding, ready for the taste of your flesh and blood. 

“Helloooo? Astarion? Tav? We’ve got some goods!” Yells out Karlach, just a few meters away from your tent.

Shit. He sits up, kneeling over you, looking dissatisfied. You sigh and throw your head back into the cushion, frustrated. His cool hand caresses your cheek before tracing down your arm. He leans in close to your face one last time, his breath warming your skin. 

“Shall we finish this later tonight, my love?” He purrs, not even remotely finished with you.

You nod, still unable to speak from the last few eventful minutes. He kisses your cheek before standing. “Find me in the woods at our little spot, just after everyone has gone to bed. Don’t keep me waiting.” He flashes one last cheeky smirk before exiting your tent. 

“Hello, Karlach. Gale find any boots to devour today?” He quips, and you can’t help but laugh when Gale offendly responds.

The camp erupts in conversation, and you find yourself leaving your tent after a few minutes to track down Shadowheart. She heals you in her tent, though she has quite a few questions. Giving vague enough responses, she accepts them and lets you be on your way, but she’ll definitely be curious about it for a while. 

No matter, the only thought you could think of now was what Astarion had planned for both of you tonight; you knew exactly what was going to happen, but there was this whole new sense of excitement now that you could tell there was something deeper, real, and authentic going on between you two. You lie there in your tent, waiting for the snoring and sleep talking to begin to resonate throughout the camp, eager to scamper off into the wilderness with the elf you adore.  

-

Author's Note:

Hello! I haven't written any fan fiction in a loooooong time, and none of it was ever good to begin with- I've been struggling with writer's block for awhile now, and this was the first thing to break me out of it... lmao. I am very new to BG3 in general honestly, and I just barely started act 2. Please no spoilers, but also if Astarion is sorta OOC, I hope that explains why too :)

I've only had Astarion for what, two, three weeks now, and this man is just so whewww. I thought of this fic idea right as soon as I started a longer drive, and I started recording my thoughts on video so that way I wouldn't forget anything before I could start writing hahaha- I blushed so hard writing this, hope y'all feel the same

Hope you enjoy!