#dorian sensation

[ariadne-mouse]

Dorian choosing to go without breath for the first time in his whole existence to talk to the Matron is so metal. Like not being able to breath is panic-worthy enough already, but when you are of the air have the ability specifically to never lose your breath and still give in, like damn. Not only would the sensation be utterly foreign and therefore all the more terrifying, choosing to let it happen anyway when instinct to inhale can't take over for you would take just pure guts and bravery. He didn't say a thing to anyone and just quietly had such a Moment

[octuscle]

The Daddy Virus

Tyler was the star of his high school's theater department, a promising gymnast, especially on the parallel bars and rings, and the most popular of the school's studs. There were urban legends about the size and qualities of his cock. Tyler was a legend. And he reveled in the knowledge that he was one.

The rumors about a number of juniors and sophomores who had disappeared from one day to the next were generally dismissed. No one remembers anyone disappearing. Nevertheless, some of the fat daddies who had been hanging around campus in the cafeteria for some time, when they weren't doing janitorial or handyman work, liked to tell horror stories about it. Tyler pretended to be politely horrified. But in his mind, he went over his lines. Next week was the premiere of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” And he was the star. Of course.

Tyler was on stage. “The soul is a terrible reality. You can buy and sell it and haggle over its price. You can poison it or perfect it. There is a soul in each of us. I know it.” Suddenly he gets stuck. Shit, what was the next sentence? BELCH! Why the hell is he on a stage anyway? He is anything but an actor...

“Tyler, you look really grotesque in that shirt.” ‘Damn it, bro, if I'm going to play that fag Daffyd Thomas for this charity crap, I want to do it right.’ His fraternity brothers were on the floor laughing. Tyler was anything but ‘The Only Gay in the Village.’ Tyler had been captain of the wrestling team as a senior. And now he was the assistant coach. He was a legend in his fraternity. The fact that he had agreed to perform this sketch was truly sensational. Tyler grinned. He knew that this shirt was really an imposition on the audience. You could really see every one of his rolls of fat. Something was brewing in his gut. FART!

Coach Ty looked at his boys. A few of them were really talented. He would be able to turn them into men. He himself had had a promising wrestling career ahead of him. But then a cruciate ligament rupture. And his career was over. He stroked his belly. Well, his life could have been a lot worse. “Boys, that's enough for today. Beer and steaks in an hour at my place in the garden. And whoever takes a shower loses. It's just us guys here today.” The boys howled. And Coach Ty wondered if he would fuck a sweaty wrestler's ass today.

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

A "The Picture of Dorian Gray"!- inspired Nanami fic in two acts (From my Jjk Penny Dreadful Series-here)

*°࿐ Synopsis: After a harrowing escape from the hell of Shibuya, Nanami Kento finds a dark, twisted method to conceal the deep wounds forever etched on his flesh and spirit. He relocates to Malaysia, shedding his former identity in search of s fresh start, driven by the allure of an hedonistic lifestyle. He quickly resigns himself to a solitary existence, prioritising secrecy above all else's -that is, until one evening at the theatre, when your paths fatefully cross. What will happen next in this unfolding tale of tragedy and rebirth?

*°࿐Tags: Act 2- Nsfw + dark content (Katoptronophilia- mirror kink, softdom!nanami, fem! masturbation, pinv, breeding kink, graphic description of scar and injuries)

This work is part of the SPOOKINKY 2024 event hosted by @tsukimefuku 🖤

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic (...)Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." -Oscar Wilde

࿐✧˖*° Fic Moodboard here✧˖*°࿐

Beneath the dim, flickering glow of the bakery where you work everyday, you move like a shadow, wiping the counter where the day’s sweet offerings linger—croissants, chocolate éclairs—fragrant remnants of a life half-lived. The scent clings to you, comforting yet oppressive, as you linger on the past. A year has passed since you fled into this quiet corner of Malaysia, seeking escape, yearning for the hum of the ocean outside your window. Here, in the solitude of this bakery, you’ve become a ghost—part of the background, invisible to all but the clock and the empty tables.

Yet tonight, something stirs deep within you. At the end of your shift, you return to your cozy apartment, heading to your bedroom to let your fingers graze the golden ticket on your nightstand, a silent promise of a dream that has been lingering in your personal space for weeks: The Tempest. Tonight, the magic of Shakespeare’s world will finally become your own. You slip into the emerald night dress you bought for this occasion, catching a fleeting glimpse of a brand new woman reborn in the mirror, staring back with a defiant gaze.

…

The air of the theater hums with electricity as you step inside, your dress shimmering like a forest at dusk. Eyes turn, glances linger. The crowd falls into a hush, a soft murmur ripples through the room. You feel their gaze—a strange, unknown sensation, both exhilarating and disquieting- you’re definitely not used to being the focus of the attention around you. As you navigate the rows to your seat, eager to find yours and hide among the crowd of faces, a chill runs down your spine. There, across the balcony, a familiar figure watches you—a tall, elegant man, poised in a timeless black tuxedo.The tailored jacket hugs his athletic frame,  the deep midnight black fabric contrasting strikingly with his fair complexion. A white pocket square elegantly peeks out from the breast pocket, while a finely knotted bow tie adds a sophisticated touch. His reserved nature, shadowed by a hint of intrigue, seems to enchant every woman in the auditorium, inviting curiosity from all who cross his path. With an air of mystery that surrounds him, he garners attention effortlessly, embodying both charm and enigma in every subtle movement.

It’s him—Mr. Nanami, the enigmatic man who has haunted the bakery for months. Always at his corner table, always with a book in hand, always distant, as though carved from some distant age. His gaze is now fixed on you, unblinking, his caramel eyes drinking in every movement you make. Even among the crowd, he is a statue, an artifact of mystery, his blonde hair gleaming under the theater’s lights, his presence too immense to ignore.

«If by your Art, my dearest father, you have

put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,

But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,

Dashes the fire out.»

The character of Miranda finally speaks, signalling the start of the play. Lights go off, the world fading into darkness around you, but his gaze never wavers. It pulses between you, an electric current that thrums in your chest. Even as the actors bring the stage to life, Nanami’s attention is all on you. His eyes trace the delicate curve of your neck, they notice the way the silk of your dress clings to your feminine figure—every movement, every breath amplified. In the silence between the scenes, memories of brief encounters in the bakery flood both of your minds—small gestures, the fleeting brush of hands as you served his command. Every mundane act now seems to acquire a deeper meaning, hinting at the long buried electricity now resurfacing in all of its power.

The actors' words echo in your mind, their tale of rediscovery mirroring your own. You feel the thread between you and Nanami tighten with each passing scene. Your heartrate is accelerates inexplicably, his hands itch imperceptibly. By the play's end, the applause is drowned by the weight of his gaze, a fleeting glance that feels like an unspoken invitation. The crowd fades, and you are lost in the depths of his eyes—amber pools that seem to hold unspeakable secrets. What darkness lingers behind them? What truths lie hidden beneath his composed exterior?

In that moment, you are both spectator and part of the story, caught between the stage and the gaze of the man who watches you from the shadows, as if you are both part of the same forgotten tale.

The applause swells, a rising tide of sound that drowns everything around you. The faces blur, the claps echo like thunder, and your senses are swept into the frenzy. Yet, goosebumps rise along your exposed back, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. In the midst of chaos, your consciousness fails to identify the tall figure slipping quietly behind you, a shadow stretching long across your seat. But your body doesn't: every fiber of your being tenses in alert, time stretching as if waiting for something to happen at any moment.

Nanami’s hand lingers for a heartbeat before resting on your shoulder, a firm, yet gentle touch. The unexpected pressure makes you gasp, the sound barely a whisper.

"Mr. Nanami... What a surprise," you murmur, turning to face him, your voice trembling like a prayer as you feign surprise. His name spills from your lips, the remnants of the performance still thick in the air.

"Good evening, Mrs... I apologize for the intrusion," he says, his tone softer than you expected. "I saw you in the crowd and... I couldn't resist."

His apology is followed by a smile—small, sincere, and unlike the elusive stranger you’ve come to know. You blink in disbelief, caught off guard by this sudden warmth.

"Good evening," you reply, your words stammered. "No need to apologize. I’m glad you noticed me." Beneath the surface, you are deeply surprised by the fact that he did really recognize you, a simple waitress, a face everyone easily forgets.

He chuckles softly, eyes flickering with interest as he watches you. "The actors were amazing tonight, weren't they?" he continues, easing into the conversation. " Yes, indeed” you answer “I've always been fond of drama... the way music, scenery, poetry, and dance all blend into one living thing."

He catches the spark igniting your eyes as you speak, lost in your own enthusiasm. "Yes, I think it's the perfect kind of art... a fusion of all forms. A single experience woven from many threads."

He watches you, entranced by your remarkable passion for arts. Nanami always secretly thought you looked beautiful, admiring your kind nature from afar while you served tables at the bakey. But tonight he can't help feeling drawn to your every movement, noticing every detail of you, the most attractive woman he has ever laid eyes on in a while. Suddenly a low chuckle escapes him, catching you by surprise: "A real aesthete, aren’t you? I think I’ve finally found a worthy companion for my abstract musings." He muses.

You smile back, amused by the compliment. "So…you are... an ‘aesthete’ too?" you ask playfully.

"Ah... I prefer the term hedonist. There's a difference. An aesthete merely appreciates beauty for its own sake. A hedonist seeks to immerse themselves in it, to live for the pleasure it brings. Do you understand?" He smiles wryly.

You nod, half-missing the full meaning. "It makes sense to me... though 'hedonism' isn't a word you hear much these days."

At your remark, something flickers in his eyes—a momentary hesitation. His gaze drifts away, as though lost in a distant thought. Then he snaps back,as shaken from a dream.

"I have a question for you," he says, his voice now heavier. "Since you’re so drawn to this kind of topic... what do you think? Does life imitate art, or is it art that imitates life?"

You blink, caught off guard. His question is as profound as it is unsettling. Sensing your confusion, he continues, voice tightening with a quiet vulnerability.

"I know it sounds tautological... contradictory, even. But these thoughts are born from years of reflection, of trying to make sense of life."

He pauses, and for a moment, the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. The weight of his words settles around you, and you sense his inner battle—fear of revealing too much.

"Life is indeed the most intricate of masterpieces," you say softly, your voice soothing the strain in his words. "But I believe we create it. We choose the colors, the shapes, the shadows of our existence."

His eyes soften, a long, silent moment passing between you. Then, as though the walls around him have cracked, he sighs, and his words spill out.

"I’ve always had a special sensitivity... but my past... it hardened me, consumed me. I spent years hiding from it, burying my feelings beneath logic and calculation. And when I finally faced those demons, I realized..." He trails off, the confession hanging between you.

You wait, breath held, as he collects his thoughts. "I thought the pleasures of art and literature were gone forever. I thought I had lost them. But then..." He falters again, lost in the depths of his own emotions.

You try to simplify his cryptic confession. "So... you retired early and moved to Malaysia, didn't you? It's not something to be ashamed of, it's common practice here, Malaysia is such a dreamy place. I myself have left everything behind and fled here…" You try to make him feel at ease, failing to notice the deeper meaning behind his words.

His lips curled up in a faint smile, a touch of sadness in his eyes. How could such a pure soul like yours grasp the horrors hidden behind his elegant appearance? "Yes... escaping a life I didn’t recognize anymore seemed the only choice I had a year ago."

You smile back, unaware of the weight of his past, yet moved by his vulnerability. "It seems like we both needed to escape something,then" you say gently.

He watches you intensely, and for a moment, the shadows of his past flicker in his gaze, along if something else- quiet admiration for your spontaneous genuineness. Then, without warning, he clears his throat, inviting you to continue your discussion elsewhere:

"I hope you won’t misunderstand," he says, his voice low and hesitant. "But...would you join me for a drink tonight? I’d love to continue this conversation... and perhaps share a book with you. If you'd allow me."

You accept without hesitation, the thrill of the unknown surging through you. Walking side by side along the moonlit shore, your steps are light, the air thick with possibility. The evening unfolds before you, a path leading to an unseen discovery, your heart fluttering, unaware of the darkness that lurks just beyond the light of the moon, reflected inside his golden irises.

The ebony door creaks open, a haunting sound that reverberates through the dimly lit corridor as Nanami, with an air of quiet dignity, unlocks the entrance to his home, his quiet sanctuary. Leaning forward, he flicks the light switch, and with a courteous gesture, steps aside, allowing you to cross the threshold. Click. A warm, golden light floods the space, spilling like liquid amber into the darkness, inviting you into the treasure trove that is Nanami's home.

As you step inside, the musty scent of aged books mingles with a faint undertone of turpentine, whisking you away to a distant realm where art and literature reign supreme. The air is thick with stories untold, whispers of creativity echoing off the walls. Each available inch of wall space is claimed by an eclectic mix of paintings, their colors vibrant against the deep shadows. Books of every genre crowd every angle of the refined, tastefully furnished open space that stretches before you. Your eyes widen, your jaw drops; you are mesmerized, trying to absorb every intricate detail of this artistic sanctuary.

"I hope this is to your liking," Nanami's amused chuckle pulls you from your reverie, his voice like a gentle breeze stirring the still air.

"This... all of this... is yours? The paintings, the books, the antiques? How...?" You stammer, incredulous, as you survey the vast collection that feels both intimate and monumental.

"Yes," he replies, a contemplative smile gracing his lips as he leans against the doorframe, the shadows dancing across his features. "This collection is my legacy, the thing I’m most proud of..." His voice trails off, and as you admire his possessions, you fail to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, filled with a blend of longing and admiration. In his mind, your figure blurs with the contours of the most graceful of Aphrodites, the missing piece of his collection, the first soul to step into his sanctuary after a long, lonely stretch of time. He watches you spin around his living room, a vision of grace in a flowing dress that clings to your curves like a delicate drapery on a marble statue.

He could grow accustomed to this sight, to you... And in that fateful moment, he lowers his guard, granting you access to the most secluded part of his soul, a realm he has shielded jealously over the years. "Why don’t you take a tour of the house while I pour us a drink? What do you prefer: Cabernet or Whiskey?" he asks, his genuine smile like a rare gem in the dim light.

"Thank you, I’d like to explore your collection further… as for the drink… you choose, surprise me," you reply chuckling mischievously, a thrilling tension crackling in the air as your eyes lock with his, an electric connection that sends shivers down your spine.

The floorboards creak beneath your feet as you venture deeper into the labyrinthine layout, navigating narrow corridors flanked by towering shelves that groan under the weight of Nanami's extensive collection. Each step draws you further into his world, a place where dreams and memories intertwine.

As you explore, you ascend the stairs to the first floor, stumbling upon a cozy library. A plush, crimson armchair beckons you, piled high with dog-eared paperbacks and a precarious tower of art monographs. The adjacent bookshelf stands as a shrine to literary giants—Austen, Dickens, Joyce—their timeless works nestled alongside a first edition of Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea."

You are about to descend when something catches your eye: A door at the end of the corridor is slightly ajar, challenges you, invites your curiosity. A thrill courses through you, an all-consuming desire to uncover the mystery hidden within. Drawn by an unseen force, you approach, your heart racing as your trembling hand hovers over the doorknob. With a gentle push, you swing the door open, and a sudden burst of light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding you. As your vision clears, you find yourself staring at your own reflection, an astonished figure in a green dress, caught in the web of shadows.

Stepping further into the room, you realize you’ve entered Nanami's peculiar bedroom. A quilted round bed dominates the space, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that create a dizzying effect, reflecting your image endlessly in the dim light. Your gaze travels, and you find a portrait hanging on the wall—a blond man who looks strikingly like Nanami, but marred by burn scars that crisscross his body like a roadmap of pain, telling a story of flames that once ravaged his skin. His eyes, a deep, piercing gold, seem to harbor the weight of those infernos, a flicker of fire still smoldering within.

“Is this... Nanami?” you whisper to yourself, disbelief coursing through you.

"So you found out..." a faint, emotionless voice emerges from the shadows, and you immediately turn: Nanami stands on the threshold, his attractive features marred by a mask of suffering and resignation. He holds a single book in his hands: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

"Nanami... I didn’t mean to intrude. The door was slightly open, and I..." you stammer, searching for an excuse. " But…What is this? Who is the man in the portrait?" you finally manage to ask, your voice trembling with confusion.

His gaze drops to the floor, a deep sadness enveloping him. "I wanted to lend you this book…maybe it would have helped you better comprehend this situation of mine. I’ve always related to Wilde’s work…and its Preface holds everything I’ve painfully learnt about life” his words ring hollow in your ears, emptied of any meaning. “This portrait... It represents the state of my soul. This... is what I really look like." His voice is heavy with truth, and the weight of his words hangs in the air like a dark cloud.

A storm of questions swirls in your mind, casting you into a sea of panic, while your gaze flashes between him and the man of the picture "This...  it can't be real. Nanami, what really happened? What is this story about?"

"Please, listen to me..." he interrupts, his tone now urgent, demanding your full attention. "Over a year ago, I was involved in an accident in Shibuya,on the night of Halloween and got severely injured. I barely managed to survive, but half of my body was burned, damaged irreparably..."

He takes a step closer, his expression lost as he struggles to share his truth. "When I woke up in a hospital bed, I took a look in the mirror, and realized I would have never been the same man I was.” He pauses, trying to steady his accelerated breath “ seeing my condition, an old friend of mine decided to set off, travelling the world for weeks in search of a way to restore my appearance. And I thought he had returned victorious at first, when he proposed to me an ancient curse allowing me to channel all of my pain and ugliness into that portrait. So I ended up switching places with the man now hanging above my bed. My friend helped me escape to start anew in this secluded place of Earth, but the truth is that this was never meant to be a blessing…with time I fell prey of the illusion of my appearance, trapping myself in a cage of mirrors, constantly afraid to see my real aspect resurfacing…I’ve been such a fool to forget the real nature of this expedient: a curse will always be always a curse"

He retreats, hiding behind a wall of shame and guilt. "I don’t expect you to understand. You know nothing of the world of sorcery from which I came... and...I wouldn't blame you if you turned your back at me now, pointing at me like a devil…"

As he fights to suppress the lump in his throat, you stand in front of him, your knees threatening to give in at every word spilling from his mouth. But it's in this moment that you see his true nature for the first time—a broken man, whose defenses are now crumbling under the weight of his long-buried secrets. "I’ve missed my chance with you, I cannot hide from the monster I’ve become," he whispers, his voice cracking with guilt and regret.

Without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you. Nanami's breath hitches as your hesitant hand cups his chiseled jaw, grounding him in the moment. It is high time to free him from the demons of his past.  "Destroy the picture, Nanami... don’t let that portrait weigh down your soul any longer." 

Your words provoke an earthquake into Nanami's world: his eyes widen, meeting the compassionate determination in your gaze. "And this doesn't change anything, I’m not leaving…You don’t have to hide anymore, not from me," you say softly, knowing in your heart that this moment could be the key to unlocking the darkness that has held him captive for far too long.

…

His resolve wavers as he gazes upon your lips, mere inches away from his, a tantalizing promise lingering in the air. The last thread of self-control snaps when you pull him closer, pressing your curves against his sculpted form. In that intoxicating moment, he crashes his mouth to yours, a desperate kiss that spills forth your insecurities in a breathless plea for understanding. Lips collide, and the world fades, leaving just the two of you suspended in a cocoon of time and space. 

Fingers roam restlessly, exploring, dancing over each other’s bodies in a fervent embrace, like lightning illuminating a starless sky with passion's raw energy. The kiss deepens, heats, igniting flames of longing as he pins you against the cool surface of the mirror, your bare back shivering at the sudden chill. He looms over you, strong and commanding, tension rippling through his broad shoulders before he seizes the lower edge of a golden-framed picture, throwing it to the ground with a shattering crash. 

The echo reverberates through the room, breaking the spell that held you. As the cursed image lies in shards, you blink to find the real Nanami before you, a man sculpted by both fire and fate, his scars merely facets of a twisted charm. He holds his breath, waiting for your response, his vulnerability laid bare in the depths of his eyes. 

You stay silent at first. Your trembling fingers deftly start to unbutton his shirt, tracing a path from fine fabric to the rough, fibrous tissue of his burned skin. “You look even more handsome in my eyes now,Nanami... ripped at every edge but still holding your original charm, like the finest masterpiece” you finally speak, voice thick with emotion “you’re strong, you can heal. Let me help you, please... let me…” The weight of your invitation hangs in the air, a siren's call that stirs something deep within him. He hesitantly captures your wandering hand, “Are you sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, a silent confession of both uncertainty and deep care. 

In answer, you push his shirt off his shoulders, your hands gliding over the contours of his biceps, igniting a wildfire in his chest long thought extinguished. You offer him compassion and heartfelt affection, and in that moment, he feels worthy of love again. “I am sure, Nanami… give me all of you without restraints tonight…show me you’re willing to start anew” 

“Fuck,” he gasps, his hands gripping your waist, spinning you around to face the mirror. “See how stunning you look? You are too much for me now,do you understand it?” He desperately spits out through gritted teeth “but if you choose to give yourself to me tonight, know that there will be no turning back. I won’t accept being left alone tomorrow...” His breath tickles your neck as he nibbles at your soft skin, pulling back to meet your gaze with a gravity that sends shivers down your spine. “What do you say? Do you accept my condition?” 

“Yes,” you simply breathe out, eyes locked on the reflection before you, feeling small yet cherished in his powerful embrace. “I guess I am the luckiest of  men, then…” His warm breath cascades over the delicate flesh behind your ear, a relieved smile curling against your skin as you tremble between his arms. 

“I could hold you like this forever…” he whispers, tracing the line of your spine with his index finger. His hands find the thin straps of your dress, gently coaxing them down your shoulders. The silky fabric slips away, pooling at your feet, revealing you in all your glory. “You are a masterpiece here, the most exquisite work of art I have ever seen.”

His gaze drifts to the mirror, breathless as he drinks in the sight of your curves, fingers exploring the valley between your breasts, brushing against your hardened nipples with a soft touch that ignites a deep groan from his throat. “Look at you; I’m going to worship every inch of your delicious body tonight, just like a painter brushing the pure canvas in front of him, I will paint your body with pleasure and reverence” With a confident caress, his hand glides down, cupping your sex, igniting a spark of longing that makes your breath hitch. 

“Nanami,” your voice is a prayer, each syllable infused with need as he parts your folds, cool air colliding with your now exposed clit. His experienced fingers start to explore your womanhood and a shiver dances along your spine “So soft,so wet for me already… keep those beautiful eyes open for me,I want you to watch as we create a work of art of pleasure tonight.” his other hand cups your chin, preventing you from looking away from your entwined image.

He moves with purpose, fingers drawing delicate circles on your sensitive nub, escalating your breaths into gasps. “You know, I’ve always believed that sex is a form of art—the highest, perhaps. The sensations it creates, the way bodies merge in a symphony of unbridled passion…” His rhythm quickens, pressure mounting until you scream his name, your body arching as waves of pleasure crash over you. 

“Let it happen, just like that, give in to it, feel the way your body yearns for mine” he encourages you, guiding you throughout your climax with his confident ministrations. “Look at you now,” he cups your jaw, tilting your head to see the beauty of your flushed cheeks and wild hair. “You are alive… the essence of beauty.” His kisses scatter across your skin, igniting every nerve, his hardness pressing against your plush curves, a testament to his hunger. 

His veiny hands unfasten his belt, pulling down his elegant pants to reveal himself to you: a glorious display of manhood, standing proud and ready in the mirror facing you. The base is girthy, the long shaft crossed by a single bluish vein up to the swollen tip, already for glistening with precum “look what your beauty does to me” his hips jacks forward instinctively as he notices the hunger in your eyes “Ready?” he asks once more, searching your gaze for any hint of doubt before entering you slowly from behind, his eyes locked on yours in the reflective surface, watching as pleasure and pain intertwine on your face. 

He’s barely halfway in but you already feel him everywhere, a melding of flesh and desire driving you mad as he fills you completely. A strangled groan escapes him. “fuck, you're too tight… "His eyes flutter shut as he revels in the sensation of your snug channel stretching apart for him, sweaty pearls coaxes his forehead, brows furrowed in concentration “you were made for me.” He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he stills for a moment, savoring the connection of your entwined bodies. 

When his hips begin to move, there is no gentleness—only a primal need. He slams against you, each thrust sending you gasping against the mirror, fingers clutching the golden frame for support. Your body turned into a canvas painted with pleasure: head tilted back, throat exposed, breasts heaving with each  fervent thrust, trembling legs on the brink of surrender.  The smacking sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberates, a wild melody echoing in the room as you surrender to the rhythm of ecstasy, bodies swaying in perfect synchronicity. 

Together, you reach the precipice of bliss. The mirror captures the art of your union, an abstract painting of two entwined souls—calling out each other’s names, your bodies slick and sticky, pressed together in a tender embrace. In that moment, you know that this is more than just a union of bodies; it is a celebration of art, love, and the unyielding spirit of desire.

 Nanami’s eyes roll back as he feels you envelop him in a fierce grip, but he forces his gaze open, eager to witness the masterpiece unfolding before him. “I'm almost there…” He announces, grunting in your ear as he surrenders to your magic. Warm spurts of his very essence paint your walls white, making you his in the most primal of ways. He groans in pride and delight when the glass reflects the lewd sight of his overflowing seed dripping down your leg. Turning to face him, a loving smile dances upon both of your lips, the calm after a storm. “That was incredible, my diamond… thank you for sharing this masterpiece with me,” he murmurs, placing gentle kisses upon your closed eyelids, the warmth of his damp hair brushing against your forehead. “You’ve shown me that with you, I can finally find my way back to beauty.” He nuzzles your noses together, laughter bubbling forth as he regards you with a playful glint in his eye. “But I fear I need more from you tonight… are you ready for another round?”

You nod, a spark reigniting within you, a shared yearning to delve deeper into the connection that has blossomed between you in the stillness of the night. Without warning, he lifts you off the ground, effortlessly cradling you in his arms, bridal-style, and carries you toward his round bed, laying you down upon the luxurious velvet sheets. The sensation takes your breath away, and you gaze up at him, wide-eyed with wonder.

He kneels at your feet, crawling onto the bed, leaving a trail of kisses along your calves, thighs, and stomach, until he reaches your lips. For a moment, he pauses, studying your moonlit features, before pushing himself into your inviting warmth once more. This time, there is no urgency; instead, he makes love to you with a tenderness that transcends flesh, his thrusts slow and deep, punctuated by soft kisses and feather-light caresses. You gaze upward at the mirror hanging from the ceiling, capturing your supine figure beneath his muscled torso, tensing with every intimate movement.

In that sacred moment of Epiphany, the truth unfurls before you: together, you and Nanami create a beauty that has always eluded you both, a beauty that defies the boundaries of time and space, a masterpiece beyond convention. You were each other’s missing piece. Each creak of the bed beneath you resonates with magic, a spell binding you to this moment of bliss and rebirth, witnessed by every mirror surrounding you.

“We are art,” you lean in and whisper into his ear, your voice filled with newfound conviction, as the night wraps around you like a cloak, and the shadows dance in celebration of your fateful union.

Thanks for reading this far!🙏

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[drawsmaddy]

[ID: A digital illustration of Dorian Storm from Critical Role. He is wearing modern clothing and the illustration is styled like a magazine cover with text at the top reading "Illustrated Exandria". There are two images of Dorian, in the largest he is wearing a blue crop top with straps at the bottom that aren't connected to anything, dark blue jeans, and black leather fingerless gloves that stop halfway up his biceps. The gloves also have a simple wing design on them and Dorian is holding an orange and yellow sparkly microphone that he is holding up to his mouth. The second, smaller image of Dorian is a close up on the left side of his face. He has his eyes closed and pink and yellow flowers decorate his cheek. A small third image in the bottom right shows a sunset coloured sky with two fluffy white clouds. End description.]

Dorian Storm, pop sensation!

[sodaequalsbubbles]

Okay this is going to be a long ass negative Dragon Age the Veilguard post. So don’t read if you don't care about negative opinions on this game.

First of all, I should have never looked at the veilguard art book. I shouldn't have looked. WHY DID I LOOK THROUGH IT ughhhhhhhhhhh.

Before I just felt disappointed about this game. But now it's a genuine bitter sadness after seeing all of the art book.

I had a feeling that this game was probably frankensteined together, because datv felt so half-baked with chunks of story missing from it. Honestly parts of the game gave me the same sensation as when you skip a cutscene or speed run an area, it felt so off sometimes. So I knew there was probably a lot of stuff that was removed or altered until it was unrecognizable, but I didn't realize how bad it was. We were actually robbed. BioWare stabbed us in the middle of an alley way, made off with our wallets, and stepped on our hopes for this game on the way out. (Dramatic I know, but you get the point)

And before people start saying that it's unfair to criticize this game from its concept art because, "it’s just concept art and ideas. A lot of those concepts don't end up making it to the final game. Especially with the development of a triple a". I know that, but veilguard doesn't feel like they just cut out some characters, levels, game mechanics, etc. etc.

It feels like a whole separate game was cut out, and we were left with the glued together scraps of what could’ve been.(Sorry for the poor screenshots, it was difficult to find online scans for the art book )

What? The South of Thedas was actually going to matter instead of being nuked? Who was chosen as the Divine, and maybe even the rulers of Orlais and Ferelden were going to have more impact on the story? Yeah probably.

______________________________________________________________

The agents of Fen'Harel were originally going to be a part of the game like it was hinted at in the end of Trespasser. And constantly be sabotaging your plans to stop Solas. And instead of elves giving the biggest possible meh response, to the fact that the ancient elven gods were back and trying to restore their empire, by destroying the current world. They actually react as one should in this situation lol.

And many end up joining Solas ( and probably Elgar'nan, and Ghilan'nain as well). Because it kind of makes sense for enslaved, oppressed, and abused people that have been suffering for centuries to throw their lot in with those that promise to free them.

______________________________________________________________

Another cut idea made it seem like the first act of the game was going to start with your party sneaking into Tevinter, to get ahold of the red lyruim idol from DA2. But Solas and his agents are one step ahead, and he takes it before you can. Then turns the idol into the purified lyruim dagger he uses in the ritual at the actual start of the datv. (Better than Varric just telling you where the dagger came from, ah this game really loves telling instead of showing.) So that probably means the scene of interrupting Solas's ritual was going to be further along in the story. Instead of Rook just being air dropped into this mess, with even less of an explanation than the concept art lmao.

______________________________________________________________

Rivain was going to be a trading post, kind of sleazy and a melting pot of different Thedas cultures. Instead of an endless sandy coast with ruins strewn about.

______________________________________________________________

The real Tevinter was going to be seen. Its opulence, pride, and strength built off the backs of slaves and magic. Because believe it or not, outright ignoring slavery in Tevinter is worse than showing it. Instead of giving us the chance to confront it, and put a stop to it like the Shadow Dragons, Maevaris Tilani, and Dorian have been trying to do for years, the game just outright acts like it’s not happening basically. Making me feel like no one in the game gives a damn about these people that are suffering. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t change anything.

A little section in the book shows that we maybe could have started a slave revolt in Tevinter as well.

______________________________________________________________

Whoever was left behind in the Fade after Inquisition, was going to appear when Rook gets trapped there.

______________________________________________________________

Isabela was intended to be an advisor, perhaps alongside Morrigan and Dorian (like Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine were in DAI). And provide you a ship, and a captain for your journey. Instead of being a glorified WWE announcer for a fighting ring. She was also going to have a proper outfit; unlike the absolute mess we got in game ugh.

______________________________________________________________

In the concept art there was more politics. Such as gaining allies from opposing sides, like the Qunari and Tevinter.

______________________________________________________________

There were also perhaps plans for more divisive and conflicting sentiments within the companions. And events where they could betray you depending on choices made in the game. (Real conflict and consequences, in my Dragon Age?!)

______________________________________________________________

The Inquisitor probably was going to have more involvement in the story.

______________________________________________________________

You could ride a GRIFFON while hunting dragons.

So yeah, the art book brought more sadness than curiosity out of me. I will now go into the salt mines, to mourn the game we could’ve gotten instead.

[fataldrum]

Dorian Gray is queer art, period.

Apparently Netflix has decided to make an adaption of The Picture of Dorian Gray with Dorian and Basil as siblings. Unless they're planning to go the gothic horror incest route, they've completely missed the point of the relationship between these characters.

If you haven't read the book, Basil is a painter who becomes infatuated with a beautiful young man, pouring his feelings into a painting. Dorian becomes jealous of the painting's beauty, realizing that he will never be as young and unspoiled as the version of himself on the canvas. He finds himself wishing that the painting could age instead of him. His wish is granted, allowing him to stay young and beautiful until the end, with his moral and spiritual decline reflected only in the painting.

I cannot overstate how queer this book is. Dorian is so beautiful that their first meeting inspires a wave of existential terror in Basil. Dorian changes Basil's entire understanding of art and beauty. This book is so queer it was used as evidence at Wilde's sodomy trial.

The existence of the portrait itself is tantamount to a confession of queer desire. Basil tells his friend, Lord Henry, that he can't exhibit the painting because "I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry (who will later lead Dorian into a life of vice) laughs, but Basil explains:

“[E]very portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. [...] It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

This is how he describes meeting Dorian:

When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. [...] I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

Notice that turn of phrase--it was not conscience but cowardice that made him attempt to flee. Why would conscience factor into his decision? Because he felt shame at his reaction to Dorian's perfect, beautiful face.

Lord Henry is shocked to discover Basil cares for something besides his art.

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.

Basil goes on to confess, "I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there."

Lord Henry still doesn't understand why there is too much of Basil in the painting, so Basil explains:

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!”

Lord Henry asks how Dorian feels about Basil, and his response is absolutely tragic.

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

Any adaptation that ignores the way Dorian's existence and beauty utterly destroyed Basil is doomed to be shallow and insipid. This is not just a book about a magic painting. It's a monument to queer longing.

[dark-romantics]

"Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing."

~ Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Next Part

Chapter 1. 𝓥𝓮𝓷𝓲, 𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓲, 𝓪𝓿𝓪𝓭𝓲.

Dorian de Beauvoir was an old soul. Something people would often never notice. After all, with his youthful features, no one would think he was past his thirties. He was attractive and he knew it. Blonde with blue eyes, the duke was often approached by ladies and gentlemen. Most encounters didn't end well for these people. If only they knew. If only they knew what he really was. Because behind all this pleasant — and perfect, dare he say — exterior, hid a monster. Dorian was a vampire, a creature of the night lurking in the shadows, ever watchful for unsuspecting victims to sate his unholy hunger.

This, in fact, was exactly what he was doing this afternoon. While he had a chevalier ring, shielding him from the effects of the sun, his preference was to hunt under the veil of night or during overcast days, when more humans ventured into these forests under a less harsh daylight.

Among these sunlit wanderers was a young maiden. Dorian could hear her footsteps and the faint hum of a tune as she ventured into a woodland clearing. Her attire, a simple woolen dress with an apron, bore the marks of labor and grime. It didn't take long for him to discern her as a peasant girl, no older than fifteen. With a determined expression, she foraged for mushrooms, collecting them diligently in her wicker basket.

She didn't notice him, too focused on her task to pay mind to anyone else. She was young. He typically avoided feeding on children, and yet, he found himself unable to look away. Still, Dorian observed from a distance. He himself wasn't sure why. Perhaps it had been because of the gaping hole he felt in his chest. Loneliness. A curse many vampires were accustomed to.

Once she was done with her task, she sat on the grass. Closing her eyes and sighing, she seemed to be exhausted by the work. The sun had set not long ago and Dorian questioned whether she intended to return home at all.

His decision was made, he left his vantage point and approached her quietly. "The sun has set," he spoke, causing the young lady to jump with a start. "Do you not have a place to be?"

She appeared surprised. Vampires had this ability to creep up on mortals without them noticing. The girl stood up abruptly.

"I— Yes," the peasant confirmed before beginning to walk away quickly.

"Let me accompany you." He followed her and soon caught up to her. "A young girl such as yourself shouldn't walk alone at this hour of the day," he commented, justifying himself as he added a pleasant smile. 

"That won't be necessary," assured the girl, "my Lord," she added, noticing his expensive attire.

"I insist."

And that was that. He had spoken with conviction, showcasing how he wouldn't change his mind. She looked tense, but didn't dare to refuse.

"Do you live nearby ?" He asked after a long moment of silence. She nodded mutely.

His attempts at small tasks proved to be fruitless, but he didn't mind too much. Nevertheless, the journey proved brief, as they reached a small cottage at the forest's edge within a quarter of an hour. Dorian's reaction was immediate—a derisive sneer contorted his features as he regarded the humble dwelling with disdain.

This... thing wasn't even the size of his wardrobe. It was a humble structure, its thatched roof weathered by time and rough-hewn wooden walls bearing the scars of years. The simplicity of the cottage's design and construction was an eyesore to the noble, who was accustomed to the grandeur of opulent manors and palaces. The dichotomy was painfully apparent.

A light chuckle escaped Dorian's lips as he surveyed the unimpressive abode. "This place?" He inquired almost rhetorically, his tone unimpressed by the humble dwelling.

The girl's demeanor stiffened visibly, and her response came with a touch of defensiveness. "Yes, it's my home," she almost snapped, a trace of pride in her voice.

His smile wavered, an odd sensation settling in his chest. It seemed as though she didn't quite belong here, amidst such simplicity. He looked down at the little mortal. He felt as if she shouldn't be here.

The door cracked open, a woman that looked quite similar to the little girl came out. Her mother. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

"(Y/N)," called the woman with a relieved smile. She put a hand on her hips and pointed at the young girl. "You were supposed to come back before the sunset, young lady," she scolded her with maternal authority.

(Y/n) appeared sheepish. "Sorry, mom," she said, a bit embarrassed. "I ventured a bit farther than I usually do. On the bright side, I found more mushrooms."

The mother sighed good naturedly before turning to Dorian. She now looked uncomfortable. "I apologize for my daughter, my Lord," she hastily said, her hand moving protectively to grasp her daughter's arm. "I hope she didn't cause any trouble."

The man's indifferent face shifted into a charming smile. "I can assure you she didn't," he answered. "I simply found this young lady alone in the woods and suggested bringing her back home."

The peasant woman expressed her gratitude with a touch of hesitation before they exchanged pleasantries and bade each other farewell. Dorian continued on his path, returning to his hunt, but his thoughts lingered on the girl. He couldn't help but wonder if this chance encounter had left as indelible a mark on her as it had on him. 

[shadowdaddies]

Phantom Touch

Dorian x Reader smut

A/N: just thinking about waking up with Dorian. that's it

warnings: smut below the cut, pwp, use of phantom hands, light bondage, fingering, p in v sex, slight praise/deg

A warm hand slid down the curve of your waist, the pleasant feeling stirring you from your sleep. Soft morning light already shone through the sheer curtains of your bedroom window, the covers warm beneath you from Dorian’s body so close to yours.

“Good morning,” you hummed, a feline grin on your lips as his hand moved lower, kneading your ass. A familiar coolness tilted your head back, phantom hand angling you just how Dorian wanted. Tongue flicked out against your neck, lips sucking on the sensitive skin below your ear, trailing lower in slow, teasing movements. 

Dorian’s hand slid under your nightgown, gripping your backside firmly before fingers slipped between your legs. A whimper escaped you, breathy moans of your husband’s name as he slid along your folds. 

A wild groan escaped him at the feeling of your slick dripping down your thighs. “Already so wet for me, angel?” he teased, nipping at your ear as his hand slid forward, fingers lightly brushing your clit. You jerked in his hold, back arching as a pathetic mewl escaped you.

“Please, please more,” you begged, hips grinding against his fingers, desperate for more friction. A dark chuckle sounded in your ear as his digits curled inside of you, hitting your walls at a perfect angle. You could barely give warning before your orgasm hit, juices soaking Dorian’s fingers as he groaned from behind.

“Good, good girl,” he murmured, hand drawing back as he sucked your slick from his fingers, lewd noises filling the air. 

“Please, more,” you begged, ass arching against Dorian’s hard cock. “I need you, now,” breathless pleas escaped your lips as you grew increasingly desperate.

Dorian refused to be drawn into your pathetic show, his hands drawing out of you as leisurely as ever, wet slick coating your sides as he toyed with your stomach, nipples, throat.

“How do you need me?” he murmured, unable to fight the wicked grin as he pulled your back to his chest. Struggling for an answer, your brain fought the lustful haze to answer him.

“I- um, I need your cock, please,” you whimpered, flipping to your back. Sapphire eyes shone blue as your legs spread wide for him, granting easy access.

“Such a good little slut for me,” he murmured, eyes glazed as he focused on your pussy, dragging his cock along your folds. You mewled at the teasing sensation, his tip rubbing your sensitive bud, spreading your slick. 

Writhing against his hold, you moaned out, “Dorian, please I-“ 

The cool caress of another phantom hand cut you off, fingers massaging your tongue, your muffled pleas growing as his length pushed inside of you. Head leaned back against Dorian’s shoulder, you sucked on the phantom fingers as his hips lazily rolled against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, lips spreading in a smirk against your neck. The way he nipped and licked at your exposed skin was nothing short of predatory, making your heart pound as his cock finally found your entrance, tip barely pushing inside of you.

Eyes rolled back as a pathetic mewl left your lips, drool slipping out around phantom fingers. With a dark chuckle, Dorian thrust into you in one smooth movement, his length stretching your walls in a delicious combination of pain and pleasure. 

Slowly sliding out of you, Dorian moved his invisible touch from your lips, freeing your moans to echo through the room. An arm gripped your waist, holding you firm as Dorian snapped his hips back into you at the same time a slick finger flicked your clit.

Jaw fell open in a silent moan as you vaguely registered the phantom hand that had moved from your mouth to your clit, rubbing tight circles as Dorian grabbed your leg, spreading you open as he pounded into you from behind.

Cool breezes and teasing hands were everywhere - rubbing your clit, twisting your nipples, tugging your hair - as Dorian whispered filthy praises in your ear. Your high crashed over you quickly, body shaking from the intense pleasure.

Dorian didn’t let up, instead flipping you on your back as he continued fucking you into the mattress. The familiar feel of those cool hands brushed your wrists, guiding them above your head. Throwing your legs over his shoulders, Dorian filled you impossibly deep, hitting the perfect spot with thrust after thrust.

Gasping for air, you found Dorian’s sapphire gaze through blurred vision, brow furrowing as you attempted to whimper out the warning that you were close to your orgasm once again. 

“I know, I’m close,” Dorian grunted, black waves of hair sticking to his forehead as his abs worked with each stroke. “Let go for me, love,” he gritted out, thumb finding your clit once more as the coil snapped.

Vision flashed white with the force of your orgasm, toes curling as you felt Dorian’s warm release fill you. Panting, he looked up at you with a satisfied smirk. “Feel alright, love?”

A raw giggle escaped you at his smugness, your husband knowing full-well just how alright you felt. Stretching your limbs, you yawned as you appraised the gorgeous male in front of you. 

“I think the only thing that could make this morning better is a bath with my love, and some breakfast,” you hummed, legs lifting to wrap around Dorian’s waist as you smirked up at him.

Dorian’s eyes darkened slightly at the appearance of you, flushed and exposed in the morning light beneath him. “I think that can be arranged,” he whispered, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before he rose to prepare the bath.

[throneofsmut]

KINKTOBER 2023 MASTERLIST

Day One: Overstimulation with Rhys

Day Two: Breeding with Fenrys Moonbeam

Day Three: Choking with Rowan Whitethorn

Day Four: Bondage with Lucien Vanserra

Day Five: Thigh Riding with Azriel

Day Six: Sensation Play with Hunt Athalar

Day Seven: Degradation with Eris Vanserra

Day Eight: Face Sitting with Cassian

Day Nine: Face Fucking with Azriel

Day Ten: Spanking with Cassian

Day Eleven: Invisible Hands with Dorian Havillard

Day Twelve: Caught Masturbating with Eris Vanserra

Day Thirteen: Praise with Fenrys Moonbeam

Day Fourteen: Shower Sex with Hunt Athalar

Day Fifteen: Outdoor Sex with Lucien Vanserra

Day Sixteen: Cockwarming with Rhys

Day Seventeen: Temperature Play with Rowan Whitethorn

Day Eighteen: Squirting with Ruhn Danaan

Day Nineteen: Threesome / DP with Bat Boys (poly)

Day Twenty: Size Difference with Azriel

Day Twenty-one: Tit Fucking with Cassian

Day Twenty-two: Against a Wall with Rhys

Day Twenty-three: Hate Fuck with Eris Vanserra

Day Twenty- four: Hunter / Prey with Azriel

Day Twenty-five: Glory Hole with Cassian

Day Twenty-six: Daddy Kink with Rhys

Day Twenty-seven: Sleep Sex with Lucien Vanserra

Day Twenty-eight: Knife Play with Azriel

Day Twenty-nine: Corruption with Cassian

Day Thirty: Period sex with Rhys

Day Thirty-one: Wing Play with Azriel

[mlm-writer]

Atish'an (Dorian x M!Reader)

Pairing:  Dorian Pavus x Male Elf Inquisitor (trans-friendly) Rating: General Audiences Words: 1306 POV: Second Summary: The inquisitor is having feeling for the Tevinter, but the tragedy of a past lost make it hard to act on those feelings. Tags: hurt & comfort, love confession (?), flirting, Dorian's fabulous moustache, getting together (?), Elven language & dash of angst

A tingling sensation danced  like a warm fire over your lips. It had been a while since you had speed-walked towards your chambers, but you still felt it. It was lingering like a ghost, a remnant. You touched your lips lightly, replaying the abrupt kiss Dorian gave you after Mother Giselle accused him of being some sort of bad influence. Maybe he was. You didn’t care though. 

Your hand reflexively reached up to the pendant hanging from your neck. The simple jewellery wasn’t worth a single piece of gold, but you had made sure it survived the conclave, the journey through time and the attack on Haven. The thin chain was starting to get some wear and tear from your nervous fiddling and the pendant itself was losing its outer coating. “Zevwen,” you whispered the name into the cold air, like a soft prayer for your long gone lover. It had been a good decade ago, but you could recall the last day you heard his voice crystal clear.

He was pale as the snow in the mountains. The only colour on his visage was the redness around his eyes. Fingers, thin and trembling, lightly held onto yours. His voice had been a mere fragment of what it used to be. “Ma vhenan, you were meant for great things; I have always seen legends in your soul.” Such a convoluted way to tell you to live on, venture away from the clan and carve your own path. You did just that a few months ago; look where that got you. 

A deep sigh left your lips, before you rose from where you were seated on the edge of the bed. You tucked the pendant back under your clothes and went on to be the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, the random guy who is going to defeat Corypheus. No big deal. 

—

The Winter Palace was as grand as the Game was despicable. In the grand mess of schemes and murder, Dorian seemed to have enjoyed himself in some way. You suspected he would mingle well with the nobility. A few times when you passed him by, a young Orlesian woman was trying to woo him. The forbiddeness of a Tevinter man was very popular among the younger ladies. It was somewhat amusing to see Dorian suffer through tactfully rejecting them one by one, without causing a political debacle that would torture Josephine for months to come. 

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters. I told her you left already.” Dorian made his grand entrance on the balcony. There was really no hiding from him. “You can thank me later or now, but… you look distracted. Something on your mind?” You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. It had been a wild night, but even as an entire empire was on the verge of crumbling, you had often found your mind drift to the way he was filling out that ridiculous red tunic. 

“Did you need me for something?” You finally turn your head to really look at him; that was a mistake. Steel grey eyes bore into your soul, searching for answers to inquiries he had not even made yet. You tried to keep your expression neutral, hiding your emotions beneath a blanket of professionalism. 

Dorian turned towards you, one arm handsomely leaning on the edge of the balcony. “Oh, I always need you for something.” He gave you another one of those insincere charming smiles; you were both inept at expressing honest emotions. “I would say the question remains whether you need me, but I know you do. Afterall, you would not have extended the invitation of the scheming marquis if you didn’t.” His arm waved around in a grand motion. You hummed and nodded in reply, knowing he would continue talking no matter what your reaction was. “In any case, I know what you need now too. A distraction.” He pushed himself off the stone and offered you a hand. “Dance with me, Inquisitor.” 

A smile creeped onto your face. You tried to hide it by looking down, but you knew Dorian had already seen it. Without a word, you took his hand. He pulled you into the empty space on the balcony. The music drifted through the slit between the doors, guiding your intimate dance under the night sky. Josephine had appointed you a dance teacher for tonight, so you would fit in, but Orlesian nobility apparently danced differently from the Tevinter nobility. It was hard to anticipate Dorian’s movements. Maybe it was just Dorian, ever the storm, the chaos, the novelty. Maybe Dorian actually didn’t know how to dance. 

Nonetheless, he held your eyes hostage with his. The warmth of his body seeped through your fancy clothes. The sweet scent of his perfume filled your nose. He was everywhere around you, making your heart race and heat rise to your face. You dipped him; matching smiles adorned both your faces. “This is the moment you kiss the evil magister, Inquisitor.” His soft-spoken, alluring words broke the spell. Anxiety creeped up your spine. You pulled him up and let him go. “Or not,” Dorian added without hiding the disappointment in his tone. 

You took a steadying breath and rubbed your face. “Sorry… We… We need to talk.” When you looked at Dorian again, he had his arms crossed. He seemed to be waiting for you to continue speaking. It seemed like he had his mind sorted already and it was just you who needed to talk. You leaned over the edge of the balcony, avoiding eye contact. “Please do not misunderstand. I do like you. I just…” The emotions clogged your throat. Dorian slid into the space beside you. He put one of his strong arms across your shoulders, pulling you against him. You leaned against him, finding peace in his presence. Another calming breath helped you find your words again. “I have lost someone dear to me before… We did not even live a perilous life back then and we…” A rough chuckle escaped your tight throat. Dorian waited patiently for your every word. “I thought I would spend my life with him, but illness got a hold of him before our future could. I do not know if my heart is strong enough for another loss like that.” 

You allowed yourself to lay your eyes upon Dorian again. For once, the Tevinter seemed to be serious. He pulled you close against him, resting his head against yours. “I cannot promise you will never lose me, but I can promise you that I will make every second of joy worth any possible moment of mourning.” His voice vibrated through your body, lulling you into comfort. “It is not good for the skin to be mourning me while I am still alive.” 

You couldn’t suppress the chuckle bubbling up. You turned towards Dorian. He faced you, a confident smirk on his lips, but fear of rejection hidden in his eyes. “You’re right. I should not mourn you while you’re still breathing.” You caressed his face, playing briefly with that wonderful moustache. “I’d like to pick this up without the Orlesian court lurking around the corner, if you’d let me.” 

Dorian took your hand and placed a gallant kiss on your knuckles. “I am quite looking forward to what exactly you will be picking up, Inquisitor.” His grin churned your insides in a way that was both frightening and delightful. “Until then.” His fingers lingered on yours as he slowly let go of your hand with a flirtatious wink. Dorian turned to walk away, hips swaying a little with every step he took to leave the balcony. He left you more fearful than ever, but also -  for the first time in a long while - hopeful. 

—————

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[wildelypoetic]

“Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. . .” ~ The Picture of Dorian Gray

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Rabbit

Lavellan x Blackwall

18+ drug use (weed), dom/sub, thigh riding, breast worship (f!), rough oral (f!), multiple orgasms, rough sex, p-in-v, doggy style, dirty talk, squirting, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, violence, blood and gore, tearful goodbyes

The battle for all of Thedas nearly drawn to their door, Vella and her bear share an urgent night of passion before it all falls around them...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

"Really? You never learned how to play Wicked Grace?" Varric gave her a dubious stare.

"Is that so unbelievable?" Vella countered, sidling up to the table. "How easily you've forgotten I'm a wild woman from the forest." She sighed with mock weariness, smiling at Blackwall as his hand came to her hip.

Cullen flitted his gaze as she plopped into Blackwall's lap.

"You never taught her?" Varric directed at Blackwall, that amused sparkle in his eye.

"Are you kidding?" Blackwall laughed, his wide hand squeezed her thigh under the table. "You thought Solas could play you out of the clothes on your back? Nah, I know a card shark in the making when I see one."

Vella scoffed in mock affront and stuck her tongue out at him. Cullen caught on his own spit at the reveal of her tongue ring. Suddenly, he was very focused on his cards after a few solid coughs.

"Oh, he's got you pegged." Dorian agreed.

"Actually, I'm the one-"

"Could we start, please?" Cullen cut her off, his face scarlet. "I have a thousand things to do."

Bull laughed behind his hand, giving her an appreciative wink as he pushed coin onto the table. Vella smiled and tossed her leg over her thigh, lighting a pipe of elfroot.

"You're going to give the poor man a complex." Blackwall laughed low, speaking Elvhen to her under his breath. Spreading his cards in his hand.

"If that's all it takes..." She hummed mischievously.

"Hey! No elf whispering." Varric chided. "I'm barely convinced you don't know how to play as it is."

"Varric!" Vella gasped, leaning on a palm. Giving the slightest wiggle in Blackwall's lap. "Have I not proven myself trustworthy yet?"

"Oh no, Sunshine." He warned in a tease. "You may be sweet, but women as beautiful as you are always cunning."

Vella smiled wide.

He was right, of course. She had never played this game, but their companions tells were easy told to her. Even more so as the drink started flowing. Her own imbibing herbs left her warm and fizzled, leaning back into Blackwall's wide chest as content as a cat in a sunbeam.

Vella smiled at Cullen as he spun a tale from his templar days. It was rather tame to her standards, but he told it with the boisterous joy of retelling something rather sordid.

"What did he do?" Josephine urged through a giggle.

"Saluted. Turned on his heel. And marched out like he was in full armor."

The table lit with laughter, appreciative remarks thrown from all sides. The air warm with drunken comradery.

Blackwall's hand had come to rest on the curve of her hipbone, giving his own rough chuckle. A slow but insistent drag of his thumb on her waist had started, a near unconscious sign of his hidden desire.

She couldn't help but agree. This strain of elfroot left her snuggly and needful, barely restrained from kissing at his throat at the table.

It was criminal how attracted she was to this man. At all times, in danger of rubbing into him like a beast in heat. Gods when they finally get to live together...

The thought intruded, as it was bound to.

If. Not when.

They were facing down Corypheus within the next few days, she was sure of it. Though she was without foresight, there was something tight pulled in her gut. A certainty that he was somewhere within her horizon.

But she didn't want to think about that now. Only focused on the warmth surrounded behind her and the sensation of being slow and soft. Blinking up at him in adoration.

His stare caught hers, smiling under his mustache.

"No need to stare at me like that, dove. I'm already in love with you, don't need more persuading."

"You two are so..." Cassandra sighed dreamily, face propped on both hands. Eyes aglow with the unabashed reverie only brought out with a few tankards of beer.

"Careful Seeker," Varric chuckled. "You might come off as a romantic. And I just won." He planted the Angel of Death card on the table nonchalantly.

"No!" Cassandra cried. Slamming her hand of cards down in a huff.

But all of their companions became peripheral to Vella as her body saught for more touch. Both the elfroot and the heat of his body had left her heavy and sighing. Nuzzling into his throat like a hungry kitten.

"Do you need my attention, little bird?" He teased under his breath. But she could feel the drum of his heart against her. He needed it just as bad as she did.

"Are you going to win?" She whispered in his ear.

"Absolutely not." He chuckled.

"Then throw the game and fuck me." The whisper pushed directly into the well.

His breath caught in his throat, and she smiled against it. Rising off his lap to give a demure goodnight to their friends. Many voices rung out to wish her off, and she sauntered away. Headed towards her chambers.

Vella made her way upstairs, humming happily. Shedding her clothes in a line as she made her way to the bed. Snatching one of Blackwall's tunics that she had 'borrowed' from the back of a chair. Letting the linen fall over her as she pulled her hair through the neck to cascade down her back again.

She climbed into the bed with the satisfaction of a rabbit in a burrow. Curling up in the blankets as it pulls the earth around it. Humming out in contentment.

She had just fallen into a near sleep tranquility when the bed shifted behind her. Strong arms taken up around her under blankets.

"Mmm..." She turned, pressing into him. "You're made for cuddling."

"Am I?" He chuckled low, pulling her to him by her waist. Weaving his limbs into hers.

"Very. So big and warm and sweet." She praised, wiggling happily into his hold.

"And furry." She added, tugging in a soft tease on his beard. "I just want to kiss you all the time. You're wonderful."

"Maker, you're going to puddle me." He accused, his pupils wide with love as he stared down at her. "That elfroot made you too sweet."

"And yet, I'm not being eaten." She sighed mournfully. "I thought bears liked honey."

The blood rushing through her body was utterly intoxicated by the feeling of him against her. Tangling her limbs into his and kissing at his throat.

"Do you want to be tasted, honey?" He hushed, voice husky with desire.

She nodded up at him, her eyes seeking plaintively.

She had always leaned towards dominance in intimacy, but he pulled something from her. Something soft and submissive. Fallen under him a tame little thing, asking to be touched with wide eyes and softly parted lips.

"You're so beautiful." He marveled quietly, running his thumb over her bottom lip. Scanning her face in reverent glances. "Maker, how are you so perfect?"

He leaned down and kissed into the side of her neck. A wide hand pushed up her ribcage to cup her breast, thumbing her nipple over his tunic.

She whined softly, pulling his leg with hers to press his thigh against her sex. Grinding slow into the taut muscle.

"Fuck, yes." He encouraged, pressing his thigh harder into the ridge of her. Grabbing her ass in a handful to rock her against him.

"Could you cum on my thigh?" His deep voice sweet in its request.

She nodded again, pulling the tunic up to her clavicle. Arching her chest up in unabashed request.

He agreed immediately, breathing hard through nose as his mouth descended onto her peak. Licking the sensitive nub into his lips.

She bit into her lip as her head craned back. Another whine caught in her throat. The growl of his moan against her tingled through her whole body. Her cunt fully flooded with arousal. Climbing closer and closer to her tipping point with each grind of her hips. Her soft cries getting needy and choppy.

His tongue slurped and popped around her nipple, tongue flicking and laving flat lines through panted breaths. Watching her under his brow with dark blown eyes. Twisting her other nipple between his fingers.

How he already knew how to fast pull her thread was entirely unfair. The points of her body and how they needed to be touched to unravel her completely.

"Oh gods..." She moaned, gripping his forearm. Orgasm tight pulled in the drive of her hips.

"Yes, cum on me pretty girl." He praised around her breast. Grasping the outside of her thigh, pulling her deeper. "I want to lick your cunt while it's clenching."

The vulgar of it sent her over. Shuddering through waves of pleasure striking out through her body. Clawing into his back.

He smiled, rising off her tender breast to descend between her legs. Cupping the apex of her thighs in both hands.

"So sweet." He sighed out in contentment as he nestled between. Licking her cum from her thighs. The bristle of his beard teased against the soft skin as his tongue pushed deep into her. Slurping obscenely as he lapped cum into his mouth.

"I love you." She sighed around her moans, pressing her hand against the headboard as he took her apart with a suckling tongue. "Fuck, I love you Thom."

She froze, the intoxicating herbs and touch had left her mind hazy. But her calling of his true name only drove him harder against her. His calloused hands dug into the fat of her thighs, moaning into her core. Yanking her flush to his face. Eating voraciously, tongue and lips crushing into her with animal fervor.

She whimpered cries, and he growled into her. His steel eyes watched her writhe under his brow. His fingernails dug painfully into her thighs, but the pain only danced deliciously with her delirious pleasure. A flood about to burst the dam.

He lapped flat at her tender clit under the suction of his lips. Just the sound was enough to send her over, but the ferocity was overkill. She came in a strangled, shuddered cry. Her body trembled and curled up with a terrible pleasure. Fisting in to the sheets as her head craned back. Pelvis the nexus of an earthquake that rocked her whole body.

"Ohhh fuck yes." Thom growled, leaning back to thrust his fingers into her still clenching cunt. Eliciting a cry from her as he fast slammed his fingers inside. "Give it to me, baby."

A shuddering she had rarely experienced tightened around his fingers. Her thighs wet with release. She clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek. Her eyes utterly lost in her skull.

Thoms deep groans of appreciation watching her soak him were only heightened by him pulling his fingers free slowly to lick them clean. He kept her gaze as he licked his wrist up into his palm, her cum slick veiled along his skin.

She urged him up to her with pulls of her legs. Undressing him with rapid fingers as he met her above.

She opened her mouth wide, tongue stuck out flat in request. He understood implicitly and spat in her mouth. Her cunt clenched hard and she led his hand to her throat as she kicked off his trousers.

His reverent love making was wonderful, but this is what she always craved. Fucking nasty and mean. The kind of fucking done by animals in rut.

His eyes flashed dangerously, understanding her again. Flipping her onto her belly easily, hiking her hips high with rough grunting yanks.

She moaned into the pillows, arching her back. Giving him the full display of her submissive body curled for him.

"Maker's breath." He huffed, taking a full handful of her ass. Spreading his hand down her lower back. "Such a beautiful whore."

Vella moaned loudly, and Thom grabbed a fistful of her hair. Pulling her up to him as he lined up behind her. Growling into her ear as his hand tightened around her throat.

"You're my whore, aren't you?" His thick cock breached her as he threatened, pulling a strangled moan from her. "My pretty little whore, soaking the bed."

She nodded dumbly, already fluttering around the mass of him. A third orgasm refining to a spear inside her, nearing to striking distance.

"That's right." He huffed, thrusting hard into her. The slide against that mind-numbing place inside her entrance was near unbearable. Her body tried to collapse against the sheets, but his hand spread flat across her sternum. Demanding her to stay.

"You're not going anywhere." He promised in a huff. His thrusts picked up speed. "Not until I'm done with you."

"Yes, ser." She moaned. The squelching of her cunt so salacious it made her dizzy.

"Keep talking." He demanded. Gripping her hip as an anchor. Her body jolting with the force of his thrusts. Fingers digging into her neck.

"I can't, I'm about to cum!" She pleaded in Elvhen around mewls, mind unable to speak Common anymore. "Fuck, you're going to make me-"

Her words cut off in a whip of cries as she came again. Fingernails scrambled into his sides behind her. Choking on her own raw pleasure.

He cursed under his breath and released her in a heap under him. His hands took up both sides of her hips to solely thrust.

"Say my name."

"Thom." She pleaded.

"Again. Louder."

"Thom, please! Please!"

She looked over her shoulder at the wild bear rutting into her.

"Please cum Thom! I need you to cum!"

He finally buckled, a hand bracing on her lower back as his face crumpled in release. Driving sloppy into her as he bellowed behind clenched teeth. Her cunt flooded with warmth, pulling a wide smile from her. No matter how he insisted and promised he couldn't help but to cum inside her. It wasn't a problem anymore, so she could revel fully in it.

He fell back into an open kneel, huffing and sweating. Eyes glazed and rolling marble in his head.

Vella turned and pulled him onto his belly. His body limp and pliant to her leading, following easily. Fallen under her in a slump.

She sat on him and drug her nails lightly up and down his back. His deep moan exactly what she was looking for.

After a moment of gentle scratching, his breath returned in slow pulls of his chest. Body completely loose under hers, arms curled around his head, face slack against the pillow.

"You still with me?" She teased in a quiet voice.

"Uh-huh..." He sighed, his eyes struggling to focus.

"I'm not convinced. Quick, what's the capital of Orlais?"

He smacked her thigh with a limp palm. Pulling a giggle from her.

"Asshole..." He laughed, reaching back to pull her down to him. Wrapping around her, cocooned within the safety of his limbs.

"Language!" She chided in a whisper.

"Shit. Fuck." He pinched her side. "Motherfucker."

"You forgot Shitfucker."

"I love you." He smiled loosely at her, eyes soft in adoration. "Do you want to get married?"

"What?" She laughed.

"Wait, are you serious?" She hushed, rising onto elbows over his head.

"Yeah. I am." He smiled, her hair fallen curtain around him. His hands rested on her ribcage, rubbing thumbs in slow waves. "Would you marry me?"

"Dalish don't get married." She smiled with a shaken head. "We call it Bonding. And we're already engaged to be bonded, silly."

"Wait, what?" He stood on elbows now. Staring shock into her.

"Yeah, I gave you my hair..." She led in amused confusion. Planting a palm over the small pouch that he always wore pendant around his neck. "You gave me the boots you made me..."

"That was a proposal?!"

She burst into bright laughter at the absurdity of it all. She was sure he understood the meaning of the gesture after all of their lessons. He certainly acted with the appropriate solemn in taking her proposal gift.

"Yes, it was. We've been engaged to be bonded since the Grand Ball." She offered through fits of giggling.

"I-" His eyes darted down in thought, then started flooding with tears.

"Oh, dove." He warbled.

"Hey, shhh." She wrapped around him. Soothing his body into hers. "It's okay..."

"It's not okay." He countered around the tight of his throat. "I did all of that to you and didn't even know we were..."

"I forgive you." She kissed his ear, tightly holding him. "I forgive you, Thom."

He hitched a sob into her shoulder. Trembling within her woven embrace.

-

"Come on, baby." Vella huffed under her breath. Firing arrow after arrow into Corypheus. Watching her love slam into him with the last of his strength. Shield braced under the hail of red beamed death. "Come on, come on."

She threw a barrage of daggers to get him off of Thom, Dorian flanking behind her to unleash his own hellfire. Bull rushing past to cleave into Corypheus' calf.

The monstrosity cried out in rage as he fell to a kneel. Vella ran forward, seeing her target through a tunnel of spectral vision. Dagger poised along her forearm.

Thom raised his shield for her and she leapt off of it into a drive of her dagger. Screaming from deep in her gut as the blade speared through his throat.

Corypheus' breath cut as he stared shock into her. The orb pulsed with power as he still tried to wrestle it into his command.

Rage untethered flowed through her, this death a culmination of everything she had suffered. Screaming in holy rage again, she bore over him. Pulling her dagger from his throat and ripping her teeth into the putrid flesh. Blood smeared in the cavern of her mouth. Teeth rending flesh.

The orb flew to her hand, raised high above her head. A deafening beam of power flew to the heavens from it. Shaking the earth below her as she tore away his throat.

As he fell limp, she released him to the Fade as she spat blood. The orb shattered above her in the same breath. Sky shuddered closed. Earth pulverized around her.

Thom's shield came over her body as the castle crumbled around them. Dragging her to a run as it all fell away.

She blinked the dust out of her eyes, coughing through debris in the air. Taking fearful count of her companions. Letting out a deep breath of relief when she found them all whole.

Far into the battlefield, Solas stepped forward. Reaching out a tentative hand as he fell to a kneel.

Vella stared in confusion as she rushed toward him.

"Solas, what are you doing he-"

His gentle cupping of the remnants of the orb paused her. His body leaned in a bow of mourning.

"The orb..." He hushed, shaking his head.

"Solas..." She reached for his shoulder, but he stood. Leaving the pieces to the earth. "I'm so sorry."

She understood the loss of elvhen artifacts. The gouge they left in the already ragged tapestry of their people. But, somehow, this felt beyond that.

He tried to pull from her hand, but she ducked around his front and pulled him into a tight hug.

His breath stilled in his chest, arms held out uncertainly. But they wove around her after a moment. His head tucked into her shoulder.

They stayed entwined there. His hands grasped her back as he pulled away. Eyes swimming in sorrow.

"No matter what comes," He looked down at her. Stepping away with eyes locked on her face. "I want you to know you will always have me."

"Solas, wait-"

"Vella!"

She turned at Thom's frightened call at her absence.

"Here!" She called in return. "I'm here!"

When she turned Solas was gone.

-

Vella stared up at his unfinished fresco, wiping a tear with agitated fingers.

"Hey." Thom's kiss on her shoulder greeted ahead of him.

"Hey." She smiled sadly. Leaning back into his chest as his arms snaked around her waist.

"Men I care about really have a bad habit, huh?" She looked back up at the gouge he had left. "Dissappearing."

"I'm sorry, dove. On both of our accounts."

"I hope he's okay." She sighed. "I just want him happy and safe, no matter what."

Something shuddered inside her chest, drawing her eyes down in shock. Jolting her breath to a still.

"Vella?" Thom came around her front. Searching her with frantic eyes.

"I'm okay, I think." She pressed a hand to her sternum. "It's the ancestors. They just spoke... sorrow? They've never given me only a feeling before."

No, this felt beyond them. Something larger. Full under her heart.

"Solas...?" She whispered, but the feeling fell away again.

"Fucking well..." Thom sighed, shaking his head ruefully at her. "Come on, love. We're almost packed."

"Oh shit, I've still got to say goodbye to everyone!" She paused their stride to take a paintbrush from Solas' desk. Slipping it into her pocket.

"I hate that you're leaving." Josephine sighed. "I mean, I'm happy for you! Happy for you both. But I still hate it."

"I'm going to miss you too." Vella smiled. "And I won't be gone. We'll be in, I'm sure, constant communication as I 'rule' from the sidelines." She curled her fingers at the word. The gold bracelet with an enchanted stone caught the light. "Dorian made us these special afterall."

Josephine slid her matching ring around her finger. "I know. Leliana and Cullen have theirs, too. But it won't be the same. You're such a calming presence. I don't know how many spats you can settle from the Free Marches."

"You'll do great." Vella cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead. "You'll all do great."

"Where are you going first?" Josephine urged. "I'll have Leliana send scouts to assure your arrival."

"Honestly, I have no idea." Vella smiled brilliantly. "Isn't that great? I'm not leading for once!"

"We're tracking down one of my men on the road towards Ostwick." Thom offered over her shoulder as he came up behind.

"Oooh, I'm good at tracking." She smiled.

"The best." Thom agreed, sliding his hand around her waist. "That's why I hired you."

"I hope I can earn my pay." Vella purred.

"Ugh, enough." Josephine laughed. "Get out, both of you."

Vella pulled her into a hug, and Josephine sighed into her shoulder.

"Call on me if you need me." Vella assured as they separated. Both her and Thom turned. "I'll find my way back, no matter what."

"Wait!"

Sera ran out of the castle door. Leaping into a hug on Thom's chest.

"You're staying! We've talked about this!" He laughed heartily. Hugging her tightly to him.

As Sera blubbered goodbyes into him, Dorian's hand came to Vella's shoulder. Nodding his own tearful goodbye on the road towards Tevinter.

She kissed both of his cheeks and wiped his tears.

"Don't be a stranger." He sighed.

"Never." She chastised. "You can't, either." She held up the bracelet again.

"Right. We're connected now." He sighed in mock weariness.

"Ha-ha! You have to be my friend!" She teased.

"Be safe." He pulled her into a deep hug. "Don't die, okay?"

"Love you." She murmured into his shoulder.

"Love you, too." He warbled. Wiping his eyes again as he pulled away. "Ugh! Go on. Get."

"That's the goodbye I was looking for." She smiled. Hopping up onto Ghilana behind Thom. "Good riddance, all of you."

"Hope your trip is terrible." Josephine laughed.

"Hope Skyhold falls into the canyon!" Vella agreed in a call. Smiling wide at her retreating friends.

She wrapped tight around Thom's waist and leaned her head into his wide back. Letting out a long-held sigh. Finally, moving forward in the quiet of two bodies. The earth awakening with the damp of spring around them.

Despite everything, daffodils had bloomed.

~

~

~

okay this is the end! unless ya'll want some Trespasser chapters 👀 (but I just started it irl, no spoilers!) genuinely thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone following this story with me! mwah! mwah I say!!! ❤️

[kiatheinsomniac]

ooo how about.. how would the assassins (your usual bunch) react to an s/o who loves and is really good giving the sloppy toppy? 👁️👅👁️

☾ ⋆ ﾟ𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: it's been a while since I wrote some ac content hehe 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: altaïr, ezio, connor, arno, jacob 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MDNI, NSFW content, smut, oral (m. receiving)

｡･:*˚:✧｡altaïr ibn-la'ahad

♡ oh altaïr just loves that about you. He'll kindly ask for you to give him head after a long or frustrating day as he wraps his arms around your waist from behind and kisses the back of your neck, breath fanning over the shell of your ear to seduce you (not that it takes a lot seeing as this is something you love to do).

♡ altaïr is the type to have you on your knees beneath his desk - it's one of his favourite places for the two of you to do this when the door is locked. He often has to pour over paperwork and letters and it's the least favourite part of his job.

♡ so, he'll just sit back, spread his legs to make room for you and set a hand upon your head as you get to work. He'll pet your hair and just feel the way you bob your head up and down as he loses himself in the sensation of you swallowing him down your throat and he'll be sure to remember this the next time he's stressing over work

｡･:*˚:✧｡ezio auditore

♡ oh Ezio is just thrilled that you enjoy giving him blowjobs so much. To begin with, he was very insistent on returning the favour but you've made it clear to him that's it's not necessary because you're not only doing it for him, you're doing it because you enjoy it. He never really asks for you to do this for him because he knows you'll do it of your own volition anyway.

♡ Ezio never seems to live alone throughout the franchise so I imagine that he prefers to do this in hidden places instead: maybe some secret spot of his down by the river arno, in some ruins in roma or perhaps in the tunnels beneath it, upon some rooftop with a view of costantinopoli's unique skyline. Either place is public, sure, but no one really goes there at the times he brings you there and so there's only the slightest risk of being caught.

♡ he tries to keep any groans and moans to a minimum so that the two of you won't be caught but he just loves to murmur words of praise to you all while you're down on your knees. He likes making you look up at him with your pretty eyes while you're down there. He lets you take the lead physically but he'll enjoy commanding you to go faster or slower or to take it deeper or use your tongue.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ratonhnhaké:ton | connor kenway

♡ he's quite shy about it but he'll never refuse you. He feels a little bad that you give him oral much more than he returns it but you've reassured him time and time again that this is something you're doing for the both of you and not just him so it's ok! He never, ever has any complaints though.

♡ seeing as Achilles' injury means he rarely leaves Davenport Manor, you and Connor often do this out in the woods around the homestead in a specific area that the two of you frequent just to be intimate together without having to worry about keeping things down so that the old man downstairs won't overhear you (you'd both be beyond mortified).

♡ Ratonhnhaké:ton knows he's big so he'll let you have complete control over what's going on. He'll have his hands on your head but it's mostly to just comb his fingers through your hair while he thanks you and tells you how good you make him feel through muffled whimpers as he bites his lips. He might tug your hair when he gets close to coming but he'll apologise the moment he realises he's doing it too much.

｡･:*˚:✧｡arno dorian

♡ as much as Arno respects that this is something you really love doing and he does like getting head from you, he's the type that genuinely prefers to give oral than to receive it. But at the same time he wants what will make you happy so he lets you have your fun.

♡ Arno tends to only do these things in private with you so this will mostly only happen in his home at the café-theatre or maybe in the club hall beneath it when he knows no one will walk in on the two of you.

♡ as said above, Arno prefers to give oral than to receive it and so his compromise is that when you want to give him oral, the two of you will often sixty-nine. He just loves having you sit on his face while your lips wrap around his cock and he can taste you on his tongue while he can feel the vibrations of your moans.

｡･:*˚:✧｡jacob frye

♡ Jacob thinks your mouth is absolutely incredible. He loves that you're always so eager to give him head and just how good you are at it. He's not too shy to spread his legs apart to make room for you while he pats his lap to beckon you over.

♡ If you're in a train carriage alone, Jacob will lock the doors, draw the curtains that look into the other carriages, and will set a pillow on the floor for your knees so that you don't get uncomfortable. He's not against a quickie here or there in some semi-public place where you could get caught so long as it's not somewhere dirty - you're a lady and you deserve better than that in his eyes.

♡ one of his favourite ways of doing this is to have you kneeling or sitting on the floor with your back to the wall, the back of your head touching it. He'll have you look up at him while he lets you take the lead or he starts off slow until he builds up to fucking your face. He just loves the noises you make and he's quick to bring you to your feet and messily kiss you the moment he's done or he wants to move on to something else.

☾ ⋆ ﾟlike my work? why not: ∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ commission me? ∘ join my taglist ∘ consider following/reblogging

🏷️@veryfancydoilies @asuni921  @writing-noah @danielle-marie @minimisthios @tired-lime @ghostofpolaris @etherealsdreaming @havatnah @wolfwarrior06 @firagirl @catou1305 @b3k1720 @asianbutnotjapanese

[septembermonologues]

i need my irls to look away but i wrote something for the first time in like two years should any of my non irls be interested

Relationships: Orym/Dorian Storm

Word Count: 1,449

Summary: The first sensations that came to Orym as he woke up were the unnatural quiet and darkness of the room around him, sending a spark of panic down his spine before his brain caught up and reminded him that the Hells had crashed in a pocket dimension. The next things he processed were the solid, cold weight pressed along his back and hair in his mouth. That got him to open his eyes, and the sight of blue arms wrapped around his chest left him about as breathless as maybe you're just the first beautiful, kind face that I have ever seen had left him the night before.

[cuffmeinblack]

Unabridged

Andrew Larson x f!reader

Tags: explicit | masturbation | slight voyeurism

1.6k words

Summary: Andrew's bedtime reading and his roommate's distracting activities lead to something shamefully inevitable.

A/n: I told myself I wouldn't write anymore smut until I finished a chapter of Veil yet here I am. Just one little drabble. I suppose this could be taken as the smut I never wrote for Between the Lines.

⤍ Andrew Larson masterlist ⤎

Whilst he more often than not became somewhat flustered whilst reading novels such as the one currently balanced precariously on his hardened length, he didn't usually feel quite so unravelled as in that moment. The story was thoroughly filthy, detailing from a witch's point of view being seduced and defiled by a handsome vampire in her own marriage bed. Somewhere around the part where various bodily fluids were exchanged, Andrew had truly noticed his predicament. He lay his head back against the headboard to stare up at the wooden slats above his head, but the gentle, rhythmic bowing did nothing to alleviate his lustful thoughts. He abandoned the text altogether and watched the subtle shift of the mattress and the flap of the curtains for a while, ignoring the throbbing in his trousers. It wouldn't go away. His skin burned and his clothes felt so suffocating he wanted to rip them to shreds. Blood raged as his pulse quickened, breaths came short and ragged as if his lungs had forgotten how to process the air. 

Some distractions were harder to ignore than others. External stimuli could be blocked out with a well placed dampening charm or a simple pair of earmuffs. The creaking of the bed above him, for example, was all part and parcel of being a Ravenclaw. Bunk beds. Awful invention, completely unnecessary given the ample proportions of the room. Clearly whoever had furnished them had been well aware of their ability to rob the occupants of any modicum of privacy, but teenagers being what they were, that didn't necessarily stop his roommates from sneaking their sexual conquests back into the dormitory for a little fun. Right above his head. But this he could cope with, if he ignored the way the bed jolted slightly every now and then. Then there was the fact that his mattress lay beside a window and the curtain didn't quite wrap all the way around, leaving his body silhouetted amongst the glow of his Lumos charm, completely exposed to the night sky. Another inconvenience, but unless there was someone flying outside the tower past curfew, it seemed inconsequential and not worth his time to worry about. No, the most distracting thing he currently had to deal with whilst trying to read his book wasn't a sound, a sight or even a smell; it was the uncomfortable pinching sensation currently residing below his waistband as his cock strained against his leather belt. 

Perhaps it would be a surprise to learn that Andrew Larson of all people—prim and proper and thoroughly virginal—enjoyed reading literature of a more risqué variety. Not all the time, mind you. He was quite happy with the classics, ancient and beyond, and more modern works such as Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray which had left him bewildered and quite speechless. It was after these that he enjoyed what might be termed a palate cleanser—something altogether easier to digest, devoid of the kind of emotional turmoil that might upset one's stomach. A pleasurable romp. He might not shout about such things at his book club meetings but if asked, Andrew would simply explain his reasoning and point out that every work of literature has its merits and to deprive oneself of the broad spectrum of genres is only to one's own detriment. In other words, don't be such a snob.

Andrew shuffled down a little into a slouch, gripping the sheets with one hand and hesitantly gripping his wand in the other. A flick of his wrist lifted the dampening charm he'd encased himself in, sound finally trickling back into his canopy. Apparently his roommate hadn't bothered with a silencing charm, or it had since worn off, because Andrew could hear everything. His cheeks flushed even brighter with shame but he didn't recast his charm, instead stashing his wand with the book next to him on the mattress. The couple above him were really going for it; breathless and moaning softly into the still night. Andrew's breath shuddered slightly as he closed his eyes and let the wet slap of skin and delicately musky scent envelop his senses. His chest heaved beneath the cotton of his shirt, fingers idly picking at the buttons to free himself of the fabric constraints. He thought of the book he'd read, the forbidden nature of it all; he thought of the unknown girl above him and her gentle whimpers; and most of all he thought of replicating that carnal passion with the object of his desires. She would moan most prettily of all, all soft skin and delicate curves beneath his roaming hands. He wanted every part of her in every conceivable way, yet so far he'd succeeded only in being a coward. Instead of telling her how he felt (or a rather more savoury, abridged version), Andrew had taken to living out fanciful daydreams in his head. He should be thoroughly ashamed of himself, and he was, yet that gnawing guilt paled in comparison to the raging hunger growing in his chest, for the woman who'd lent him that damned book, no less.

He could barely hear the cacophony of lewd sounds over the pounding in his ears, yet the slap, slap, slap was still audible and driving him slightly mad. He was vaguely away of his bare torso as he felt a prickle of moisture cooling on skin and he looked down past the wire rims of his glasses to nearly groan in despair. His impossibly hard erection had forced its way past his belt, twitching angrily against the pale smattering of ashen hair that trailed to his navel. His cockhead glistened, the source of that wetness now apparent in the dim light from the landscape beyond his window. He couldn't very well ignore it now, as painful and angry looking as it was. With a sigh of annoyance that masked his relief, he unbuckled himself with increasingly shaky fingers. Whatever hormones were at work had sent him into a frenzy, desperately craving release no matter what the consequences—and there would be consequences, whether it be the inability to look his roommate or the woman he longed for in the eye again, or the very real possibility that he might just lose his mind along the way and finally admit his feelings, for the sliver of hope that it might one day be her hand wrapped around his cock and not his own. 

Andrew rolled his hips, clenching his muscles to drive upwards into his waiting hand. Fingers wrapped tightly around himself, slick with desire. He followed the rhythm already present in the stifling air, the slap, slap, slap that seemed to stutter with a shift of weight and resume with a more furious pace amid breathy moans. They weren't her moans, though, and they served only to irritate Andrew more than entice him. He picked up his wand to cocoon himself in quiet once again, letting his own imagination lead the way. That was all he needed, really; the thought of her. This time she rode him, exquisitely soft thighs clamped around his hips, jiggling with every bounce on his cock. He squeezed his fingers. You're so tight, he imagined himself sighing as her dazzling smile filled his vision and she moaned in response. Faster he stroked himself, copious amounts of precum filling his palm and easing his way. She would feel infinitely better, softer and wetter, and it could all be for him. Andrew whimpered into the dark before he could control the impulse and his eyes flared wide, but the bed still shifted with the weight above him and had no intention of stopping. 

He was getting close to his inevitable release, half torn-off clothes shoved roughly around his body which glistened with sweat. Gasping and groaning through every pump of his fist, he thought of her tossing her head back in ecstasy as she met her own tremendous climax. All for him. She was beautiful in his mind's eye, even if her naked body was comprised entirely of glimpses he'd had of the soft curves beneath her uniform. Andrew let his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose and hair fall over his eyes as he writhed in pleasure, bucking wildly into his hand until finally he came. His palm flew to his mouth to muffle the groan that clawed its way up his throat; his final cry was lost to the clammy crevices as he pushed down hard on his lips. He felt his release coat his other hand, every knuckle stained in shame and primal want. Even his shoulder wasn't spared. By the time the pulsing subsided and the ringing in his ears had stopped, all was quiet but for the deep breaths both from his own chest and above him in the bunk beds.

He cracked his eyes open and stared up at the slats again, further away this time now he'd somehow ended up horizontal on the bed in a great dishevelled mess, limbs contorted and wrapped in various tangled garments. His hand wrapped around him released, sticky and warm, and eyes followed the trail of his release to the book that lay next to his arm. The black book cloth was ruined, stained. It seemed rather fitting, in a grotesque sort of way. Suffice it to say, he would not be taking that particular edition back to the hidden shelves of the book club’s library. He'd make some excuse and tuck it away somewhere safe, perhaps rip the binding from its case and burn it. No matter what he did, though, he would still remember this; the unexpectedly desperate need; the complete and utter lack of control when it came to her. Whilst he lay half-naked and dizzy in his bed, Andrew vowed to finally summon the courage to tell her how he felt, though the unabridged version of this truth could wait until later.