#even during sex

[rahuratna]

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

CW: Explicit sexual content, mentions of past trauma.

Banner art: by Steven Nederveen

Dividers: @aquazero

" ... time and again

No fire where I lit my spark

I am not afraid of the dark

Where your words devour my heart ... "

~ lyrics from Distant Sun (by Crowded House)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was awake.

"Astarion?"

"Darling."

"What kind of weather do you like best?"

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

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

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

He raised his fingernails for you to inspect.

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

"That would be grievous indeed," you concurred with hushed solemnity.

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

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

"Cooler weather. Maybe breezy."

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

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

"Where did you learn to pick locks?"

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

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

"And you succeeded?"

You could almost sense the curve of his mouth.

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

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

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

He cocked an eyebrow, expression growing predatory, knowing.

"Darling, you're staring."

You laughed.

"Do you blame me?"

"Honestly? No."

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

Your index finger trails down to the tip of his nose, where you decide a kiss needs to be placed. He leans forward, unknowingly.

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

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

He is silent for a bit, hesitating. You pass your thumbs across the high cheekbones, watching as he falls slowly into the comforting familiarity of the contact. When he speaks, something bitter catches in his throat.

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

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

"That's all right."

"It is?"

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

His voice has now sunk to a whisper.

"Am I ... that to you?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

His feral grin is now infectious. You straighten and face him.

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

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

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

He throws back his head and lets out a laugh, warm, heady, the kind that roughens around the edges and brims with the wicked delight that you know has kept him alive, for all of this time. Unable to help yourself, you place a gentle kiss to the curve of his throat, moving away again, until he grasps your chin firmly and tugs you back.

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

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

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

He has said the words before, under different circumstances. You know what he is referring to. Gently, you push him back. The dim light turns the red of his gaze to the flesh of a pomegranate, tempting, yielding, so easily crushed between your fingers.

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

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

He bites his lip, but changes tack.

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

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

He'll occupy a space that can be filled by no other, with his easy charm, his bruised smile, the bitter twist of his spirit and every sharp edge that slices you open and infiltrates the furthest corners of your heart, nesting there as if the scars that form around them are the most cherished haven.

"What do you want, Astarion?"

"To feel you."

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

He is nervous. He is letting you see it.

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

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

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

"Stay still. Keep your eyes on me," is the soft command you give him.

You undo the laces on his shirt, sliding it from him. His skin gleams with otherworldly pallor, and the knowledge of what had been carved into his back filters into your mind. You cannot make him forget, but you can remind him that touch can be tender too.

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

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

You keep your palms flat against him, grounding him, as you run them over throat, delicately trace collarbones, stroke down over the curve of his pectorals, down, down, until you stop right above the buckle of his belt before repeating the process.

His breathing evens. He leans down to capture your lips, a little more steady and with more of his old flair. He nips lightly down on your chin, playful.

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

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

Before you have time to register his actions, Astarion lowers himself, pressing you into the bedroll. There is no art to the way he rolls his hips against yours, no finesse to the way he clumsily mouths your neck, eager, warm.

"Astar - ahhh - slow down, you - "

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

He tugs down your trousers, dragging your underwear away with it. As much as this seems far more organic that anything he's done before, the heated throb of arousal doesn't distract you from the fact that he is rushing things, perhaps in a frantic bid to prove that he can do this.

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

"I know what you want - "

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

"Astarion."

You stifle a smile as he huffs and folds his arms.  

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

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

"Can you take everything off?"

In reply, he stands and unbuckles his belt, but then pauses and shoots you a mischievous look.

You know that look. Your mouth twitches.

"What are you up to?"

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

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

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

"Please, not Hortensius."

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

He sucks in his cheeks, in the manner of one of the high end fashion models of the Upper City and wags his hips from side to side, lips projecting in an exaggerated pout as the pants slide from his hips. Your smile turns to a helpless quiver of suppressed merriment as he kicks the offending article away and then grasps his rigid member, advancing on you without ever losing the expression.

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

You lower your voice, soft and breathy.

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

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

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

You cover your breasts in false modesty as he slides down alongside you.

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

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

Your composure gives way and you slap at his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

"Astarion, I want to try something."

"Go ahead."

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

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

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

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

"You're so lovely. And free."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp as he strokes over your folds, his mouth coming down on your throat. His fangs sink in, only breaking the surface, right at the moment his fingers breach you. Crying out, you cling to him, drawing answering moans as he rocks against you.

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

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

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

"Darling, I can't wait any - "

"Astarion, please."

Your soft plea triggers an almost animalistic movement from him, as he grinds upwards, pushing against your entrance. You're almost sobbing now, clutching at him, begging him. At his mercy, you bite your lip hard when he works himself in, sliding into the tight grasp of your heat.

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

He begins a measured pace that quickly devolved to one of instinct, slowing down so that you clench around him, speeding up until your back arches, swallowing your disjointed whispers as he watches you come undone, and in doing so, comes apart himself.

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

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

He is reckless in his lovemaking, somehow striking that balance between base urgency and shattering tenderness. You can see the building euphoria when your eyes meet his, the knowledge that this moment belongs to both of you, untainted, spun out in indestructible threads that bind you to each other.

You are close. You let him know, through the pale crescents your nails leave on his shoulder and side, through the way your voice rises, the way your hardened nipples push into him as your whole body stiffens and prepares for mind-numbing, white-hot pleasure, the way you take his fingers into your mouth with hedonistic abandon.

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

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

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

Astarion is now gasping endearments. They fall from his lips in a litany, one declaration melding into another. You hold onto him as your own mind slowly clears, senses thrumming with the aftermath of the pleasure he has brought you.

He is close.

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

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

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

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

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

You press soft kisses across his nose, along his jawline, his body giving one last shudder as your lips ghost over his ear and you nuzzle into his hair. Slowly regaining focus, his gaze fixes on your face, a slow, radiant smile gathering, a stray ray of sunshine burning through overcast skies.

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

You could listen to him laugh like this forever.

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

"My love, my light, that was - "

His chest heaves again, and his head moves from side to side in cheerful disbelief. You can't help the grin that breaks across your own countenance.

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

"But this is better! This is - "

His enthusiasm cuts off, faster than words escape him. Something chokes him, holds the rest of sentence prisoner until he takes a heavy breath, releases it. The catch in his voice adds strength to your grip on him.

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

You remain silent, not trusting your own voice now. When he speaks again, it is so soft that you almost miss the words.

"Thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[emmcfrxst]

jason todd swears like a sailor whenever you ride him. the visual of your body on top of his, the feeling of your hands on his chest and your cunt fluttering around him, the sweet sounds of your moans and mewls— everything about getting ridden makes jason’s dick hard and turns his brain to mush

[mandatory-ftmbreeder]

my red flag is that i think the "*PLAP PLAP* GET PREGNANT" meme is kinda hot and it makes me 1% hornier any time i see it

[vaguely-concerned]

So much of Garak as a person starts to make sense once you know his childhood was a fucking gothic novel. His main playground was a graveyard and he'd play pretend by perfoming improv eulogies to an imagined audience. For a long time his main touchstone for most important figures from recent history is 'oh yeah I know about that guy my dad buried him. great flower arrangements for that one'. He finds out later his 'parents' are actually a brother and sister who had to get married to avoid the utter shame and social devastation of having a child born out of wedlock, and they live in the basement of his biological father's house. (the madwoman in the attic vs. the tiny elim in the basement.) His biological father calls himself his uncle and locks him in a closet whenever he fails to live up to his insane and unpredictable expectations and everyone just has to act like that's normal and expected, and his will hangs over everything at all times, unseen but always felt keener than anything else. The father who actually raised him grows the world's most beautiful (and as it turns out, most poisonous) orchids and keeps the mask of a god hidden in a box in his work shed. Everyone in the house is choking down secrets like it's the only air they know how to breathe anymore.

What I'm saying is that right from the get-go this guy never had the faintest shot at turning out normal, so I'm glad that by middle age he's found a way to get a bit silly with it as he continues to be deeply deeply not normal about anything ever <3

[nightlocked-in]

“peeta is bisexual” you guys are losing the vision. peeta isn’t even straight. katniss INVENTED sexuality for him. whatever katniss identifies as, he’s like “yeah, i’ll take that one” no questions asked

[all-or-nothing-baby]

oh man i CANNOT get enough of closed-off shut-down loners finally—finally—allowing themselves to break down and become all soft and gooey and needy and whiney when getting lovingly railed into next week by the very person they've been locking horns with

[until-i-set-him-free]

Tommy "I'm wearing a medal" Kinard and Evan "if I had a medal, I would never take it off" Buckley ❤️

[goldenpinof]

some photos of the show under the cut

[secriden]

You know what makes me soooo excited for the next phase of Fadel and Style's relationship? It's that they will finally slot into the CORRECT relationship dynamics because this whole time, it's been flipped.

From the beginning, something felt off, and I think it's because Style's true desire is to be pursued. We are shown this pretty much in Style's introduction when he blatantly puts his body on display with the Crop Top Stretch. Style wants to be approached, wants to be propositioned, wants to be desired. Also, remember how he initially flirts with Fadel when his only motivation was his own attraction? He pinned the Heart Burger badge onto his chest to create an opportunity for Fadel to put his hands on Style's body.

Of course Fadel wasn't pursuing Style; was in fact, actively trying to get away (for reasons OTHER than a lack of physical attraction to Style), so it is the plot that has to drive our lovebirds together using Kant's request and partly Style's own desire to get some revenge.

But throughout their interactions, we constantly see glimpses of Style's desire to be pursued: every single time Fadel even shows a HINT of wanting Style, he immediately falls pliant, like he can't wait to let Fadel take the reins. And nothing shows this more clearly than the absolutely blissed out look on Style's face in Ep 4 when he thinks Fadel has finally admitted that he wants Style.

(Fucking hell, just look at how dazed and almost euphoric Style looks here? It's like Style has been starving for the barest hint that Fadel truly wants him.)

Which is also why we've gotten so many fake outs. Because although Fadel IS attracted to Style (Ep 2 made that...abundantly clear), he isn’t remotely ready to pursue anyone. Not only is Fadel nursing a broken heart, barely beating, he also has very justified suspicions about Style’s connection to Kant and Style's unnatural persistence.

So it's Style that has to pursue - he dodges Fadel's footsteps, and bullies his way into Fadel's life; but in between the frustration and annoyance, Fadel's walls begin to crack. And I think it's SO COOL that the first significant evidence we have of Fadel's walls crumbling is because Style puts his body on display for Fadel. Because Fadel responded to something that was naturally part of the way Style operates before he even met Fadel. And there are other, more compelling reasons why I think Fadel begins to fall for Style, but that's not really the point I'm trying to make here.

When Fadel said "If I like you, I'll do the pursuing", it wasn't just to get Style to back off. Because now that Fadel has finally chosen to explore something real with Style, we are seeing Fadel's words in action. I know some people have said Fadel's switch to flirting so blatantly with Style in Ep 4's gym scene came out of left field, but I think it may well be confirmation that this was always the dynamic they were meant to be in. Fadel likes pursuing and Style likes being pursued. They fit, they match, they're perfectly compatible.

(Fadel looks almost faintly amused by how "flustered" Style is. Because he doesn't know that Style is actually afraid of him - why would he, when Style has evidenced zero fear so far? So this comes across like Style is getting shy in response to Fadel's unexpected and more overt approach. And possibly this is Fadel starting to remember how much he enjoys the chasing.)

Unfortunately, Kant's revelation is going to screw allll of this up. But, we are finally going to see glimpses of how they work when they're aligned correctly in their dynamics! And while it will take a journey (and oh, it will be gloriously painful, won't it?), our boys are finally on the road to something lasting and I am sooo glad we get to come along for the ride. <3

[manichewitz]

i dont think yall understand how floored i was when i found out that the interview with the vampire books are actually incredibly erotically gay for real and not just light queercoding or fan's gay ships?? bc this changes everything. i had always assumed anne rice hated fanfic authors for making her male characters fuck, but no, she just wanted to be the only author making her male characters fuck

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

another crazy thing about having been a prostitute is to realise how little difference there has been in how many of my male sexual partners have treated me and how sex buyers treated me, especially since i was an escort where often you get paid to simulate dates. i even had sex buyers beg to see me again meanwhile men in real life often ghost or keep me at armlength especially when there are no romantic feelings involved.

this is why i dont want to have sex without feelings and care for each other anymore - it almost feels like im prostituted all over again, bad in a different way because i actually like the men i sleep with and want them to like and appreciate me too and consider my desires (dont get me wrong obviously prostitution is always worse than sleeping with men im actually attracted to and want to have sex with but it hurts in a different way to realise that ive often also been just a means to get off to them).

like for example, since sex buyers often pay for time instead of sex act (or both combined), they want to get the most out of their money and do the most to you in the set time - but as a prostitute you want to get it over with as soon as possible and it feels like torture. meanwhile so many heterosexual men who dont pay for sex try to reach orgasm as soon as possible and then its over, lmao. like the direct comparison between having been prostituted and having voluntary sex with men will make you feel absolutely crazy but it also made me realise why i thought i didnt even like sex for so long. because i was always treated like an object, not a person. men will do the bare minimum to keep you around for sex if they dont see you as wife material (and then they also do just little more than the bare minimum up until they reached their goal of marriage then usually start neglecting their wives as we know).

which brings home the point that we need a cultural and legal shift. as long as men treat sex as masturbation with another person, and women as objects or tools, there will always be demand for prostitution, and there will always be (privileged) women deluded into thinking „might as well get paid for it“ or even „at least now im being appreciated“, paradoxically. thats how bad heterosexual men treat women in bed.

this also emphasises that yes, #allmen, because even the men who dont buy sex contribute to the system of sexual exploitation with their behaviour. the reason ive heard men say most often why they dont buy sex is not care for women, but pride. they can convince women to get them off so why pay for it? same with porn, they dont stop watching because they care about women, but because their dick stopped working. and then of course you have a lot of sex buyers who dont even want to do the bare minimum mentioned above so they buy sex to go immediately to using a womans body with no „hassle“. the state of heterosex is fucking dire because i know im by far not the only one experiencing this.

and even before prostitution i could feel it but not really put my finger on it, now with this horrible experience and a radical aligned feminist view on things i realise and its really dark. and dont even try talking to men about their inadequacies in bed because they will act like youre the problem and an annoying nag for voicing desires.

[emmcfrxst]

you’d think that being an outlaw and having been with other women before would lessen the impact a peek of your bare skin has on arthur, but it really doesn’t. as soon as you bare yourself to him— even if it’s just a flash of a soft, bare leg, a peek between the valley of your breasts or the dip of a shoulder— arthur starts fumbling immediately, ears turning red and mouth going dry. he’ll chastise himself, embarrassed by his lack of restraint because he’s a grown man for god’s sake, he’s not a hormonal teenager anymore; but if you do it on purpose—and you always let him know when you do with a sly, wicked little smile he wishes to kiss off of your lips— he immediately feels his heart beating faster, ears ringing as he focuses on the part of you that’s exposed to his hungry eyes, cock straining against the coarse material of his riding pants— he’ll indulge you in this little cat and mouse game for a bit more, already thinking about the way your warm, wet cunt is going to feel around his cock when he finally takes you after you break the last of his (surprisingly) solid patience

[aliusfrater]

<3

[optogeneticist-nsfw]

thanks @thrumbo for the beautiful recontextualization above and for sharing my brainworms

link to full image set

[bonkalore]

During the last stuff Primus Tournament in the AU, Jayce gets lured away on the side and some Dowsers try to take him out bc they don't want him to potentially win. They didn't know he could do the other demon form and freak out, but they still injure and pin him there. Lucy had overhead the other Dowsers implying they did something & she goes to check it out and finds him there. They had not been friends for most of this tournament & only worked together out of necessity thus far, but this would be when Jayce really starts to see her different. This is also the first time she's fully seeing his other form and he's surprised she isn't treating him just as bad as the others for it. Suddenly goes from "don't talk to me" to "I would kill for you, actually."

[illmasc]

is now too late to admit that sex/kink is like a special interest of mine and i’m much more loser nerd emoji about it than i let on.

if anyone wants to help me add to my bank of knowledge, i’m never opposed…