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grandline-fics · 2 months ago

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Hey, can I get op boys>reaction to a child or anybody else hugging you,the way momonosuke hugged nami. It's okay if you don't want to do it.

DESCRIPTION: Their reaction to a child stealing your attention and affection

WARNINGS: slight insecurities/jealousy I guess but nothing serious

CHARACTERS: Shanks, Luffy

WORDS: 1,564

A/N: Hey there and thank you for sending in this request. I had a lot of fun thinking of how to make this scenario work and decided to just stick with two characters this time. If you want to request any other characters, please do. I hope this was to your liking 😊

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

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SHANKS

It was a sure bet that everyone would naturally go to Shanks. It was a given that he was the most popular member of the crew. He was the Captain after all and any island you stopped at, he just had a way about him that charmed practically everyone in the vicinity. Ordinarily that was the case. Today it was almost the same, apart from one exception to the norm. You had an admirer and Shanks never had a problem with that because you always let them down kindly but firmly, only having eyes for him. This though? This was uncharted territory. You were staring at your clingy admirer with the warmest smile and his eyes narrowed. This was war.

Abruptly Ben nudged his shoulder and he looked as his right-hand man and closest friend pulled up the stool beside him. Shanks scoffed at Beckman’s unbridled amusement at his Captain’s sulking and very clear displeasure at what he was witnessing. From across the room your laughter drifted up and Shanks’s gaze snapped immediately to you, his glare sharpening. Nothing could be that funny, not without him. “Cap…relax. They’re-”

“A snake. They know exactly what they’re doing.” Shanks muttered, lifting his drink to his mouth as he glared at the snake in question, stealing you from him.

“They’re one, Shanks.” Beck reminded his Captain with his grin broadening. “You aren’t getting insecure because of a baby are you?”

“This food better be worth it.” Shanks grumbled. Stopping here was only because everyone was hungry and wanted to eat and drink together before separating to begin gathering supplies for the next leg of the stretch at sea. When you all entered you were met with a friendly but very stressed woman, trying to manage serving customers while also looking after her son. Her son in question stared with wide eyes at the arrival of the Red Haired Pirates, shy but curious. Then his gaze fell to you and he squirmed in his mother’s hold while stretching to get to you, immediately besotted.

You had no issue with helping keep the baby entertained since it helped his mother out and meant you could all still get something to eat and drink. As you held the baby close you couldn’t help but smile when the little boy let out a long yawn, using his fist to rub at his eyes. Finally you took a seat on the other side of Shanks and settled in the hopes he’d fall asleep. You finally broke your gaze away from the adorable little face to look at Shanks and Benn. “Isn’t he cute?”

“Yeah, adorable.” Shanks forced out, eyeing his tiny rival with a scowl. “Why don’t you let me take over?”

“I don’t mind, plus he’s falling asleep I don’t want to unsettle him.” You smiled, watching Shanks as he reached his hand out. The baby in your arms, half-asleep eyed Shanks with equal disdain. With an incoherent but very obvious noise of rejection, the baby’s fists latched tightly into your shirt and he nuzzled his head into your chest. “See? He’s comfy.”

Shanks knew better than anyone how comfy it was to lie against you and be wrapped in your arms. His eyes narrowed when the baby threw him one last look- pure smugness, Shanks saw-before he closed his eyes and feel asleep. Seeing the baby drift off and still maintain his vicelike grip on your close made you all but melt. “Shanks, how long are we staying on this island for?”

“We’re leaving as soon as the ship is restocked.”

“So soon?” You asked in surprise. Ordinarily you all stayed to relax and interact with the locals. Even short stops on islands would be a few days. It had been a long time since Shanks had made a decision like this. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah just really itching to get back to sea is all. We can’t laze around when we’ve got treasures to find and adventures to have.” You arched an eyebrow at Shanks’ explanation. When he turned his head to grab his drink you looked over his shoulder to throw a questioning look to Beck. Subtly the man dropped his gaze to the baby in your arms and mouthed ‘jealous’ making you grin.

Rolling your eyes at how the most laidback man in the world you decided to fall in love with could be so ridiculous at times. Shifting your chair closer you lay your back against his side and reached up to press a soft peck against his cheek. “Love you, you big baby.”

“Love you too.” Shanks grinned down at you, wrapping his arm around you to hold you closer. “Make sure to say that again though when the little brat wakes up. He needs to know I’m the winner.”

LUFFY

“Hey you little brat let go of them!”

“Make me!”

“I. Said. Let. Go.”

“Nuh-uh! You’re not the boss of me. Just go away and leave us alone, stupid hat!”

“Stupid hat?!” Luffy repeated with an angry glare, looking to you sharply with wide eyes, silently checking if you heard the added insult to him. It was nearly as bad as the fact some little kid was clinging to you happily with their arms tightly around your neck with no sign of letting go. You could only shrug and smile, it was just a little kid. You’d been the one to save them from an attacking enemy so of course they would be more attached to you than any of the others on the crew. The boy was harmless but Luffy was acting like he was top of the list of people he wanted to beat on his quest to be King of the Pirates. “Say it again brat! I dare you!”

“Stuuuupid haaaat!” The little kid leant further in to Luffy’s face, stretching out the insult with a taunting grin and defiance in his eyes that would have been something Luffy would have respected had it been directed at anyone else. Satisfied, the little boy relaxed back against you and stuck his tongue out at your seething Captain and boyfriend. Luffy snarled and grabbed the child’s ankle, ready to pull them off of you. The boy only let out an overly dramatic squeal and tucked their head under your chin. “No!! Stop him! He’s scaring me!”

“Luffy, c’mon be nice. Please?” You asked settling your hand soothingly over Luffy’s hand to make him stop immediately. This was meant to be a party to celebrate another victory for the crew and for some reason Luffy was getting confrontational with a child instead of enjoying himself and eating all the food on offer. “They’re only doing it because they know it’s annoying you.”

“But-”

“I know, I know.” You spoke softly, lifting your hand from his to affectionately run your fingers along the rim of his hat. “I love your hat, it’s not stupid to me.”

“It’s only stupid because he’s wearing it.” The little boy muttered sourly, turning his head to glare at the fact you were giving Luffy a compliment. “It’d look great on you though.”

“Awww thank you.” You smiled, relieved that they hadn’t been too scared by Luffy. It was no wonder he was acting up, after finally being free from the group of pirates terrorising his home he was finally getting to act like a child again and not have to worry about living in fear from you or the rest of the crew. “I think you’d look cool with a hat like Luffy’s too.”

“He can keep his hat.” You held back your initial urge to laugh but still you grinned when his arms tightened around your neck. “He gets his hat, and I get you!”

“Wh- WHAT?!“ Luffy shouted, the calm you’d managed to evoke with him disappearing faster than the food in the fridge when Sanji’s back was turned. “You can’t have them, they’re mine!”

Once again the shouting picked up and you were stuck between the two, listening to the fight and bicker over you with vicious possessiveness. You were jostled when the little boy moved to perch himself on your back, shouting over your shoulder as Luffy’s arms wrapped around your body so he could get into the kid’s face as they argued back and forth about who you were going to stay with, not that either of them thought to ask your opinion on that fact. Having no choice you were helpless and just had to stand there as these two equally persistent energies until finally they both tired themselves out and in unison they fell asleep, slumping over but keeping their grips on you as tight as ever. Sighing you managed to drag yourself over to an empty seat and awkwardly sit down despite the hinderances having two people clinging to you brought.

Eventually the boy’s mother came across your predicament and managed to lift her son off of you, leaving you to just have Luffy hold you possessively but that was something you were used to at night. Alone you smiled at your boyfriend. Yes it was childish of him to take the little boy’s infatuation with you seriously but it was reassuring that if he fought for you this fiercely then it meant you really had nothing to fear if anyone else came sniffing around you.

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TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya , @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @its-a-dam-blue-brick , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow

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ak-vintage · 4 months ago

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Stay Right Here

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You never had a problem getting out of bed in the morning until you started sharing one with Joel. A Secret Santa gift for my dear friend Britt @pedroswife69 <3

Word Count: 2.3K

Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, post-season 1/game 1 established relationship, SMUT (groping, fingering, P in V sex, praise, heavy emphasis on Joel’s broad, sexy, manly hands, Joel’s filthy mouth)

Thank you to @shchristine for the beta read and to @pr3ttynpiink for organizing! Shoutout to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist

You never had a problem getting out of bed in the morning until you started sharing one with Joel.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve been an early riser. Up before the sun most days, you’re showered, dressed, and fed before the sky can fade from inky black to rose gold to blue. It’s made you a great candidate for the breakfast shift at the dining hall and an eager volunteer in the barns and stables. You’ve become accustomed to tending to sheep and cattle or cracking eggs and frying bacon before most of the rest of Jackson have even blinked themselves awake, and really, it’s been no trouble. That was, of course, until you agreed to gather up your modest possessions and officially move across town.

Into Joel Miller’s house.

Now, as early-morning light filters through the thin curtains of his bedroom – your bedroom – you find yourself tucked snugly against his broad chest, his legs intertwined with yours, and one long, thick arm draped across your waist, keeping you close. He smells like sleep – warm and woodsy and painfully masculine, and though he holds you tightly, he shows no sign of waking. Even in his sleep, he can’t seem to get close enough to you. It would be inconvenient if you didn’t find it so endearing.

You twist in his arms, craning your neck awkwardly in an attempt to spot the little analog alarm clock Joel keeps on his bedside table. When you finally manage it, you balk at the time staring back at you in the dimness. You’re due in the kitchens in less than 30 minutes. If you rush, you’ll make it, but only just.

Your touch is delicate at first, gentle and soft as you try to extricate yourself from his grip without waking him. With a few wiggles and a scooch of your hips, you manage to work your legs free, but by the time you’re reaching for his arm to peel it off you, it has become like a clamp around your midsection, and you are being drawn back into him, back into his warm, bare chest as he grumbles, “Jus’ few more minutes, darlin’.”

With a shake of your head, you sigh, peering up at him through your lashes. His eyes are still closed, his weathered face relaxed, and you feel a pang of fondness tighten in your chest at the sight. He does this to you because he knows you can’t resist him when he’s like this – cozy and sweet and soft, every barrier collapsed and every façade shattered. You’re one of the few who gets to see the true face of Joel Miller, and the privilege is not lost on you.

Still, that does not change the fact that you have never once been late to a shift since arriving in Jackson, and you are not about to sacrifice your perfect record for a few extra minutes of cuddling. Moving quickly, you roll onto your other side and make for the edge of the bed.

But even wrapped in the warm cocoon of sleep, Joel is still faster and stronger than you. You make it only a handful of inches across the mattress before his vicelike grip is back, bracketing around your belly and hauling you – a bit less gently this time – back into his embrace once again. His face ends up buried in your hair, his front molded to the contours of your back, and you feel it along every nerve ending as he rasps, “Quit your squirmin’. M’sleepin’.”

Except Joel isn’t sleeping. Or, at least, there is one particular part of him that appears to be very much awake. You snort softly into your pillow. You should have known.

“Joel,” you hiss, wriggling against his grip. “I’m gonna be late!”

He does not dignify your protests with a response. Or, at least, not a verbal one. Instead, he simply shuffles so he is pressed even tighter against you as his broad-palmed, thick-fingered, heavy hand begins lazily stroking every inch of you he can reach.

He’s unhurried in his perusal of your body – from the dip of your waist to the flare of your hip, from the soft give of your stomach up to the plush fullness of your breasts. His caress is familiar, soothing and inflaming in equal measure, and your muscles melt so readily – eagerly even – under his attentions that it almost steals your breath away.

You are putty in his hands, and he knows it, so when he tucks his fingers under the neckline of your sleepshirt and tugs down the worn material, you make a fatal mistake, and Joel simply grins.

As his hot, dry palm skates over your rapidly-hardening nipples, as his grip swallows the pillowy softness of a breast and massages firmly, you let out the softest, breathiest sigh and arch into his touch. Your ribs surge forward, seeking more of that calloused, work-roughened hand, and in doing so, your hips curl back, and you unintentionally welcome the long, thick, throbbing press of his cock between the globes of your ass.

Joel groans into the back of your neck, the sound tripping down your spine in deep, rasping shivers as he noses your hair out of the way. The second enough skin is exposed, he latches on and drags the warm slickness of his tongue along it, drawing the vulnerable little patch of softness into his mouth and sucking. His rough fingers tighten around your nipple, plucking and teasing as he works your neck, and the sensation has your throat gasping, the arch of your spine deepening.

Low and ragged in your ear, Jackson’s top patrolman chuckles and grinds his hips into your ass. “That’s it, baby. You got a few minutes for this, don’tcha?”

“I – my breakfast shift, I have to – ” Your words are interrupted with a moan, the sound wrenched from your chest as the hand on your breast slips down to the apex of your thighs, pressing firmly and steadily against your mound through your cotton panties. His name is a whimper on the back of another deep, urgent breath, and you grit your teeth against the urge to wind your hips against the friction of his fingers.

“Shhh,” Joel soothes, mouthing at your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as it catches in the uneven whiskers of his beard. “Just relax, darlin’. The kitchen’ll keep for a bit. Lemme feel you a little.”

In the end, you find that you don’t have the strength to protest any more. His hands are everywhere – tucking under your neck from behind to settle across your throat, slipping into your panties, snaking under your shirt, tangling in your hair. You’re surrounded in him, swaddled in his thick, strong arms, trapped against his front, your body unable to choose between chasing the tease of his fingers against your slippery clit or grinding back against the enticing hardness of his cock.

He doesn’t let you choose, though. Instead, he strokes and plays and torments until you are ready to beg for mercy, and then he flips you onto your back and clambers on top of you. All finesse is gone as he shoves his pajama pants just far enough down to pull himself out, as he reaches down to tug the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, as he drags his soft, plush cockhead through your wetness. You can feel his desperation in the tension of his muscles, can see it in the deep frown tugging at his brow, can hear it in the curled-lip, gritted-teeth groan as he notches himself at your quivering entrance. It takes your breath away, makes you shudder and gasp as you stretch around the tip of him.

All the countless times you’ve taken him, and you’re not sure you will ever get used to that first breach of your body, that first trembling submission to the heft of him.

He fills you in one slow, inexorable thrust, and when your dripping pussy has swallowed every inch of him, when he finally seats his pubic bone against yours, firm and inescapable, he threads his fingers with yours and pins both of your hands above your head.

You can’t remember why you protested anymore, why you ever attempted to keep him at bay. He has driven every other thought from your mind and replaced it with himself. There is simply nothing else that matters.

He keeps you there as he takes you apart – thighs spread achingly wide, knees hitched up at his sides to take him deeper, ankles locked behind his back to keep him from retreating too far. Mouth on your neck, tongue on your tits. Teeth scraping across your jaw, tugging on your earlobe, sinking into the flesh cushioning your collarbone. Big, thick, rugged hands gripping yours, driving the backs of your fingers into the mattress. You are entirely at his mercy, and it makes your cunt drool for him.

“There ya go, baby, I know. Can feel how bad you need it,” Joel growls, making you shiver. “Gonna give you what you need. Just gotta take it.”

When he can feel that you are on the ragged edge of your climax, so close to soaring right over that edge you can almost taste it, he gathers both of your wrists in one hand and drops the other to your gaping, whining mouth. His thumb – huge, tasting of salt and musk and man – sinks between your lips and presses down on your tongue, and when you come, your cries are muffled in the suction of your mouth around the intrusion.

“There she is.” His words are syrupy-slow and sweet in your ear as you clench down around him, as you writhe and whimper as he fucks you through it. “That’s my good girl.”

Somehow, Joel manages to hold out for his own pleasure until you’ve come down from your high, until you’ve returned to your body and to the present moment. You are just lucid enough to watch him as he rears up on his haunches, withdraws his dripping cock from the clutch of your body, and uses one of those broad, heavy hands to jerk himself off over your belly. Your eyes can’t look away as he strokes himself, quick and firm, your gaze heavy-lidded and hungry as you watch.

“Come on,” you whisper. The words leave your mouth thoughtlessly, eyes glued to his flushed, angry cock as the tip weeps glistening pearls of precum. Fuck, he’s so breathtaking like this. “Come for me, Joel. Come all over me.”

It doesn’t take long with your encouragement. When he falls, it is with a ragged groan and a curse. You watch as thick, white ropes paint his scarred knuckles, and you can hardly stand to wait for him to stop before pulling that hand from his cock and dragging it to your waiting mouth. You clean his fingers with an eager tongue, lapping every drop from his skin as he catches his breath.

It isn’t until he collapses back onto the bed next to you, winded and sweating, that you happen to catch a glimpse of your bedside clock out of the corner of your eye. The sight is like a bucket of ice water in your veins.

“Shit,” you groan, rolling over to bury your face into your pillow in denial.

“S’matter?”

Your words come out muffled, smothered against the pillow as you hide from the accusing glare of the clockface. “I’m fucking late.”

Joel snorts a laugh. “Ah, well. Not the end of the world, darlin’.”

“I’m never late, Joel!”

You feel the mattress shift behind you as he rolls up onto his side, then the warm, heavy weight of his palm between your shoulder blades as he rubs your back comfortingly. “All the more reason why one time won’t hurt anything. Ain’t no reason you gotta be up at the ass-crack of dawn every damn day. Now…” He lands a quick swat to your butt, aiming for the bit of bare cheek left exposed by your twisted, dripping panties. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, and I’ll make you a cuppa coffee for the road. How’s that sound?”

At first, you say nothing, keeping your face pressed into the pillowcase and your eyes hidden from him. What you really want is to stay irritated. You want to hold onto your annoyance at the ease with which he distracts you, the speed with which your mind and body succumb to his advances. But at this point in your relationship, you know better than to try. Joel has a frustratingly boyish charm to him when he wants to, can be playful and impish when the mood strikes. And when he lets himself loosen up.

Today? With unplanned morning sex under his belt when the sun has barely risen? The man is downright giddy in this moment, and you know the second you see his face, any bitterness you may be attempting to cling onto will dissolve like sugar on your tongue, and you will be left with nothing but affection (and an absolutely spine-melting orgasm) in spite of your ruined schedule.

“Darlin’?” he murmurs, that soft, warm touch returning to your back. “You really mad at me?”

Releasing a sigh, you roll to face him, let him see the wry smile you can’t suppress as you take in his dark, earnest eyes. “No, Joel, I’m not mad. But – ” You jab a finger into his bare chest, the pointy blow landing right on his breastbone. “ – I want the good coffee. Not that instant crap. If I’m gonna be this late anyway, I can wait for the pour-over to brew.”

Joel’s weathered face splits into a grin, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as huffs a laugh. He chuffs you gently under your chin with the side of his knuckles, those beautiful hands ready to have you melting all over again, and you can already feel it – the warmth of it settling in your chest, softening your heart.

“Got yourself a deal.”

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #jackson joel #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal #ppcu #ppcu fanfiction #secret santa

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gludgenbell · 10 months ago

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moshang has me in a vicelike grip and it's not letting me go

#my art #art #digital art #moshang #mobei jun #svsss #scum villain #shang qinghua

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snowluvvie · 3 months ago

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₊˚⊹ ♡ . SELF-HATING IS THE NEW HORNY.

₊˚⊹ ♡ . MINORS DNI 18+ | word count — 1.8k | warnings — fem!reader, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, public sex, fingering (f receiving), degradation, reader cries a tiny tiny bit like barely, light objectification, established purely sexual relationship | author’s note — everyone involved is 18. inspired by @hanasnx’s thoughts on Cormac when i was sending them unhinged anons about him

“Thought I was fucking gross?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cormac’s breathy laugh into your mouth sends electricity shooting down into your stomach, and lower. His lips against yours are hot, your fingers twisting roughly in the front of his shirt and his hands closed around your waist in a vicelike grip that’s sure to leave bruises. In the library of all places—which becomes glaringly obnoxious when his teeth close around your lip roughly and you have to suppress a moan. His chest is hard against yours, his arms are muscular from quidditch, and you can’t physically get any closer to him, but good lord you’re trying your best.

He was fucking gross. You hated the way he talked, and laughed, and followed you around in the hallway. The way his eyes constantly raked up and down your body. The way they zeroed in on your little skirt with zero shame in a way that told you he was only thinking about what was underneath it. And more than anything, you hated the way your pussy throbbed when he acted like that. It was obnoxious—stupid fucking perverts like him should be drowned in a barrel, not rewarded for it.

Yet here you were, grabbing his hand and shoving it down the front of your panties to relieve some of the pressure building, with the way Cormac grins only making it unbelievably worse. He presses you harder against the table behind you, and you’re practically gushing on his fingers immediately.

“Ohhhh my god—” you mumble, mouth going slack against his as his fingers find your clit and start moving immediately, fast. Your fingers tangle into his curls, his face dropping down to the crook of your neck as he starts licking your flesh, sucking in a way that makes you so weak you can’t even muster the willpower to tell him not to leave hickeys. Your whole body betrays your common sense as you moan loudly instead, and his fingers circle your clit faster. Your legs start to buckle, but it doesn’t make a difference with the way you’re leaned against him—he’s holding you up at this point.

He laughs at you, making zero effort to cover your mouth or help you at all. It’s up to you to bite down on your lip to stop another whine from slipping out. Regardless of how far back you were tucked away behind the library shelves, who knew when the librarian would wander past. Maybe it would be fine if she found you with someone respectable, like Cedric Diggory or some other nicer Hufflepuff—not Cormac McLaggen. You’d fucking die of shame if anyone saw the way your hips chased his hand, grinding your pussy against his fingers like your whole body was starving for him.

Muffled from the way his mouth is attached to your neck, he mumbles, “Jesus, you’re such a whore. You’ll take anything you can get.”

He stops moving his hand entirely and yanks it away, making you whine obnoxiously. Cormac rolls his eyes, though he still can’t hide the smug look on his face. He grabs your face with one hand, the one that was just under your skirt, squishing your cheeks together and smearing your own juices across your skin. You know you’ll only get what you want if you play along with his stupid fantasies, so you stay limp in his hand, only furrowing your eyebrows slightly.

“Mm, just wanted to make sure I remember what you look like this way. You’re such a bitch, I never get to see you all pathetic.”

You make a sound of protest and thank god his hand isn’t down your pants anymore. If he felt the way you’d immediately soaked through your panties, he’d never let you live it down.

Ignoring the way he always has to run his mouth when you’re trying to get your fill of fucking him and move on, your hand finds the front of his pants, fumbling with his buckle. Shockingly, he lets you undo it yourself, and he instead closes his giant hands around your thighs and lifts you onto the table behind you.

Though he makes fun of you for wanting it so bad, he looks painfully hard in his slacks. When you finally finish with his zipper and free him from his pants and his boxers, he inhales through gritted teeth. The sound and the momentary wild look in his eyes makes all of your blood pool in your head and your pussy, you’re nearly lightheaded for a moment.

It doesn’t help that he’s big. An asshole like Cormac doesn’t deserve to be blessed with a cock that looks like that. Heavy, thick, perfectly curved upwards in a way that hits exactly where it’s needed every time. You’re staring at it, drool starting to collect at the corner of your mouth as you size up the veins that run all the way down his shaft, and the only time he slows down what he’s doing is to give you a few moments to marvel at it, like you always do. Watching you stare at his dick like a Christmas present you just unwrapped fills him with a blinding pride that you’d rather kill yourself than admit you’re the cause of—the second best feeling he’ll experience today.

When he decides you’ve had enough of the sight of it, he claims the first best feeling. Regardless of the fact that you could probably use a few moments to adjust to his length, he sheathes himself inside you in one movement. It claws a noise out of you that’s so guttural Cormac claps a hand over your mouth immediately, and the rest of it is nothing more than a muffled scream of pleasure. Your head hits the bookshelf and it hurts, but the pain dissolves away as he starts moving inside of you, his other hand digging into your hip to hold you steady.

“Your pussy’s trying to fucking strangle me.” He groans into your ear, his breath sending chills down your spine. It’s stupid, but he’s right. He starts on a fast pace and you can’t control the way you spasm, body going limp in his arms except for the way you clench around him.

“You missed me, huh? Fuck.” His lips stay at the shell of your ear to taunt you, and you can’t quip back like you normally would—both from his hand firmly pressed over your mouth, and from the way his thrusts are turning your brain into putty. He can barely keep it together to taunt you, his teeth are already digging into his bottom lip, he’s squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to keep it together. You whine breathily into his hand, and that does not help.

His hand that was firmly digging into your hip moves underneath your knee—for a moment you think he’s actually cupping it gently, before he shoves it upwards to get a deeper angle instead. The low groan that escapes him is euphoric, and whatever scream you try to let out gets lost in his hand. You can tell he doesn’t give a shit what noises you’re making, or really how you feel at all. Cormac is using you to get off at this point, you can tell from the way he’s rutting into you senselessly, burying his face in your neck to muffle the string of grunts and deep moans pouring out of him. Fucking loudmouth. You can’t bring yourself to care, though, because every selfish movement of his is bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

This new angle is making his pelvis slam into your clit with every haphazard thrust, and your eyes are rolling back into your head, your chest heaving up and down as the pressure builds and drives you to the edge of fucking insanity. Wild-eyed, it almost freaks you out how turned on you are by him. Not just the way he’s fucking you like a man starved, but by his hair brushing against your face, the baritone vibrations of his moans against your skin, even the way he smells. God, you were drunk on him—on Cormac. You needed to be put down.

“Holy fuck” he breathes through gritted teeth into your ear, “Oh, fuck—you feel so fucking good—squeezing me so fucking good—you love my cock, don’t you?” He’s babbling, and he moans as he feels you clench around him in response. He always runs his mouth when he’s about to cum, and the way he’s thrusting into you, slamming into you in a way that’s sure to leave bruises on the insides of your poor thighs, gives him away. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears beginning to form at the corners as he hammers into you with senseless abandon.

Your release washes over you suddenly, your back arching harshly and pushing your chest even further into him as you scream into his hand. Your pussy clenches around him wildly, and he shoves his face even harder into your heck to silence the long groan that escapes him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” though it seemed like he’d barely been paying attention to you, the feeling of your orgasm around him sends him over the edge immediately, and his hips stutter as he empties his load into your still-fluttering pussy.

It’s still for a moment, the aftershocks of your orgasms making you shudder against eachother. He takes his hand away from your mouth and you take a big breath, panting in sync with him. Your eyes close for a moment as you catch your breath, his head is still tucked into the crook of your neck and you can feel him starting to soften. The weight of him against your body, the warmth, it’s almost nice.

Then you remember it’s Cormac, and the self-hatred comes flooding back with a fury.

“Did you just cum inside me?” You demand half-heartedly. It’s a rhetorical question, you can already feel it starting to leak out of you as he pulls out slowly.

Cormac just nods into your neck, and you roll your eyes, pushing him to get him off of you. He moves when you prompt him, tucking himself back into his pants as you huff at the wet warmth on your thighs. You were the one with cleaning up to do, of course, and you were gonna have to walk all the way back to your dorm with him leaking out of you.

“Same time next week?” He finally says breathlessly, and you shoot him a poisonous glare as you tug your skirt back down.

“I hope you trip and die walking back to the common room.”

Cormac points a finger at you. “Don’t talk to the future father of your child like that.”

“Oh, my god.” You shove his chest with both hands, hard, and he literally doesn’t move. His laugh echoes off the bookshelves as you turn and hurry away, hand reaching up to scratch at your neck like you could rip the feeling of his mouth off if you tried hard enough.

Definitely same time next week, but he did not need to know that.

#this is soooo self indulgent goodbye #thinking: cormac mclaggen ₊˚⊹ ♡#cormac mclaggen x reader #cormac mclaggen smut #cormac mclaggen x you #cormac mclaggen drabble #cormac mclaggen imagine #cormac mclaggen x f!reader #cormac mclaggen x fem!reader #cormac mclaggen one shot #cormac mclaggen x reader smut #cormac mclaggen x you smut #cormac mclaggen x f!reader smut #cormac mclaggen x fem!reader smut

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ocherednoe-dno · 2 months ago

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Belisarius Cawl gives great hugs with his many arms that never shake, which is very good because his vicelike reinforced grip means once he hugs you there is no escape unless he graciously sets you down

#unless you are primarch roboute guilliman or trazyn the infinite. even so exercise caution #40k #wh40k #warhammer 40k #funny #belisarius cawl

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rachelamberish · 5 months ago

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Comprehensive Veilguard Review (FULL SPOILERS)

What They Got Right:

-The environments. My God, seeing some of these locations that we’ve only read about for a decade had me getting legitimately choked up just looking at them. I cried entering the Grand Necropolis. I cried at Weisshaupt. I cried at Kal Sharok. The Ossuary. The Crossroads 2 Electric Boogaloo. Just all absolutely stunning, and so lovingly crafted.

-The art direction, on top of that. They kind of go hand in hand, but genuinely, it’s great. I think the art director deserves a raise for the candlehops alone.

-The music. I love it. I know it’s not what it has been, but I think it’s fucking great. The Blight theme is far and away the best, but so many of the other tracks really fully commit to the fantasy-futurism aesthetic that has been crafted by the art direction and I think it’s so fucking cool that the music has evolved as we travel to new locations and the world of Thedas really opens up.

-Companions. I’ve spoken a little about this already. But yes, the companions are incredible. The pacing of getting to know each of them is so well executed. (It feels unfortunate that the same cannot be said about the story as a whole, really). They are each truly so memorable and I think BioWare knocking it out of the park with its companions is nothing new.

-Vocal Performances. Gareth David Lloyd should be lauded for his work as Solas. You can hear how that performance has evolved and matured over the years like a fine wine. His vicelike grasp on the nuance of that character transcends even the game’s often questionable writing. Truly incredible stuff. I also have to mention Jee Young Han for Bellara, and Bryony Corrigan and Alex Jordan for two versions of Rook. The rest of the cast is fantastic as well, those four are just so incredibly standout to me.

-This feels very specific but The Siege of Weisshaupt. That quest. Is. *chefs kiss emoji*. It’s giving game of thrones season 8 episode 4 the long night where i cant see anything but also i have existential dread!!!! Love that

-Codex entries are as well written as they ever have been, so no dip in quality of the writing there. Particularly a huge fan of the passive aggressive emails sent between Solas and the Evanuris like they were all shitty coworkers. Elgar’nan screaming “i’m the ELDEST BOY!!!” at the top of his lungs à la Kendall Roy while he and solas bicker about who was conceived of by the Fade first. Very good stuff

-Ghilan’nain is an eldritch horror lesbian witch and that is so so cool. Thank you bioware

-Maevaris Tilani

-Combat and performance. Because neither of these are story stuff, I’ll throw these together. The game performs like a fucking dream and is incredibly optimized. The combat feels amazing and I genuinely look forward to combat encounters rather than dreading them. No notes.

….The Rest, in No Particular Order:

- Morrigan forgiving her mother and the game erasing Flemeth’s nastiness was truly vomit-inducing so thanks for that one bioware

- Is Mythal good or bad bioware please answer the question and you CAN’T look at your notes

- They do get Solas mostly spot-on but Mythal is so inconceivably bad and it’s hard to divorce the two. Ironic, considering that they should be the most divorced couple that ever lived

-"Flemeth's piece of Mythal was the good version actually and was completely uncorrupted" bitch HOW?!!??!??!!?! FUCKING HOW?!?!? Literally A GAME AGO she screams at Morrigan and Lavellan about "a reckoning that will shake the heavens" promising vengeance for her betrayal because she's done nothing but stew ALONE in her anger for 2,000 years, ALSO piling on the rage and betrayals of Flemeth and (I think it's safe to presume at this point) Andraste and EVERY OTHER host she's had. If we have learned ANYTHING about spirits and "abominations" through four games it is that the spirit becomes corrupted "against its original purpose" when fused with the negative emotions of its host. What was the point of Anders, if not to foreshadow what Flemeth truly was? A spirit of justice corrupted against her purpose by living inside righteously angry women for millennia? If anything the Dagger-version of Mythal would be the uncorrupted one. Sure, she'd be lonely and pissed too but that would be the truest version to who Mythal ACTUALLY was from before. A mixed bag of grief and anger and hurt and pride. But the rage inside Flemeth's Mythal would be wild and unfettered. She would be almost unrecognizable.

-I'm moving on from Mythal now because ranting any more about her in this game is actually going to give me an aneurysm.

- Yeah this game suffers from lack of roleplay and choice carryover. It’s impossible to avoid. It was okay to suspend roleplay in a game like, say, Dragon Age 2, because Hawke as the game wrote her was such a strong personality and memorable protagonist. Rook is…. not that. Which is okay for a blank slate protagonist, but they’re also not that either. And i think they didnt commit, fully, to the idea of less roleplay. Because they *tried* to give you origin stories, but they don’t end up feeling like they truly inform the character in the way that they do in Origins, or even in Inquisition. Say what you will about Inquisition’s roleplay options, but Lavellan being Dalish DEFINES her character.

- And what do you know. Yeah. It was bad that they only let us carry over three choices. Who could have seen that one coming. It’s almost like everyone ever was like “wow. That sucks. Please reconsider.” And then they didn’t.

- And it also gets extra confusing when you realize that the three choices they said were going to matter a LOT literally don’t. At all. So that was a lie. I guess. Even Solas romancers who were being PANDERED to apparently get…like two mentions of something that feels like it should be so pervasive throughout the whole story. And one ending.

- Solavellan writing failure gets its own bullet point actually. There was so much ample opportunity for Lavellan’s presence in this story to be amplified. For the Lighthouse to contain more traces of her. In codex entries, in murals. I get that Solas probably wouldn’t talk about her to Rook much. But the fact of his yearning is downplayed when it should be overplayed. He yearns for this woman who made him think he was worth something for the first time since he took a physical body, while clouded by regret for his feelings for a long-dead woman who made him hate himself. That’s the saddest fucking story ever. Why does this game not lean into it more? I don’t know. You don’t know. None of us know.

- BioWare kind of forgot that fifty percent of the Tevinter population is slaves. What do the shadow dragons even do? There are apparently no slaves left to free!!

- BioWare kind of forgot that the Crows are very cool and yes very Italian!! 🤌🤌🤌 but also buy child slaves and turn them into soldiers by systematically weeding empathy out of them. So where was any of that.(*where is Zevran or someone who fills the role of that character. He is so desperately needed to portray the Crows with any nuance.*)

- The depiction of the Qunari/kossith, outside of Taash’s storyline (which I actually think was a very thoughtful examination of the intersection of gender and Qunari ideology), is actually the craziest most stereotypical one-note racist bullshit i’ve ever seen and i am shocked any writer allowed that to be the final product.

- You know what yes i also noticed that you couldn’t ever be mean in this game and also Rook smiles so much. She smiles when saying things she should not smile about. Idk why but that bothers me. And why are her hands always on her hips? What is she hiding

- The exposition-heavy dialogue is terrible at the start, gets way better around the first act break, then turns dangerously close back around to Avengers-style “Well, that just happened!” and it’s a mixed bag that I don’t know what to do with. I can’t blame bioware for the exposition, I’m sure that’s an EA directive of “pander to the people that want to come into the fourth installment of a series knowing nothing and not be completely lost”. But the rest…..let’s just say I can feel how many people had their hands in writing this. And I can feel it because the quality swings back and forth so wildly it gives me whiplash.

- Because of no choice carryover cameos feel like cardboard cutouts of characters. Dorian worked for me because he was doing things he would be doing anyway and it is passively mentioned that he and the Inquisitor are in close contact. Isabela is skinny like a twig now i guess (??? Hate that) and i’m happy for her whole lords of fortune thing but she is made lesser by being completely divorced from Hawke. Same for Varric, although at least he has more to do. Morrigan…………………………………………………………………anyway moving on.

- The Dalish.

- BioWare kind of forgot that Solas doesn’t hate blood magic. Doesn’t use it personally. But doesn’t hate it. Also what he does to gain a connection to Rook is LITERALLY blood magic. I don’t fucking know WHY he/the game insists that it’s not. I’m beside myself with that one.

- BioWare kind of forgot about the brewing elven uprising led by Solas that they set up at the end of Trespasser and instead now he’s a lone actor and everyone hates him. Like no. No actually some elves would have found what he was doing very cool and a great alternative to the terrible hand the world has dealt them. Perhaps all those elven Tevinter slaves you forgot to put in the game.

- BioWare kind of forgot about Briala in their rush to say “but nothing in southern thedas matters!!!”

- Cole should be in this game and the fact that he is not is actually fucking baffling.

- VERY BIG SPOILER Varric dying is fine actually and the one thing i’m literally perfectly okay with so idk why i put it down here other than it feels wrong putting this spoiler at the top lmao. But yeah that’s fine. We knew it was coming and Peepaw needed rest anyway. Good reveal, no issue there.

- Lucanis’ bugged romance ruined my life

- I made a separate post about this but Veilguard has single handedly eradicated mystery in the Dragon Age series without creating any new mystery and it’s what I’m legitimately the most sad about.

All in all, a mixed bag. I enjoyed my time with it, but it left me sad at times and not in the good way. The idea I have of Dragon Age in my head will always be more true to Dragon Age to me than this was, and I can live with that, I was just hoping for better on a lot of writing fronts.

#dragon age #datv spoilers #dragon age: the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #datv

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seth-whumps · 24 days ago

Note

Prompt: petrification

I just think it'd be interesting. I've gotten DND brained

HELL YEAH!!! Light on the whump a bit, because this is a fun setting to play in:

One moment, Whumpee was in their battle stance, tearing through enemy after enemy, a whirlwind of pain, and the next they were frozen.

Medic is already weaving their way closer, studying their paralyzed stance. They were never trained to fight hand to hand, so ducking under hits and sprinting across the field is a natural maneuver to them. Brawn covers their retreat; Medic intercepts Whumpee's form within seconds.

"Hey--can you hear me?" they shout over the din. "Whumpee!"

"Ngh--" At second glance, they're not totally frozen. Their face is a stiff expression of panic. Their eyes flicker to theirs, frantic and wide. "Ghk--"

Medic reaches for something, anything, in their belt that could help. "It's okay, you're okay, just breathe--"

"Nn!" A panicked exclamation. "Nnng!"

The skin around their neck is fading in color, growing... stonelike. It's a vicelike stranglehold on Whumpee's throat. Maybe... they won't be able to breathe, this is--

This is petrification.

"Basilisk!" Medic hollers, and cups Whumpee's face, ignoring how it grows colder by the second. "I'll be back for you. We'll fix this, I swear."

Whumpee doesn't nod. But their eyes are resolved, even through the fear.

Medic takes a shined blade from their pocket, and nods for them. "Gonna go kill a snake, quick, yeah?"

vote coughing up blood in this poll, send me proof and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!

#whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump prompt #ask answered #whump ask #whump drabble #petrification #fantasy whump

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 9 months ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 20: I Forgive You

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.1k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

You drink, drink, drink.

Deeply. Greedily. Exuberantly.

The spluttering sounds vaguely tickle your ears. They push you closer to the edge of feral hysteria, where logic and reason cease to exist, and all that’s left is an impulsive drive to kill and consume. If the prey can sputter, it has more lifeblood to give. You bite down harder. Legs thrash, thudding against the ground and echoing off the walls. Hands and fingers claw at your skin and tug at your clothes, but you are too far gone to care or register the increasingly weakening calls of your name.

You are an animal.

A creature.

A monster.

You will drink until there is not a drop left, then perhaps you will find something else to drink because you are so tired of the maddening pain of being hollow and hungry. The thirst is unquenchable and relentless. If you could get it to stop, even just for a little while, maybe you could think clearly.

There is so much relief that comes as the creamy, coppery tide spills into your stomach. The aching kinks in your muscles that made your toes curl and your fingers rheumatic unsnarl, the vicelike grip of raw hunger relinquishes its agonizing hold on your stomach, and the gauzy film that has been muddling your thoughts starts to lift.

It feels resplendent.

As the blood lights up every neural pathway in your brain, you revel in the sensation of being reunited with your long-lost life. It’s all too easy to tune out the battering against your chest, the fingernails that gouge at your skin, and the pleas that fall mute in your ears.

You want to live, and nothing fills you with vitality like the radiant syrup that’s pulsing within the veins and vessels of living creatures.

The resistance is failing now; fingers fumble at your clothes with less and less vigour. The blood that once spurted into your mouth like a fountain with every heartbeat is coming slower, only seeping like a babbling brook instead of a raging river.

It irritates you because you’re still not satisfied. Is there enough blood in the whole of the world to quell your appetite?

No.

Nothing will ever be enough.

“Stop.”

The directive slices through your body like an axe through flesh, poaching your control and handing it away without a fight. You cannot even swallow the blood in your mouth, and it drools out from between your lips and down your chin.

“Stand and back away.”

You stand as if there are strings attached to your limbs, pulling you up and forcing you to take stiff steps backward like a puppet.

“Kneel.”

This time the command is not silent but in Astarion’s voice, making your ears quiver. Your knees fold in on themselves and hit the stone hard beside the cage door. The red miasma begins to clear from your mind, and your vision pulses back into focus as your bloodlust fades. In an instant, you’re all too aware of the gore dripping from your chin and the red slickness coating your hands and forearms.

You’re dragged back into a harsh reality. Your clothes are sodden, sticky, and clinging to your body. Your arms are in shreds, full of valley-like gouges, and your mind clears enough to fully comprehend what you’ve done. Tears sting the back of your eyes like hot knives, but you do not have the authorization to shed them.

Shadowheart lies motionless on the floor, her skin ghostly, and her eyes glassy and corpse-like. Her chest jumps erratically, and her heartbeat is barely audible.

“Illyria,” Astarion says in a voice like warm honey. “Look at me.”

Your neck twists without your consent, the binds of compulsion holding fast. When your eyes fall on Astarion, he’s as close to the door as he can possibly get while restrained. In the dimness of the enclosed cell, you cannot work out which version of him you’re looking at.

“Is it you?” You ask, though it is a terribly stupid question. He will say anything to be set free.

“It’s me, sweetheart,” he nods, and you feel the connection invite you once again. You yearn to allow it to open and flood you, but you refuse, afraid that this is a trick. Astarion’s mouth downturns slightly at the rejection. “If I let you go, will you be able to control yourself? Shadowheart needs help quickly.”

“No!” You shout. If you get close to her, you know you will not be able to resist the crimson that still seeps from the wounds in her neck. “No. Don’t.”

“Then I need you to let me out of here so I can help her.”

It’s a risk, but Shadowheart is fading quickly. If you let him out, and it’s the wrong him, you both die, but if you don’t let him out at all, she dies regardless. There’s only one way you can know for sure.

You reach out to the kinship, and it emanates through you like a sunbeam spreading warmth through a crystal prism, illuminating every facet of your being. You are sculpted from the same celestial clay, falling into each other with an unspoken harmony that only the two of you know.

After so long without it, the rush of the coalescence of your two beings becoming one borders on overwhelming. It takes your body and mind a moment to assimilate the new sensations, like an agitated lake that ever-so-slowly returns to its placid state.

He’s finally back.

You whisper the password to dispel the Arcane Lock, and the light blue barrier shimmers and fades.

“Get the keys for the locks and unlock my restraints,” he commands.

Your body complies, getting up stiffly, moving out into the hallway past Shadowheart's unconscious body, and into the desk where you stashed the keys. You move robotically as you unlock the cell and then the padlocks. When the silver manacles pop open, Astarion winces and rubs his wrists.

“Get out of the cell, and don’t move,” Astarion instructs.

He’s long gone, moving faster than your eyes can perceive, before you can even take the three steps it takes to vacate the cell. You stand, still as a statue, staring at the rough grey bricks that make up the walls of the kennels. Shadowheart’s increasingly slowing heartbeat and ragged breaths are barely discernible under the whir of her blood running through your veins.

“I’m so sorry. Gods. I’m so fucking sorry, Shadowheart.”

Astarion returns faster than you thought possible. He drops to his knees by Shadowheart, pulls her into his lap, and uncorks what you recognize as a Supreme Potion of Healing, pouring it into her mouth a little at a time so she can swallow.

The colour starts to return to Shadowheart’s skin slowly, and her heart beats stronger with every concurrent pulse. She coughs, sputtering wetly, and groans in Astarion’s arms. When her eyes crack open, she jerks away from him and falls limply to the floor with wide, scared eyes.

“It’s me.” Astarion holds up his hands innocently and backs away from her sharp glower. He uses his foot to nudge another Potion of Healing her way.

Shadowheart grabs it with frail fingers, trying to uncork it with her teeth, but her muscles are still too weak. She scoffs when she has to hand the bottle to Astarion to open for her.

Her whole body shakes with the shock of blood loss as she pushes herself up, using the wall at her back as a brace. “Is it him?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “If it wasn’t, we would both likely be dead already.”

Astarion looks around the kennels dismally with glances that dart in all directions, as if he thinks Cazador might saunter in at any moment. A tic works in his jaw, and his forehead puckers. You can feel the fear in him as it emanates through the bond.

“What have you done to her?” Shadowheart mumbles weakly, nodding toward you.

“I compelled her.” Astarion stares at the cage with ruby-red eyes, a monument to suffering and woe.

“Well, stop,” Shadowheart snaps in your defence.

“No. It’s okay, Shadowheart. I’ve asked him to do this.” You say, hauntingly calm. “Can you walk her home, Astarion?”

“Huh?” His eyes finally focus on you, but he looks a million miles away. “Yes, but what about you?”

He offers Shadowheart a hand. She takes it tentatively, and he pulls her to her feet and steadies her. She bats his hands away defiantly with a scowl, and he rolls his eyes at her obstinacy.

You’re covered head to toe in dried blood and can’t go walking through the city in such a state, but there is a fix for that. “Compel me to cast invisibility and return to the manor. I want to go home.”

“I—” Astarion closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Cast invisibility on yourself and go to the manor. Once you are there, tell me, and I will rescind the compulsion.”

“Astarion, wait.” He turns, and you nod toward the navy shroud. “I want to take that, but I need you to tell me to.”

Astarion glances at it and looks almost embarrassed. Your orders change without him needing to even say anything. You bend down, pick up the threadbare fabric, and start your invisible march toward home.

Astarion rescinds the compulsion over you instantly when you enter the manor. It’s dark inside, and the air harbours an unpleasant stagnancy, as if it stopped circulating the moment no one was here. You stare at your hands in horror, dried blood and skin under your fingernails.

You rush to the bedroom. Water gushes out of the tap into the basin, and you scrub your hands vigorously until they are red, bleeding, and you’re sloughing off your own skin, trying to replace her blood with your own. Your hands shake when you look at them. It’s not enough; you can still feel the warmth and slickness of her blood like a stain.

You scream in sheer loathing, a jarring, crestfallen sound that penetrates the cumbersome silence of the manor. If only you could cease existing like this stupid mirror declares with your lack of reflection.

You peel your soiled clothing off as quickly as you can, throwing it into the fireplace and incinerating the evidence of your sin, but nothing will erase what you’ve done.

If you cut yourself open and let her blood drain out of you, would you feel better then?

Climbing into the bath, you turn on the water until it’s scalding, curl up into a ball in the corner, your legs hugging tightly to your chest, and sob. The stinging of the water lapping at your maimed back hits like an avalanche and brings more tears to your eyes. You grit your teeth and focus on feeling the pain because you deserve this, don’t you?

Maybe Astarion was right when he said you deserved everything he did to you. It was you who led him down this path — you who lent him your eyes so he could carve up Cazador and usurp the Rite. The only reason you ever regretted it was because you lost him. You tell yourself that you should feel guilty over the thousands of souls you damned for love, but truthfully, they would not even cross your mind if not for the consequences.

Who were they to you?

Nobodies, and they remain faceless nobodies.

The weight of what you’ve agreed to descends on your shoulders like the burden of a planet now that your mind isn’t addled with hunger and exhaustion. How are you going to tell Astarion?

Oh, it’s nothing, my love. I just put my soul on the line, agreed to kill an archdevil, and now have control of hellfire that could kill me if I actually put it to use. But good news! If we can pull it off, you can keep your power and your sanity.

Good Gods.

The only illumination in the room when Astarion enters is the orbs of fire circling your head in the shape of soaring dragons. They swoop and arc in an ever-changing formation. Your eyes snap to him, and you send the orbs soaring back to relight the candles and fire.

Astarion looks more bone-weary than you ever remember seeing him, with dark circles under his eyes and ruddy, blistered wrists. He strips his dirty shirt off, tossing it to the floor with unusual carelessness.

“How long this time?” Astarion asks, standing near the fire with his hand braced on the wall.

“A week, give or take a day or two.”

“Gods.” Astarion rubs his bloodshot, tired eyes and glances at his wrists. “Silver is still effective, hm? Good to know, I suppose,” he muses. He points at the bath. “May I?”

You gesture toward the water flippantly, and he undresses and wades in. A quiet, awkward silence hangs over the two of you for some time.

“What happened?” He finally asks, his eyes bleeding with sorrow and shame. He smooths his wet hair back. “I mean, I know what happened, but after I lost.”

“I led you to the palace, the kennels... I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Don’t be. You did what you had to do. That cage… I put that in there, didn’t I? I saw it when I came back, but... Why did I do it?”

“I think you can probably guess why he did that,” you sigh, combing your fingers through your hair. “Can we not do this tonight?”

“Yes. Of course.” Astarion nods. “Can you pass me the soap?”

You turn to grab the soap bar, but his pained, breathy gasp makes your eyes jerk toward him. Shit. You turned your back to him, and now his eyes are moored to whatever it was he sliced into you. You suppose he was going to see it one way or another, but you meant to save him this pain until it was at least a little further healed.

“Fuck.” He sobs, tears spilling from his eyes, and his hand is poised at his mouth. “By the Gods, Illyria. I don’t know what to say. I— Gods. What have I fucking done? What is wrong with me? I do not want to be that person. I do not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you murmur, too tired to even cry at this point.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, his voice so small and so pained that it’s like a vice around your heart. “I—I’m a monster.”

If nothing else, the stark contrast between the two sides of him makes it relatively easy to separate and compartmentalize the two. In your perspective, they remain too separate people. You would be lying if you said you were not a little frightened of those hands that held that dagger like a chisel; the hands that scored your flesh with Gods knows what.

But when you look into his eyes, you remember that this man has spent centuries having his body taken over and used as a pawn, just as it is now. You never blamed him for the atrocities he committed under Cazador’s rule, and you cannot bring yourself to blame him for the actions of another wearing his skin.

“I don’t hate you, Astarion.” You take slow steps toward him. He looks confused for a moment, his eyes wide as saucers. “I just want to save what’s left of you while we still can. May I?” You nod your head toward his lap.

He nearly lurches forward to grab you, but you’ve been feeling that longing in him the whole time — the desperate need to hold and be held. Astarion catches himself, sits back down, and outstretches his arms. Crawling into his lap, he’s cautious not to touch your wounds, and you lean into him with your head pressed under his chin, safe at last.

“I didn’t think you would want to be close to me after what happened.” Astarion’s voice is as knotted with emotion as you’ve ever heard it. He takes your hand, bringing it up from the water, and his fingers trace the band of the ring. “I didn’t think you would want to be with me at all.”

“Does everyone think me so exceptionally fragile?” You bring your head up to look at him. He still has tears welling in his swollen eyes, falling occasionally down his cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your index finger. “I never once judged you or was scared of you because of the things Cazador forced you to do. This is much the same for me. It may have been your hands, but it wasn’t you.”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he murmurs. “I do not deserve you.”

“That’s enough, Astarion. You deserve it all. Happiness, comfort, to live, and love. We both deserve all those things,” you remind him. You take his face in your hands. “I love you because I just fucking love you. The moment you tossed me into the dirt and looked into my eyes, I loved you, and every moment since, even when it was painful to love you, I loved you still. I love you so much that it’s terrifying, because I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, only you, now and forevermore, and you deserve to be loved like that. Alright?”

A small smile breaks through his beautiful lips, and he takes your hand, kissing your palm and interlocking your fingers. “Thank you. Y— You still want to marry me, yes?”

You huff in exasperation. “I just finished telling you that I will love you forever, and that’s your question? Obviously. You promised me eternity, Astarion, and I’ve never known you to be a liar.”

“Well, in that case,” Astarion swallows and takes a big breath. “If you’ll indulge me, I would like to marry you before we descend into the Hells and likely get ourselves killed.”

“You’re agreeing to go to the Hells with me?” Your mouth drops open. “Truly?”

“Mhm.” Astarion nods. “I will go along with your insane little plan on the condition that you marry me before we leave. If we are to die down there, I would at least like to die as husband and wife.”

Do you tell him? He’s agreeing to go to the Hells, but he doesn’t have the whole story any longer. If you’re going to tell him, now is your chance, but you just got him back, and it didn’t go well for you last time. No. You’ll have to tell him eventually, but right now, you just can’t bring yourself to utter the words. You lock all thoughts, all memories, and everything else away behind the guard that will keep Astarion from seeing it through your connection, as long as you’re careful.

“Can it just be you and I?”

Astarion’s brows furrow. “You don’t want all our friends there? Drinks? Dancing? A grand soiree?”

You've never been the kind of woman who fantasized about a big, extravagant wedding and a white ballgown—let alone one at all. In fact, the idea of having all those beating hearts and insincere congratulatory smiles sounds awful.

“If you want that, I understand, and we can, but we could have all of that when we get back from the Hells alive with you safe.”

Astarion glances away, looking blankly at the water. “Are you embarrassed of me?”

“Astarion. No. Don’t be foolish. If anything, I don’t want all those people to see you looking so positively mouthwatering. You might have to compel me not to eat everyone in attendance.”

“I do look rather dashing in a suit, do I not?” He chuckles. “I think I would rather enjoy an intimate affair.”

You comb his wet hair back and out of his eyes. “Me too.”

“Your wounds need to be cleaned.” Astarion murmurs, making you twist slightly so he can get a look at them. Every time he sees them, the emotional link between you is inundated so heavily with regret and despair that it actually feels like it weighs your mind down. “They aren’t healing well.”

“Is that an offer to help, or are you just stating the obvious?” You tease, trying to get him to lighten up.

“How can you be so casual about this?” Astarion snaps, unable to conceal his own outrage. His anger is not so much at the flippant ease with which you have shrugged this off; it’s at himself for doing it in the first place. “How can you so easily just forgive me and move on after I did this to you? You should hate me. You should be terrified of me.

“Why?” You retort coldly. Patience is wearing thin here. You do not have time, nor do you care to lament on your skin. It will heal, and what’s done is done. Where will being angry or sad over it get you? Nowhere, so what’s the point? If you want to grieve it, you have an eternity to do it later, so why is he being so insistent on this? “Would it make you feel better about it if I punished you for it? Is that what you’re looking for, Astarion?”

“Yes.” His voice is full of desperation. He takes your arms, almost shaking you, but it’s just his entire body that’s trembling violently. “Punish me. Hit me. Burn me. Stab me. I don’t fucking care, but do something.”

Straddling him, you take your face in his hands, sweeping your thumb over his cheek, dip your head, and kiss him tenderly. “I forgive you.”

Moonlight courses through the windows of their bedroom, casting a spectral-like glow across the floors and furniture. Though he is exhausted physically and mentally, he cannot seem to fall into his trance. He fears that if he lets his mind rest, it will not be him who she wakes up to.

Illyria trances peacefully beside him, though in an awkward position on her side so as not to touch the half-healed portrait of his cruelty that will be etched into her skin for eternity. Even now, those wounds still seep, dotting her shirt with little pinpoints of blood.

How could he do that to her? How could any version of him want to do that to her?

Astarion doesn’t want to wake her. She is more exhausted than even him, so he moves stealthily out of bed to go pace the halls of the manor, where he can hopefully work out some of this restlessness.

Coming back to himself in that cage had been a chilling experience, with the sting of silver wrapped around his wrists and sapping his strength. He’d recognized the smell of the room right away, even under the smell of Shadowheart and Illyria’s blood. For a moment, he was sure Cazador was going to enter and make him pay for usurping the Rite. He almost didn’t pull himself together quickly enough to save the Cleric.

The horror that he would take Cazador’s torments and mimic them makes his stomach churn, and he stymies the dry heaving. Is what’s left of his soul really all that stands between him and that vile version of him? Could he be worse than Cazador? Would he be?

He hates that the answer to that is yes.

Astarion leans his forearm on the wall, looking out the window absently, while his mind revolves in a spiral of unsettling thoughts. He’s agreed to go to the Hells with her. Truthfully, he feels he has little choice. It’s either this or become what he spent centuries loathing and killing or enslaving the one person he’s ever truly cared for.

If she were not at risk, he might just let himself go and accept the consequences of his actions. Two centuries of fighting to survive, only to gain his freedom and have to fight to survive again.

He is tired of fighting for his life.

If it comes down to it, will he renounce the powers the Rite has gifted him? Could he say goodbye to the sun and hello again to the pain of hunger and darkness?

If it means never hurting her like that again, he has no choice.

“Astarion?” Her voice makes him jump and whirl. She’s gotten good at sneaking up on him, and he finds himself proud of his little bride. Half of her face is hidden by shadows, and the other half is illuminated by moonlight. She yawns adorably. “Are you okay?”

“But of course, my love.” He declares and offers her a quick, easy smile that he hopes will appease her worries.

She cants her head at him with a lopsided grin. “Come on, Astarion. What’s troubling you?”

“Am I truly that easy to read, sweetheart?” She would see through any disguise he tried to decorate himself with.

She pads over to him, her nightdress swaying about her upper thighs, and taps on his temple. “You can’t exactly hide it from me, Astarion.”

“Ah,” he says, smiling slightly. “I suppose not.”

Illyria leans into him with her hand splayed across his bare chest, peeking up at him through thick lashes. “What’s bothering you?”

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, being careful with her back, and kisses the top of her head. “I’m just restless. Sitting in a cage for a week will do that to a man.”

“Restless, are you?” She raises an eyebrow, the beautiful cracked crimson of her eyes shimmering like polished gems. Her hand starts to wander around his body. Gentle, tentative touches to see how he will react. “I could think of a few things that might help relieve that restlessness.”

His body responds to her proximity, the way she leans her soothing weight into him, and those tender touches. The blood rushes to his cock.

Astarion’s shock is evident in the way his brows try to climb his forehead. “Surely, you’re not suggesting?”

“Sex, Astarion.” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m suggesting sex, but if you’re not feeling up for it, you only have to say the word. You know that, right?”

“I know.” He leans down, hooking her chin with his index finger and guiding her eyes up. He needs to make sure she actually wants this, because he cannot fathom how she could after what he did to her. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

She grins mischievously, pushing him, forcing him to take steps backward until the back of his legs hit the settee, and then she shoves him hard. He could easily have stayed on his feet, but he lets her push him around. Illyria climbs atop him, straddling him.

He grasps her hips as her weight settles on him. Astarion’s hips hitch up involuntary, pressing his length into her with a grunt. She grinds against him, eliciting a gravelly moan from him.

Gods. She really still does love him, doesn't she? Even after everything he’s done to her, including all the things he did that he cannot even remember, she still wants him.

Illyria rolls her hips slowly over his cock, spreading her slick desire along his length and seeking out her own pleasure. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, he quite enjoys watching her like this; her eyes are heavily lidded and sensual, moaning when her clit drags across his cock.

She runs her fingers through his hair and down the ridge of his ear, which never fails to drive him fucking mad. A breathy hiss is expelled from his lungs, and he grabs her hips and forces them to sink further with a growl.

“You’re truly okay?” He asks breathily, the yearning starting to overtake his self-control. “With me? With us?”

“I’m really okay,” she smiles, leaning down to kiss him with such sweet devouring that he’s not sure what to do with his hands or where to touch because he wants all of her.

He can’t resist anymore, and his fingers curl into her hair, and he kisses her back with the same fervour. His heart begins to pound, and the sensation of the slick of her folds still stroking him sends another thrill down his spine. He helps her carefully take off the nightdress and throws it aside before their lips crash together again.

Illyria reaches down, stroking his soaked length, lifting her hips, and slipping the swollen, pink head of his cock in and out shallowly. She keeps him at the cusp of her entrance, teasing him until he’s whimpering, trying to grab her hips and shove them down.

“Ah-ah,” she tuts. “Eager, aren’t you?”

He can feel her wetness dripping down his shaft, further driving him mad. “Love,” he hisses. “Sit on my cock, or I swear-"

Astarion feels himself sink to the hilt in one rapid move, the sudden tightness around him bringing forth a surge of pleasure, making his head fall back and blanking his brain. “Gods. You’re so fucking perfect.”

His hips begin to roll, fucking her gently in a rocking motion. She squeezes him as he increases the pace of his thrusts, hands on her hips, making sure the angle is perfect to drag himself against her ridges and hit her spot.

She meets his thrusts, grinding to match his pace with her hand pressed against his chest over his heart. His eyes rake over every inch of her, the scars on her neck that mark her as his, the curve of her waist, and the lines of muscles that ripple beneath her skin as they flex with every move. She is the most breathtaking thing to ever walk this earth, and she’s all his, and he’s all hers. Now and forevermore.

“Fuck, Astarion,” she whimpers, and she looks at him open-mouthed and adoring.

Astarion’s hand drifts down her chest, running down her belly, and moves between her legs, finding her clit. He rubs slow circles around the border of the sensitive flesh, which instantly rewards him with a whimper, and her cunt tightens around him to the point it’s borderline painful.

“Do you love me?” He murmurs uncertainly and is desperate for reassurance. She is the only thing that burns in the darkness he gets lost in. She completes parts of him that are raw and sharp, her softness and fluidity rooted inside him, and she soothes that latent beast.

Her eyes open abruptly, likely feeling his unease in their bond. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore. She takes his face in her hands. “I’ve loved you since I met you, and nothing will ever change that. I will love you for eternity and well beyond,” she says in breathy pants.

His cock throbs inside her the moment she says those words, his breath catching in his throat. Astarion will never tire of hearing that beautiful hymn in his ears. A whimper leaves his lips.

She smiles — one of those smiles she only saves for him — unashamed of her fangs and kisses his cheek. Her hips increase their pace, and his thoughts scatter completely. He moans loudly, his hips jittering here and there as the tension starts to coil in his belly.

The rhythm at which she lifts and slides back down around him grows increasingly intense, and with it comes his own desire to chase his climax and empty himself into her. At this rate, he will not make it.

“I’d like to try something. I’ll need to take us back upstairs to bed.”

She slows, cocking her head at him. “I’m intrigued. Lead on.”

Astarion moves slowly, grabbing under her thighs and letting her wrap her arms around his neck. He effortlessly carries her back to their room.

He lays down on the bed, patting his chest. “Lay down on me and allow me to please you, yes? I will be cautious of your back.”

Illyria leans forward with no hesitation, kissing his chest and brushing her soft lips against him. He manages to find a way to hold her in a one-armed embrace that avoids what he’s done to her.

“If it gets too much, tell me,” he purrs.

With his feet firmly planted flat on the bed, Astarion begins to pulse his hips up into her, intensifying his pace incrementally until he’s snapping his hips hard and fast. His pulse races from the effort. His fingers work in harmony, sweeping and gliding in the way that makes her see stars.

“ Shit. Astarion,” she gasps, her body limp in his arms, engulfed totally in his ministrations. “Y-You. H-Hells. S-so good.”

Gods. He can feel her pleasure through the bond, and it only amplifies his. “I—I love you,” he whispers to her.

Astarion continues his upward pistoning until his own climax threatens to overpower him, and he has to bite his lower lip to keep his composure. It doesn’t work. He stills for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to focus on anything else. His cock is throbbing, begging for him to resume. When he opens his eyes, they meet Illyria’s, her breathing shattered, her knowing smile understanding why he needed a break.

She bites her wrist and brings it to his lips. “We wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would we?”

He laps at her with a low growl and then begins sucking, resuming his thrusting, hammering into her mercilessly. Astarion feels her orgasm near. Her fingers curl into his chest, her body tenses and trembling in his arms, her breathing uneven.

Hells below. Her blood in his mouth is an ambrosial divinity he will cherish until the end of time. The sensation of his cock stretching her, the ridges of his head dragging over her walls, and her sex increasingly tightening around him is going to throw him over the edge before her.

With a quick twerk of his hips, he changes the angle just slightly so that he’s more in line with the sensitive bundle of nerves inside her. The way she cries out with each strike lets him know he’s aligned himself just right.

A couple more powerful pumps, and Illyria comes, crying out loudly. Her body shudders, her back arching, and she slows his pace to drag out the remaining aftershocks of ecstasy. He revels in the feeling of her walls squeezing and clenching him, almost too much.

He relinquishes her wrist and rains small kisses on the top of her head and forehead. He rubs her arm until she quiets. She looks up at him, confused. “You didn’t come. Why?”

His cock is still buried in her, throbbing and switching insistently. He smiles down at her softly. “I’m right behind you, little love. I wanted to make sure you were done. Kiss me, will you?”

She shifts, moulding her lips to his. His hand cups her cheek, and he once again begins pounding into her dripping cunt, driving himself into her fast and deep. It’s not long before his own climax consumes him, and he comes with a series of low growls and grunts. His eyes shut, his hips stuttering out of tempo as he spills inside her in an intense wave of pleasure.

When his brain starts to function again, he finds her stroking his sweat-damp hair back with tired but adoring eyes. He glances at her back to make sure he didn’t harm her further, but it looks, well, terrible, but no worse than before.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says softly with a yawn. “I missed you quite terribly.” She taps his temple. “Missed this. I feel... incomplete somehow without you now.”

“Did you miss me or the sex?” He teases lightheartedly.

She shrugs and taunts him back. “Both, I suppose. The sex is fantastic, after all.”

“So you enjoyed that?” Astarion asks.

There are wisps of doubt niggling his mind. Was I too rough with her after what I did? Would it remind her of being held down? What if I frightened her?

“I did, very much. You weren’t too rough, and you do not scare me.” She smirks at his wide-eyed stare. “And you? Was it okay? You are okay?”

Shit. He sometimes forgets to shield his thoughts.

“Okay?” He scoffs at her capriciously. “Yes, darling. I had to take a break in the middle simply because it was feeling far too okay.”

She thumps him on the chest, and he covers her hand with this. “I missed you, too. I do not know where I go, but wherever I am, I am always trying to get back to you.”

Illyria brushes his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Are you still restless? You need to sleep, Astarion. I can feel how tired you are. Do not be afraid. I’ve got you.”

He smirks. “If I were, do you think you could be convinced to go another round?”

“I could be persuaded.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As with most fic writers, I am a WHORE for comments. We appreciate even just an emoji. Please feed your fic writers the sustenance of comments 🥰

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Do you think she should have told him right away?

What will his reaction be when she does eventually tell me?

Also, who is ready for a cute intimate ceremony

#astarion fanfic #ascended astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts #ascendant #astarion bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg #astarion ancunin #astarion ascended #astarion x oc #astarion angst

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