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loviatars · 3 years

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The Highwayman

pairing: astarion x female npc (reader, not the mc!) warnings: vague references to abuse and torture that will become less vague in future parts rating: teen for the above reasons, for now <3 word count: 1,388 notes: so i think this’ll be my first astarion mini-series, as this’ll definitely have another part (and hopefully soon)! i just wanted to toy around with what might happen to astarion should the mc sell him out to the monster hunter... part two. ao3.

You are scared to touch him. You think he will cry out in pain.

He might be warm, you continue to think. Like skin. Or cold from the night seeping between the bars of the cage. His doublet looks frayed and unloved. The man is hungry behind the eyes, but also afraid. But also angry.

“You,” he spits, “who are you? Where am I?”

With troubling speed, the man hurls himself against the side of the cage. The metal rattles and shakes under his pale hands but they do not budge. You watch, wide-eyed and horrified as he grits his teeth against an unseen pain.

You’re stunned to silence, slack-jawed with fear. With a grunt and a mournful sound, the man behind bars slumps down away from them. His palms are singed red, you notice. Whatever the cage is made of is poisoning him.

“Outside the Dying Gull,” you whisper. The man driving the covered wagon didn’t look too friendly, you’d rather he not know you’re speaking to his travelling companion. Or captive. “It’s an inn on the highway, about a week’s hard ride from Baldur’s Gate.”

The man sounds flat, pressing his injured palm to his forehead and being careful not to touch the bars with the back of his neck.

“Well,” he sighs, “I’ve heard far worse news in the past three days. That just leaves who you are.”

“Just the barmaid,” you admit. After a pause, you continue, “If you don’t mind, can I ask a question now?”

“Were I in your position, I may have a few,” the man says. He’s still slumped over, you’re beginning to worry. His hand now covers his eyes, like they hurt. However, his tone is oddly sarcastic for his apparent exhaustion. “By all means, ask.”

“What’s happened to you? Why’s that man got another man locked up in the back of his wagon?” once you’ve opened your mouth you can’t quite stop. The man huffs, either in amusement or annoyance.

“That is two questions, in fact. So now you’ll have to pick just the one,” he says.

“I answered two,” you reply. But you’re inclined to take pity. “Fine, the second one.”

“I am in the company of a very incompetant bounty hunter,” the pale man begins, “who has wrongfully determined my identity to be that of a criminal.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head to the side. Looking into the cage, you see two red eyes swimming in the centre of his pale face when his hand moves. “A criminal might just say that. Are you lyin’ to me?”

“Of course a real criminal would lie, but I am not one in the least,” he insists. He seems to gain a little energy defending his morality, either that or he’s a capable performer. The man sits up until he’s moved away from the bars at his back. “Whatever that Gur says, I am not who he thinks I am.”

You say nothing for a moment, peering through the dark at those deep-red eyes. You decide that he’s lying. But to his credit, he’s a man in a cage. And you find something other than pity welling up in your chest once more.

His anger seems mostly gone now that he knows it was misdirected. The creature looks tired and gaunt, hungry and in pain. Your heart lurches.

“One more question?” you ask. He heaves a sigh.

“Very well, what was it?” he starts, “Right, what in the world has happened to me, well--”

“No,” you stop him. “Not that one, I don’t really want to force you to make up more lies. I just want to know your name. Can you tell me that?”

He seems stricken for a second. And only then does it occur to you that he’s begun to peer back. It’s what sways you to find him innocent, you decide. He looks at you, stares at you and tries to decide if you’ll be the third person to hurt him in as many days.

“Astarion,” he says. “My name is Astarion.”

“Good to meet you, Astarion,” you say. He seems troubled by your good-natured smile, not the least bit comforted by it. But it’s better than a grimace or a look of fear, he seems to reconcile.

Especially when you put your hands on the cage. Then, it appears as if hope’s caught in his eye. The bars don’t burn you, you notice. And you frown. But only for a moment, only as you’re thinking.

“This won’t be easy to open,” you say. You bring your knuckles down on the metal, eliciting a hollow sound. “Were the whole thing pure silver, it’d buckle under its own weight. But it’s platin’ somethin’ sturdier--”

“And how do you know that?” Astarion asks. You look down at him, your eyes are no longer sizing him up.

They’ve decided he is neither predator nor prey, as he has with you.

“Da was a goldsmith, he worked with all sorts of precious metals,” you explain. “Means I can identify ‘em, but I’ve not the strength to rip the door straight from its hinges.”

“And I’ve been starved for days,” he confesses, “so I’m far too weak to be of any help.”

The look of empathy on your face is unprecedented. It seems to make Astarion uncomfortable, so you stop it. You turn instead to the door that’s locked tight. A cruel, rusted padlock bolts it shut.”

“Could nick the keys off ‘im,” you muse. You’re not watching the stranger’s face, but it’s more expressive now that it’s been since you tugged the curtain covering the cage aside.

“You would do that for me?” he asks. “You believe me, you would free me?”

“Please,” you huff, “you’re bein’ treated cruelly. And I’ve no reason to trust the man who’s keepin’ you hostage, either. I won’t aid him.”

“Good to know that there’re still a handful of decent souls to be found,” he says, “even if I’ve only noticed a dearth of them.”

“But I don’t believe you in the slightest,” you add. Astarion squeezes his eyes shut.

“I swear to you that I am innocent, what more--” he starts, you cut him off with an unexpected smile.

“I know you’re innocent, I’m choosin’ to believe that. But I also know you’re far from honest,” you say. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Then we have an understanding,” he says. He sounds relieved and you nod.

“I’ll need the key, but I can steal it. Once you’re out, I’ll take you to the barn behind the inn. There’s cattle there,” you tell him. But Astarion bristles with feigned disgust.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he snaps.

You try your best not to roll your eyes. Lying, it seems, comes too naturally to him. With the plan laid out before you, you drop the padlock.

“I’m not stupid, Astarion. And you’re a poor liar,” is all you say. And it’s all that he does, too.

When you move to tug the curtain back over the cage, however, Astarion sits up. Panic is back in his eyes, you dislike the sight.

“No. Don’t, please,” he says. He holds his hands out, perilously close to the silver that burns him so badly. “I-- I haven’t seen outside in days. Leave it.”

“Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’,” you say. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, try to stay out of sight of any passers-by.”

You make a point to tug the curtain a little further back, giving Astarion a view of the Gull after dark. He watches you turn away.

The inn glows, light spilling out of its square windows. The Gur inside is still boasting, drinking himself into a stupor that he’ll have to sleep off eventually. But whether he’ll do it here is what worries you, what pushes you back inside and in search of the key that fits the padlock.

As you walk, you can hear the awful voice rising above the din. Part of you wonders if the vampire in the cage is lying to you about everything, for he is a liar at heart. Another knows that either way, what’s being done to him is evil. You pause before you open the door.

It’s time again to commit theft, which calls for a different arrangement of the face.

#astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate fic #baldurs gate fic #baldur's gate #bg3 #bg #bg3 fic #astarion baldurs gate #there is like 0% chance of this showing up in the tags bc i have -3 luck but #hey if it does and you can see this??? i hope you enjoy #first chapter's not hella romantic but ya know #anniewrites

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annhellsing · 4 years

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Delicate Monsters.

notes: so i haven’t seen season three and i don’t plan to, but have some enthusiastically consensual sex with d/s elements because i stand by my firm belief that alucard is a sub!! rating: explicit as fuuuuuuck!!! pairing: alucard / reader, referred to from this point as ‘adrian’ word count: 3,051

You are the breath in his lungs, you must be. Adrian smells the perfume you dab behind your ears, even in his sleep. Half-awake, coaxed from soft dreams, he reaches out across the bed. You’re still there, lying next to him and similarly caught in-between states. Your mouth opens a fraction, enough to let out a soft noise of contentment before you sluggishly turn over.

“Another bad dream, love of mine?” you mumble, your words so strung together as to become one. Adrian shakes his head very slowly, opening his eyes just a crack. But you haven’t done the same, so he vocalizes his answer,

“No, no,” he sighs, if only as an excuse to breathe in again. “Nothing is wrong.”

It isn’t your blood that haunts him, compels him to act as a real man might. It’s everything else, the warmth of your skin and the soap in your hair. You made scones earlier, he can still smell butter and sugar on your fingers when you lift your hand.

“Give me the truth, my love,” you say, and this time your eyes do open. You look at him, only a foot away with so much fondness in your eyes. You could fit more affection, he is certain, in your pupil that he could in every inch of his chest. Such is the beauty of humanity.

Your fingers find his hair, long and mussed from turning in his sleep. You pet it, brushing it back from his face. You’re so alive, he can feel blood rushing from your wrist to warm his cheek. Adrian can’t help it, he leans into the touch and feels no shame about it.

“I’ve told you the truth,” he assures you, knowing you only press out of a desire to protect him. Even though you know you can’t, his night-time burdens are his own to bear. Still, you’re there when he wakes up. “I had a good dream, for once.”

“And what was it about?” you smile, nudging closer towards him. Your hand slips around the back of his neck, pulling him gently in your direction. He wants to do nothing more than follow.

“You, of course,” he replies, “what else do I have that’s good?”

“Sypha and Trevor,” you say, your grin softened by lingering exhaustion. He’s sure you’d like to go back to sleep, but you seem more intent on this conversation. Adrian huffs.

“Sypha, perhaps,” he says, a slight edge to his voice that betrays how he teases. You tut, your voice still barely above a whisper.

“You are rich in friends, dear heart,” you say, “no matter how much you try to deny it.”

“I am,” he finally relents, “but now I am merely distracting you.”

His arms around your waist loosen, having proved himself right. You haven’t left, not yet. And while he fully expects you to turn again and shut your eyes, they stay open.

“You’re the one who woke me,” you sigh, but your smile remains unchanged, “so you must do as I say, not the other way around.”

“I would do as you say even if you had woken me,” he tells you. A heat rises in your cheeks, you nod.

“You’re so lovely,” you mumble. Your hand on his neck tugs him closer, still. Close enough to kiss.

Adrian yields, pressing his mouth to yours and allowing himself to fall against you. It is the best feeling, your kiss. Nothing compares to your slight hesitancy before teeth begin to worry on his lower lip. Your tongue follows soon after, brushing gently where you bit. With no resistance, he lets you in.

Your tongue greets his, the gesture more passionate than midnight affairs usually afford. It appears you’ve woken up more than you let on, but still your hands at his neck and in his hair are careful not to grip too tightly. Your poor love, he’s been hurt too much already.

“Do you want it?” you ask, breaking the kiss for much-needed air. For him, breathing is optional, but he lets his lungs overwork themselves. He’s nearly overwhelmed by how good you smell, giggling at him in the soft moonlight. It occurs to him that you expect an answer.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Do you want to do what I tell you?” you continue. He nods, shaking the fog from his head. Adrian feels warmer, now. You are hot to the touch.

“Yes,” he sighs, “a thousand times, yes.”

“Then lie back,” your orders are always easy to follow. He never tires of your impishly commanding voice, the sweetness and love that it always holds. He does as you say, happily turning over on his back and kicking the blankets down from his waist.

You sit up, a little slower than you might if the sun were out. But you crawl towards him over the comforter and sheets with a mock-predatory stance. The look in your eyes is one of clarified lust, you're not the least bit upset to be awake. He swallows hard, caught in your stare.

There is a throbbing under his shift. He stiffens and shivers as you settle next to him on your knees. You put a hand beside his head, resting all of your weight on it as you lift a knee to straddle him. Adrian inhales pointlessly, the smell of your perfume stronger now. The air around you is charged, but not electric. Despite the fact that you are unwilling to slink back off to sleep, there is no urgency in how you conduct yourself.

You sit back on his thighs, admiring the expanse of his still-covered chest and the elegant column of his neck. His hair is fanned out across the pillows, framing his head like a halo.

“Beautiful,” you sigh, “just gorgeous. And so well-behaved, too. You’re so very good.”

You reach out again, taking his face in your hands and claiming another kiss. Adrrian feels your chest flush against his, the soft swell of your breasts and the hummingbird heart that beats underneath it. You’re as excited as he, even if there are no outward signs.

His, on the other hand, make themselves clear. You can feel him under your belly, half-hard and in need of attention. It makes you giggle again, breaking the silence occupied only by heavy breathing and thudding hearts.

“My goodness,” he says when your kiss is once again distracted, “I love you.”

“I feel the same,” you return. And then, to dispel any doubt, you add, “I love you, more.”

“Doubtful,” he mutters, “what have you done to me?”

“Well, I haven’t made you soft,” you giggle again. The sound is sweet and rounded. You lean back and give a toss of your hair. He can pinpoint what it smells like, now. Lavender and vanilla. Perhaps a hint of lemon. But it doesn’t matter, it only smells like you.

His laugh sounds reedy and low, like a half-growl. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up with anticipation.

“No,” he agrees, “you haven’t done that.”

Admitting love so freely, however, that is new. Or perhaps he’s just had no one to offer it before. It’s as powerful a feeling as it is vulnerable, offering one’s heart up at another’s altar.

“I think I’ll take care of that,” you muse, “lie still. You can touch me, but not yourself. Understood?”

“I do,” he agrees. Obeying you is its own euphoria, but he reaches out immediately once given permission. He grips your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs.

“Very good,” you say. You do not miss the second shudder that grips him, despite his warmth. Nor the insistent throb under your belly.

You rise up fully, straightening your back. With slow hands, you push up the hem of his shift and find the proof of his around. You give a smile, sweet and in love with the sight. You take him in hand with no preamble, giving a lazy pump to encourage him before letting go.

“More,” he exhales, “more, please.”

“I want to undress you, first,” you say. “Can you wait that long?”

“I suppose I’ll have to. Here--” he cuts himself off, sitting up to help you tug his shift over his head. You brace your arm behind you to keep your balance, and tug on his sleeves to pull the fabric from his wrists.

He lies back down right away, never one to forget a command. Adrian’s given a kiss for good measure, his head swims at the press of your mouth against his.

“Are you sure you want this?” you whisper, checking yet again for any signs of guilt-ridden compliance on his face. There are none to be found.

“I do,” he repeats. He does not voice his utter shock that you want to do this with him. Such expressions only upset you.

“Good,” you say, “and you know that--”

“I can change my mind, yes,” he says. The first traces of impatience make themselves known in his voice, making you smile again. God, it’s a beautiful sight.

“Excuse me,” you feign apology, “clearly I am neglecting you.”

“Indeed,” he teases. But somewhere deep in his mind, Adrian rebels against that agreement. You’ve taken good care of him.

“But how can such a body go unadmired?” you ask, lavish in your praise in the hopes of flustering him. You know what he wants, even languid in the middle of the night and insisting that there is no time but time to waste. So you pause a moment.

You explore him, your fingers trailing up his lean chest. His stomach dips and bulges, the muscles underneath fluttering like butterflies with every air-light touch. You can undo him so easily.

“Oh, Adrian,” you mumble when you come to the edge of the scar. Your index finger brushes the edge, where red flesh meets smooth skin. “May I kiss you here?”

“Gently,” he agrees on that condition. You not and dip your head, barely ghosting your lips over that dark and physical memory.

“I love you,” you remind him.

“I know, I love you,” he replies.

“You’re wonderful,” you say, your tone shifting just slightly as the mood edges away from heavy and serious. “I’ve been doing nothing but leading you on and you’re barely cross with me. What an improvement.”

“My thanks,” he laughs, you’re wrapped up in that reedy sound again.

“I think I’m ready,” you say.

You take his cock in hand again, its interest hasn’t dulled in the slightest. Adrian grunts low in his throat, his hips bucking minutely. His hands are still at your hips, his fingers squeezing your soft skin and urging you forward.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, shaking your head. Adrian squeezes more insistently, but does not force you to move past your pace. You note his desire and press a kiss to the centre of his collarbones.

All the while, your hand works over him. Until it pauses, releases him and tucks itself between your legs.

“Let me--” he starts. He looks at your face, finding his favourite brand of passion in your eyes. “I am allowed to touch you, after all.”

“Yes, you are,” you say. But you do not move to grant any ease of entry.

“Allow me to occupy myself,” he replies, “I would like the opportunity to return your careful attention.”

“As you wish,” you sigh, sitting up on your knees and withdrawing your own hand.

Adrian pushes his fingers between your thighs, eager to please. You push your legs apart and he wastes no time. He cups your sex, feeling it under his palm. You’re hot, wet, as needy as he but far better at hiding it. He drags a finger up your hairline fracture, the pad of his middle finger catching on your clit.

You moan, the sound of you is almost as addling as the smell. Your desire is another perfume, it makes it difficult to concentrate enough to please. But you have been just as good for him, he admits, and you deserve the best that he can offer.

“Do you like this?” he asks as his finger draws small circles. You nod, catching a moan between your teeth and trapping it. You’re never as loud as he, you keep your noises locked up tight.

That’s all right, he thinks. There is enough time to undo you, too.

His finger grazes you, moving lower until it’s poised over your entrance. Adrian dips it inside you, careful not to demand anything of your body too quickly. You give a sound like a weight has been lifted and part your thighs a little more. You lower your hips, finding a comfortable position so that he can satisfy.

“It’s good,” you say, “you’re good at this.”

His finger curls, sinking into you. He works it in and out almost lazily, the task of caring for your clit delegated to his thumb. It makes your legs shake with almost no effort on his part, Adrian’s delighted.

He presses his index finger into you shortly after, delighting in your audible gasp. You smile at him, brushing his hair from his eyes yet again. You press a kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes shut tight when he curls his fingers just right, seeking out a spot inside you that will pull you from silence. Its discovery is heralded with a loud moan of his name.

“All right,” you say, “I’m ready for more.”

And though he could easily entertain you like this all night, Adrian allows you to leave his hand and sit back up. He puts his fingers to his tongue, cleaning them as you stare with a sheepish smile on your face.

“Out to murder me,” you huff. He gives a small shrug. No use in denying it.

His hand returns to your hip as you pick his cock up from his belly. It’s pale as his skin, but flushed red and a pretty pink near the head. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him, you note. You line him up and settle on his length with a shaky sigh, wasting no more time now.

“Oh, my love,” you say. He grips you tighter and watches your shifting expression. From excitement to relief as you take him in, Adrian is awestruck by how beautiful you look.

“Yes?” he asks, barely able to form a single-syllable word. Everything feels pleasantly hazy, the night embraces the two of you as easily as you hold him.

“Fuck me,” you say, “until I finish.”

You’re satisfied with his work, clearly. Adrian smiles, showing sharp fangs before his hips begin to move against yours. Up and down, his thrusts shallow, he does his best to please you a second time.

It’s perfect, your hair tickles his face with your forward lean. And other than a few shifts on your part to meet his upward lunges, he’s left to his own devices to do right by you. You rest your hands on either side of his head, leaning in for kiss after perfect kiss.

He breathes out of habit, because you do it. Your natural behaviour is naturally emulated. He can feel your heart racing in your chest, Adrian draws a hand up from your hip and presses his palm to the valley between your breasts so that he can feel how it races.

Your eyes close, you’re lost in a good feeling. His hand at your breast is short-lived, quickly relocated where it was before you decided you wanted more. Adrian’s middle finger prods your clit again, making you straighten up and sigh his name yet again.

He thrusts with all the eagerness and desperation of someone needing to prove themself. But he knows that no such action is required of him, you trust him completely. It’s a comforting thought, to know that there is no possibility in which he could fail to give you what you want.

He is what you want, he remembers. And you already have all of him.

His shoulders tense, it’s difficult to remain lying down while trying to give you what you need. He could sit up and get a better angle, but that isn’t what you asked of him. Adrian has his orders, to fuck and make you come. He intends to do both.

You are so warm around him, gripping like a vice even as you remain still. He pours his heart into the task, lifting his knees a little to find purchase on the bed. It helps, it gives him a new angle for him to sink into you.

And the new wave of pleasure that washes over you is quickly shown to him. You fall forward, your hands finding his hair and giving short tugs. You know how much he cares for that, he keens and bucks against you.

“Good,” you repeat, “just like that.”

His thrusts falter as exhaustion creeps up on him again. While Adrian is no stranger to physical exertions, he finds himself tiring very quickly. And still, he hasn’t completed his task. You note him slowing, but make no move to push him beyond his limits.

“Are you all right?” you ask. He gives a slower, more languid thrust and nods. “We have all night,” you remind him.

“I know,” he exhales.

“And all morning,” you say, “all afternoon, all night again.” You giggle, the sound is like music. Carefully, you trace the outline of his scar with your finger. “Take as long as you need.”

He hums, pausing a moment and bringing his hand to your cheek. You’re warm in the face, and he is too when you turn your head to kiss his palm. It’s the reassurance he needs.

A few, loving moments pass before he feels up to continuing. The meantime is spent exchanging kisses and fond looks. You put no pressure on him, even with your ability to order him as no one else could. Though you hold the power to make him want to do as is asked of him, that fact is never used as a weapon.

You love him, he thinks. You really do.

And you kiss him every time he begins to miss the feeling of your soft lips against his.

#alucard #alucard x reader #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #castlevania #nsft #so basically he's baby!!!!!#he needed some soft smut okay i'm tired of this grimdark shit #anniewrites

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findingxannie · 3 years

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It’s been a while since I last thought about you, now I can’t seem to get you off my mind

#anniesthoughts #anniewrites

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anne-flowers-blog · 6 years

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Last night I had worship for young adult and Highschool students (I was Young Adult) and the whole time the host kept on reminding us to open our hearts, but not only our hearts our minds as well to the Holy Spirit. When I was kneeling there and praying to Jesus to help me receive the Holy Spirit a name came into my head. I won’t share his name, but all I could do is pray for this young boy I knew through a friend. So, as the week is over (and I’ll start fresh this coming Sunday) I want you to dedicate your prayer to someone. Someone who’s new to their faith, struggling with something, or even ask God to guide you and teach you how to help them. If you’d like use this prayer to remind you of what our Father has done for us: — Father in Heaven, please help me to know you and grow to know you as the generous, wonderful, merciful, and loving Creator God that You are. Help me trust You in what You tell me so You can work miracles in my and the lives of my loved ones. In Jesus’ name. Amen. —

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wonderfullyordinary · 5 years

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Strong enough

A/N: So... Here I am, with my newest creation. Again, it’s addressed to no one, and again, the inspiration to write this came from a song: Rule the World by Zayde Wolf. Though in the song, it’s ‘we’re gonna rule the world’, I’ll let you decide whether my heroine has someone, or not. ;)

A tiny, almost breathless laugh escapes her lips. And that tiny laugh pierces through the tension in the room.

She stares at the person in front of her. Disbelief is written on her features. She moved on and made her dream career a reality. And now, here she is, in front of the person whom she thought she would never see again. At least, she never dared to dream about seeing him again. However, here he is standing, right before her, with a bouquet of red roses in his hand, his head hung low.

‘I’m sorry’, he mutters softly.

And she just stares at him. Mostly because she feels like she’s dreaming. She can’t believe her own ears.

This can’t be real, she tells herself and goes on, this must be some kind of a joke.

She instinctively looks around for hidden cameras but can’t spot any. Then, she, for the first time in who-knows-how-many years, looks into his eyes. His eyes hold a completely different universe to her. A universe full of mysteries and yet undiscovered challenges, waiting for her to discover them. After all, that’s what she used to think of when she looked into them in the past. But she can’t shake off the uneasiness that’s starting to consume her. All those years ago, it was he who let her go, saying that it wouldn’t work out, that they’re not meant to be. That they never were. And now, why does he stand in front of her, in her office?

The rational part of her screams at her to stop even before she can think about anything. But as if her hands would have a mind of their own, she reaches for the roses, to take them. Probably those are not for her anyway, a thought crosses her mind. Yet, the moment he catches on, he lets go of the flowers, which then gently fall into her hands. While she rummages through her neatly arranged office for a vase to put the flowers in, she asks him.

‘So? All of your goals had become a reality, I take it?’ She prays that her uneasiness isn’t apparent in her voice.

She can’t see it, but her question catches the man off guard. He hadn't anticipated this, let alone her kindness towards him. So first, he doesn’t know what to say. Instead, he watches as she pours water into a crystal vase, then arranges the roses to be somewhat symmetrical, and as she puts it in her window, just behind her desk. She sits on top of her desk, her elbow resting on her knee. She places her chin in the palm of her hand and smiles at him. She gestures to one of the seats in front of her desk, for him to sit down already. Which he does, and then, the room falls silent for another short moment. And she’s the one to break it.

‘C’mon! I’m itching to know, you did everything you wanted back then, right?’

It’s a surprise even for her, to talk so carefree with someone who belongs in her past. But she promised herself that she won’t hold any grudges towards anyone the moment she left her city and her country. So, why would she act differently now?

For the first time, a small smile appears on the man’s face.

‘You can say that, yeah.’ Their eyes meet, and he continues. ‘However,’ he trails off.

She tilts her head to the side in curiosity. It doesn’t matter that deep down she has a feeling what’s about to happen.

He stands up from his seat and stands in front of her again, this time, mere inches away from her. Her legs are on either side of his hips, and his hands are flat on her desk, behind her back.

‘There’s something I didn’t have the chance to do…’

Before she can even utter a word, his lips are crashing onto hers in a feverish, all-consuming kiss that takes her breath away. Her heart beating faster and faster in her chest with each passing second.

The way he kisses her is so passionate she can barely keep up with his pace, but somehow, she manages. Her hands are slowly encircled around the back of his neck, gripping at his shirt’s collar. She feels one of his hands on the small of her back, pulling her even closer to him. They let go of each other only for a moment, to try and catch their breaths.

‘I love you’, he whispers into her mouth, about to kiss her again, hungrily.

But her secretary chose this moment to enter her office. Her face is burning in crimson color, her head hanging down in embarrassment, while she stutters:

‘I’m so sorry Miss, but your meeting about the newest movie is in about five minutes.’

She clears her throat in a way that shows clear authority, then softly thanks her secretary for reminding her. Her secretary bows her head and hurriedly scurries out of her office.

She takes one of her folders from her desk, before silently asking him to let her get off of her desk. She briefly smiles at him, then starts for the door.

She didn’t say it back. This time, she was strong enough not to let her emotions take control of her.

#feelings #strong #confidence #anniewrites #short story #original #stories

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princessdeadbeat-blog · 7 years

Text

Daydream

I am not comfortable with my life

I daydream of something better

I daydream of one thing over and over

it is less of a daydream now

more of a haunting tease

at the possibility of a perfect life

I have to hurt people to get there

I have to put myself and the vision first

I don’t like hurting people

but oh god I want to be happy

#deadbeatfiles #anniewrites

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goldenvindication · 5 years

Text

si nequeo superos ; canon-compliant

characters: anise montfort; elise montfort; hadrian werley; brighid calhoun; morgaine selwyn; sairish hadad words: 2.1k warnings: parental death, mild internalized homophobia, annie being scary :o @pleasantprefects heartflower au

flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo - if i cannot move heaven, i will raise hell.

aster - daintiness; trusting

They name her Anise because she is covered in flowers when she is born. Gabriel says her tiny, premature body reminds him of the Jardins de Luxembourg, in Paris, and Elise doesn’t say anything, so he signs the birth certificate with Anise Desdemona - named after the muggle heroine who gave up her life for love, and the flowers that he’d pick in the garden, before he met Elise, before his life changed. Gabriel thought it was for the worse, but seeing the baby girl in his wife’s arms, watching her hand curl around his pinky finger, his mind changes.

When Elise learns of the girl’s name, she scowls. She scowls because the girl’s name was to be Louise or Anna, after her maternal grandparents, but when Gabriel looks at his daughter, he sees only an Anise - an Anise covered in purple flowers stemming from her heart. Sometimes he’ll put his fingers on the petals and rub them between his thumb and forefinger, watching as she coos and giggles.

white lilac - youthful innocence; memories

One of Annie’s favorite memories is of being a muggle. She’s known about magic all her life, and yet it’s muggle Paris, at midnight, which she remembers the most fondly. She’s seven, and she shouldn’t be up - Gabriel knows that, and so does his mother, who chastises him when they get home.

But it’s Paris at midnight, and Papa takes her up to the Pont des Arts to see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. She thinks it’s beautiful, and Papa holds her little hand as they walk across the bridge. She begs to go on the manege, with the horses, but it’s closed now. Papa puts Annie on his shoulders and she watches, eyes wide, as the tower lights up.

He smiles, and like magic (which she knows is real, but she also knows he doesn’t have), he produces a lock out of his pocket. He says, will you lock it with me, ma fleur?, and she giggles, nods, and he puts her down. She takes one look at the lock, and it turns bright blue, her favorite color, instead of the silver it was.

Gabriel’s shocked. He knew his wife could do that, but for some selfish reason, he hoped that Annie wouldn’t. He’d hoped that Annie would be a… what was it called, a squib, so that she wouldn’t have to be like that family. She had his name, she should have been like him, because if she was, he could have taken her away. He could have kept her here, with her grandmere and her cousins who were actually her age.

But Annie squeals with glee and touches the lock, trying to change it to a different color, but she could only do it once. Gabriel promises her that Mother will teach her soon, when she’s a little older, and her eyes brim with tears. She wanted to do magic like Julia and Isla! He quickly distracts her with the key to the lock, and they lock it together. And soon enough, where his hands are on top of hers, white lilac grows.

When they come back, Clementine Montfort is still awake, and she speaks harshly to Gabriel in rapid French, and still, Annie understands. But Grandmere takes one look at the lilacs on Annie’s hands, and she knows. She puts Annie to bed and shows her the blue tulips on her heart, and plucks one for Annie to keep under her pillow.

arborvitae - everlasting friendship

Annie is eleven and Roscoe has gone back to his dorm, and she is a Ravenclaw. Annie knew she’d be a Ravenclaw. There was no doubt in her, or her mother’s, or her grandmother’s mind, even though the Hat told her she’d do well in Slytherin. Annie disagreed. She is eleven and she wants to be different from her parents, but she misses her Papa and the double life she got to live in Paris the year before.

She’s eleven and alone, and she’d say hello to her roommates, but they don’t seem to like her too much. She’d talked and talked at the feast, and even the prefects had been annoyed at her. Annie finds herself a place in the little library, in a nook on the side. There’s someone across from her, but she ignores him as she takes a long look at her Potions book, but what the heck is a dittany? Annie furrows her brow and stares at the page for way too long, until she spots the tall boy with really big glasses across from her. He looks smart, smarter than her, but he also looks engrossed in… Alas, I’ve Transfigured my Feet? What? Annie bothers Werley until he relents to teaching her, then listens to Werley drone on out of the “kindness” of his heart. As she watches him, arborvitae leaves grow around her thin arms.

She doesn’t really understand why - once Grandmere had learned of her condition, she’d given Annie that weird French book on Victorian flower meanings, saying that it was genetic through Montfort girls -- but Annie wasn’t a Montfort.

Grandmother had told her that she was a Castellaine, and that she was only Montfort by name. “Nothing else,” Grandmother would say, as she inspected the blossoms on Annie’s hands. “You are nothing like your father or his kin. You are a Castellaine, like me, like your grandfather, like your mother before you. You are a witch - in everything but name.”

But from Grandmere’s book, her muggle book, Annie knows that arborvitae is a type of coniferous plant, and that it means everlasting friendship. If the flowers said so, it would have to be true. In that moment, Annie decides that Hadrian Werley (he’d tell her his first name later) would become her best friend. It didn’t matter if he had others.

linaria bipartita - please notice my feelings for you

Annie meets Brighid in her fourth year, and everything changes.

Brighid’s in her Arithmancy class, and Annie’s noticed her before, she has. She’s noticed dark brown hair falling down the girl’s back, she’s noticed thin wrists writing while Annie wasn’t, she’s heard her voice, but not much, she wasn’t outspoken - and she’s definitely noticed pursed pink lips when Annie was called on to answer a question that Brighid obviously knew the answer to.

But Annie’s not gay. She’s not. She likes Cahal a lot; he’s really nice, but she won’t let him kiss her. Kisses on the cheek are fine, but she doesn’t let him touch her more than that. She doesn’t know why he doesn’t protest. It might be because of the way he looks at Babineaux when he thinks Annie isn’t looking.

Brighid begins to tutor Annie in Arithmancy, and Annie notices more. She notices how passionate Brighid is about this godforsaken subject, and she doesn’t understand how. She notices how pretty her eyes are when that specific light from that specific window next to the table in the back hit them. And worst of all, she begins to think about how those pink lips would feel pressed against her own.

Linaria bipartita flowers grow up her ribcage. She tells Hadrian first.

marigold - pain and grief

October ninth was set up to be a normal day, but when Sairish Hadad comes frantically into the Ravenclaw common room, everyone can tell that something is wrong. She calls for Montfort, and just then, Annie comes downstairs in her school robes. It’s a normal day, and she fiddles with the pleats on her skirt. Professor Hadad meets Annie’s eyes, and gestures for her to come with her.

Annie is in trouble, she knows it. Her grades had dropped in DADA -- but Hadad looks scared and sad, not disappointed.

As Annie is lead to the tower, there is a cup of tea for her there. She’s sat down in front of Hadad’s desk, and spoken to very gently.

Those first moments don’t feel real. She stares at Hadad for a long, long moment, and then bursts into tears. Papa is dead, and she is here. She can’t go home - but it wasn’t as if she wanted to. Mother wouldn’t be sad, Grandmother might even be triumphant. It sickened her to think of it, but as she cried, Professor Hadad pulls her into a tight hug, but Annie can’t hear anything.

Grief is hard, Anise, she says. You’re a strong witch, she says, but Annie can’t feel a thing. She can’t feel a thing as she plucks each white lilac from her hands and fingers and watches as dark marigolds grow in their place.

blue tulip - respect; tranquility; trust

Annie meets Morgaine Selwyn the next month and then promptly tries to pull her wand on the woman. Hadrian stops Annie, but she’s furious. This woman must have killed her father, or knows who did, with all of the blood-supremacist bullshit she’s spewing.

But Superbia is kind and calm with her. She explains everything, she apologises, promises her that it everything will be worth it - as long as Annie is loyal.

The Vindication gives Annie place and a purpose. They say destroy her favorite professor’s tower, and she does. When she asks Superbia why, after, Superbia tells her that it was a test. They were making sure she was loyal; that she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t. Annie doesn’t question anymore. She never gives them a reason to distrust her loyalty after that.

Blue tulips grow behind her ear, up her temples, and she wears them like trophies.

honeysuckle - devoted affection; bonds of love

Annie kisses Brighid in the rain after the Halloween dance, and all seems right with the world. Brighid’s hand in hers is perfection, like the warmest blanket on a cold day, and she smells like the jasmine essence from the prefects’ bathroom.

Annie kisses her and kisses her, and she doesn’t let go until Brighid pulls away. She tells Annie that she isn’t sure about any of this, that she isn’t sure that she wants commitment right now. Annie says she isn’t sure either. That is a lie. Annie says kiss me until you are. That isn’t.

Honeysuckle blossoms grow up her ribcage. She’d pick them all for Brighid.

red dahlia - betrayal; dishonesty

They tell the Elder Futhark to kill Alis Murray after a tea party. Annie starts to doubt once again. She doesn’t mean to, they’ve done so much for her already, but she doesn’t understand. Annie doesn’t know how to kill anyone. She’s not powerful. She’s never used a killing curse or even a jinx for real.

Ira tells Annie she isn’t being creative enough. She tries again, but it’s too late before the four older kids have figured something out. Annie’s angry. They were supposed to do this as a team, she says, why don’t you want to be a team?

Davis hits a cursed bludger at Murray during a Quidditch match. She survives, and Annie wants to punch Gemma Watts. She wants to punch Gemma Watts right in her stupid, smug face, and tell her that she was wrong. Annie knows she was right, that they’d have to work together, but Annie also knows that Gemma Watts wouldn’t care.

They form a plan. They execute that plan practically flawlessly. Locke makes the potion. Davis puts the potion into chocolate. Annie gets Alis Murray to take her back to the classroom where Murray will die, from Professor Cavanagh giving her those chocolates. Murray gives Annie a music box to give to her Brighid, for Valentine’s Day, she says. Red dahlias grow up Annie’s spine.

Her Brighid kills Murray. Her beautiful, stoic Brighid kills a woman, and Hadrian does too. Then, after, they pretend to go ice-skating.

begonia - beware; a fanciful nature

They tell her to spread the ideals, so she does. She becomes powerful, leading a group of people at a tea party, telling them about the eradication of wizards without magic. She tells her proteges how much better the world would be if magic was not just given away.

She finds herself not wanting to be like her father anymore. She finds herself wanting to be pure, like her mother. She wishes she’d never been to France, and that her father hadn’t robbed her of her birthright. The marigolds stay.

And when she sees herself in the mirror, she can barely recognize the platinum-haired girl staring back at her, with begonias across her shoulders. Anise likes it better this way.

#annie #anniewriting #she's scary guys!! i'm not sorry!!!#applebyarrows-official #virtus-vindicta-victoria #heartflower au

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annie-of-my-eye · 1 year

Note

For your earlier reblog: Your Colour In Me - 2, 5, 9

I don't know how I'm supposed to format this answer, but I'm happy that you have responded! Also, vampires! My night is made \o/

2: What scene did you first put down?

If I remember correctly Aceslow won a prize fic at some point from me, I think, or picked a prompt, and I was working on writing more concise little ficlets, so Rouge was basically written in one sitting and clocked in under 1000 words. I actually didn't have anything planned for the second chapter, let alone the rest of the series. Each one was written without any overarching plan being in place, which is not how I usually like to write at all. It was an experience, and the most off the cuff, seat of my pants thing I've written outside of individual, stand-alone prompt meme ficlets.

So, to answer your question more clearly, that opening scene, of Yibo fallen at the bottom of a hole, jeans torn and leg bleeding, was the first scene I wrote.

5: What part was hardest to write?

The final part took me the longest to write. Time had passed, each new addition to the series developed pretty independently of the others, just based on the resulting emotion or circumstances that followed on after the previous parts, but by the final part I needed to pull all the threads together, and answer the question: how DOES Xiao Zhan feel? He's ageless and should be so unaffected by everything, but he's clearly attached to Yibo. Just, diving into his POV for the final entry into the series means I finally had to explore his motivations outside of just the immediate fascination with Yibo, and I am actually very pleased with how that turned out.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

I'd very often think about what the next addition to the series should explore, and pick at it until I found a shining detail to build the focus on, and I really wanted to include a full dive into Xiao Zhan's past, how he got turned. I also considered showing him keeping tabs on Yibo when he vanished, but I ended up only referring to it instead of spending time on it. There's no alternate version I would have preferred to have written.

I have been tempted to write a epilogue, but I did sort of post one on twitter. I really enjoy writing vampires, and writing Yizhan as vampires, so really, if you want true alternatives to this series, just read any of my other vampire Yizhan fic, especially the vampire takes in my prompt meme fill, that explores different flavours of vampire vibes. Your Colour In Me was very much me having fun with the style, its sort of gothic romance-ish, while Taste of Your Heartbeat is just modern day vampires, and the prompt meme has vampire/bodyswap and menacing vampire vibes.

#anniewrites #writer memes #ao3 writer #new to tumblr #link to original reblog with questions is in the ask

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anniebotao3 · 1 year

Text

Chance Meeting

Published 08 January 2021 | E-rated | 3985 words | Oneshot | Ongoing series

Tags: Ji Chong (The Wolf TV)/Xie Yun (Bandits); Wang Yi Bo/Xiao Zhan adjascent; Canon Compliant; Crossover ;Identity; Chance Meetings; Light Dom/sub; Dom Ji Chong/Sub Xie Yun; Blow Jobs; Missing Scene; Xie Yun is a Good Boy; Gentle Dom Ji Chong; Choking; Gift Giving; Episode: s01e05 Legend of Fei (TV); Wang Yi Bo/Xiao Zhan | Sean Character Combinations

Part 1: Encounters Across the Jianghu

Xie Yun is captured sneaking around in Huo Liantoa's prison and runs into an unexpected acquaintance in the process. Ji Chong has wondered all the way to Jianghu in his efforts to get as far away from Kuizhou as possible. It's a chance meeting that's been long overdue.

#fanfiction #anniepromotes #anniewrites #ao3 fanfic #Ji Chong #Xie Yun #Ji Chong/Xie Yun #crossover pairing #Yizhanverse #yizhanmultiverse #chongyun #series

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loviatars · 3 years

Text

Claret Glass

pairing: astarion x gender-neutral main charader (reader) warnings: vampire-y stuff, blood, biting etc rating: mature for above-mentioned reasons word count: 861 notes: a short little fic for my fave -1 int boy. his persuasion skill isn’t high enough for lies but that’s never stopped him!!

“You look a bit pale,” you say, finding the spot on the log next to him to be more uncomfortable than anything.

Astarion is staring off into space, listless as a ghost. But when you speak, his eyes focus. Though the turn of his head is slow, he acknowledges you with a characteristic raise of his eyebrow.

“Well, paler, I suppose,” you add. Your sheepish smile makes him smile in turn, just faintly around the edges. “You haven’t gone out hunting in a bit.”

“Watching me, are you?” he asks, “Keeping an eye on the monster in your midst?”

“Hardly,” you reply. He exhales through his nose, a gesture that is used only to state his opinion on the matter. “Right now I’m only a little worried.”

“I’m touched, really,” he quips. Sitting back is slow, too. His hands fold across his chest and his head tilts up towards the stars. Perhaps he’s trying to tell you in a way more polite than you are used to from him to drop the subject.

“And I’m serious,” you say. Though you’re careful not to make your voice too serious at all. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“Deer and pig blood has been--” he cuts himself off, “difficult for me, the past few nights.”

“Difficult?” you ask. He looks like he would rather die than answer, so you continue. “I don’t-- hm. I never thought that certain types of blood might be more challenging.”

“They can,” he replies. His voice sounds like he intended to snap at you, and you’re both very surprised that he did not.

“You can have a bit more of mine, then,” you offer, like it’s meaningless enough to be easy to say. Astarion blinks, you quickly add, “Only if that would be easier…”

“Again?” he asks, and you nod. He was confused before, if you remember. “Truthfully, I didn’t expect that.”

“I consider it a debt,” you muse. The conversation has turned cold, you dislike it. You want to see him smile again.

“As if I need more of those,” he mutters. Already he shifts across the log, lulled by whatever comfort your blood will provide.

“It’s nothing so serious,” you smile. You adjust your hair so that it falls over your other shoulder, reaching for the buttons at your throat. “Simply that I expect you to return the favour when you become a vampire lord and turn me.”

Astarion freezes, already leaning in towards your neck. You haven’t barred it yet, but the smell of a bared pulse is apparently all that is needed. For a moment, you worry that you’ve touched a nerve inadvertently. Perhaps you have. But either way he decides not to take offense, and doesn’t pull away.

“Can vampires do that?” you ask, “I never thought about it. In which case I declare your debt moot.”

To your great relief, he smiles a little again. The look of fear on his face is lessened.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he says. “If they can, I haven’t seen it.”

It occurs to you that he’s lying. Your brow furrows just a touch, expression reflecting something like hurt feelings. But he is far too interested in the heat of your pulse.

You continue undoing buttons until your armour is loose enough to fall down one shoulder. Though he looks ready to pounce, his eyes flit up to yours one last time. Instead of answering, you shift on the log until you face him. You hold your arms out and he wastes no time crowding into your embrace.

And though he freezes stiff when one of your hands cups the back of his head, and the other rests at the small of his back-- it doesn’t last. Astarion melts against you, his mouth pressing against your throat as a silent gesture of thanks.

Then, you feel teeth.

It hurts, there’s no denying it. A little prick like two needs that mellows to a warm pain. You curl around him tighter, brushing your fingers through his curls to distract yourself. You’ll know when enough is enough, but he can take for a little while.

His shoulders strain and flex, trying to curl around you like a cobra. To your amazement, you laugh into the fabric of his doublet. Your soft but audible giggle startles him, until you feel his fangs carefully dragged up the side of your throat.

“You mustn’t make a mess,” you hiss. The pain isn’t too bad any more, and you didn’t need to urge him to stop.

Astarion apparently is interested only in kissing bloody lip-prints over the column of your neck, coaxing breathy laughs and soft sighs. You roll your eyes, rubbing your palm over his back.

You grip his hair more tightly, coaxing his head back towards the twin wounds. Blood falls in a slow river to pool in your collarbone, he makes a point not to waste a drop as you allow him more.

“I’ll tell you when enough’s enough,” you promise. And though you can’t see his face, you hear the smirk in his voice.

“Well,” he breezes, already touching his cool lips to your skin again. “If you insist.”

#astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg #baldur's gate fic #baldurs gate fic #anniewrites #short and meh while i work on his voice for larger projects <3 #blood //#violence //

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annhellsing · 4 years

Text

Rough One

notes: soooo i started this at a deeply unchristian hour and it turned smutty on me, of course it did. welcome to keishin fucker’s anonymous!!! rating: explicit, there’s wall sex!! pairing: ukai keishin / reader word count: 2,322

It’s difficult, remembering to romanticize even the unkind moments in your life. And waking up before six o’clock in the morning, you’re convinced, is deeply unkind.

You can see Kurasuno high school on the hill, at the other end of the steep slope. It looks clean and faint-orange in the half-sunrise from your spot far down the street. You stare, in a haze of wishing you were still asleep for several minutes.

And then you return to your senses. You lift your chin up a fraction and breathe in cold, early-spring air. The storefront to your right is crowded outside with vending machines, you’re almost tempted to grab a bottle of iced coffee and try to take a nap in your office.

But you shake your head, too tired merely dismiss the thought in your mind. The bell rings above your head when you open the door.

A man sits behind the counter, his hair spiked and his eyes tired. His bangs are held back with a headband, you pause a moment before turning down an aisle to look at him. He’s blonde and handsome, with his nose buried in a magazine.

He looks up at you just for a second before returning to the article he’s reading. His smile is slow and sleepy. It makes you feel warm in the pit of your stomach.

“Morning,” he offers up when he isn’t looking at you any more. You nod.

“Good morning,” you return.

You drift off down the aisle sporting bandages and rubbing alcohol, picking up a bottle of contact solution. Then you stare blankly at the labels on the pre-packaged food, considering breakfast somewhat distantly. The only time your vision is in any way pointed is when you turn your head to look at the clerk.

He’s more than handsome, you decide.

You think of your bed and its fluffy duvet, unmade and well-loved. You washed your sheets last night, and rolling between them with him would be nice. Passing in and out of sleep, his lips at your neck and shoulder.

You look at him again, at his tongue that darts out to wet his upper lip. His eyes aren’t moving across the magazine page.

He’s handsome and you want to take him home.

Your shoulders droop and you decide on what you’re going to eat, picking up the package and tucking it under your arm. As much as you’d like to mill about, stealing glances at this very beautiful man-- it’s getting later by the second. And you’ve made promises this morning.

“Just this?” he asks when you set your items down on the counter. He’s set his magazine down in preparation. And though he seems as sleep-addled as you, you appear to have his full attention.

“Mm,” you mutter in return. He quirks an eyebrow.

“You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he replies, gesturing to the heatbox at his elbow where meat buns slowly spin. “Want one of these? No charge.”

“Are you kidding?” you ask, giving a little smile that borders on playful. And he seems almost embarrassed at the offering.

“The high schoolers eat ‘em all up around eight, so you’re here just in time,” he continues. You shrug and open the heat box, taking a bun and putting it on the counter for him to ring up.

“I promised I’d meet my boyfriend up at the gym,” you say, “he coaches the volleyball team. I wanted to see them practice.”

“You must love him an awful lot to get up this early,” he comments. You smirk.

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “Hey, I was in the medicine aisle and--”

“Something not there?” he asks, he almost looks impatient. Your smile widens.

“Condoms,” you say, “you sell that here?”

He glances at the door behind you, then at the clock on the wall immediately above it. Then, he returns your impish smile and stands up from his stool.

“In the back,” he says, “be lucky my mother’s not here.”

“Lead the way,” you reply, your purchases forgotten on the counter.

You follow close behind him, putting your hands on Keishin’s waist. He feels warm, his pace slowing considerably so that you can fold your arms around him.

“I said in the back for a reason,” he tells you, “I don’t want to traumatize my customers.”

“I love you,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. His blue tracksuit is faded and worn, the material scratching your lips. He sighs.

“Love you, too,” he says, “come on, we gotta be up at the gym in half an hour.”

“Wow,” you start, he takes your hand and keeps walking. You’re pulled along behind him. “I have you all to myself for a whole half hour? Think of the possibilities.”

“Oh, I have,” he says, “weird stunt, pretending you don’t know me.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking,” you admit, “it was kinda hot, though.”

“You make the oddest shit really hot,” he replies. That heat in your stomach burns a little brighter. “That’s a compliment,” he adds.

“Thank you,” you say.

His hand, the one not gripped in yours, reaches into his tracksuit pocket. Keishin takes out the back room key and unlocks the door, flicking the light on as he guides you inside. The door is safely locked behind you.

“Someone could rob the place,” you tell him. But he’s already turned around, an expression other than exhaustion on his face.

“You think I care?” he asks. You shake your head.

You move towards him, putting your hands on his broad chest and moving him back towards the wall. The shelves are stacked close together with overstock items, but there’s enough room to move between them. You press Keishin back against the wall, applying affectionate pressure.

“I was thinking about you,” you say, “what we could be up to right now if we were both home.”

“Well, it is Friday,” he says, “I don’t have to coach on Saturdays until ten o’clock.”

“We can have more fun tomorrow,” you start, moving closer and pressing your chest against his. You dip your head, taking a soft kiss from him that he eagerly returns. “But I want you now.”

“You got me,” he smiles. He kisses you again, just a quick peck, like he needs it to live. “You can have me.”

You intend to.

You take his tracksuit zipper and tug it down, opening his jacket. You push your hands under his shirt, and though he flinches at how cold they are, he doesn’t complain. His chest is soft, but you can feel firm muscle underneath as you press him back against the wall.

Keishin turns his head to the side, covering his mouth just in time as he yawns. And though you try to giggle at him, the same compulsion takes you over.

“Jerk,” you kiss him again, for longer this time. He tastes like cigarettes and you don’t have the energy to tease him about that. But he can tell when you pull away that it’s a conscious choice not to comment.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, like he’s trying to make up for it. You roll your eyes.

“I know,” you say, leaning in again and kissing his jaw. Your hands push his shirt up his chest, but you’re too short on time to undress him. “So are you.”

The chatter fades to sluggish silence, broken up by the sound of Keishin’s appreciatory grunts. When you nip at his neck, his head lolls back to allow you better access. You hold him, pressed between your chest and the wall. Your heartbeat is loud as thunder against his, he wishes he had three hours at hand.

No, he doesn’t. He knows how important practice is to his team, how much of a fight it is to force them to sleep in on Saturdays. But his mind drifts to tomorrow, to doing this with more time to spare.

He rolls his shoulders, pressing back against you. When your hand skirts over the front of his pants, Keishin groans in your ear. The sound wakes you up a little bit, spurs you to action. You palm him a little more heavily, feeling his half-hard bulge stir and throb.

“You were thinking about me,” you say. He laughs, still close to your ear. The sound raises goosebumps on your neck.

“I already told you that,” he reminds you. Keishin cuts himself off with a low moan when your hand slips past the waistband of his pants. But, even with the time crunch you seem determined to be a tease.

You toy with him over his boxers, pressing your palm harder against him. He leans back against the wall, going rigid before relaxing. His smirk is still tired, but now it’s for a different reason.

“Love you,” you tell him again, placing a delicate kiss at the corner of his mouth. He turns his head, chasing your lips.

“Love you, too,” he sighs.

“Where are the condoms, Kei?” you ask, nudging his jugular with your nose. You kiss where his pulse point flutters.

His hand darts out, fumbling on the shelf beside you. He turns to look only for a second, grabbing the first box he touches and giving them up.

“Switch with me,” he says, you inspect the box and tear the top open. His hands on his shoulders guide you around him until your back is pressed against the wall instead.

“All right,” you say, “but don’t get any funny ideas. Who’s in charge here?”

“Trust me,” he huffs, “it’s you. It’s always going to be you.”

You smile at that, happy to find genuine earnestness overcoming the sleepy expression on his face. Keishin stands back far enough for you to shift the box of condoms from your hand to the crook of your elbow, you push his pants down his thighs.

“Wait--” he starts, “hang on, I want to--”

“Ten minutes or less,” you warn him, “I know how you get when you’re fingering me. You can go forever.”

“Only you would think that’s a bad thing,” he mumbles. But he kisses your exasperated look away, and in the very same breath that he coaxes you to lift your leg.

You hook it around his hip, granting him access up your skirt and between your legs. Keishin wastes none of the precious time he has to begin his exploration, dragging the pads of his middle and ring finger over the crotch of your panties.

The box of condoms slips, you hurry to snatch a packet from it before your grip fails and it falls to the ground. With one in your fist, you loop your arms around his neck.

“You’re pretty,” he tells you, hooking his finger through the gusset and tugging the cloth aside. He’s gentle, almost to a fault and when he circles your clit it’s almost frustratingly light in pressure.

“More,” you whisper, “now. We don’t have time for teasing.”

“Hey,” he says, “you’re telling me you weren’t being a tease when you had your hand down my pants?”

“That’s different,” you sigh.

“Yeah, how?” he asks. You shake your head.

“It’s funny to watch you look so needy,” you reply.

“Funny, huh?” he asks, you open your eyes and watch his expression turn playfully sinister. “Well, I could say the same about you.”

“Whatever happened to me--” you cut yourself off, strangling a moan as Keishin finally deigns to press a little harder on your clit. It’s not painful, far from it, it’s the perfect amount of contact. It takes a moment for you to right yourself before repeating, “What happened to me being in charge?”

“You call the shots, same as always,” he says. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you insist, gripping his neck ever-tighter. “Please, no.”

“Since you asked so nicely--” he teases, slipping his fingers forward and sinking one inside you.

It’s jarring how quickly it happens, Kei can draw out foreplay with the best of them. But you look at the storeroom clock and realize with a sinking feeling in your stomach that it’s already fifteen minutes to seven.

“Hurry,” you whisper, tugging on his jacket with more impatience than you have energy.

“We got time,” he says, “we still got time. Come here.”

You’re pulled against him, hugged tight with one arm and your back is spared the wall. Keishin holds you there for a moment, wrapping you up in his warmth and the faint smell of smoke. You wish, more than anything, that you could fall asleep like that.

“Give me the rubber, babe,” he says. You drop it into his open palm and snake your arm back around his neck as quickly as you can.

He fumbles with it, content to lead while you have a rest. He tears the foil with his teeth and wastes no time rolling it down his cock.

“Ready?” he asks. You lift your head from his shoulder and kiss his cheek.

“Yes,” you tell him. He shifts, holding you against the wall and lining himself up.

In a slow, unassuming motion, Keishin eases into you. You fall forward again on his shoulder, too warm and content to stifle a moan.

“Now, that’s what I like to hear,” he grunts, pushing inside slow enough that you feel only a pleasant stretch.

His hand helping your leg stay wrapped around him relocates, finding its new home just above your joining. He teases your clit just as before, applying barely any pressure.

He starts up fast, rocking his hips and setting a pace that has you reeling. His middle finger presses harder, tapping and rolling over your clit in time with his shallow thrusts. You grab him tight, burying your head in his neck. You’re determined to leave as many love bites as you can below the collar, before you run out of time.

#ukai keishin #keishin ukai #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #ukai #ukai x reader #keishin x reader #keishin ukai x reader #ukai keishin x reader #haikyuu fic #haikyuu ukai #anniewrites #winks @ u all #this came outta almost nowhere #i did mean to write this for a while but #it happened quicker than i thought!!

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findingxannie · 5 years

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I feel so much, but feel so little

The curse of being a pisces is that I’m always in pieces. It hurts so much to think I don’t matter. That I am nothing to others.

#anniewrites #anniesthoughts

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ahoyscoop · 5 years

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Prompt: Peter fractures his arm after a bad fall and tries not to alert Mr. Stark, which ends up not working, because Tony has a panic attack at the sight of him.

Peter’s always careful of his swinging. He has to beーflying a hundreds of feet over New York isn’t exactly the safest thing he could be doing. On top of that, there’s Aunt May who’s already lost everyone, so. He kind of owes it to her to not die.

So he’s not exactly sure what went wrong after he realizes he’s free falling and everything is going way, way too fast.

Karen immediately jumps into action without Peter even saying anything. Thankfully, she’s quick with her, “Peter, I’m activating the Impact-Absorber, okay? It’s going to be alright. Hang on.”

Peter wants to ask her a million questions about what just happened, but he feels like he’s not really hanging on tight at all. Falling feels like time slows down, but Peter knows he’ll hit the ground soon enough. He waits for impact, but it takes too long. Too, too long. New York looks pretty as he drifts.

“Peter? Peter, you’re okay. It’s me, Karen. You fell after your web fluid weakened and your grip slipped. You are six miles from Stark Tower. Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark?”

Peter comes to, feeling like Karen’s talking in another language. She’s saying too many sentences at once.

“Karen, Karen.” He can feel his right arm moving around, waving, telling her to slow down, but his other arm feels off. Wrong. Twisted, almost. “Karen, can you- can you slow down? I-just. I-I’m not getting what you’re saying.”

“I apologize, Peter. It’s Karen here. You’re injured.”

Okay. Shorter sentences. Cool. Understandable. “How bad?” He’s used to receiving the shorter end of the stick, and he doesn’t exactly feel much pain, so. Shock’s the best drug, huh.

“You have a fractured arm after the landing. The Impact Absorber of your suit took most of the damage, but you landed awkwardly. Are you in pain?”

Peter slowly inches off the ground. “Yeah, it’s starting to kick in,” he admits.

“Contacting Mr. Stark.”

“What? No, no! Cancel, Karen! No! Mr. Stark does not need to know about this!”

“Peter, I’m instructed to alert Boss when you’re in pain.”

“Karen.”

Peter can hear her sighing in his head but nevertheless, she cancels the command. He breathes a sigh of relief. The last thing Mr. Stark needs is Spider-Man on the bench.

Peter’s not usually this late. Tony slumps against the coach in the lab, his eyes closed. He’s actually looking forward to today’s session with Peter in particular since all his other projects have him drained. The kid has young eyes and can usually figure out a solution pretty quick. It helps that Peter doesn’t quit commentating while he works, which is always a nice distraction from the demons that constantly plague Tony.

His headaches have gotten increasingly worse lately and his attention span has decreased. He has to take breaks more frequently or black spots start dancing in his eyes.

“Hey, Fri, can you call Peter?”

She dials the call but it goes to voicemail. Knowing Tony, she calls again, only to receive no response. Tony asks for a couple texts to be sent out.

He waits.

The route to Stark Tower has never seemed longer. With every step, Peter feels a stab of pain shoot through his entire body, but he can’t risk taking a cab. First of all, he has his suit on, and he can’t change out of it because his arm’s bruising dark purple, and he can’t even move it anymore. He tucks his hand close to his stomach to avoid jostling it. So the route takes twice as long, despite Peter sneaking into the back of pickup trucks and taking the alleyways when needed. He decides that his best bet is to keep his arm tucked near his side, and by the time he gets to the Compound, his healing should take its course.

He doesn’t check his phone, because it’s in his left pocket. He doesn’t even notice it vibrating, because the pain is so disorienting. But he’ll be okay. It’ll heal soon enough.

Tony’s hands begin to shake thirty minutes after Peter should have arrived at the Compound. He’s anxious but he doesn’t want to invade the kid’s privacy all the time. Like, yeah, he’s overprotective, but he doesn’t want to make Peter nervous about it.

He’ll get here. He’ll get here. Soon. Soon enough.

Peter arrives in all his glory, an hour late, pain etched all over his face. Tony opens the door a millisecond after the bell rings, because he had resigned to waiting there to calm some of his nerves.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he says, but the words are barely making it out of his mouth. He’s making a conscious effort to speak clearly. “Sorry for being late. I- I fell, and I didn’t wanna worry you about it, and I had planned for things to go as normal today, but my arm just. It started hurting, like, a lot? And I don’t think the healing’s working properly? And I figured that you’d be kind of mad if you figured out how bad it was later, so-so, um, yeah, I’m just telling you now.”

All his words seem to come out in one breath, and Tony doesn’t know how he makes any sense of it, but somehow, his mind connects the fragments and his eyes are adjusting and they focus on-

A very dark purple, disturbing, slightly-in-the-wrong-place left arm that Peter’s clutching close to his stomach. His skin is ghostly colored and Tony knows that if Peter’s admitted to being in pain, then the pain must be on an entirely different spectrum.

He launches into commands, his brain, once again, a step ahead of his body. FRIDAY is responding left and right and there’s calls being placed and he can hear? See? Bruce, maybe? He can feel his hands trying to clutch onto something, anything, anything, because Peter’s hurt, but it’s not Toomes, or collapsing buildings, or anything. Peter’s fine. A little worse for wear, but overall okay.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Wait a second.

I’m falling?

Suddenly Tony feels arms around his shoulders, and he thinks he might be blind. Temporary blindness, they said. When he plummeted from the sky at a thousand miles an hour, and New York was falling around him, but he doesn’t remember seeing any of it. He doesn’t think he was able to. It was darkness, but Tony didn’t feel like he couldn’t see. So it might have been entirely bright. Either way, he’s taken back to that moment in the brief pummeling he feels.

Tony, Tony. Tony. It’s Rhodey. You’re okay. Just fine. Open your eyes, Tones. You can see, I’ve got you. Open ‘em.

It takes more than a few seconds to manifest, but he’s still falling through time. Only when he opens his eyes, Rhodey’s in front of him, and he’s looking very carefully at Tony, and holding him with even more care, as if Tony’s the most fragile person in the world.

In Rhodey’s world, he is.

He’s lowered onto the couch, but he can feel himself moving, restraining against Rhodey’s tight grip. He’s also….forgetting something. In the midst of that...panic attack, he realizes that he forgot Peter.

“Tony. Tony, don’t fight back. Relax, I’ve got you. Don’t fight it. You’re safe, in New York, everyone’s totally fine.”

He wants to believe it, but they said the same thing to him when Maria and Howard died. They said everything was fine, but they weren’t there for him anymore, and it was the worst lie he was told.

He doesn’t stop fighting Rhodey, because he can’t stop thinking about the news article from that day.

It feels like his brain’s walking through slush to effectively form a word, but he tries. “P...P..Rhodes- I, I-, please, Peter.”

He tries remembering what it was about Peter that made him anxious, but it’s too much now. He feels the panic rise again, and this time, he has enough sense to warn Rhodey.

“Rhodes, Fall. Falling. Catch me. Please.”

And then he feels Rhodey catching him again, because he does that best. The world goes a little haywire for him after that, but this time, unlike New York, he remembers.

The blindness comes in the form of white light.

Peter remembers entering Stark Tower to a frantic Tony, his hair a mess and eyes red, hands shaking. Peter had started to explain but things went haywire in seconds. Something triggered Tony, and before he could even try to listen for Tony’s response to his long explanation, Tony was making calls and ordering people for various tasks, but his words were slurring and Friday had heard enough of Tony in a panic state to understand him, apparently, because the next thing Peter knew, he was being whisked away to the medbay on a stretcher and Tony was falling. He doesn’t remember where the stretcher came from or how it got there so quick, or how it felt when they rolled him on his back and his arm was jostled violently, but it was so quick that it seemed to have never happened. He saw Bruce, who was in his white coat, and then there was Rhodey who was helping Tony who had collapsed, and Peter remembers that he had reached for Tony, because he was shocked to see his own arm outstretched like that, very dark and spotty and bloody, and he didn’t know when it got that bad. Bruce had pushed him back onto the stretcher and told him everything was going to be fine, but Peter had felt confused and guilty because he had caused some part of this. He thinks he might have thrashed around and been a difficult patient, because there was a hint of green on Bruce’s neck, though it quickly went away and was softened with his smile. They tied him to a bed pretty quickly, so it must have been bad.

All in all, the whole ordeal makes Peter’s head hurt, so he tries to inch out of the bed in the medbay to find someone who can get him some pain meds. His arm’s in a sling and it still throbs, but he knows there’s definitely something wrong if his healing powers didn’t come into play.

He knows he can probably call someone by pressing a button, but there’s not much wrong with his legs, so he should be able to get up-

Bad idea, Peter thinks, as soon as his socks touch the floor. The sudden change in orientation causes a dizzy spell that he can’t just walk off, so he resorts to listening to his ailing body for once, and just-- Sits. Right on the floor.

They’ll find him soon enough.

Tony awakes to a high ceiling, and it takes him a few seconds to orient himself. Stark Tower. Ceiling. The Den. A figure pops into his view, and it takes a bleary second for him to breathe out, “Rhodey.”

“Hey, man. You gave us a real scare back there. Feeling okay?”

Tony tests his limbs and tries moving his hands, and everything seems relatively okay. “I think so, yeah.” When did talking get so hard? “Tired, though.”

“Makes sense. You had a panic attack, by the looks of it. Freaked out the kid, too, but he didn’t have to see most of it. He’s good now, though, don’t worry-” Rhodey says quickly, noting Tony’s sudden change in demeanor. “Here, lie back. Everything’s pretty okay.”

“He may have enhanced healing, but it’s not going to function properly if he doesn’t care for himself. I’m guessing he hasn’t had a proper sleep in about four days, Tony. Or a full meal. I actually found him on the floor. He may even be hallucinating at this point.”

Peter awakes to these sentences being spoken by none other than Bruce, who seems to be in a serious conversation with a frazzled-looking Tony. Has it really been that long since he properly slept? Or ate? He feels surprisingly okay, but then again, drugs really are something else.

Peter remembers that he definitely did get moved- his last memories certainly involve laying on the floor to rest his eyes. God, he’s a menace to deal with. No wonder everyone’s so concerned.

His heart rate must accelerate or something upon waking, because Bruce and Tony are by his side in an instant.

“Hey kid,” Tony says, but he’s not really smiling or anything, so Peter doesn’t know what tone to go for.

Peter goes with, “Hi, Mr. Stark,” and then he doesn’t know what else to say. His fingers find his way to Tony’s, and they wrap around and Peter feels okay again.

“You sure know how to make an entrance, Peter,” Bruce says, and he’s smiling all warm at Peter. He presses down on a couple areas and they must be bruised, because they make Peter wince.

Tony looks down at him sympathetically, tightening his grip around Peter’s (also bruised) hand. “I’m going to make you a suit entirely out of bubble wrap.”

“That’s not cool. I can’t swing around New York looking like a marshmallow.”

“It’s better than having you bedridden, Peter. You could have gotten even more hurt than you already are!” Tony’s voice seems to rise without him meaning to. “Sorry, I just- I can’t look at you like this. I don’t like it.” He pauses. “I can’t, I-I don’t want that on my conscious. Not again. Not you, Pete.” He breaks eye contact with Peter.

There’s no words he can say to make this better, but Peter also can’t move, seeing as Bruce has to restrain him to change his bandages so that Peter doesn’t unintentionally break the railings in the middle of the pain.

So, to say the least, it’s awkward when he says, “Sorry, Mr. Stark, I-uh-I really am. Honestly. I can’t really, uh, move, but like, would you mind a hug?”

The corners of Tony’s lips turn upwards just the slightest, and he lets Peter pull him closer with the hand he’s already holding, and they somehow make it work.

Peter can smell Tony’s shampoo and Tony’s holding him real tight, and it just. Feels really good. It seems to help Tony ease off the stress he’s under, too, because he closes his eyes against Peter’s neck and Peter can feel his eyelashes.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay,” he whispers.

“It’s okay, bud. I’m okay, I just, I-I get worried about you.”

The hug lasts for a long time, and Peter’s world mends itself slowly, piece by piece.

#guys I wrote something finally #anniewrites #would appreciate reblogs!! :)#or likes really anything is great #whump #panic attack #peter parker #fic #tony stark #writers on tumblr #angst #hurt comfort #hurt peter parker #marvel cinematic universe #Spider-Man: Homecoming

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wonderfullyordinary · 5 years

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Too perfect...?

A/N: So... This one is my most recent... I wrote this to no one in particular, but I felt a certain need to write while I was listening to music, and this was the result. If you’d like to listen to something when you’re reading this short story, I recommend Cry Me Out by Pixie Lott, that was the one I listened to.

Constructive criticism is always welcomed, so please, don’t hold back! ☺️❤️

‘It’d have been eventually inevitable.’

‘He didn’t deserve you.’

‘You’re far too perfect.’

It is raining. Raining hard. Her tears are mixed with the raindrops falling on her. Even the sky is crying for her. Or, if you look at it that way, with her.

So much about honesty, she thinks to herself. So much about transparency, her mind goes on. So much about feelings, she sniffles.

It was just like that time. She has been once again played with, and again she’s been thought as nothing but a doormat to walk on. To be used, as they want her to use.

The only thing she can think of it is ‘why’? Why did she let this happen again? She pledged to herself, years ago, not to let herself feel any kind of feeling. Not love, nor anger or hate.

Excuses. Those were simply excuses. Nothing but see-through, evil, bullshit lies, her mind tells her. And she knows it. Those were excuses for making the escape easier. Because it’s easier to shatter someone else’s soul than to face yours and tell yourself that maybe it’d worth the risk. Maybe it’d worth every little fibre in your being, even if it was just for a short time. But it’s not like that. Every-fucking-one in her past was thinking of the easier way. The way that was more comfortable, and hopefully with no obstacles.

‘It’d work out… If it weren’t for our completely opposite goals’, she whispers to herself.

In front of him, she didn’t cry. Just in her mind and soul. Little by little for this guy, she’d be willing to break down her own walls. Even though now, she’s wailing. Because she never knew she could feel like this, and that’s hurting her.

But whatever this guy would have told her, those were again nothing but excuses. Probably, she was the risk-taker between two of them. Though she wouldn’t risk her goals for a man, not entirely, that is, she knew that she’d have been willing to let herself go, to feel happy, even though it was to be for a short while. And that was ripped away from her. Maybe it wasn’t for her, anyway. Probably, her fate was to be on her own for as long as she can. To learn about. To be hurt. To be lied to. To go through hell and then come back a thousand times stronger and more determined. Probably, it was, whatever power resided above there and decided fates, the first step of something bigger. Something better. Maybe it was her much-needed lesson before she leaves for the UK.

She was in fact, for real, a Ferrari 488 Spider. She could never become an Opel Corsa.

They agreed on something. And while she knows that relationships don’t always work that way, somewhere in her, a tiny part of her felt like she could most certainly like him. Maybe even love him. For this once, she let her shield completely down, even though she stayed aware. She was honest. And for once in her life, she let herself feel, without fear. She knows that there are other fish in the sea, yet, here she is, crying her eyes out, spilling her guts to a screen.

What a big mistake, she smirks to herself, tears starting to dry on her face. This was why she closed herself off. Because no one would stick around for more than a few weeks. Because they saw her as ‘too perfect’.

‘I don’t know if what I did was right’, she admits to the empty flat. It feels wrong. Feels wrong that her prideful nature wouldn’t let her say the things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him straight, that he was doing nothing more than searching for fucking excuses to make his escape easier. It feels wrong that she didn’t really get the chance to defend herself. It’s been only poured on her. That even though it’d work out, though they had a short time, they better stop while they can. While they’re not attached to each other.

She looks out of the window from her bed, with a glass of Martini in her hand. As if the outside world could answer her questions:

Why was he looking for excuses? Was he afraid that he wouldn’t be enough for her? That he wouldn’t be satisfied with her?

Or, did she fuck up everything again, just like she always does?

#story #original #relationship #sadness #anniewrites #heartbreak #perfect #short story

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