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bardic-inspo · 2 months

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Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

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A year in illustration, 2023 edition (part one)

(This is part one; part two is here.)

I am objectively very bad at visual art. I am bad at vision, period – I'm astigmatic, shortsighted, color blind, and often miss visual details others see. I can't even draw a stick-figure. To top things off, I have cataracts in both eyes and my book publishing/touring schedule is so intense that I keep having to reschedule the surgeries. But despite my vast visual deficits, I thoroughly enjoy making collages for this blog.

For many years now – decades – I've been illustrating my blog posts by mixing public domain and Creative Commons art with work that I can make a good fair use case for. As bad as art as I may be, all this practice has paid off. Call it unseemly, but I think I'm turning out some terrific illustrations – not all the time, but often enough.

Last year, I rounded up my best art of the year:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/25/a-year-in-illustration/

And I liked reflecting on the year's art so much, I decided I'd do it again. Be sure to scroll to the bottom for some downloadables – freely usable images that I painstakingly cut up with the lasso tool in The Gimp.

The original AD&D hardcover cover art is seared into my psyche. For several years, there were few images I looked at so closely as these. When Hasbro pulled some world-beatingly sleazy stuff with the Open Gaming License, I knew just how to mod Dave Trampier's 'Eve Of Moloch' from the cover of the Players' Handbook. Thankfully, bigger nerds than me have identified all the fonts in the image, making the remix a doddle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/12/beg-forgiveness-ask-permission/#whats-a-copyright-exception

Even though I don't keep logs or collect any analytics, I can say with confidence that "Tiktok's Enshittification" was the most popular thing I published on Pluralistic this year. I mixed some public domain Brother's Grimm art, mixed with a classic caricature of Boss Tweed, and some very cheesy royalty-free/open access influencer graphics. One gingerbread cottage social media trap, coming up:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

To illustrate the idea of overcoming walking-the-plank fear (as a metaphor for writing when it feels like you suck) I mixed public domain stock of a plank, a high building and legs, along with a procedurally generated Matrix "code waterfall" and a vertiginous spiral ganked from a Heinz Bunse photo of a German office lobby.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/22/walking-the-plank/

Finding a tasteful way to illustrate a story about Johnson & Johnson losing a court case after it spent a generation tricking women into dusting their vulvas with asbestos-tainted talcum was a challenge. The tulip (featured in many public domain images) was a natural starting point. I mixed it with Jesse Wagstaff's image of a Burning Man dust-storm and Mike Mozart's shelf-shot of a J&J talcum bottle.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/01/j-and-j-jk/#risible-gambit

"Google's Chatbot Panic" is about Google's long history of being stampeded into doing stupid things because its competitors are doing them. Once it was Yahoo, now it's Bing. Tenniel's Tweedle Dee and Dum were a good starting point. I mixed in one of several Humpty Dumpty editorial cartoon images from 19th century political coverage that I painstakingly cut out with the lasso tool on a long plane-ride. This is one of my favorite Humpties, I just love the little 19th C businessmen trying to keep him from falling! I finished it off with HAL 9000's glowing red eye, my standard 'this is about AI' image, which I got from Cryteria's CC-licensed SVG.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/16/tweedledumber/#easily-spooked

Though I started writing about Luddites in my January, 2022 Locus column, 2023 was the Year of the Luddite, thanks to Brian Merchant's outstanding Blood In the Machine:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

When it came time to illustrate "Gig Work Is the Opposite of Steampunk," I found a public domain weaver's loft, and put one of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes in the window. Magpie Killjoy's Steampunk Magazine poster, 'Love the Machine, Hate the Factory,' completed the look.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/12/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk/

For the "small, non-profit school" that got used as an excuse to bail out Silicon Valley Bank, I brought back Humpty Dumpty, mixing him with a Hogwartsian castle, a brick wall texture, and an ornate, gilded frame. I love how this one came out. This Humpty was made for the SVB bailout.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/23/small-nonprofit-school/#north-country-school

The RESTRICT Act would have federally banned Tiktok – a proposal that was both technically unworkable and unconstitutional. I found an early 20th century editorial cartoon depicting Uncle Sam behind a fortress wall that was keeping a downtrodden refugee family out of America. I got rid of most of the family, giving the dad a Tiktok logo head, and I put Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes over each cannonmouth. Three Boss Tweed moneybag-head caricatures, adorned with Big Tech logos, rounded it out.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/30/tik-tok-tow/#good-politics-for-electoral-victories

When Flickr took decisive action to purge the copyleft trolls who'd been abusing its platform, I knew I wanted to illustrate this with Lucifer being cast out of heaven, and the very best one of those comes from John Milton, who is conveniently well in the public domain. The Flickr logo suggested a bicolored streaming-light-of-heaven motif that just made it.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/01/pixsynnussija/#pilkunnussija

Old mainframe ads are a great source of stock for a "Computer Says No" image. And Congress being a public building, there are lots of federal (and hence public domain) images of its facade.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/04/cbo-says-no/#wealth-tax

When I wrote about the Clarence Thomas/Harlan Crow bribery scandal, it was easy to find Mr. Kjetil Ree's great image of the Supreme Court building. Thomas being a federal judge, it was easy to find a government photo of his head, but it's impossible to find an image of him in robes at a decent resolution. Luckily, there are tons of other federal judges who've been photographed in their robes! Boss Tweed with the dollar-sign head was a great stand-in for Harlan Crow (no one knows what he looks like anyway). Gilding Thomas's robes was a simple matter of superimposing a gold texture and twiddling with the layers.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/06/clarence-thomas/#harlan-crow

"Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in wage-stealing Skinner boxes" is one of my best titles. This is the post where I introduce the idea of "twiddling" as part of the theory of enshittification, and explain how it relates to "reverse centaurs" – people who assist machines, rather than the other way around. Finding a CC licensed modular synth was much harder than I thought, but I found Stephen Drake's image and stitched it into a mandala. Cutting out the horse's head for the reverse centaur was a lot of work (manes are a huuuuge pain in the ass), but I love how his head sits on the public domain high-viz-wearing warehouse worker's body I cut up (thanks, OSHA!). Seeing as this is an horrors-of-automation story, Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes make an appearance.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

Rockefeller's greatest contribution to our culture was inspiring many excellent unflattering caricatures. The IWW's many-fists-turning-into-one-fist image made it easy to have the collective might of workers toppling the original robber-baron.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

I link to this post explaining how to make good Mastodon threads at least once a week, so it's a good thing the graphic turned out so well. Close-cropping the threads from a public domain yarn tangle worked out great. Eugen Rochko's Mastodon logo was and is the only Affero-licensed image ever to appear on Pluralistic.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/16/how-to-make-the-least-worst-mastodon-threads/

I spent hours on the sofa one night painstakingly cutting up and reassembling the cover art from a science fiction pulp. I have a folder full of color-corrected, high-rez scans from an 18th century anatomy textbook, and the cross-section head-and-brain is the best of the lot.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/04/analytical-democratic-theory/#epistocratic-delusions

Those old French anatomical drawings are an endless source of delight to me. Take one cross-sectioned noggin, mix in an old PC mainboard, and a vector art illo of a virtuous cycle with some of Cryteria's HAL9000 eyes and you've got a great illustration of Google's brain-worms.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/14/googles-ai-hype-circle/

Ireland's privacy regulator is but a plaything in Big Tech's hand, but it's goddamned hard to find an open-access Garda car. I manually dressed some public domain car art in Garda livery, painstakingly tracing it over the panels. The (public domain) baby's knit cap really hides the seams from replacing the baby's head with HAL9000's eye.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

Naked-guy-in-a-barrel bankruptcy images feel like something you can find in an old Collier's or Punch, but I came up snake-eyes and ended up frankensteining a naked body into a barrel for the George Washington crest on the Washington State flag. It came out well, but harvesting the body parts from old muscle-beach photos left George with some really big guns. I tried five different pairs of suspenders here before just drawing in black polyhedrons with little grey dots for rivets.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/03/when-the-tide-goes-out/#passive-income

Illustrating Amazon's dominance over the EU coulda been easy – just stick Amazon 'A's in place of the yellow stars that form a ring on the EU flag. So I decided to riff on Plutarch's Alexander, out of lands to conquer. Rama's statue legs were nice and high-rez. I had my choice of public domain ruin images, though it was harder thank expected to find a good Amazon box as a plinth for those broken-off legs.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/14/flywheel-shyster-and-flywheel/#unfulfilled-by-amazon

God help me, I could not stop playing with this image of a demon-haunted IoT car. All those reflections! The knife sticking out of the steering wheel, the multiple Munsch 'Scream'ers, etc etc. The more I patchked with it, the better it got, though. This one's a banger.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

To depict a "data-driven dictatorship," I ganked elements of heavily beribboned Russian military dress uniforms, replacing the head with HAL9000's eye. I turned the foreground into the crowds from the Nuremberg rallies and filled the sky with Matrix code waterfall.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/26/dictators-dilemma/#garbage-in-garbage-out-garbage-back-in

The best thing about analogizing DRM to demonic possession is the wealth of medieval artwork to choose from . This one comes from the 11th century 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros.' I mixed in the shiny red Tesla (working those reflections!), and a Tesla charger to make my point.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

Yet more dividends from those old French anatomical plates: a flayed skull, a detached jaw, a quack electronic gadget, a Wachowski code waterfall and some HAL 9000 eyes and you've got a truly unsettling image of machine-compelled speech.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

I had no idea this would work out so well, but daaaamn, crossfading between a Wachowski code waterfall and a motherboard behind a roiling thundercloud is dank af.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

Of all the turkeys-voting-for-Christmas self-owns conservative culture warriors fall for, few can rival the "banning junk fees is woke" hustle. Slap a US-flag Punisher logo on and old-time card imprinter, add a GOP logo to a red credit-card blank, and then throw in a rustic barn countertop and you've got a junk-fee extracter fit for the Cracker Barrel.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/04/owning-the-libs/#swiper-no-swiping

Putting the Verizon logo on the Hinderberg was an obvious gambit (even if I did have to mess with the flames a lot), but the cutout of Paul Marcarelli as the 'can you hear me now?' guy, desaturated and contrast-matched, made it sing.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/10/smartest-guys-in-the-room/#can-you-hear-me-now

Note to self: Tux the Penguin is really easy to source in free/open formats! He looks great with HAL9000 eyes.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

Rockwell's self-portrait image is a classic; that made it a natural for a HAL9000-style remix about AI art. I put a bunch of time into chopping and remixing Rockwell's signature to give it that AI look, and added as many fingers as would fit on each hand.

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

(Images: Heinz Bunse, West Midlands Police, Christopher Sessums, CC BY-SA 2.0; Mike Mozart, Jesse Wagstaff, Stephen Drake, Steve Jurvetson, syvwlch, Doc Searls, https://www.flickr.com/photos/mosaic36/14231376315, Chatham House, CC BY 2.0; Cryteria, CC BY 3.0; Mr. Kjetil Ree, Trevor Parscal, Rama, “Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center, Russian Airborne Troops Press Service, CC BY-SA 3.0; Raimond Spekking, CC BY 4.0; Drahtlos, CC BY-SA 4.0; Eugen Rochko, Affero; modified)

#pluralistic #illustration #collage #fair use #creative commons #stock art #blogging #art #practice makes perfect

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guess-my-next-obsession · 1 year

Text

When We Were Young

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M (breakups, seeing your ex, a lil angsty with a happy ending, a douchey/aggressive male interaction, alcohol consumption, language)

wc: 2.5k

frankie masterlist

Time froze. As cliche as it sounded, it was also accurate. You sat there gawking like a deer caught in headlights, your blood rushing from your head to pour into the crater-sized hole in your heart in the shape of him. It was like seeing the ghost of a loved one, desperate for it to make contact and fearful of it all at once. To see him, the man you’d loved and lost five years ago, here in the flesh, laughing with a group of people you didn’t recognize, reminded you that whatever life you had shared with him in the past was just that—the past. But even still, you couldn’t help but hope there was a moment for the two of you here in the present, and perhaps if the fates were kind enough, in the future.

“Everything okay?” Your eyes wandered back to the man in front of you—your date, you had to remind yourself.

“Yeah,” you managed, nodding your head as if it helped make your lie believable. “Just saw someone I used to know.”

“Oh, why don’t you go say hi?” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

If only it were that simple.

“I’d rather stay here,” you replied, lying again. Is that what you were forced to become? Nothing but a liar? A half-lover? Someone frozen in the past?

Across the bar he spots you, smiling at some dark haired man that looks too old for you, or perhaps that’s just his jealousy talking.

You look good, healthier than he last saw you. You’d gained some weight, filling out your sunken cheeks that remained seared in his memory from the night he left you. The night that haunted him, a dark cloud of regret and shame that rained the taste of your tears over him to remind him of the hurt he caused you.

You only ever asked him to love you, but like the immature child he was—the child he still feared lived deep within—he made you feel like you were asking for too much.

As he sat there watching you giggle, your fingers stirring the black straw in your glass—a gin and tonic like always, no doubt—he wondered if you spotted him as well. He figured it didn’t matter even if you did. He couldn’t imagine a universe in which you could forgive him for what he did—or for what he couldn’t do.

“Frankie!” A whine coming from the girl he’d been seeing casually the last few weeks pulled his eyes from watching you, his head turning in the direction of the woman who didn’t know him well enough to know what darkness lied within him. “I want another drink.”

“Okay,” he replied, awaiting an explanation for how this concerned him.

“Can you go get me one?” she snapped, drunken and slurred. Frankie exhaled softly and nodded, the bottle of beer in his hand empty and needing replacing anyways.

He stood to walk to the bar, his eyes finding you no matter how hard he tried to keep them occupied. As he passed your table, he overheard the man you were with talking about his job—finance, it seemed. Was that really the kind of man you were into these days? Back in the day the two of you would’ve made fun of a guy like him. What could you possibly have in common with such a…stiff? He supposed it didn’t matter—shouldn’t matter.

How could you listen to anything this man was saying when you could feel Frankie’s eyes on you, when you could smell him walking by? He still wore that same cologne, still donned that same red flannel you gifted him for Christmas. So much had stayed the same about him on the outside, it seemed. Could the same be said for the inside? Did you want it to?

“Hey, I’m gonna go use the restroom,” your date announced and you nodded, watching him as he walked off through the crowded pub.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to stand, but before you could talk yourself out of it, you were already standing beside your ex at the bar, his head turned in the opposite direction as he waited for the bartender to make his way to him.

“You look the same,” you spoke over the chatter and music filling the room, causing his head to whip over in your direction. He looked wide eyed, the color draining from his face. For a minute, you worried you’d offended him by simply speaking, but the soft curl of his lips quickly soothed that fear.

“You look…good,” he managed, his eyes frantic as they studied your face, seemingly taking in all the changes you cursed your body for making. “I, uh, I saw you, but…I don’t know. Didn’t want to interrupt your date.”

“Not much of a date,” you shrugged. “Not anymore at least.”

Frankie smiled more genuinely and it was as if you were thrown back in time, seeing that dimple come out for the first time. You longed to reach out for him, to touch him to make sure he was actually there, but refrained.

“You here with anyone?” you asked, unsure of what overcame you. You had no right to pry that way, but couldn’t help yourself. Had he moved on? Was it better that way? The sinking feeling in your gut as his eyes flickered over to the singular woman sitting at his table told you no, it wasn’t.

“It’s…casual,” he shrugged, pursing his lips. “Haven’t really been able to jump into anything after…after us.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, batting away the childish tears born of jealousy. You felt the immature little girl you used to be clawing at the back of your throat begging to scream “he’s mine, he’s mine, don’t touch what’s mine!”. You lifted your drink to wash down the burn.

“Yeah, it’s been hard for me too,” you admitted, though the word “hard” felt like nothing more than a watered-down truth.

“God, sorry about that. The line was so long.” Your date appeared with a smile, his eyes flickering to the man beside you at the bar. “Hey.”

Frankie nodded at him but remained silent.

“Well,” your date exhaled as he turned back to you. “You wanna get out of here? Maybe go back to my place?”

Your eyes flickered to Frankie, watching his profile as he tried not to appear like he was eavesdropping on the conversation, but the clench of his jaw gave him away.

“I think I’m just gonna go home for the night,” you finally answered, turning to your date to give him an apologetic frown. He chuckled and looked towards Frankie, pointing his finger at him.

“You mean you’re going to go home with this fucker?”

Frankie’s body turned fully to your date, his brows laced as he looked down at the man at least five inches shorter than him.

“What was that?” Frankie asked, the dominance in his voice foreign and familiar at the same time.

“How’s it fair that I have to pair for all her fucking drinks and you’re the one who gets to take her home?” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I got her drunk, so I get the reward.”

Frankie scoffed in disbelief and looked to you, the look of fear in your eyes igniting a protective streak in him that only seemed to light for you.

“Go home, man,” he ordered, turning back to your “date”.

“Fuck that—“ He made to grab at your arm but Frankie shoved him back before he could make contact.

“Go home.” Frankie ordered again, giving the man one last chance before he’d have to walk home with only one working eye. The man sized Frankie up for a beat before turning to you.

“You’re paying for your own fucking drinks then,” he said, as though it was a punishment. Truthfully, you were thankful not to “owe” this man—the word used loosely—anything. You watched him walk off down the bar to pay off his half of the tab, keeping your eyes glued to him to assure he didn’t come back and try something again. It seemed Frankie was doing the same.

“What a fucking prick,” he mumbled under his breath as the two of you watched him leave the bar. You turned back to Frankie and felt your lips part to speak, to apologize for your choice in man, but couldn’t manage a sound. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he offered sincerely, his gentle brown eyes landing on yours. “You didn’t deserve any of his bullshit.”

“Yeah, well…when they tell you there’s tons of fish in the sea they don’t mention that those fish fucking suck.” Frankie laughed and nodded, that dimple coming out again. The bartender finally made his way over, looking at Frankie anticipatorily, but Frankie seemed hesitant. “Well, I’m gonna go pay my bill—“

“No, let me,” he intervened with his hand on your arm. “I’m honestly ready to leave, too.”

“You gonna order anything?” the bartender asked, annoyed by the delay. Frankie leaned over the bar and ordered a vodka-cranberry and then pointed over at the table his group was sitting at, the bartender nodding before walking off to prepare the drink.

“Alright, let’s go take care of the tab.” He turned back to you with a friendly but soft smile, his hand resting on your upper back as he guided you through the crowded room to the bartender set up by the till. Frankie paid for both of your bills as if it was nothing, as if anyone would have done the same thing. You couldn’t help but glance over at the girl he was with, comparing yourself to her. She was thinner, not by much but enough for you to realize it. Her hair was freshly styled, her nails polished and manicured. She seemed to be a newer and improved version of yourself, the image of someone untainted by heartbreak. Soon a pit of guilt formed in your stomach as you considered the fact that your interacting with Frankie tonight would be the first blow to her heart. Did she love him? Would that be enough to stop you?

“So…do you live at the same place you used to?” Frankie asked at the counter while he waited for change.

“I do,” you turned back to him and admitted.

“I could walk you home,” he offered with a shrug. “No funny business. I just…I guess I want a chance to talk.”

“What about your date?” you asked, a nervous chuckle slipping from your lips to cover your guilt.

“She’s with her friends, and truthfully…I think our friendship has run its course.” Perhaps in another reality you’d be strong enough to turn him down, but in this reality your heart still belonged to him. It would always belong to him.

With a nod, you accepted his offer and headed outside to wait for him as he grabbed his coat and bid his group goodbye.

You watched from the window as your replacement scolded him, her voice loud enough to cut over the music and through the glass separating the two of you. Frankie never did well with loudness, with screaming and fighting. You wondered what drew him to her in the first place.

When he finally made it outside, he let out a sigh and shook his head.

“Well,” he said, giving you a laugh. “That went well.”

“Yeah, I could see,” you pointed at the window. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” he commanded, shaking his head. “I’d leave anyone to have a chance at talking to you again.”

You tried not to melt at his words, tried not to put stock into them, but was it possible that five years could have changed him? Could have made him realize that you truly loved him, and that it was all you ever wanted to do?

“So,” he began as the two of you made your way through the downtown neighborhood towards your apartment complex about a mile away. “I guess I want to say sorry first and foremost.”

You turned your head to watch him, his eyes fixed forward while his hands twitched in his pocket.

“I…I was scared,” he confessed, his voice softer, more vulnerable as he glanced at you. “You loved me in a way that I’ve never been loved before, and that was scary. I never thought—I don’t know. Never thought I deserved it, so I turned myself into someone who didn’t. But, I really need you to know that I loved you, too. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t trust myself with it, I guess.”

“I did,” you replied, bumping your shoulder against his. “I trusted you with it. But I could see the fight going on inside, and I could see that I was losing. I didn’t know why I was losing. It seemed so simple to me—I love you and you love me so why can’t we just be together? Be more than these two friends who fuck?”

“Yeah—“ He swallowed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I was…young and stupid. I wish that was a better excuse.”

At your doorstep, you turned to him with a twisted smile, unsure of what to do next. You’d talked through the wounds you left on each other as best as you could with a few drinks in your system, but what came next?

“So…” you started, swaying a bit as you looked up at him. Frankie’s smile turned boyish as he looked down at you, a chuckle escaping his lips as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Would, uh…” He bit his lip as he paused to reconsider his proposition. “Would you maybe want to grab breakfast tomorrow? There’s this new diner on 32nd street—“

“Oh my god, Brownies?”

“Yeah!” He laughed, your eyes locking as the two of you wondered how many times you must’ve missed each other in this small town. “I go there every Sunday with Caro.”

Oh, how you missed his baby girl. She was only three when you’d last seen her, making her eight years old now. How time flies.

“I go every Saturday,” you admitted with a chuckle. “Would I be throwing off your schedule by making you go two days in a row?”

“No,” he assured. “Any excuse for chocolate chip waffles, I’ll take.”

You laughed and nodded, looking down at your feet.

“Well, in that case, yes. I’d love to.”

“One more thing, and feel free to say no—“

“Can you kiss me?” you interrupted, watching as his smile grew into a grin.

“You beat me to it,” he laughed.

“Is that a yes?” you asked with a girlish and flirty smile. Frankie’s hand found your jaw, cradling it gently as he leaned in slowly, the anticipation burning in your belly. When his lips met yours, you swore you’d died and gone to heaven. It was as if nothing had ever changed between the two of you, that spark that only he could light inside of you quickly turning into a flame as you melted against him, clutching at his flannel. When he pulled away, you almost whined. Frankie smiled and rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all this lost time.”

“We can make it up,” you assured with a smile of your own. “Starting tomorrow.”

“See you then, baby.”

•

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales oneshot #frankie morales x you #frankie morales angst #frankie morales #frankie morales x y/n #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales triple frontier

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 4 months

Text

𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖊

AKA: this one quote from Book!Frollo made my mind go crazy.

Yes, I was listening to “It's A Dangerous Game” from the Jekyll and Hyde Original Concept Recording

(also, please forgive my Latin, I used google translate)

Reader/Yuu is female and has hair (which is implied to be long)

Masterlist

It was mesmerising, how perfectly your bodies melded and moved together, how easily and harmoniously you were brought to a hitherto unknown rapture. To be caught up in such a state, where you were free of the chains that bound you to the horrors of purgatory and had ascended you to heights you had never felt before, to feel him guiding you to a place where you had never even begun to dream about.

Minutes had passed since the twelfth ring of the Bell of Solace yet the two of you stayed in your tower, pressed against a shadowed alcove, away from everyone and everything, your hands wandering and blood singing as the rest of the city drifted off into their fanciful visions of the dusk.

With the Witching Hour descending upon you, veiling you in the covers of the night, you only had the stars and the spirits above as witnesses to this tryst, your secrets laid bare for their silent judgement.

But their judgement didn’t matter, nor did your schoolmates’, if the silent covenant between you and him were to be obeyed, if the unvoiced sermon in blue flickers that glowed against the scorching green of his eyes that seared into you as he took a lock of your hair and pressed it against his lips were to be acknowledged.

His cold touch, like fire, burning your figure as it trailed across your face, your neck, your shoulder before settling on your waist, pulling you closer - long, chilling fingers burned along your skin, setting ablaze every thought, every word, every semblance of rationality.

“Pulchra,” you could feel his voice against your mouth, wafting and caressing like tendrils of smoke, sonorous to your ears, “puella pulchra, so pure, so perfect. Like a goddess in mortal form.”

You could do nothing but listen, to submit to the dark velvet of his dulcet tones, to close your eyes and let this fiery passion incinerate and eradicate the demons that plagued you. Ordinarily, you’d be against this, to let your shackled hands hand the reins of your petering control to another, but his providence proved otherwise. With your destiny enshrouded in so much unknown, the danger of staying and the risk of fleeing your perennial torment in the clutches of your captors yet with Rollo before you, you felt at peace.

Fate, free-will, nothing mattered in this sanctuary he created.

His conviction begets your reprieve, his resolution ameliorates your soul from the horrors that had stained it with their inky fingerprints. The singing brushes of his fingertips cleansed you, and like a blazing phoenix, you emerged anew.

With both great reluctance and great desperation his lips left yours and made their home at the apse of your neck, whispers of orisons against your skin, your name an endless epiclesis.

Even with your sight inhibited, you could see the worship in his gaze, through the reverence in his touch, the cardinal way he regarded you in every action. His hands gentle yet formidable as they kept you against him, the golden shank of his ruby ring digging into you with the pads of his fingers.

“I wanted to see you again,” his deep timbre, dark, soft and smoky against your ears, “touch you, know who you were, see if I would find you identical with the ideal image of you which had remained with me and perhaps shatter my dream with the aid of reality.”

“And?” you hear yourself say, too lost in the fiery haze, too blinded by the flaming reds and golden ambers that danced under your eyes.

“At all events, I hoped that a new impression would efface the first, for the first had become intolerable to me. I sought you, Prefect, again to behold you. When I had seen you twice, I wished to see you a thousand more times, to always have you in my sight. You claim to be magicless, Angelum Meum, yet you have completely bewitched me. With you, I’m no longer my own master. You’ve become my salvation from perdition, shown me the true meaning of righteous. Please, I say in obsecration, grant me the blessing of speaking your benediction, of proving how far my devotion runs. Let me be your acolyte, your protector against the tainted crowd.”

His lips pressed against the apples of your cheeks, his hands on your waist, the fury of the flames within you.

It’s dangerous. But this fire won’t char you, won’t scar you, won’t leave you tearstained and broken.

It emboldens you, ignites the snuffed out hearth within you.

You nod once, a small jut of your chin through the keening of your throat and you slowly feel the ribbon of your nightdress tugged loose before it falls and pools at the ground at your feet.

#twst #twisted wonderland #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamm #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #fem reader

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knightprincess · 4 months

Text

Forgive Me (Echo x Medic Reader) Part 18

Words: 2.8k Warning: Fluff, Indication of depression, mentions of PTSD, and Nightmares. Also a bit of a time jump. Some Fluffy Wolffe and Mando'a used. Pronouns used: She/Her (also uses Y/N) Mando'a used: Verd'ika (little warrior) and Ad'ika (little one)

It had been months since the war had ended, almost a year. In that time, so much had changed. Worlds that had once been part of the separatist movement had undergone merciless imperial occupations; others had suffered through devastating massacres at the hands of the Empire and its many officials. The senators hadn't gotten off lightly either. Some had been forced to run for various reasons, some from rebelling against the empire, others for their acts during the war. Most, if not all, of them had stood up for what was right, both for their people and morally.

Time, however, hadn't been kind to Clones. Not only had the new Trooper Kore been brought in to replace them, but their home on Kamino had been decommissioned and destroyed as well. In the time since Order 66, many clones had broken free of the Inhibitor chip control, whether that be from sheer willpower or the chip not being as effective as it once had been. Many clones had fled the empire, and others had disappeared entirely. Those who had previously been imprisoned for treason or other unfounded accusations had been transferred elsewhere, never to be seen again.

Wolffe and (Y/N) had been on the run for most of the year. Both knew they were being hunter, or at least (Y/N) was. Over time, they had developed a small system that helped them survive. They only stopped off for fuel and supplies when needed, normally on an outer rim planet where the empire had yet to suppress or had little power. They'd do odd jobs for credits, Snap would use her skills as a medic to help those in need, and Wolffe became a mercenary for hire, using the skills from the battlefield to his advantage.

Regarding communication, the two used old Republic devices, using code words to ensure they were protected should someone undesirable stumble across the com channel they used. When landing on new planets for supplies, Wolffe always ensured the coast was clear before giving (Y/N) the signal to leave the ship. If they were hailed, on the other hand, Wolffe would be the one to answer, with Snap remaining quiet until it was determined if the caller was friendly or Empire-bound.

The pair had long since replaced the small two-person attack shuttle, suspecting they could be tracked via it. Instead, they had gotten a much larger and more comfortable ship, a VXC-100 light freighter. The ship had enough space for the pair to move around and comfortably have their own personal area. It worked as both a means of transport and a home until the time came when they found a planet to stow away on safely or the empire stopped pursuing Snap.

"Your eye playing up again?" softly asked (Y/N), taking up her normal spot in the cockpit. Wolffe grunted in response while continuing to push the ball of his hand into the mechanical eye in an effort to either stop the searing pain or silence the sound emanating from it. The sound that had been a constant since the close call with the empire the previous week. (Y/N) soon stood, intending to return to her quarters to retrieve the medical equipment she'd been collecting over the months. All things she'd need to take care of Wolffe's cybernetic, as well as properly tend to any injuries that may occur.

"My eye can wait," called Wolffe with a sigh, noticing the blinking red light on the dashboard, indicating someone was trying to contact them. "We're being hailed again," he added, waiting for Snap to return to the co-pilot chair before all but whacking the blinking button as if it was a deadly insect that needed to be squashed quickly. From the force of the whack and the groaning of the dashboard, (Y/N) was almost certain Wolffe had broken the button. His anger at their situation was likely getting the better of him again.

As normal, Snap remained quiet, listening intently as if to determine if the caller was trying to deceive them, as had happened a few times before, back when they were still finding their feet as fugitives and before they worked out their little system. Wolffe, as normal, kept his voice even but gruff, asking the caller to identify themselves in a way that few would dare refuse.

"CT-7567," answered the familiar voice of Jango Fett, a voice millions of Clones across the galaxy shared. "Rex, former Captain of the 501st, served under General Anakin Skywalker," added the voice. Wolffe allowed a relieved grin to pass over his lips before forcing it back again and regaining his rigid seriousness. He'd allowed himself to be fooled by an old friend weeks ago with Cody, only to find out the former commander of the 212th was serving the empire. Although Wolffe was sure he could have trusted Cody, he didn't take the risk of revealing (Y/N) was with him, although safely stowed away on the ship.

"State your purpose," almost growled Wolffe, trying not to show he was hoping for the best. That Rex was there as an ali rather than to help the Empire get hold of Snap.

"CC-5576 here. Lighten up, you gruffly old bugger. Rexy's been looking for you since the war ended," spoke a second voice, one that managed to draw an eye roll from Wolffe and quiet laughter from Snap. The medic was quick to slap her hands over her mouth in an effort to stop any sound from escaping and alert Rex and Gregor she was there. "He thought you were under imperial control until I told him otherwise. Didn't believe when I said you were too stubborn to listen to Order 66."

"I'm sending you coordinates, rendezvous with us. We'll talk Snap there," voiced Rex as Wolffe glanced toward (Y/N), noticing her attention was on the vast void of space stretching as far as the eye could see. He soon followed her line of sight, seeing a larger freighter in the distance. It looked like those piloting it had a close call with someone or something. Sure enough, mere seconds after the beeping sounded to signal something received, the ship jumped into hyperspace.

"Jedha," whispered Snap, her voice uneven and flooded with all the emotions she tried to suppress. "Midrim, but a good place to disappear for a little while," she added with a sigh, escaping her lips shortly after. If she was honest, she liked the idea of leaving the ship for a little bit; as much as she was thankful for the safety it offered, the durasteel walls had started to feel like a prison. The void of space made it feel like happiness and freedom could never be achieved. "Penny, for your thoughts?" asked Snap, briefly turning away from Wolffe to program the hyperdrive, preparing for the journey through hyperspace to reach their new destination.

"Mixed feelings," replied Wolffe, submitting to (Y/N) attending to his eye. He at least had faith she could fix the damage done to it and had hoped she could once again ease the pain as she'd done many times before. "For almost a year, it's been a constant struggle to survive, always looking over our shoulder and coming to terms with being unable to trust old friends or seemingly harmless civvies. It's just been me and you. My heart is telling me to trust Rex and the mad buffoon, but my instincts are screaming there is something off," admitted the battle-tested commander. He knew better than most to listen to his gut when it told him something was off. He'd paid the price for ignoring those very instincts during the war; now he had Snap to protect as well; he had the weight of knowing his choices affected her as much as himself.

"Do you trust Rex and Gregor?" asked Snap once she'd removed Wolffe's cybernetic. From the prevailing vision, she noticed Wolffe put a black eye back over the empty socket, preventing anything from getting into it. "Can you describe the noise said cybernetic makes?" she added, her attention remaining on the small device in her gloved hand, turning it gently as if searching for the course of the sound Wolffe had unknowingly yelled about during his sleep. "You talk in your sleep," she commented after seeing Wolffe throwing a confused look in her direction.

"It's difficult to describe," replied the battle-worn commander, rubbing the back of his neck to buff away the embarrassment creeping up from the collar of his shirt. "A combination of scraping, drilling, scratching, and vibrating. It sometimes squeaks when it gets stuck," he answered, finding it tougher than expected to describe the sound he kept hearing from the eye properly. "Been playing up since the last close call with the imps."

"What about you? How are you handling your demons?" asked the former Commander of the 104th, recalling the many sleepless nights he'd comforted Snap after she'd woken up terrified by nightmares, covered in a thin layer of a cold sweat. She was always shivering, tears staining her cheeks, frightened of every little shadow for days after. The nights the past plagued her were the ones she asked Wolffe to stay with her; the safety and comfort he brought her just about enough to settle her, even if it was just for a short snap.

"It's hard," replied Snap, debating if she should open up about what plagued her every time she tried to sleep. Sometimes, it was as simple as the faces of all those she failed to save during the war, both troopers and civilians caught in the crossfire. The friends she was forced to leave behind after the war ended, most of the time, her imagination conjured up the worst scenes. What remained of her family was that her parents had to bury at least one daughter; force only knows what they thought regarding Devika and herself. She worried for Devika, always wondering what happened to her bright little sister, hoping she was safe and didn't share the same fate as Isolde.

Questions haunted her too, most of the time of things that couldn't be changed. What would have happened if the Jedi listened to Fives when he'd tried so hard to warn them? What happened to Kix? He'd suddenly disappeared mere days after the mission to the information center on Anaxes. What about Echo and the Bad Batch? Did they enact Order 66? Were they somewhere with the empire, helping to force the galaxy into the mold the emperor wanted, helping to sow fear and hate?

She thought about the empire, too, what they wanted with her and why they were so insistent on her capture. She questioned why she was so valuable to them; after all, she was nothing more than a civilian medic during the war, one of the thousands to apply for the role, and one of the thousands of civil personnel a part of the GAR. It didn't make sense to her why they wanted her so much. Nor did the original transfer, the advanced science division, make sense to her. She was no scientist, just a simple medic with a passion for helping people.

"There's so many unanswered questions, so much fear and distrust, so much loss. It feels like I'm being pulled in so many directions that I'm being torn apart. I'm scared for Devika, always wondering if she survived the end of the war or shared Isolde's fate. I'm terrified to think about what happened to friends, to loved ones both of us were forced to leave behind. I'm afraid of what the future will hold, of the unknown, of losing someone else I care for. It's like I'm in a tug of war of what the future will be like if the empire finds us and the person I could have been if things ended differently," worded Snap, unaware of the tears staining her cheeks again until Wolffe reached out to wipe them away, sympathy painting his features, although it was clear he'd suspected she struggled with everything.

"Listen to me, Ad'ika. You are not alone. Things may get tough, but you are a fighter, a survivor. You'll get through this. We'll get through it. Remember what Cody said: you have an army of brothers. Right now, you're stuck with me, and I'll be damned if I let the empire take away someone else. They took away my brothers and played a game with our lives. You're not going to suffer more; neither of us are," spoke Wolffe, trying to inspire confidence and give (Y/N) a little hope things would eventually get better. Both of them would be stronger once they got through the trials placed before them.

(Y/N) could only whisper a quiet thank you before continuing on with her previous task. Feeling a little bit of the weight lift of her shoulders but she still worried for Wolffe. Even now, he refused to open up to her, always carrying the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders, determined to carry the burden without help, even when it was getting to him too. Snap was no fool; she knew it was more than the damaged cybernetic getting to the former commander. She knew his past was getting to him, too; the unanswered questions plagued his mind. What happened to the rest of the Wolffe Pack? Guilt over being unable to save more or General Plo, the man who had been a father figure to many. She knew the nightmares he suffered, the day he lost his eye on repeat as the sound of the lightsaber haunted him. The brothers he lost to Grievous and the Malevolence, watching as the escape pods were cracked open, the survivor's guilt and PTSD.

"I know you won't talk about it. But if you feel like everything is getting too much to handle. Please say something. You're not alone either," softly spoke Snap, fiddling with the small cybernetic, a small smile painting itself across her lips upon finding the damaged area. She got to work on fixing it with her, the limited knowledge she had, determined to bring her close friend some comfort. "As for Gregor and Rex, there's nothing wrong with hoping. Whatever you decide, you've got my support," she added before nodding and turning her attention back to Wolffe fully, indicating she was done fiddling for now or needed his opinion regarding the silver-colored cybernetic.

Quietly, Wolffe removed the eye patch, closing his good eye while waiting for the expected cold ball to be placed back in his empty socket. The process was always uncomfortable, but at least (Y/N) was gentle, her touch always as light as feathers, healing even. The moment the cybernetic was in place, Snap tapped his shoulder, giving Wolffe a little time to readjust. As expected, he shook his head a little and tapped the side of his temple a few times as if trying to will the silver eye back into place.

"The noise is gone," commented Wolffe, noticing the vision was much clearer now. Before (Y/N) fiddled with the tiny device, the edges of the vision had been blurry and colorless, almost fading into black. Now, it was sharp and clear, perhaps better than when he'd first received it. "Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew Snap was a good medic; she was friendly and always put others before herself, and she was caring and a good listener. But her talent for fixing things was new, or at least not one he'd noticed before. The former commander was aware others had taught her things; he, Gregor, and Rex had taught her to use blasters during the war, if only so she could protect herself. Fives had taught her hand-to-hand combat as well with Jesse's help.

"General Skywalker, mainly he was always fiddling with something when stressed," replied Snap, a soft smile coming to her lips as her shoulders relaxed from their previous rigid position. "Probably picked things up from Tech as well," she added, recalling the many times Tech had told her about his side projects scattered around the barracks on Kamino and aboard the Marauder.

A low rumble of laughter soon escaped Wolffe as he shook his head again. Soon after, a smirk appeared across his lips, one he didn't try to fight off this time. Instead, he wondered what else she had picked up over the years of service to the Republic and GAR.

"Definitely not made of glass," commented Wolffe, recalling her comment from their first meeting aboard the triumph. "More of a verd'ika now, stronger than you know," he complimented, as the beeping signaling they were close to their destination echoed around the cockpit. A rainbow of colors soon replaced the once blue and white swirls of hyperspace, and then a large desert planet appeared; from their position, the sandy dunes looked similar in color to that of Geonsis, the sandy planet where the clone wars had begun all those years ago.

Series Masterlist

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leeprtt · 5 months

Text

Passionate and dangerous

Summary: me and my best friend had similar prompts and let’s just say it ended up very interesting…… also it’s 3 am please forgive us both it’s a nanami x reader and a gojo x reader there is smut but only in the first story and there def was an AI involved idek

Cw: Jealousy, dom!nanami kento x reader, slapping, choking, overstimulaton, edging, name calling, oral

Story 1

As y/n flirted shamelessly with Gojo, Nanami's best friend, she couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. She knew that Nanami had eyes only for her, but she couldn't resist the thrill of catching his attention. Little did she know that her actions would lead to a heated confrontation between the two men.

One evening, after a particularly heated argument between Gojo and Nanami, y/n found herself in the middle of a physical altercation. Gojo, enraged by her flirtatious behavior, had lashed out at her, leaving her with a bloody lip and a black eye. Nanami, who had witnessed the entire ordeal, was furious.

As y/n stumbled home, bruised and battered, she could feel Nanami's presence behind her. She turned around to see him glaring at her with a mix of anger and desire. Without a word, he took her by the hand and led her to his car. The ride was silent, but the tension between them was palpable.

As soon as they reached Nanami's apartment, he pushed her against the couch and began to spit in her mouth. y/n was taken aback by his sudden aggression, but she couldn't help but feel aroused by his dominance. Nanami slapped her hard across the face, leaving a red mark on her cheek. y/n moaned in pleasure as he continued to spit in her mouth, his fingers digging into her hair as he pulled her closer.

Choking her lightly, Nanami forced y/n to swallow every last drop of saliva. She could feel his cock growing harder against her thigh as he continued to choke her, his fingers digging into her flesh. y/n was overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure and pain as Nanami edged her mercilessly, leaving her on the brink of orgasm for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Nanami plunged his cock deep into y/n's mouth as she writhed beneath him. He fucked her mercilessly, spitting in her mouth once again as he came inside of her. y/n could hardly breathe as Nanami continued to choke and spit on her until she passed out from exhaustion.

When she woke up hours later, she found herself bound and gagged on Nanami's couch. He stood over her with a wicked grin on his face as he continued to edge and tease her mercilessly. y/n could hardly think straight as Nanami called her names and forced her to beg for mercy. In the end, it was only through his mercy that she was finally allowed to come again and again until they both fell asleep exhausted but satisfied.

As they lay together in bed that night, y/n couldn't help but feel grateful for Nanami's jealousy. It had led them both down a path of domination and submission that neither of them could have ever imagined possible. And as they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, they both knew that their love for each other was stronger than ever before.

Story 2

As Nanami, Gojo, and y/n embarked on a mission for Jujutsu High, they encountered a horde of cursed spirits that seemed almost impossible to defeat. y/n found herself in the thick of the battle, her heart pounding in her chest as she dodged and weaved around the spirits.

But then, something went wrong. One of the spirits managed to get too close, and y/n felt a searing pain in her chest. She stumbled backwards, gasping for breath as she realized that she was dying.

Gojo saw what was happening and rushed over to save her. He used his powerful techniques to fend off the remaining spirits and carried y/n to safety. As he held her in his arms, he realized that he couldn't bear to lose her.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize how I felt about you sooner," Gojo said softly, his eyes filled with emotion. "But I can't imagine my life without you now."

y/n looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. She had always loved Gojo from afar, but she never thought he could feel the same way about her. Now, as they lay together in Gojo's arms, she knew that their love was real.

Over the next few weeks, Gojo and y/n grew closer than ever before. They trained together, fought together, and even slept together. y/n couldn't believe how lucky she was to have found love with such an incredible man.

But their happiness was short-lived. One day, they received news that a powerful demon had appeared in Tokyo, threatening to destroy everything in its path. Nanami and Gojo knew that they had to act fast if they wanted to save their city.

As they battled the demon, y/n found herself in danger once again. This time, it was Gojo who saved her - using his incredible powers to fend off the demon and protect his beloved. In that moment, y/n knew that she would do anything to keep Gojo safe - even if it meant sacrificing herself for his sake.

In the end, they emerged victorious - but not without scars. y/n had been injured during the battle, but she didn't care. All she could think about was how lucky she was to have such an amazing man by her side. As they lay together in bed that night, holding each other close, they both knew that their love would only grow stronger with each passing day

#jjk nanami #jjk #gojo satoru #nanami x reader #gojo x reader #send help #jujutsu kaisen #it’s bad #tired #jjk smut #nanami smut

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whatitshouldvebeen · 4 months

Note

Hiii so I’ve been really into Coriolanus Snow lately 👀 and I was gonna ask if you could write a version of the end where Lucy Gray runs into the wilderness to leave Snow but Snow catches up to Lucy Gray and his possessiveness over her becomes worse after that moment. Maybe he incapacitates her to make sure she can never leave him again. Also I love love love your writing 🫶

Writing this makes me want to write more in first person, Coriolanus is absolutely off his rocker. I might continue it depending on it's reception!

A Bird in the Hand

Contains: blood, pure insanity, and physical harm

•••

I just shot Lucy Gray.

My ears are ringing and it still isn't loud enough to drown out the mockingjays.

She stumbled here. I swear, I saw it. Venom sends pain all through my arm. Am I going to die? How could she do this to me?

“Lucy Gray!” I don't even realize I'm screaming her name.

It's too early for katniss. The leaves are still wet, sticking to my hands and knees as I search for proof that…

I just shot Lucy Gray.

I hear her everywhere and nowhere. My beautiful songbird. You're hurt.

Red on the ground, a splatter here and there. Leaves crushed in my hands. Spread on my gun.

How many kills before I lose track?

“Lucy Gray!” My throat is sore and my heart is beating out of my chest. I scour the ground like a dog. Desperate. Feral. A scuff here, a stumble there.

The ringing gets louder. The birds are a cacophony of her. It's beautiful, it's maddening. Just like,

“Lucy Gray!” I scream as I chase her trail. Her blood is my lifeline. Why did she make me do this?

Then, through the madness,

“Corio…”

A pained whisper, softer than wind through grass. There's a tangle of roots, a splatter of blood, and a torn piece of fabric.

My heart beats twice as fast as I race down the hill, sliding over soggy leaves, tangled thorns digging into my skin. The venom reached my heart and it's spreading everywhere, a wildfire in my veins.

There she is.

Spread about the fallen leaves—wavy black hair, bright dress now stained with blood, skin drained of its warm hue—a mosaic of macabre colors.

“LUCY GRAY!” My voice cracks as I race to her fallen form. She's so beautiful, my angel.

Her eyelids flutter when I pull her into my arms. Fragile little bird. I brush her hair from her sweaty forehead and press my fingers against her neck. Her pulse is so faint, cold dread quenches the fire in my veins.

I search for the source of the blood. A hole in her calf, leaking still. Her dress is already torn, what's one more tear? I rip off a length of fabric and tie it beneath her knee.

“You can't leave me, Lucy Gray,” I whisper, cradling her close.

Her eyes flutter again and meet mine, hazed with pain. I don't hear her speak, but I feel her question sear into my brain.

Why?

“Why? You know why, Lucy Gray. You always knew. You belong to me, but I don't belong out here with you. I never have. You know what I did to save you. I love you, why don't you love me enough to forgive me?”

She doesn't respond. Her eyes are vacant, staring up at the mockingjays that rain torment from above.

The venom in my veins is subsiding now, or perhaps integrating with my blood. I can still save us.

I rise from my knees, holding my beautiful Lucy Gray.

If I can forgive her, surely she will forgive me. We have both hurt each other, but love conquers all—right?

Eventually I reach the cabin. I lay her on the bed, and press a kiss to her forehead. I need to find help, and I know she can't possibly leave me in this condition. It's ironic how, in this moment, I feel more secure in our love.

If I didn't love her, I wouldn't have saved her. She needs to stop running from me. If she had only stayed where I could see her, I would have never needed to shoot her.

A cool serenity washes over me as I look down at her weakened form. This is better for us, isn't it? She's so beautiful, she needs me so desperately. Yes, I need her to need me.

I don't flinch as I approach her bedside. We need this, don't we? We need stability, and we can only have it if I can keep her safely under my control. And in order to do that, she has to stop leaving me.

I trace my hand down her bloodied leg, to her thin and fragile ankle. I can do this with my bare hands, can't I? Yes, it'll be easy. She's a bird, their tiny bones snap like twigs.

One deep breath.

CRACK!

She doesn't even flinch. Her foot hangs at an unnatural angle.

Once more, for good measure. One hand on her heel, the other over the arch of her delicate foot.

CRUNCH!

Her foot is mangled now, twisted, her tiny bones splintered like so many fragments of wood.

A small smile flits over my lips.

No one said love wasn't painful.

#coriolanus snow x lucy gray baird #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #tbosbas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #a ballad of songbirds and snakes

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unicyclehippo · 2 years

Note

Prompt: transformation

no one can touch her afterwards. no one can even come close because she starts screaming and crying, tears that explode the second they leave her eyes, vanishing into steam.

laudna understands first—remembers how it was when imogen was first coming into her powers, how too many minds would overwhelm her. now, with this new power, this forced transformation, even the pleasant strains of their familiar minds, her familiar friends, are strains indeed.

there is a single recourse, but imogen holds it on her person.

‘get back,’ laudna urges them. ‘please - you’re - we are hurting her. our minds. she won’t hurt us, she doesn’t know it’s us, if we only move away.’ they follow her lead, of course. she knows imogen, and laudna hopes desperately that the shining woman they run away from is still her imogen. ‘don’t come closer, no matter what happens. she’ll never forgive herself for hurting you, so you mustn’t—you mustn’t,’ laudna insists.

‘what are you gonna do?’ orym croaks. his hand hands moved from the bloody spot on his chest—seared skin beneath, the wound somehow closed, his life returned to him in a manner most confusing. a splinter of light, a flash of red—an entry wound in through his shoulder, fearne’s awful scream, and then he had spasmed and coughed and—the look of horror has faded now, somewhat.

‘i’m going to open the hole.’

‘treshi—‘

‘if he’s not dead, tie him up, restrain him. or pin him. your sword through his gut will slow him down. try to make it something that won’t kill him until tomorrow,’ she requests, and knows by the worry that flickers over his bloody face that it’s a shade darker - ha! - than her typical sense of humour. but he won’t blame her and laudna won’t waste a second more on whether it’s appropriate or not. treshi is the reason that they’re here, and so a not insignificant portion of her mind torrents around the idea that this is all his fault. ‘letters?’

‘i don’t know if this is a good idea,’

‘i’m not letting her go through this alone,’ laudna snaps. ‘just get me back up if - if it goes poorly.’

FCG creaks when he nods. ‘alright. i’ll do my best.’

‘i can help,’ fearne adds. ‘if you give me a second.’

‘no time. goodbye,’ laudna says, because she’s not sure if imogen will kill her or not and she would hate to leave them without having said it.

from the boundary, from the thirty-some paces they crept away to, where imogen’s screams lost their piercing edge and settled into ragged sobs, she approaches.

imogen screams.

laudna weeps, knowing she is the one hurting her. hurrying forward, black streaming down bone-white cheeks, she fills her mind with the word that brings her peace and hopes that it will do the same for her.

imogen, she thinks. do you know yourself? do you know who you are? imogen, my imogen, imogen, she thinks, chants, floods every empty echoing space in her attic-mind with imogen’s brilliant light, with everything that comes with her girl’s name. love, of course. love and care and protection and admiration, love and the many shades of lavender and violet, love and the awe of power, the desperate despair of power. love and tea in the morning, love and the sensation of gentle fingers against her elbow, the buoyancy of flight the buoyancy of imogen’s attention on her, love and the weight of a body slumped against her, love and the fear of a body unmoving, love and the relief of a body roused, moving, talking, love and the drive onwards, the drive to study and learn and understand, love and the warmth of a body in bed beside her. she had never been warm before imogen; was there a thought, a feeling, that could encompass that? she had been so cold, knew the bite of it, the depth of it, and wondered now whether imogen knew what gift she had given her night after night. a warm arm over her waist, knees behind her own. a sweaty palm against hers, fingers entwined.

lightning splinters from her. scars writhe across reddened skin—blood? ruidis’s mark? burns?—and imogen digs her fingers into dirt that turns to liquid glass between her fingers.

‘laud,’ she gasps.

‘i’m here,’ laudna croons. her skin scorches with every step she takes, ten feet and closing. ‘i’m here, imogen.’

‘h-hurts.’

imogen convulses. flings an arm out—a great spike of light sears across the road, collapses a small house. laudna hopes it was empty. she doesn’t think any of them have been that lucky.

the thought, the instinctive reach, head turning, mind turning, reaching—imogen’s straining composure snaps with the realisation. her limbs shake, stretch and curl tight, foetal in the dirt as she loses what little focus kept her upright.

laudna curses her frailty, curses the deathly trip of her thoughts, curses that she has caused imogen more pain and hasn’t the strength to lift it from her shoulders. she can only watch the light of imogen’s eyes—no, the light that is her eyes, nothing beneath those thin, burned red lids but roiling light—flicker. red. white. red. white.

‘don’t think about it.’

‘i killed—‘ there is nothing in her stomach to expel. agony finds a way out, always. laudna knows, and imogen know it now too—she could not sick it up so she screams instead, a raw sound that rips out of her.

laudna steps forward.

‘no!’

‘imogen-‘

‘i’ll hurt you. i’ll burn—‘

‘that’s alright,’ laudna says. means it down to her marrow. five steps. ‘i know, it’s alright. FCG will heal me.’

imogen is crying again. white smoke pours from the corners of her eyes. she holds still, as still as she can, as laudna reaches her, reaches for the black cloth tucked into her pocket.

she flicks it out—gives treshi, gasping, a moment to clamber out and run. and when his thoughts so close, clamouring fear and rage, make imogen scream, laudna risks everything she is willing to risk (everything, for her) and wraps her arms around imogen, pulling her down into blissful black.

#cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #imodna #tagging my stories #prompt fill #imodna my beloveds

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bunnyanqel · 3 months

Text

A Simple Favor (5)

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Summary: Aliyah agrees to play D&D if only for Eddie.

Warnings: nsfw content, MDNI, 18+, a dash of angst, oral sex, vaginal fingering, profanity, mentions of drug use

Dinner wasn’t gourmet—some seasoned rice, pan-seared porkchops, and hearty vegetables—but it was delicious nonetheless. He hadn’t been lying when he said he could cook, and she had to admit reluctantly he was halfway on his way to being forgiven.

But not without some good old fashioned groveling, complete with kneeling, she’d laughed as they lay on his bed. The couch hadn’t been nearly as accommodating for post-dinner sleepiness.

“You want me on my knees?” he asked, a strange current to words, almost like he was excited. But his eyes were dark and serious as Aliyah and he sat in his bedroom, sprawled across his bed.

Half-awake, she absently muttered, “Sure, sure,” and thought nothing when the bed dipped, springs creaking. At least until she cracked an eye open and saw Eddie had sank to his knees right there beside her, looking as pretty as an oil painting.

“Like this?” His voice was soft, gentle as he stared up at her with those big, brown eyes that never failed to make her heart race.

Case in point? Right now. She could feel its pounding, damn-near painful rhythm in her chest as she sat up, suddenly wide awake, the kegs of drowsiness knocked back in favor of white-hot claws of arousal. Her clit throbbed painfully against the seam of her jeans as she shifted, fighting a shudder that escaped as a infinitesimal twitch.

“Eddie, I was kidding!” she squawked but made no move to pull him to his feet or demand he get off his knees.

He simply was a work of art, all sweet innocuous eyes, pouty lips, and with the way his thighs were spread, there was nothing to hide the way his cock filled the fly of his jeans.

“Will you let me apologize?” His gaze was a heavy caress, making her nipples pebble despite the warm air, and she realized he was enjoying this. That he wanted this, and the idea punched the air from her lungs soundly.

Even though every part of her wanted to agree, she couldn’t stop herself from clarifying. “Are you offering because you want to or because you think you should?” If the latter was the case, she’d never forgive herself for wanting to agree. For wanting his tongue on her clit and his hair in her hands.

“Want to,” he said emphatically.

He watched her with unabashed hunger, his face steadily turning red, his eyes shiny and pupils blown so big they almost eclipsed the brown of his irises. He looked wrecked, and they hadn’t even done anything.

She pushed to her feet, unzipped her jeans, and shimmied them down her legs, allowing herself to fall back onto Eddie’s bed. A cloud of marijuana and Axe hit her in the face as she landed, half-raised on her braced hands to look down at him. Christ, he was so pretty between her brown thighs, staring back at her hungrily, like he was dying to get his mouth on her. Like he might die if she denied him. And who was she to stop a starved man?

“Go ahead,” she said in a voice that sounded much calmer than she felt. There was only the inkling of self-consciousness, her fear that her desire was splashed on her face, that vanished the minute he touched her.

His hands were warm and broad, sweeping long, brisk strokes up and down her thighs, teasing her. When she shuddered, hips twitching, he simply looked at her before he continued to take his time. Torture her. Every touch, the whisper of his breath so close to her pebbled little clit, the knowledge it was Eddie Munson that was touching her and that it was his hair tickling her skin made her feel breathless and fuzzy. And like she’d die if he kept moving at a snail’s pace, dragging out every second, driving her up the wall.

She clawed the sheets and fought the overwhelming desire to groan in frustration at the feather-light caress of his touches skimming up and down her thighs. If he didn’t pick up the pace, if he didn’t start doing something other than drive her crazy, she’d kick him in the face. Really, she would. Was he trying to kill her?

Just as she raised onto her hands again to demand more, the scrape of his thumbnails against the crease of her thigh-pelvis area made her jolt like she’d been electrocuted. How had she never known she was so fucking sensitive right there? That it was a direct line to her clit and her nipples, lancing through with white heat that made her fall onto her back.

Her pulse hammered in her ears as she felt movement against her thighs, not the prick of calloused fingers but instead the warm suction of a mouth trailing kisses closer and closer to her pussy. Excitement raced through her, and she whimpered as she blindly reached down and grasped a handful of Eddie’s wild hair.

And yanked.

“Fuck!” he cried out, but it wasn’t pain in his voice. Couldn’t have ever been mistaken for anything other than a man on the edge of losing his control sexually. “I was tryna’ take my time with you. Nice and slow.”

“Fuck that,” she rasped.

He pinched the fat on her hip, and a zing of arousal cut through her pussy. “S’an apology, y’know? Now I just can’t help myself.”

Before she could ask what he meant, her back bowed off the bed at the slight graze of a finger against her clit, hooking into the sopping gusset of her ruined panties and yanking them down with little finesse and almost entirely eagerness. Wam breath cascaded over her pussy folds, making her squeeze her eyes shut in anticipation, every muscle coiled tight, straining for his lips on her clit.

“Please, please, please,” she gasped out, desperate for his touch, for anything he’d give her if it meant she could cum. All the slow touches and the knowledge it was him had done nothing to ease her raging libido; instead, it seemed to have fed it and ratcheted it up.

He was in her face suddenly, a manic gleam in his eye, his face pinched tight with strain. His knees pushed her legs further out, parting her cunt lips, and she shuddered at the air blowing over it from the heating circulating the room. “Lady asks and she shall receive. At any point you wanna stop, just say Hellfire.”

She nodded and slid a hand along the back of his neck, pushing her chest against his. “I understand,” she murmured before she kissed him gently, softly, at odds with the near-violent desire coursing through her.

The kiss was slow and sweet and would’ve been chaste had it not been for the tongue that worked its way into her mouth, twisting and twining around hers.

A hand skimmed down her body, bypassing her breasts and hips in favor of her bared clit, and it was electricity that replaced her blood when his fingers brushed it. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as he stroked and pinched her clit, rolling it tenderly between the pads of his fingers.

He sucked on her tongue until she had to pull away and moan into his neck, clawing at him, trying to drag him closer as he rubbed at her clit. Her hips had a mind of their own now, jerking and drawing little circles, as he worked her over. Stars burst behind her eyes at the pleasure rushing through her, damn near stealing the oxygen from her lungs.

“Oh God, oh God,” she sobbed at the sheer intensity his touch was stoking in her. Her head lolled, resting on his shoulder, and she stared down at his hand between her legs. His fingers found her clit again and again, pushing her pleasure higher and hotter, making her keen loudly and tears brim.

“Not God, sweetheart, but close enough,” he whispered against her ear as he pinched her clit.

She couldn’t bring herself to laugh, not when her mind was emptying of everything except his touch and how her body was on fire because of him. The pressure on her clit, the rasp of his stubble on her forehead, the heat of his body—all of it would be burned into her soul. This moment, Eddie Munson making her pleasure-drunk with his fingers on her clit, making her stupid with it, would stay with her until she died.

Or until she got his cock inside of her.

Either one.

“E-Eddie, I’m gonna—fuck, fuck, uh, uh, uh!”

Words exploded out of her, sounding like the soundtrack of some cheap porno, but she couldn’t stop herself. She clawed at him, shaking and shuddering in his arms, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs at the intense, mounting pleasure. Sweat dampened the back of her T-shirt as he suddenly pulled back, but before she could cry out, she found herself being dragged to the edge of the bed, her legs thrown over his shoulders.

And his tongue was in her cunt, on her clit, batting it and circling it with single-minded focus.

She was soaking wet, feeling it pool in the crack of her ass, onto the comforter, but she was too far gone to care or even remember to be embarrassed. All she knew was he was going to give her an orgasm, that he was going to make the fire go away. That was all that mattered in the moment.

He sucked and slurped, the wet sounds of pussy eating filling the air, as she moaned and vocalized incoherently. Not words, just loud cries of pleasure, half-words, choked and stuttered through tight teeth.

“F-fu—oh! Uh! Uh! G-gonna—” She broke the words off as he gave a particularly sharp pull of her clit, and the pleasure broke over her. It whited her vision and robbed every sense she had, and all she knew was that pleasure. Eddie’s tongue. The smell of marijuana and Axe.

When she finally came back down, slowly, piecing herself back together, she became aware of being held. Of a hand stroking up and down her back, of the broken cords of some rock song behind hummed.

“Holy shit,” she croaked when she relocated her voice. It was a thin, dry rasp that scraped her throat when she spoke.

“How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked gently as his hand quit rubbing her back and instead stroked along her arm, pushing aside the sleeve of her T-shirt. Pleasant warmth followed the path of his fingers.

“Good. Boneless. Thank you, Eddie.” It took her a second to gather enough energy to turn in his arms and she stared up into his eyes. Those big, brown eyes were surely going to be the death of her, she just knew it. “But what about you?”

“I, uh—” He stopped and his face went pink, his gaze shuttering a little. His bottom lip clamped between his teeth. “I kinda…when you…I did too.” His voice broke on the words.

“That’s…kinda of hot,” she admitted meekly. The idea that he was so turned on by her orgasm that he came in his pants was also an insane ego boost, and she smiled. “But for my next favor, I want milkshakes.”

He stilled for just a second, tensing underneath her, before he melted. “Is that right?”

She nodded.

Thank God for simple favors.

#eddie munson smut #my writing #bunny writes #bunny's writing

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 7 months

Text

Day 3 of @silmsmutweek

Pairing: Makar x Meássë | Location: House of Tulkas

Themes: Smut (lemon)

Word count: 3.4K words

Summary: The twins defy laws and accepted convention after finding a way that would allow them to be intimate with each other without the others finding out.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

A/n: I wrote this from before the twins left to make their own keep near the Halls of Mandos.

Makar always knew he and his twin were not like the others.

From the moment their spirits formed, the ties that bound them to each other were strong. Makar understood this. His sister saw him in a way no one else would. She understood him in a way no one else would. She was the only being who willingly stood by him when he spoke in favor of Melko. No one besides Meássë herself had the power to shield her heart from his.

And that was how it all started. With that bond. Makar sensed it—a slow-burning desire creeping all over him—every time Meássë looked at him or talked to him, or, as he suspected, thought of him. She never revealed her true feelings for him, even when they were alone. Makar understood why. It was against the law and accepted custom to lay with close kin. Despite being gods, the Valar were expected to set an example for the Gnomes and lead the way, as they did in everything.

Makar often scoffed at the notion. Lead the way. Ha! The others can lead the way for the Gnomes. He would keep himself well away from all of it. And he was never one for patience. For the sake of his sister, however, Makar held his tongue. He wanted Meássë to come to him of her own free will. He wanted her to confess to him out of her own free will. Alas, Meássë neither came to him nor confessed to him. She let her feelings for him grow without end. When they grew to the point of always tugging him to her like an invisible rope that had wound itself around him, Makar knew he could no longer wait. He approached his sister after they were done sparring and were alone in the armory.

"I know of your desires," he admitted without judgment. "I feel them whenever you are near me or even think of me. Tell me, do you wish to act on them?"

Meássë turned towards a rack and blushed while she put away her weapon and shield. It was the first time since they had chosen earthly vessels to house their spirits. She sighed and looked away, conjuring a hundred tales. Makar refused to believe her. They were all lies. And his sister could never lie. Not to him, at least.

"Do not try to hide what is plain to my eyes," he insisted. "Tell me, sister, do you desire me or no?"

His twin blushed again, her pale cheeks turning the prettiest shade of pink.

"Tis wrong," she declared after a moment of reflection. "You are my twin. What I feel for you is unnatural. I will learn to curb my thoughts, lest they disturb you more. Forgive me, brother."

"Very well." It had wounded her deeply to say the words, as if a red-hot blade were piercing her heart. The same indescribable pain seared through Makar as well. Still, he accepted her decision, deciding to bide his time till an opportune moment presented itself and he could talk to her. "I will leave things as they are, for now. Now go. Others are coming to train."

Meássë fled into the shadows, silently chiding herself for not having closed her mind to her brother. Once, she deemed such an act unnecessary, thinking she was clever enough to guard her thoughts. She was wrong. Makar knew, and of course he would know. He was her twin, her other half. Their bond was strong. She now understood that it was too strong.

If only she had been more careful and curbed her thoughts! Meássë cursed herself again, this time for letting her feelings for her twin morph into something dark and forbidden. What was worse, she let it happen, knowing full well that if the truth came out, it would lead to her disgrace. It was wrong; she knew that, and yet she also knew no other would suit her. Oh, she could let the other Gods woo her and court her and shower her with a thousand sweet promises, and it would not be enough. None of them would be enough. None of them were him. They arose together and came into the world together. She loved Makar as much as he loved her. She admired him and worshiped him, and cared only for his happiness. Nothing and no one else mattered except for him.

He is lost to me now! And I have no one but myself to blame! Meássë bit her lip and ran down one lofty corridor after another, fighting a losing battle against the tears that welled and stung her eyes. She did not stop until she had reached the safety of her chambers, practically snarling at her attendants and demanding that they leave her be after they prepared her bath. A good hot bath and a cry were needed. Then she decided on her next course of action. She would close her heart and mind to her twin. It was the only way to protect them both, and him most of all.

Days bled into each other. Makar would watch his sister from afar, saddened by how she shielded herself from him. He had reflected on what she said and the implications of her true feelings for him. Perhaps she was right, and it was wrong. Still, the silence between them felt strange and unnatural, even more so than her desire for him. It made him feel alone and cold and empty. He yearned to be near her again and to feel that tug that pulled him to her. This icy distance had to end, he knew, before it drove him mad. So, during the next round of contests in Tulkas's great arena, Makar watched his sister, struck by how much she had changed. Her grief over having to keep away from him gave her a haunted, troubled look. It alarmed him. Makar lifted his cup and drank deep, draining the last of his wine before rising and approaching his twin. The others be damned, he decided. He was going to talk to her and was not going to wait any longer.

"We need to talk, you and me," he stated, and took her hand. "Come."

Meássë had no choice but to follow. Anything else meant rousing the suspicion of those who had gathered to watch athletes compete against each other. She let Makar lead her out of the noisy court and arena and into a darkened grove covered by ancient trees with thick trunks.

"You avoid me now," Makar had observed. "And you have shielded your thoughts from me."

"As I rightly should," Meássë retorted. "If not, suspicion will arise when I make the inevitable mistake and give my true feelings away."

"Suspicion would still arise when brother and sister are no longer seen speaking with each other. To tell you the truth, it feels wrong to be cut off from you," Makar lamented, reaching for her. "I miss you. Is there nothing I could do to change things back to what they were?"

Tears sprung unbidden when she gazed upon her brother's outstretched arms. She could not say how often she had dreamed of being held by those arms.

"You know it is impossible," Meássë sniffed, and walked away from him. It would not do to dwell on dreams that would never come true. She headed deeper into the little grove to get away from him. "Not after you made it plain that you knew. I will not invite shame and disgrace into your head. Now leave me be. I will return to the arena in a little while."

"Leave you be?" Makar refused to hear it. "Not while you are in this state."

He dogged her every step, refusing to leave her alone. He grabbed her hand once or twice, growling in frustration every time she pulled away. Meássë turned back and struck him on the arm when he reached for her a third time. It did not hurt, and he barely even felt it. Makar smirked, the sight of his lips tugging at the corners prickling his twin’s pride. She tried to strike again, and he deflected her blow with his hand. This time, his smirk turned into an amused chuckle. Frustrated, Meássë kicked him. Makar ducked and laughed merrily, rousing her anger. Furious, she lunged at him, knocking him onto the soft grass. Makar laughed still while she tried to overpower him.

"I hate you!" She cried.

"That…little sister… is a lie." Makar huffed and twisted and squirmed and rolled them around until he was on top of her, pinning her wrists to the ground. "You and I both know what you feel for me is far from hate."

The stars shone brightly, their light broken by the leaves. Meássë tried in vain to break free. Her brother was taller and stronger, and a far better fighter. She groaned in defeat, her body growing slack beneath his.

"Finished?" Makar teased, grinning wickedly when she mumbled a soft yes.

More starlight seeped into the grove. This was when Makar truly saw his sister: the alabaster skin, the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks and upturned nose, the long auburn hair, how her eyes were the color of flawless emeralds glinting in the light. And she was perfect. His sister was utterly perfect—a glorious vision made flesh. Makar sat astride her hips, content to look all over for her for a moment. His gaze slowly returned to hers. His sister was looking right back at him, her eyes ablaze. It was not anger, he saw, but something else. He needed to see more and learn the truth, but for that to happen, his sister had to let him into her thoughts.

"Let me see," he commanded.

Meássë struggled again. "No!"

Makar tsk’d and shook his head. "Hush and let me see." He drew back one hand, bringing it to her cheek. "Let me. Go on."

His twin wanted to refuse, but the determined look in his eye gave her pause. She exhaled, surrendered, and opened her thoughts to his mind’s eye. Makar was exceedingly gentle, probing each memory with great care and sighing in relief when he found what he looked for. His search revealed a great deal: worry and reverence and admiration, and lust and longing, and even hints of something deeper than the love a sister ought to have for her brother. Makar was amazed. Heat bloomed and surged just beneath his skin when her heart called to his in an ancient song only he could recognize. His own began to stir and begged to answer.

Meássë closed her eyes when she felt the softness of her twin’s hand. It felt so good to feel his touch after so long. Dare she try for more? She pressed her cheek against his palm. It was warm. So warm. If her brother did not desire it, he did not utter a word. Makar still listened and watched and probed, sifting through all he could find, his hold on her wrists loosening. She heard his gasp and felt him tremble.

This was the end, thought Meássë. Her brother was surely disgusted by what he saw—what she struggled so hard to keep hidden. His silence certainly spoke volumes to her. She finally opened her eyes, fearful of what she might see. What happened instead was that Makar leaned down and kissed her.

His lips tasted of wine and honey and cloves when they sought hers. Meássë thought she had strayed into a beautiful dream. The tongue that slipped past her lips and flicked against her own convinced her she had not. She yielded easily, moaning when Makar kissed her deeply and softly, letting go of her hands so he could slip his arms around her waist and pull her up with him. He made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, now glad he had surrendered to the entreaties of his heart. Makar sighed wistfully. This kiss was more than what he thought it was going to be—all heat and fire and tenderness at the same time. It made him want more. They knelt beneath the trees and clung to each other while they kissed. A bird flew overhead, the sound of its fast-beating wings breaking the spell that wove itself between them. Realizing that they were too exposed, Makar finally drew back.

"The depths of your feelings for me," he pondered aloud. "No one else has ever..." Makar stopped and looked his sister in the eye. "I need more," he entreated, pressing his forehead against hers, his voice thick and hoarse. "More of what you are willing to give me. This kiss and what I felt in your thoughts were far from enough."

"Not here. And not at the House. Tulkas’s attendants are everywhere." Meássë looked up at him, fear and hope at war in her eyes. "And we are brother and sister. It is wrong. The law—"

"Fuck the law!" Makar growled hotly. "And fuck what the others think. I want you; I will not fight it. But if you are afraid, there may be a way still, at least until we can go off on our hunts, and I can build a keep just for us, away from the wagging tongues of others. For now, we must wait until we are in our chambers, and the others have gone to rest. Is this acceptable to you?"

Another way? Meássë was filled with ravenous curiosity. "I will wait," she decided.

It felt like hours had passed before the games ended and the rest departed for the comfort of their chambers. Makar bid his sister farewell and made his way to his own rooms, and Meássë left for her own. This time she spoke kindly to her attendants, letting them bathe and dress her for bed with nary a cross word. She would smile and let them fuss over her, waiting only until they left before latching the door and shielding herself from the outside world. Meássë padded over to her bed, slipping in between the silken sheets and closing her eyes.

She wandered the silent paths tread by only Gods and Gnomes, those that hovered between true sleep and deep dream. Meássë found herself now in the forests of the Great Lands, beneath starlit skies, a tent already pitched by an unlit fire pit. The world around her swirled and moved, as if she were surrounded by a strange mist.

How?

Makar appeared from the rippling shadows, thoroughly pleased with himself. There is a way, he said, his voice as soft as a kiss. Through bonds such as ours. And the ties that bind us are strong. Do you wish to continue?

In his own chamber, Makar writhed from the crippling pain that had caught him in its grip. He took one deep breath, and another, and another, not stopping until the throbbing ache that had been building slowly ebbed away and he could breathe more freely. He had heard of this act and that those amongst their kind made use of it, though the way was not spoken of to others. He was starting to see why.

Meássë, still in the dream world her twin weaved for them, considered his offer and said, Are you certain you wish to do this?

I am, Makar replied, and approached his sister. The question is, do you wish to continue?

Meássë paused, hesitated. If we do this, she cautioned, There will be no going back.

I know, Makar returned. And I will have it no other way. Now, I ask you again, sister. Is your answer yes, or no?

He was before her now, his molten gold eyes gilded in the light of the stars. Meássë looked around her. The field they stood in was empty of life. It was just her and him. They could do whatever they wished, and no one would be the wiser. Finally, her dreams were about to become reality.

Yes, she answered before long.

Makar scooped her into his arms and kissed her, molding himself to her when she moaned and returning his kiss with equal passion. Her lips were just as petal-soft in living dream as they were in the corporeal world. He paused, his lips just a grain above hers. Her breath mingling with his made him lightheaded and dizzy. He touched her cheek, her hair. Auburn locks slipped around his fingers like silk. Makar would bring each and every one to his lips.

Meássë shivered when Makar kissed her again, her face growing hot when his tongue slipped into the inviting heat of her mouth. His skilled hands were quick to find and undo the fastenings of her robe. Goosbumps prickled all over her when wisps of silk loosened and slipped past her arms to pool around her feet. Makar disrobed himself just as easily. Tunic and breeches and boots joined the robe to form a little pile on soft, fragrant grass. He then swept Meássë into his embrace, pulling her with him as he lay down.

They lay beneath the stars, content in each other’s arms. It was quiet, but the silence was a sweet and comfortable one. Makar brushed the hair out of Meássë’s eyes as the silence stretched between them. He watched her as she watched him. Then he leaned in.

Do you dream of me often? He lilted between kisses.

Yes, Meássë trembled when he kissed the expanse of her throat, her shoulders. Often and always.

Did I touch you like this? His soft, fleeting touch, ghosting over her belly, her breasts, ripped startled gasps out of her. And this? He uttered while his hand now glided over and inside her thighs. How about this?

All of it. And in many other ways.

Including this?

Her back arched even as she sucked in a deep breath. Makar touched her like an experienced lover, teasing her and unleashing a riot of desire with every stroke of the finger. He restrained himself, choosing a gentler approach, his kisses drowning out her mewls and whimpers.

On the next hunt, I want it to be just you and me, he insisted. I want to take you beneath the stars. Will you let me do that? Take you beneath the stars?

Meássë dragged in another deep breath, this time when he moved over her and parted her legs with his. She slid her arms around his shoulders, beneath the thick, auburn hair that often haunted her dreams.

Yes, she pleaded, raising her hips when he gripped her thigh and slowly pushed himself inside of her. That is what I have wanted for a long time.

Good, Makar propped himself on his free elbow and sank his length, inch by slow inch, into her warmth. That is good. I… Fuck…"

He could not bring himself to say anything else. He stole one last glance at her, one final glimpse, drowning in her eyes, before rolling his hips. Makar nearly came apart when Meássë wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his back, urging him to go deeper. He dipped his head, latching onto her throat without missing a beat. Meássë’s cries spilled free when he sucked down hard with each thrust, her nails leaving little bruises on his skin whenever his teeth scraped briefly over her flesh.

Makar somehow kept his attention on her, his hips rocking at a frantic, erratic pace. Even in dream, he relished the softness of her insides, the heady scent wafting off her skin, and the otherworldly green eyes that were now clouded and darkened with lust. He dissolved into pleasure of the acutest kind, shockwaves gripping his entire being when her walls clenched and pulsed around his cock. He fell apart, crying out her name while he convulsed and emptied his seed. Makar let out another transported whine, this time when Meássë’s orgasm ripped through her and she choked out a sob. He sought her lips again, but with tenderness instead of passion.

Like all good things, their coupling had to come to an end, even in dream. Makar drew away, moving to his side and propping himself on his elbow.

We must part now, he said, albeit very reluctantly. Lest someone comes in search of either of us and finds us in this state. But we can meet like this again, until our next hunt.

As much as she loathed to part from him, Meássë thought his course of action was the safest for them both. Until the next hunt, she agreed. Beneath the stars.

Tags: @cilil

#silmsmutweek #Makar #Meássë #Makar smut #Meássë smut #Makar x Meássë #Makar imagine #Meássë imagine #the book of lost tales #The book of lost tales imagine #Dark! Makar #Dark! Meássë

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