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thedreamlessnights · 2 months

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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marimoscorner · 1 month

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Consumerism & Witchcraft

Written by Marimo (he/they)🌿

I’ve seen a turn for the better in some witchy spaces regarding consumerism in the past few years, but overall it still tends to be an issue for us as a community. I’ve decided to try and breakdown the pitfalls I’ve noticed in my own journey, in the hopes that it will inspire and assist others. I’ve also provided alternatives and ideas on how to make small changes in our practice to help us better protect the Earth, stick it to the failing system and still acquire our bits and bobs we love so dearly.

As always, I am no authority on any subject nor am I perfect—but we’re all learning as we go, so let’s dive right in 🌿

A Preface

There are some things that should be made entirely clear before we begin:

You are not a bad person for wanting an aesthetic

You are not a bad person for unknowingly falling into pitfalls. Only if you continue to purposefully do so after knowing better

You are not a bad person for consuming content/objects or for not always making the most sustainable decisions. At the end of the day, we can only control our small part of environmental impact, while the rest is left up to the major corporations that make more pollution than any of us ever will

You are only human. Show yourself some grace and understanding that the internet so lacks.

My Experience in Consumerist Hell

I have fallen victim many times to consumerism in witchcraft. Starting my journey at the ripe age of about ten years old and heavily in the broom closet, I was quickly drawn in by the shiny rocks, the brand new candles and scents, the promise of new tarot decks and pendulums and other fancy, shiny new equipment. I was consuming an online aesthetic along with my ideals, and it distracted me from starting my journey by learning well.

I began to spend my birthday and holiday money on the aesthetic of things. While, granted, I still did buy a few literary resources now and again from my local secondhand bookstore—I was stubbornly ignoring the sage advice to learn and understand first before diving in headfirst.

I purchased statues, crystals, too many tarot decks to use. I purchased osteomancy bones I later returned to the earth, for I had not done enough research to know that that animal was mine to practice with. I had a tankard full of incense sticks, and even a growing pile of books that would not be read. While I liked to consider myself crafty with my homemade Maypole and various hand-bound Grimoires, something was becoming apparent: this was all a distraction.

The aesthetic I was partaking in was providing me with a false sense of progress and practicality.

When I’d go to do a tarot reading, I’d become far too overwhelmed with choosing a deck to read in the first place. When making an offering to a deity, I’d feel pressured to also bolster the altars of all the other deities I’d set up, and with my wide pool, the connections felt muddy. Often times I’d be off-put on a project or spell because I knew I needed to film it and it needed to look nice.

In the long term, I don’t have many of these items today. I’ve sold and donated a vast breadth of them. Feeling overwhelmed costed me a few years retreat from my craft to recuperate. However, what has stuck with me is the knowledge I picked up along the way.

So, What’s the Issue? TL;DR

I’ve noticed a few issues here in making these mistakes myself.

Consumerism absolutely distracts you from learning and your craft

Overconsumption leads to environmental damage. If everyone hoarded supplies, there would not be enough to go around. And with what gets thrown away every year…it paints an ugly wound on the Earth

We damage our learning abilities by not allowing ourselves to be anything less than perfect

The need for aesthetic creates barriers to entry within the community and creates a divide of haves and have-nots

You won’t be able to truly follow your individual path if you are only consuming and not creating for yourself

Consumerist culture promotes appropriation. Metaphysical stores carry items from closed practices (such as white sage and palo santo, or coyote bones) because someone is buying them. Don’t be that person, and find alternatives relating to your own culture instead

Consumerism can influence your spiritual decisions based upon monetary inclinations (where some may sacrifice a quality ingredient over a higher quantity of a lower quality ingredient)

So, what can we do?

Firstly, I want to clarify that I am not against collecting, nor am I against maximalism or the beautiful visual aesthetic we carry as a community.

I am an artist a very visual person and understand the longing for a beautiful home and workspace. However, this aesthetic shouldn’t come at the cost of irresponsibly harming the Earth or another community.

Thus, I’ve compiled a list of small things that I will be incorporating into my practice to make it more mindful and sustainable. I hope that you’ll join me in a few of them.

Minimize Supplies. While I used to have a huge selection of stationary for my Grimoire, I now limit myself to a simple pencil and watercolor set if I’m feeling artistic. This helps me actually use my Grimoire for study, rather than to keep perfect. It’s also friendlier on my wallet!

Thrift Supplies. There are plenty of perfectly good items that get donated daily. You can get high-quality candles and holders, old crystal bowls for altar offerings, spare crafting supplies, fabric for alter cloths and even clothing if you so wish—all for a fraction of the cost new and while saving the planet just a little bit more. Hell, you can sometimes even find good silver!

Share Supplies with your Community. You can create a sort of barter system with other witches in your area. Perhaps you create a sigil for them, and they provide you with a candle spell. Play to your strengths and grow together!

Look for Creative Outlets. Do you really need to go buy an altar statue that’s been mass-produced? Or can you give your deity the personal gift of a drawing, painting or even hand-modeled or hand-carved rendition? This will also deepen your connection to your craft and your magic, and make it more meaningful and stronger. If you really like something, though, go for it!

If you aren’t the artistic sort, consider supporting an artist before going to a large company. While I haven’t purchased from them myself, Blagowood on Etsy has beautiful deity statues carved from wood by their small team in Ukraine for a comparable cost to the standard mass produced metal statues. I consider this extra labor of love going into these pieces and those of similar small companies to be much better energy for my practice. I myself may put out some art prints and other handmade supplies in the future, but I will likely spread them around my community first.

Try Secondhand Books. While not available in every area and further still not as available for witchcraft and occult books, you may strike luck! Not only are secondhand books less expensive, but you’ll be supporting a local business. That’s not to say you can’t buy firsthand books, but some searching around may be beneficial to the earth and to your wallet in the long run.

Be mindful of where you source supplies and decor. If you are a fan of taxidermy decor, make sure that you source cruelty free. Bats can practically never be sourced without cruelty, so if a shop carries them, I’d be mindful of their other specimens. The same goes for if a shop decides to forgo a culture’s wishes and carry supplies sacred to them, such as white sage or dreamcatchers. Supporting folks who turn a profit off of others’ suffering is not something many would wish to include energetically in their craft.

Search the Wild for Tools. Find sticks, flowers and other plants out in the forest. Learn how to rockhound in your area for crystals. Your craft will be more powerful the more connected it is to the land you are surrounded by. Be sure to reference guides for safety and legality!

Get Creative with Purposes. If you are having difficulty finding exactly what you need by thrifting or searching, make another tool multipurpose if it would do the job good enough. Find supplies that are easy to source and work as substitutes for other ingredients (ex. Quartz as a stand in for other stones)

Spend more time Doing. Go out into the woods (safely) and advance your connection to the earth instead of worrying over the perfect item for your collection. Your craft will benefit

At the end of the day, all of this is your decision. Take what you like, and leave what you don’t. Even if we don’t agree, I thank you for your time and open mind. I will continue updating about how I incorporate these steps, and I will also hopefully post more on witchy crafting in the future.

I wish you well, and hope you’ll decide to follow along on our journey!

#pagan #pagan witch #paganism #witchblr #witchcraft #marimo writes🌿

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hothammies · 2 months

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the party leader, mike wheeler - apoc au character details + poll under the cut!

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mike's role in the party:

a scouter - essentially plans runs, checks areas first to ensure safety, and directs the runners during supply runs

assigns basic survival chores at the beginning of each day (laundry, boiling water, patrol, hunting, etc.)

is the "face" of the party -> always the one to negotiate with people of other groups

even though the party likes to give him shit for being kind of rude and bossy about how he talks to them in "leader" mode - they always hang onto his every word! they love and respect him deeply

kind of like a tired dad whenever he's not fighting with someone else -> basically watches over everyone to make sure they're okay

would never hesitate to do something deplorable to protect the party: family first

skills + hobbies:

considered the designated driver (along with max): nancy taught him when he was younger. he was scared about being useless due to his inability to shoot and aim guns so nancy helped him find something useful. max teaches him how to drive manual so that he can drive her muscle car (its how they get over their distaste for each other)

writes an entry in a journal that he stole every day! he lets will doodle in the margins of the paper :)

loves to read whatever's around - particularly interested in history, sci-fi, and old journals from people before the apocalypse (reads them with dustin and el -> they are nosy as hell and live for the drama)

great at using machetes and hatchets -> do NOT let this boy shoot a gun. he will accidentally hurt you and himself

good at fixing up guns and navigating - lucas (guns) and dustin (navigating) taught him :D

quirks / fun facts:

he likes to switch around the pins on his jacket a lot! the party find pins around to give to him (range from terrible to wearable)

since he's the only boy that likes to tie up his hair, max and el like to doll up and play around with his hair during their downtime

is very annoying and particular when it comes to doing survival chores (out of love) -> makes sure that the chores are divided equally among all of them and that no one gets the same chores twice in a row

--- other notes: mike was the first character i had in mind when thinking about this au (no surprise there) and the drawing of him sitting cross legged with a machete in his hand was the first ever "official" drawing i made for this :D i tried to make apoc mike similar to canon mike in terms of his temperament, his hero complex, his self-sacrificial tendencies, his inability to appropriately process his romantic feelings, his natural leadership and his personality. about mike's inability to use guns -> looking at mike's character dnd sheet, his dexterity is low and s1 mike wheeler cannot aim for shit either (see his rock throw). the reason he's most comfortable with machetes (and hatchets) is because of their versatility as both weapons and tools! just wanted to share because i think mike needed a nerf and him not being able to shoot guns is both in character and funny as hell to me i've had mike and will's char sheets done for a while and i really love the way they look :) i'm excited to post will's next! i'm working on the character sheets in batches of two, so which duo are yall most interested to see next? i'll work on them based on the poll results and post them next week at the earliest :) i'll prob also try out some concept designs for the demogorgon-like zombies sometime soon as well!

#shoutout to the acswy writers for sticking the idea of mike driving manual cars in my head!#mike wheeler #stranger things #stranger things fanart #st apoc au #byler #sammi's art

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ferrstappen · 10 months

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Dad Lando has my whole heart 😭😭😭 could you write something of the drivers first time meeting Amelia? Or her fist time in the paddock?.. anything I just love dad Lando and your writing style 🧡

meet & greet l dad!Lando Norris x reader

The existence of baby Amalia Norris, no middle name just like her dad, was a well known secret, but a secret nonetheless.

There were never rumors about you being pregnant, but when the season started, mechanics and staff of every team, tv channel, you name it, started talking about Lando Norris and how he supposedly had a baby with his girlfriend.

Norris? No way, he's still a child himself

There's no way, the girlfriend would have to raise two babies and she looks smarter than that.

McLaren team members, especially those closer to Lando, were often asked about it by other people, but they were warned by the high commands to keep it private until Lando and you wanted to confirm it. Even if Adam Norris was often gushing about his youngest granddaughter and how she smiled just for him.

Max Verstappen once unwired himself after a reporter asked him about it. Carlos once pretended he didn't hear and the next time he just asked for another question.

The closest people on the grid already met her, she was six months old already and was completely used to the presence of uncle Max, uncle Carlos, uncle Oscar and uncle Danny, others had seen Amalia once or twice, but didn't really have the honorary uncle title.

There were so many talks between you and Lando, him being the most reticent to bringing your daughter to the paddock, not only because of the noises and movements, but someone was going to get a picture eventually, her face being everywhere, on stranger’s camera rolls and Instagram accounts.

"Why don't we make an announcement on our terms, then?"

Lando understood your idea, he really did, but he didn't owe anything to anyone. Yes, in the early months of your relationship he'd be posting stories and pictures to his .jpg account, but he never openly talked about you, your name and relationship was one of the few prohibited subjects for reporters and his PR team made sure everyone knew it.

But, this time was different because this was his daughter, and she was too precious, too beautiful for people to just look at her perfectly shaped face, beautifully colored eyes, adorably cute pout, even when she was drooling from giggling too much or sleeping to deeply.

But it was Silverstone, this wasn’t an ordinary occasion or an ordinary race, it was his home race and this time both you and him knew it was the right time to bring her to the paddock, just for the race day and trying to keep her out of the public’s eyes and constant cameras following his every step.

The night before you were searching her closet to find the perfect outfit for the ever changing English weather. Lando was holding Amalia on his arms, giggling along her as she played with the messy curls on top of his head.

“What do you want to wear for your first race, pretty girl?” Lando asked his daughter who just stared at him and enjoyed the rocking motion of his arms.

A white dress with orange daisies seemed like the perfect option, with one of her daddy’s papaya bucket hats made just for her. It was the perfect outfit for what was going to be a very memorable day.

And of course it was.

At first, fans and press were surprised Lando didn’t arrive on the track with his McLaren, instead his dad was driving a black Mercedes, polarized windows that only caught a glimpse of you through the front glass. Lando made sure everything was fine with the credentials before exiting the car, drawing the attention to himself at the same time Adam prepared the baby stroller and you placed Amalia, laughing at Lando’s dad who refused to give you the stroller.

You shyly waved your hand to the people saying your name, greeting some known faces before finally reaching the McLaren garage, where Zak was the first one to reach Adam and carefully lifting the visor and greeting Amalia who instantly recognized him.

She soon started crying, demanding to be picked up and instantly stopping when she noticed people were staring at her in awe, new faces smiling at her and waving, but the biggest smiled appeared when she noticed her papa, wearing a matching hat and taking her from your arms.

That’s how people got to meet baby Amalia Norris, who sported the same mischievous glint on her eyes, and loudly giggled when uncle Carlos arrived to the papaya garage. He was too patient with her, letting the baby play with his fingers, grab his Ferrari hat, wrap her fists on his hair and Carlos just kept talking as if his niece wasn’t tugging on his hair.

It was all a blur when Lando got to the parc fermé, parking on the big number one place, almost falling from the car before jumping into the crowd of papaya mechanics and staff waiting for him, and everyone noticed how his eyes lit up when he saw his dad and you away from the crowd, with his baby girl clapping her hands and letting out the loudest and happiest giggles, especially when Lando took her from your arms and leaving a loud kiss on her cheek before trying to hide her face on his neck and reaching to you, kissing your lips.

He received his trophy, sang his national anthem and ended the day handing his precious camera to Daniel.

It was already dark, most people were leaving as Lando grabbed your waist with one arm, the trophy with another as you held Amalia in your hip, in front of Lando’s winner car.

lando.jpg: silverstone 2024. do I need to say more?

ps: please do not repost pictures of our daughter online, I’m sharing this because it’s one of the best days of my life and wanted to celebrate with my favorite girls (and my car).

#f1 x you #f1 fic #f1 x reader #lando norris fluff #lando norris x oc #lando norris x you #lando norris blurb #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris au #lando norris one shot #dad!lando norris

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hotvintagepoll · 1 month

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Propaganda

María Félix (Doña Barbara, La Mujer sin Alma, Rio Escondido, La Cucaracha)—Maria Felix is still possibly the most well-known Mexican film actress. She turned down multiple-roles in Hollywood and a contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer in order to take roles in Mexico, France, and Argentine throughout the 1940s, 50s, 60s. She was so famous and so respected as a dramatic actress that she inspired painters, novelists and poets in their own art--she was painted by Diego Rivera, Jose Orozco, Bridget Tichenor. The novelist Carlos Fuentes used her as inspiration for his protagonist in Zona Sagrada. She inspired an entire collection by Hermes. In the late 1960s Cartier made her a custom collection of reptile themed jewels. She considered herself to be powerful challenger of morality and femininity in Mexico & worldwide--she routinely played powerful women in roles with challenging moral choices and free sexuality. But even still, years after he death, she is celebrated with Google Doodles, and appearances in the movie Coco, and holidays for the anniversary of her death.

Julie Andrews (The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins)—Oh where to start .... I'm not sure I even know how. She's just perfection. And it's not fair I can't bring post 70s work into this, because she just gets better and better, and her drag performance in to die for. But in the era I CAN talk about, she shows she has THE RANGE. Beautiful, feisty, funny, holding her own against Christopher Plummer, Paul Newman, Rock Hudson. Oh she's luminous.

This is round 4 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

María Félix:

She's Thee Hot Vintage Movie Woman of México. She's absolutely gorgeous and always looks like she's about to step on you. you WILL be thankful if she does.

"María Félix is a woman -- such a woman -- with the audacity to defy the ideas machos have constructed of what a woman should be. She's free like the wind, she disperses the clouds, or illuminates them with the lightning flash of her gaze." - Octavio Paz

María Félix is one of the most iconic actresses of the Golden Era of Mexican Cinema. La Doña, as she was lovingly nicknamed, only had one son, and when her first marriage ended in divorce her ex-husband stole her only child, so she vowed that one day she’d be more influential than her ex and she’d get her son back. AND SHE DID! María Félix rejected a Hollywood acting role to start her acting career in Mexico on her own terms with El Peñón de las Ánimas (The Rock of Souls) starring alongside actor, and future third husband, Jorge Negrete. She quickly rose to incredible heights both in Mexico and abroad, later on rejecting a Hollywood starring role (Duel in the Sun) as she was already committed to the movie Enamorada at the planned filming time. Of this snubbing she said, quote: “I will never regret saying no to Hollywood, because my career in Europe was focused in [high] quality cinema. [My] india* roles are made in my country, and [my] queen roles are abroad.” (Translator notes: here the “india” role means interpreting a lower-class Mexican woman, usually thought of indigenous/native/mixed descent —which she had interpreted and reinvented throughout her acting career in Mexico— and what abroad was typically considered the Mexican woman stereotype, with the braids, long simple skirts, and sandals. This also references the expectation of her possibly helping Hollywood in perpetuating this stereotype for American audiences that lack the cultural and historical contexts of this type of role which would undermine her own efforts against this type of Mexican stereotypes while working in Europe) She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world of her time by international magazines like Life, París Match, and Esquire, and was a muse to a vast number of songwriters (including her second husband Agustin Lara,), artists, designers, and writers. Muralist Diego Rivera described her as “a monstrously perfect being. She’s an exemplary being that drives all other human beings to put as much effort as possible to be like her”. Playwriter Jean Cocteau, who worked with her in the Spanish film La Corona Negra (The Black Crown) said the following about her, “María, that woman is so beautiful it hurts”. Haute Couture houses like Dior, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga, Hérmes, among others, designed and dressed her throughout her life. She died on her birthday, April 8, 2002, at 88 years old, in Mexico City. She was celebrated by a parade from her home to the Fine Arts Palace in the the city’s Historic Downtown, where a multitude of people paid tribute to her. Her filmography includes 47 movies from 1942 until 1970, and only two television acting roles in 1970. She has 2 music albums, one recorded with her second husband, Agustín Lara, in 1964 titled La Voz de María y la inspiración de Agustín «The voice of María and the inspiration of Augustín», and her solo album Enamorada «In Love» in 1998. Her bespoke Cartier jewelry is exhibited alongside Elizabeth Taylor’s, Grace Kelly’s and Gloria Swanson’s. In 2018, Film Director Martin Scorsese presented a restored and remastered version of her film Enamorada in the Cannes Classics section of the Cannes Festival and Google dedicated a doodle for her 104th birthday. On august 2023 Barbie added her doll to the Tribute Collection.

Julie Andrews propaganda:

"She has such a simple but amazing beauty to her. Not to mention her amazing and melodic singing voice!"

"Roles like nannies and governesses can make us forget how attractive she was! A perfect combination of elegant and adorable, with the most incredible vocal range to boot!"

"Besides having one of the most amazing singing voices ever to grace the silver screen, Julie always had an understated beauty to her that wasn't always shown off on screen. But it's there nonetheless because her characters managed to pull some of the hottest men ever to grace the screen."

"The juxtaposition between carefree Maria and stern but fun Mary Poppins shows the power of the acting of this HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMAN"

"Charming, genteel, incredibly charismatic, beautiful, and has an angelic singing voice to boot. Her screen roles as Maria in The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins are absolutely iconic for a reason and she originated several well-known Broadway roles before those."

"the most beautiful woman 12 year old me had ever seen possibly"

"OMG OMG OMG she’s definitely been submitted before how could she NOT but!!!! I loveeee her so muchhhh rahhhh prebby!!!! cool!!!! mary poppins the beloved <33333 some people dislike it but I love jolly holiday so much because it IS a jolly holiday with Mary!!! no wonder that it’s Mary that we love!!!!!"

"I know many people who were taught in singing lessons "when in doubt, pronounce words how julie andrews would pronounce them." THATS CALLED INFLUENCE. THATS CALLED MOTHERING THOUSANDS."

#julie andrews #maría félix #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 4

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chucktaylorupset · 1 year

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goddddd it’s fine!! its fine!!! its okay if if 12 year old girls decide they’re asexual and look back and realize that actually it was just puberty and the gross sexualization of women that alienated them from their feelings of attraction and actually now she feels she was always allo. That’s allowed! That’s okay! Its not the end of the world if some of the people coming home to the label of asexuality are actually arriving at a way station onto what will be a better place for them. Cause you know if what she wanted was to feel she had the language to give herself permission to not be obligated to engage in sexual acts, to not exist as a sexual foodstuff for the consumption and digestion of others, If she needed the world asexual to shield her like that that’s okay!!! Cause whats important is she found a way to not do the things she wasn’t ready to do. What you wanna say no? No, you are obligated to figure out your attraction to others and the torture of its existence in a complicated fucked up world with language that doesn’t always sink home. Who is she hurting. Oh yeah it’s on a twelve year old to never be wrong about who they think they’re becoming, it’s up to a twelve year old to find a permanent state of self, it’s on a twelve year old to figure out the uncomfortableness of becoming a sexual being on their fucking own. Cause yknow if she’s wrong then people are going to use that as evidence that asexuality is a phase as if people looking for an excuse to dismiss other people’s identities would just not exist if we all perfectly performed our fucking labels like they’re the audience that decides if our fucking rock opera gets to hit broadway. Like there’s a fucking quota on how many times a person can be wrong about a label. I’m bisexual!! And if I’d just allowed myself to think that it’d be okay if I was wrong about being bisexual, or that it was okay if it wasn’t permanent, then I would’ve taken the first step to realizing I was actually a long term bisexual all the sooner. There isn’t a fucking deadline for figuring out the perfect label for yourself, there isn’t a fucking surety purity test at the door. God, and all these trans kids and people agonizing about if they’re really trans or if they’re just faking it, as if that’s important when transitioning makes them happier! But no, we gotta make a philosophical argument from the ground up for what it means to be queer every fucking time so you don’t get it wrong cause god forbid, can you imagine

#my post #drafts cleaning #asexuality #im bi and i am handing out free passes to be bi and then later be like oh whoops

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missroki · 4 months

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OFFICE CRUSH┊when choso kamo’s pretty coworker asks him out, he doesn’t ask questions. it’s no surprise that the quiet IT guy isn’t exactly gifted in the art of romance, but you seem more than capable of showing him the ropes.

content: black coded!female reader x choso, office au, 90s rom-com adjacent, alcohol, flirting (!!!), choso being awkward, car sex, reader has braids, terms used are baby and good girl, no obvious power dynamics, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex (pull out method), purposefully lowercase. word count: 3.5k

“are you busy tonight?”

a sudden pause in the typing of keys, pale hands hovering over a manilla colored keyboard. choso stops coding as if it would have helped him hear you better.

“…huh?”

you ask your coworker out on a late wednesday afternoon, rocking back and forth on your heels with your hands clasped behind your back. your eyes are bright and determined in a way that tells him you mean what you say… but, for a minute, choso can’t do anything more than stare.

he’d only seen you in passing in the office, the click of your black pumps recognized easily in the sea of heavy loafers and dress shoes. despite your choice in footwear, you were often moving.

never has the man seen you sitting from his place in the IT department. you were always walking, or more accurately strutting down the halls, looking straight down with a handful of files and notebooks; always busy.

there’s a slight shift in your face (as if you’re going to repeat what you said) but choso interjects. he heard you clearly enough the first time, he was just a man with social skills that left much to be desired.

he answers you, cursing the shake in his voice. "n-no… i don’t think so but... why?" maybe you had a virus on your computer? or perhaps you were in need of fresh eyes on your interim report? choso thinks that maybe you need a spare thumb drive or the key to the electronics closet. he thinks you are here for a favor, something transactional that will explain the soft, polite smile on your lips.

he is proven wrong when you move closer into his space and rest your bottom against his desk, clasped hands now resting on your lap. he tries his best to not stare at your stocking-clad thighs. he wonders how warm they would feel under his hands.

“well,” you start, “since you aren’t busy, we can go out for a drink, right?”

choso feels his nose twitch, watching as your gaze follows the birthmark on his nose. he realizes that you are waiting for a response and clears his throat.

“my brother might need me… he gets home from school pretty early nowadays.”

you smile and tilt your head. "yuuji, right? pink hair, high school student? big ball of sunshine?”

he blinks once, then twice. okay. “that would be him… how did you know that?”

you shift your hips to face him better, palm on the desk as you lean over to point at the lone personal item he has.

it’s a picture of choso and his brother, old and slightly blue at the edges from water damage. “he showed up once because he left his house key at home. you went down and brought him yours.”

admittedly, choso barely remembers this interaction. he curses his stomach for warming at the fact that you do. “oh.”

despite his lackluster response, your smile doesn’t waver, acrylic nails tapping against the surface that he works on everyday. it’s those gentle clicks that make his eyes shift downwards to where the sound is coming from, distracting him.

a holiday on his calendar mousepad is covered by your pink and red fingernails.

“you’re… interesting,” you offer as explanation, “and i want to spend time with you. is that alright?”

you’re beautiful, he thinks. beautiful in a way that he doesn’t see often; pretty brown skin and soft-looking braided hair. he wonders how long it takes you to twist the strands in such an intricate way. he wonders if it would be weird for him to ask.

choso hesitates, but eventually nods. “…i’m sure yuuji won’t miss me too much.” he concludes, the smallest of lop-sided grins on his face. “it’ll only be for a little while, right?”

you sit up and choso feels as if he can breathe again without your intoxicating scent so close to him. you dramatically cross a finger over your heart.

“you’ll be home by ten. scout’s honor.”

choso is certain now of three things:

one, he likes strawberry daiquiris. two, he really likes drinking them with you. and three, you were most definitely not a girl scout.

he knows this because it is already eleven thirty pm and you have sneakily convinced him to stay longer than intended. after a few rounds you became alarmingly convincing.

even with choso’s clumsy coin fumbling and the obvious red flush of his face, your companion is positive that he is not drunk. you smile as your cloudy mind focuses on the pretty arch of his cupid's bow and the deep set of his tired eyes.

with warming alcohol in his system, choso finds himself loosening up more and more. his gaze wanders without fear of you noticing.

it doesn’t change the fact that you do.

his suit jacket is draped on your lap to cover your legs, your pink blouse curving along your chest so firmly that it’s hard to look away.

suddenly, you lean in to sip his drink (which confuses him since you have your own) and choso has to try his best to refrain from staring at your breasts as they press against the bar table. as the night has progressed you’ve gotten more bold, more touchy. he likes it. he likes you and the small hint of lipstick that stains his pink straw now.

you sit back up and wipe away the condensation from the hand that was holding the glass steady.

“is this a birthmark?” you ask with glassy eyes, a cold thumb moving up to caress the deep purple line on his nose bridge. choso is just drunk enough that his heart flutters and he doesn’t pass out on the spot.

“yes, i was born with it.” he pauses, thinking that you want him to elaborate. “yuuji used to joke and say they must have used a permanent marker to tell me apart from the other babies.”

you laugh and it’s a small thing but… choso can’t help but to grace you with a lazy smile. “it’s nice. makes you look more unique.” your thumb moves up to his dark circles, pressing gently into the skin. he feels warmth pool in his belly. the alcohol, he thinks. “i’m going to assume these are more man made?”

he nods, heart beating fast against his chest. your hand is gentle and your eyes are kind. choso wonders if you have always been so sweet, if the heavy burdens of adult life haven’t quite hit you in the same way they have him. is that weird? he won’t say that out loud. “yeah, i don’t get much sleep.”

“i’m definitely not helping with that.” you frown a little and choso thinks of every possible way he could make you smile again. “that’s no good. who’ll help yaga out when he falls for another pop up porn ad?”

he laughs at that, feels it deep in his stomach. you’re funny, choso thinks. you’re pretty. your lips look soft and he wants to kiss you.

“i think you’re more than capable–“

“hey, is that–? kamo-chan!”

a shrill voice comes from across the bar, onlookers (that are suspiciously all couples tonight) glancing over to get a glance at whoever was making a fuss. to choso’s horror, he sees a familiar head of long blue hair, a large smile that barely fits the face of the person wearing it.

behind him is a small group of people wearing the usual business casual with an assortment of red and pink items like… heart shaped headbands? he can tell by the way they stumble over that this is perhaps the second or third bar of the night.

“all these years of me trying to get you to come out and you only do it when she asks you to?” mahito pouts, an arm moving to rest around your shoulders. if you’re annoyed by his interruption, you don’t make it known. you smile easily and return his side hug.

choso wonders now if physical affection is something you give out freely. maybe he’d interpreted your earlier touches wrong, as something less than innocent.

he feels a blush rising to his cheeks and hopes you assume it is just the booze.

“maybe i’m just more convincing,” you tease, “i wanted to spend some time with one of our most valuable team members. working with a bum like you can really mess with my productivity.”

mahito gasps dramatically. “wow! i guess there must be love in the air then!” there’s a small sea of laughter that follows. choso begins to once again realize that it is not you two alone anymore, that your entire department has somehow managed to force their way into the imaginary bubble you’d built around each other.

someone suggests you all move to a booth and he feels his social battery deplete within seconds.

another hour passes before choso finally realizes that he is way in over his head. mahito has managed to simultaneously steal all of your attention and even some of choso’s as well.

he’s funnier than him, he thinks. even with his weird scarred skin and bony frame you seem to enjoy his company and the child-like way he downs shots of tequila as if they’re water. he licks salt from various places and you chuckle and smile affectionately, like he’s a puppy.

is that what you were into? guys who could talk to you for hours about nothing at all? choso doesn’t think he could ever be that man. he was awkward and somewhat insecure. you were well liked and that meant you’d be hard to keep entertained. it’s a role he isn’t sure he can fill for you.

everyone is laughing, including you. something about the department that choso would have no knowledge of.

trying his best to avoid knocking shoulders with anyone, the man removes himself from the suffocating booth, back aching from the way he had to twist at all times to fit in the space.

choso thinks he’s always been like that. taking up space; having to make himself smaller in order to fit where he didn’t belong to begin with.

his hands reach for his pockets, glancing down to make sure he didn’t leave his wallet. when he lifts his head, he finds that your eyes are on now him.

your face tells him that you’re a bit alarmed at his leaving but he doesn’t wait for you to announce it to everyone before he’s moving quickly to the back door.

the hinges creak loudly, the threshold slightly damp as he shuffles out. it’s raining, he realizes. a drizzle that quickly dampens his dark hair.

the flickering streetlight illuminates his old car, the path straight ahead as he makes his way across the barely lit alleyway. his mind is clearer than it was in the suffocating bar atmosphere, but it is still muffled by anxious thoughts.

it’s because of this that he doesn’t hear the click of high heels against wet pavement.

“choso!” you call out, a small huff in your voice as you abruptly stop behind him. he blinks hard to rid his eyes of water, turns around to find you holding something, his jacket. oh. “you’re leaving without saying goodbye?”

you look upset, concerned even. choso quickly takes his jacket from you so that he can use it to cover your head — not really thinking when he does it. you give him a curious look.

“your hair,” he explains, “it’ll get... wet out here.”

you roll your eyes playfully, walking closer until you are almost chest to chest. “i don’t care about that right now.” you hum, eyes trying desperately to meet his. he turns his head and you boldly grip his chin. your fingertips are so warm. “did i do something wrong? are you upset with me?”

he reaches a hand out to gently hold your wrist, thumb against your pulse point. “not upset, just thought you might want to end the night with people you know… i’m not good with groups.”

you think this over for a moment and nod. “yeah i… i should have guessed that, actually. you were probably overwhelmed. i’m sorry.”

“you don’t have to be…” he murmurs. “i just needed to get away and i didn’t want to ruin anyone’s night.”

you let go of his chin, both hands coming up to push his now soaked hair away from his face, the strands curl around his ears where your hands rest. without realizing, his touch has settled on your waist. you don’t seem to mind.

“i like you." you admit, brazenly. “i have for a while now.”

"i’m sorry." he responds instinctively, not really processing your confession at first. you really laugh at that and it makes his mind go numb for a moment. “i mean… i like you, too. a lot, actually.”

you smile and it’s so blindingly beautiful. how did he go without knowing you for so long? “i hoped so… i saw the way you were watching me earlier. i thought you were gonna kiss me a couple of times.”

something in his mind twitches, directly in the space next to mischief and only a step away from desire.

“did you want me to?”

you eyes widen just a fraction. now it is your turn to be flustered. choso finds himself relishing in that just a little. “…what?”

maybe a… lottle.

“did you… want me to kiss you?” his thumbs rubs gentle circles on your blouse covered tummy, the motion soothing and weirdly familiar. like the smell of a perfume that hits you with unknown nostalgia, the hint of someone from your past.

you lean in slightly, nose gently nudging his. “i still do.” you whisper, “would that be okay?”

your breathes mingle, barely an inch separating the two of you. choso finds himself laughing at the cheesiness of it all.

you aren’t his first kiss, but he imagines that kissing in the rain will still be rom-com worthy.

“more than okay.” he murmurs.

his lips press to yours.

choso is certain now of three things:

one, he likes kissing you. two, he really likes kissing you. and three, your mouth is the best thing he has ever felt.

the backseat of his compact suv is just enough for you both to fit, your legs on either side of his hips as your hands explore his body. your tongue has managed to touch every inch of choso’s neck and chest, blushing red spots appearing on his soft pale skin.

your left hand traces over the mark on his ribs, large and expansive. he has to hold in a moan when you run your fingertips against it. “you’re so sensitive,” you hum, “are you nervous?”

he starts to unbutton your blouse, let’s his thumbs find your still covered nipples. he grazes his nail against the fabric, isolating the movement as you let out a soft gasp. “not nervous,” he responds. “i just really want you. you’re… gorgeous.”

you try to hide how much this affects you but choso can see it in the way your eyes soften at his praise. “thank you.” you breathe out, helping him by unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the ground with your already discarded stockings.

it barely hits the floor mat before choso’s mouth latches onto your chest, tongue swirling as his lips suck on the perky brown bud. your nails immediately tangle into his damp hair and your hips begin to grind on their own.

a hand reaches down between your legs and you whimper as your panties are forced to the side. “can i touch you?” he asks, lips trailing from one of your breasts to the other. “wanna make you feel good, need to get you ready for me.”

you nod with a giggle. “oh, yeah? you that big down there kamo-san?”

he is dead serious when he replies. “yes.”

choso’s fingers are long and your cunt lets him in with very little resistance. he’s glad to know his kisses made you melt for him so easily, a surge of confidence emerging. your thighs shift as you grind against his hand, the other against your back as your braids weave throughout his fingers. he’s careful not to tug, just feeling the smoothness of them against his skin.

“is this okay?” he asks, leaning in to press soft kisses to your neck.

you nod, relishing in the feeling of his surprisingly fit body beneath your hands. you would have never expected him to be so… strong and firm. you imagine him sweaty and panting, lifting weights over his head as you watch from the corner. your patience grows thin at the thought. you want him. now.

“choso,” you whimper, your plea immediately making him halt his movements.

“are you okay? what’s wro-“ you silence him with your lips and lift your thighs so that his soaked fingers ease from your heat. your hand moves to tug down his slacks, the belt already unbuckled as you caress the obvious swell of his cock. his breath hitches as he goes to grip your waist. “s-shit, i see. you want me to– okay, i’ll give it to you.”

he allows you to pull out his cock and you gasp as it throbs and twitches against his stomach. it’s… huge. long and thick with a deeply flushed tip.

you stare at it so intently that your lover feels self conscious. “is it… okay?” he asks, watching your expression with curiosity.

you glance up at him and sense his worry, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “you’re perfect, choso. don’t worry. i’m just… surprised.”

he rubs your back tenderly, hoping to ease your concern. “i’ll go slow. i promise.”

when you ease down on him, choso has to fight the burning urge to immediately shoot his load. you’re just so tight and warm that it makes him dizzy. it’s only when you take him to the base that he holds you still. “i’ll let you get used to it first. then we can keep going. just stay still and i’ll—“

suddenly, you lift and slam back down on top of him. your movement is so sharp that choso chokes on his words, the fluttering of your pussy making him clench his abs to fight away his release.

he can barely think before your body is bouncing on top of him, your forehead pressing against his. you read his mind, seemingly. “don’t think,” you gasp out, “j-just fuck me, choso.”

“i – oh fuck – i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t, baby. i promise i can take it.” you move his hands from your waist to your ass, prompting him to squeeze at the soft flesh. “i can take it.”

his desire to treat you gently is not as strong as the pleasure he’s feeling, and soon choso is thrusting faster up into your cunt, gripping your ass to move you up and down.

“oh!” you cry out, perky breasts bouncing in his face with each hurried thrusts.

“shit.” he grits out, jaw clenched as he uses your pretty body. “take it,” choso whines, “fuckin’ take it.”

your pussy clenches at his words, panting and moaning against his mouth as your orgasm builds. “i-i think i’m gonna cum. c-choso i–“

one of his hands cup the back of your neck, his eyes not leaving yours as you spasm and twitch on his lap.

“it’s okay. let go for me. i’ve got you, baby.”

you cum with a sharp gasp, unable to look away with his strong hand keeping you in place. “good girl,” he murmurs, “such a good girl… let me fuck you through it.”

your body slumps against his, but choso doesn’t stop his movements. his cock plunges in and out of your hole, stretching you out as your cum drips down to his heavy balls. he wants to cum in you, to fill you up with his load until it drips between your legs… but he knows he has to save it for another time.

his orgasm hits him like a tidal wave; sudden and breath taking as he spills his load between you two, coating both of your stomachs in a sticky layer of white.

you whimper as it quickly cools, giggling at the face choso makes when you grab his shirt to clean you both up. he looks like a cat, disgruntled and pouting. you shrug. “it’s your cum.”

he couldn’t argue with that.

it’s weirdly comfortable, the time after your encounter where you both tug on your clothes, minus choso’s christened white button up.

you tell him he looks better without it, fingertips grazing his abdomen teasingly. he has half the mind to take you again, but there would be more time to get to explore your body.

maybe if he played his cards right you’d let him taste you.

choso imagines that the always empty electronics closet will be a perfect location.

“hey,” you whisper, hand pushing his dark hair behind his ear.

choso lets out a hum, twisting his neck so that his lips press tenderly to your wrist “yeah?”

you smirk. “happy valentine’s day.”

… oh.

note: hello, this is an old fic of mine that i’ve re-written and given a new v-day flair. thanks for reading and happy (early) love day.

MISSROKI. all original work. do not plagiarize, translate, or repost. this includes feeding my work to ai apps and sites.

#‧₊˚ 🖇️ ۫ ⭒ — sorin writes.#choso x reader #choso x female reader #choso x black!reader #choso kamo x reader #choso smut #choso fluff #choso fanfiction #jjk x reader #jjk x female reader #jjk x black reader #jjk smut #jjk fluff #choso x you

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peakyswritings · 8 months

Text

Lullaby || Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: It’s been almost a year since (Y/n) has started to work as Charlie’s nanny. For the first time, she finds herself in the position of breaking one of her boss’ rules, but his reaction might not be what she was expecting.

Warnings: mentions of death, age-gap (it’s not specified, I imagine (Y/n) to be in her 20s).

A/N: this is a mix of two requests by anonymous. I changed them a little bit to make them fit another thing I was already planning to write. I hope you like it🤍 Also, I couldn’t restrain myself from using Once Upon a December from Anastasia as the lullaby (Y/n) sings.

Word count: 1.4K

MASTERLIST

Dividers credit

“C’mon, Charlie.” (Y/n) whispered with a soft voice, gently rocking the three-year-old. “It’s late, you need to sleep.”

Despite all her efforts, the child seemed to have no intention of going back to sleep. His cries resounded in the silence of the night, desperate, probably caused by a nightmare. It wasn’t the first time he woke up in the middle of the night, and surely it wouldn’t be the last. It was quite a common occurrence, but there was nothing surprising about that. At such a young age, Charlie Shelby had already been through so much pain.

(Y/n) had been Charlie’s nanny for almost a year now. She had moved to Arrow House shortly after the late Mrs Shelby, Charlie’s mother, had died under tragic circumstances. As for her boss, Thomas Shelby, she rarely saw him. He didn’t spend much time at home, and when he did, he locked himself in his study until it was time to go out again. Everyone could see that the man was still grieving, that the guilt of his wife’s death was eating at him day by day. And Grace Shelby was everywhere in that house. In the portraits, in the photographs, in the very air the people who lived there breathed. It was as if her ghost was still lingering inside those walls, restless.

Truth was, some part of (Y/n) was glad she didn’t have to see Mr Shelby too often. His cold eyes gave her chills, and she always felt small under his expectant stare. It felt like he could read right through people. But she couldn’t complain, because despite his exterior harshness and his coolness, he was kind to her. She figured the reason why was that Charlie had become fond of her right away, just like she had become fond of him.

On the other side, Thomas Shelby piqued her curiosity. He was a peculiar man, she had never met someone who even remotely resembled him. She knew who he was, what his family did, and before meeting him she was expecting to find herself in front of someone entirely different. When after putting an ad in the papers she received his secretary’s call, she had considered refusing. But the pay was good, and she needed to get out of her house, to be independent, and the general terms of her contract were to good to be ignored. So she mustered up the courage and attended the interview, and to this day, she could say she made the right decision. Charlie was lovely, the staff was friendly, and she felt relatively safe in a house surrounded by men who protected it night and day.

(Y/n) sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning. She had been trying to get Charlie to sleep for over an hour, but nothing seemed to work. She had tried everything: she had cradled him, given him water, she had even taken him to take a breath of fresh air in the garden for a while. It was all useless. There was just one thing she hadn’t tried, she hadn’t dared try, for if her boss found out he would probably fire her for breaking his rules. It was the first thing people would do to help a child fall asleep, and yet it was not allowed at Arrow House. Because Mr Shelby didn’t allow singing. But she was running out of options, and her boss was still out.

Just one song. One lullaby wouldn’t hurt anyone.

She hesitated, sending a look at the door of Charlie’s bedroom, then she quietly started to chant the lullaby her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a child.

“Dancing bears

Painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December”

Tommy closed the front door behind him, exhaling a deep breath. Another long day was over. However, not even the comfort of being home was enough to lift the weight pressing on his shoulders. Not anymore. It was always there, pushing down on him, waiting for him to bend, or to break. But he had to keep on marching, relentlessly, pretending that the burden wasn’t there.

He took off his coat and hanged it, trying to be as silent as possible in order not to wake the whole house up at that hour. As he walked further into the dark parlour, Charlie’s loud cries came to his ears. He was having troubles sleeping, again.

He made his way towards the stairway, squinting his eyes in the semi-darkness to see better, when something caught his attention. It was a voice, a soft, soothing voice singing a song upstairs.

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully across my memory

Tommy began walking up the stairs, step after step, drawn by the beautiful sound. He knew who that voice belonged to. (Y/n) was disobeying his orders, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be angry, far too fascinated. Soon Charlie’s cries faded, and the only thing that could be heard was her enchanting voice.

Far away

Long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

That hauntingly beautiful lullaby brought him back to over a year ago, when his late wife’s voice used to reverberate through the walls. Ever since her death, the silence had been haunting him, only broken by the echo she left behind.

Things my heart

Used to know

Things it yearns to remember

Tears welled up in Tommy’s eyes, but he was quick to push them back. He stopped at the entrance of is Charlie’s bedroom, watching as (Y/n) tenderly held the child in her arms, unaware of his presence. His son had finally fallen asleep, and the peaceful expression on his face reflected how safe he was feeling.

“And a song someone sings

Once upon a December”

She finished her song, and there was silence again. She placed Charlie back on the soft mattress and tucked him in, careful not to wake him up again. When she turned to leave the room, causing their eyes to meet, fear dawned on her young features. It was clear she wasn’t expecting to find him there. For a few seconds, neither of them did nor said anything. Then, as if remembering where she was, (Y/n) slowly exited the room, closing the door behind her. Her arm accidentally brushed against him in the process, the contact almost burning through his shirt. As they stood face to face in the hallway, she avoided his gaze, probably waiting for him to scold her, or fire her, or something worse. And a question popped into Tommy’s mind. Was she that scared of him?

(Y/n)’s heart was racing inside her chest as her boss’s unreadable gaze rested on her. She had never found herself in the position to fear him, nor had she ever had a reason to, but she had never broke any rule before, or crossed any line. And she had no idea how he would react to disobedience. The last thing she wanted was to get on the gangster’s bad side.

“It was a nice song.” His low voice pulled her out of her thoughts, making her gulp. Suddenly, she realised how close they were.

“Mr Shelby, I…” she stuttered, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” She whispered, shifting her eyes on the ground, finding it way more comfortable to face him without having to look at his impassive expression. “It’s just… nothing was working, and…” she started to ramble, but the words got stuck in her throat. “It won’t happen again.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, studying her, and his calmness made her even more nervous, for it made him unpredictable. Then something changed in his eyes. His features softened, and she could swear his lips curved into a small smile. “Go to sleep, (Y/n).”

She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it right away. He wasn’t angry? He wasn’t going to fire her? Was it an emotion, the one that had just broken through his ever-unfazed face? She blinked, trying to recollect herself, deciding that it would be better to listen to him before he changed his mind.

“Goodnight, Mr Shelby.” She politely said, before walking past him to go to her room.

“(Y/n).” He called her, making her stop in her tracks. She turned around, her nervousness coming back again as she waited for him to speak.

“You’re allowed to sing, if you want.”

Tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989 @call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe

Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders fics #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fic

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qdbs-writes · 8 months

Note

Do you write fem readers?!? 😭 If so can you write some head cannons about the Cullens with a goth s/o

i proudly write for all readers, nonny! and I'm gonna assume this about about trad!goth, but I'll try and make sure this applies to most goth subcultures!

Cullen Clan x Goth!Fem!S/O

Carlisle Cullen

He's confused but supportive. Back in his day, the term 'goth' only applied to the people who sacked Rome, which he'll remind you of regularly, especially if you're visiting the Volturi (who will also assume that you are directly connected to the ancient Goths, and would fear you as a result).

He'd be interested in your genealogy, because he thinks you're connection to the goth style can't be mere coincidence or personal choice, and it wouldn't be difficult to find out either, all he'd have to do is check if you have any Germanic ancestry from the last 2000 years.

Esme Cullen

If you're happy and comfortable, she's happy and comfortable. While it probably isn't her style personally, she's quick to see the benefits. For instance, black is a very easy colour to maintain, particularly with regards to cleaning.

Her only concern is getting you clothes other than black so that you can have something to wear to events that may require specific colours, like if you two are guests at a wedding (she wouldn't want you wearing black as it's bad luck for the couple).

Edward Cullen

Edward himself is basically a diet-corporate goth, so dating you will probably help him develop his own sense of comfort in the style.

The two of you are regularly seen brooding in the Forks CVS, loitering around the hair dye section, silently terrifying all of the elderly people waiting at the pharmacy.

Edward is likely already very familiar with goth music, has absolutely been to some Bauhaus concerts in his time, and probably has a respectable collection of gothic rock records in his room.

Rosalie Hale

It'll be like a Barbie/Oppenheimer-esque clash in aesthetics. I personally see Rosalie with a very Y2K aesthetic, so the two of you walking down the street together might turn some heads.

That doesn't mean that she isn't fully supportive of your style though, and appreciates the philosophy of the aesthetic, how it's a style built on defying expectations of conformity and obedience. In her short life, all Rosalie knew was to dress properly, smile, be open, happy, a willing host, an amusing guest. In death, she's proud to be herself, and even prouder to be with someone so comfortable with dressing exactly how they want, regardless of what others might think.

Emmett Cullen

You dress scary and Emmett loves it. He has regularly compared you to a venomous snake, your black clothes and aggressive makeup mean that almost everyone in Forks steers clear of you. But not Emmett, he's never had the survival instincts to stay away from things that could kill him, in fact, your "unapproachable" style only drew him in more.

Absolutely loves wandering around Forks with you, even if you aren't particularly doing anything. He thinks it's hilarious that some people cross the street to avoid you, it's like having 'scary dog' privileges.

Alice Cullen

She'd seen you in her visions for some time, but she almost didn't recognise you when you started dressing strangely and wearing heavy makeup. At first, it disturbed her, you looked like the sleep-paralysis demons that used to haunt her in the asylum.

Once she gets the chance to meet you in real life, that fear quickly subsides. Through your relationship, Alice learns how much of a safe space goth society can be, and that she can rely on other goths to not be judgemental towards her like so many others are.

Jasper Hale

Greatly appreciates the Victorian-era elements that are incorporated into your clothes, it helps him feel less old. You'll make his day if you show any interest in his clothes and jewellery that he had in life, particularly the more morbid pieces (such as the ring made out of his mother's hair).

If you're looking particularly historical, he'll love to get in his original clothes from when he was alive (except the ""uniform"" that shan't be mentioned), and stroll about Forks with you, arm in arm, like a true Southern gentleman.

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steddieas-shegoes · 8 months

Note

98. “if we weren’t in public right now i’d have my head between your legs” 👀

READICUS. Okay. Alright. I've caught the context disease from you though.

Rated M | tags: language, flirting, dirty talk, so much discussion about sex they might as well be having it, getting together, FWB to lovers

😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉

It was just grocery shopping.

They were in a grocery store.

Eddie should not be getting hard watching Steve pick out the ripest bananas.

Like, genuinely, even he knew this was as ridiculous as it could get.

It's just that they'd been casually fucking for the last few weeks, letting off steam, just dudes helping dudes through their synchronous dry spells, and watching Steve pay so much attention to a fucking banana was a lot for Eddie to wrap his mind around.

Casually fucking might not even be the right term.

It was more like...fucking like rabbits.

Eddie spent more time at Steve's house than he spent at his own, and most of that time was spent either naked or trying to be.

He spent the night last night, and only agreed to come shopping with Steve after a very convincing blowjob against the kitchen counter.

It was working for them.

Except for how much Eddie loved Steve. Not like a friend, or a brother, or the way he loved his Hellfire minions. He loved Steve in the "would marry you in Vegas and have tons of babies with you if you wanted" way.

So embarrassing.

Especially taking into consideration that there was no way Steve saw their arrangement as anything more than convenient.

He watched as Steve finally settled on the perfect bunch of bananas and shuffled back to the cart that Eddie was leaning on.

Eddie leaned forward as Steve leaned over the cart, his lips brushing against his ear.

"If we weren't in public right now, I'd have my head between your legs," he whispered.

Which was bold of him considering the grocery store was packed with weekend shoppers.

Steve tensed, his body freezing completely as Eddie backed away, smiling and waving at an old lady glaring at him.

"What the fuck, Eds."

Steve's cheeks were fire engine red, his hands gripping the edge of the cart like it was the only thing holding him up.

"What? I just thought you should know how bad I want you," Eddie shrugged.

They flirted with each other all the time, that's what led to their situation in the first place: the flirting went a bit too far and Steve ended up on his lap, rocking his hips back and forth until he came in his jeans.

No big deal.

Just another day.

But never in public, barely even around someone they trusted.

"Here? Now?" Steve squeaked out, eyes widening comically.

"Why not? You're hot," Eddie's hand grazed his lower back, just enough of a touch to tease, not enough to really be noticed by anyone else.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Steve hissed. "You want people to see?"

"No, 'course not," Eddie smirked. "I just want you to feel."

Watching Steve struggle to find words, struggle to flirt, was possibly the biggest win in Eddie's book. If he could pat himself on the back for it, he would.

"We're in public."

"Stevie, I hate to say it, but being in public doesn't really stop me from wanting to get on my knees and suck your dick."

Steve's face got impossibly darker, only spurring Eddie on more.

"If I wasn't so worried about being walked in on, I'd drag you to the bathroom right now. Maybe fuck you in a stall. You'd probably like that, huh? You liked when I fucked you against the shower wall the other day," Eddie let his fingers trace along Steve's arm, subtle, easy to pull away if someone got too close to them.

"Eddie-"

"Or maybe you'd wanna fuck me. I know how much you like throwing me around and showing off sometimes. Think that would work for you?"

Eddie watched as Steve shivered, biting his lip and doing his best to hold back a whine.

"But we won't do that, right? Because only I get to see you like that. The way you fuck me, the way I fuck you, that's just for us, isn't it?"

Steve nodded.

Eddie looked around, confirmed no one was close enough to see, and settled a hand on the front of Steve's jeans.

"This is just for me."

"Yeah, just for you," Steve choked out, his hand grasping at Eddie's wrist to either pull it away or hold it in place. "Eds-"

"I know, Stevie. But we gotta shop. That's what you said when you were on your knees in the kitchen this morning."

"I can shop later," Steve gasped as Eddie's hand squeezed once before pulling away.

They were in public and there was only so much Eddie was willing to try to get away with, but Steve's reaction was everything.

He looked away, focusing on the apples in front of him as if he cared at all about apples when Steve Harrington was hard right next to him.

He froze.

He thought about everything he'd just said, how possessive he'd sounded, how he'd never quite crossed that line before.

How into it Steve was.

He looked back at Steve, who was still staring at him, face almost back to a normal shade, but lips bitten red and eyes glassy.

"Steve?"

"Hm?"

"Do you want that to be just for me?" Eddie should not be having this discussion in the grocery store.

"Do I what?"

"Do you want to be mine? Like, more than just...fucking?" Eddie should not be having this discussion in the grocery store.

"Is that...an option?" Steve was letting him have this discussion in the grocery store.

"If you want it to be."

Every once in a while, Eddie saw this look in Steve's eye, only ever when he was looking at Eddie doing something stupid or funny or when he was messing around with the kids.

He never let himself think that it was anything more than just Steve getting distracted while looking at him.

He could see it now, though, and he couldn't ignore what that look actually was.

"I want it. I want you."

Eddie was fucked. In more ways than one, it seemed.

"You do?"

"Why is that so hard to believe? You've practically been living with me for weeks, dude."

Eddie's lips curled down, disgusted.

"Don't call me dude, oh my God."

Steve laughed.

"I'll make it up to you when we get home," he winked, turning around and pretending that he didn't just make Eddie's brain short circuit.

"I- what-" Eddie sputtered.

"What? Can't handle my mouth? You handle it fine earlier."

God, Eddie loved this man.

"Stevie, how fast can you finish shopping?" Eddie started pushing the cart away, not even sure if he was going in the right direction.

"If you stop distracting me, ten minutes."

"I'll be in the car, then."

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #make me write #this was like a fever dream #i just wrote this in like 30 minutes so #it's fun but my god it needs to be edited i am SURE #this was a fun one!!!!!

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hotvintagepoll · 28 days

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Propaganda

Vyjayanthimala (Madhumati, Amrapali, Sangam, Devdas)—Strong contender for /the/ OG queen of Indian cinema for over 2 straight decades. Her Filmfare Lifetime Achievement Award came not a moment too soon with 62 movies under her belt. Singer, dancer, actor, and also has the most expressive set of eyes known to man

This is round 5 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Vyjayanthimala:

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María Félix:

She's Thee Hot Vintage Movie Woman of México. She's absolutely gorgeous and always looks like she's about to step on you. you WILL be thankful if she does.

#vyjayanthimala #maría félix #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 5

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vampiricgf · 11 days

Text

☆ WOE TO THE LAMB THAT DISPUTES THE WOLF

ᝰ A silly bet of who can outrun whom in the pitch dark woods, just remember to the victor go the spoils (repost from old account)

f!reader, predator/prey, dry humping, blood drinking, fear play, outdoor sex

You knew it had been cocky the moment the words left your mouth, floating through the air like motes of dust in the wind but your pride would never allow you to snatch them back, keep them held tight against your chest in denial.

There was no room for anything to matter but the pounding of your feet against the dirt. Not the sharp sting of branches catching at your arms, pulling light tears in the flesh, nor the growing kaleidoscope of bruises on your legs from tripping over yourself and various roots as you tore through the small wood surrounding Rivington.

Adrenaline, all encompassing like a wave bettering you against rocks, meant you paid little attention to these crucial slip ups.

The wolf at your back was drawing ever closer.

Despite being soundless in shadow the mere suggestion of his presence was unrelenting, never allowing even a moment of stillness. You had used an elixir of elven elegance just attempting to stay ahead but you could feel your stamina depleting from running at a consistently breakneck pace ever since.

Yet you pushed on, knowing you had to be close to the agreed upon finish line.

It had been all manner of foolishness to make a bet with a vampire on who could outhunt whom under the cover of night. Seeing the sly grin paint his face should have told you the victor would be predetermined the moment you both set your sights on each other. But alas your curse to bear was believing even for a second that diligent training could trump supernatural ability.

A hunter was only as good as their weapon, and only as reliable as their senses.

Right now you have neither in any abundance.

He’d even agreed to give you a head start, which had only inflamed your ego at the beginning but now you were grateful for the pity. It had been generous, given the fact that you’re outclassed in terms of sheer speed and accuracy.

All the advantages you believed you had burned away, crumbling like the ashes of ignited paper, when you'd been forced to deviate from the path you’d set in your mind. It was artful, the way he directed you by making you believe he was about to lunge out at you from the dense pockets of foliage, baited you with sounds that disgusted his location, forced your mind to play nasty little tricks on you, and you played the dutiful mouse being led through the maze.

Fear wasn’t anything foreign to you, and while you knew rationally that this was simply sick fun, the primal part of your brain failed to grasp the message. And he used that to his full advantage.

A chorus of victorious laughter broke your fragile concentration, seeming to come from your left flank and the world went sideways in a fraction of a second.

Even though he'd held back it did little to mitigate the force of impact, nor the face full of dirt you got as he pinned one arm behind your back with his breath fanning the back of your neck. It sent shivers like shockwaves down your spine as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear.

“Look what I caught-”

You flinched involuntarily but the automatic response didn't mask how your thigh muscles squeezed, something he felt without a doubt as he straddled you.

His smug aura emanated enough that you didn't need to see him to know he was grinning, could feel the way his fingers twitched like live wires as he held you fast.

“You win,” you gasp out, wriggling in his hold but meeting light resistance.

You still upon feeling his nose nuzzle downward against your neck, the tiniest whimper escaping your lips as his tongue swipes across your sweat damp skin. The groan he lets out at the taste is enough to nearly make you cum on the spot.

"And what do I get for my victory?”

Your lungs seize in your chest, a burning bloom of embarrassment and desire that grasp hold of your tongue in a vice grip.

He gives you just enough slack and room to turn over on your back before grabbing your hands, lacing your fingers together in a choking clasp. “To the victor go the spoils, isn't that right?”

It's like the world is suddenly cast immobile in rich, mellow amber; a perfectly frozen diagram of a beast of myth right before its jaws open wide enough to swallow the world.

The way his pupils dilate until only a thin ring of crimson is present expands in your vision until it's all you can see, all that is present coupled with the brutal hammering of your pulse that you know is audible to him.

The drag of his tongue against his teeth plays out before you in a slow crawl, his movements like seeping honey and as your adrenaline reaches its crescendo his lips press against yours.

Cold, frenzied, sloppy.

It's a kiss made of teeth, tongues, and spit as his hips grind against you and your fingers claw at the hem of his shirt. You can't help but whine into his mouth, and every noise is swallowed down like fine vintage as he pushes icy hands beneath your shirt, shamelessly groping the planes of your flesh, kneading at your breasts. It isn't long before he's nearly panting over you, pressing his erection against your clothed cunt so firmly it robs you of breath yet again.

Under the ever watchful gaze of the trees you're both stripped of shirts, his lips mapping the contours of your throat as if he hasn't traveled the road a thousand times, as if he couldn't find your veins blinded.

You are the feast table he needs no guidance towards.

In the throes of delirium you almost don't feel the initial pinpricks of his fangs until the pain blossoms as they're driven further through layers of skin, the wounds widening to accommodate and relinquish a greater flow of the red gold that floods his mouth and drowns his tongue.

When his lips close around the wound to suck your hips buck up against him, fingers sinking into the hardness of his shoulder blades as you two rut in the dirt: a mass of sweat, blood, and arousal so primitive it only heightens the obscenity.

His own hands hold you steady as he basks in every touch from you and every movement of your hips, nearly garbled whimpers against your neck and you can tell just the friction alone has him teetering on the edge.

Through the euphoric haze a wicked thought takes root in your mind as your hand slides down between your bodies, caressing him through his trousers and coaxing him to a premature end.

You feel his fingers tightening in your hair, a subtle plea that you're quick to answer, the motion of your hand becoming urgent as he grinds against your palm and moans shamelessly into the now numb patch of flesh at the side of your throat.

When you feel the little quakes and shivers racking his body, the warmth spreading against the fabric, and the hushed garble of your name you know it's not he who has won.

In a kiss drenched in the second hand taste of your own blood you can't help the self satisfied grin that overtakes your lips.

In the smattering of moonlight shot through gaps in the branches you relish in your small victory, already eager to challenge him again.

#astarion smut #astarion x reader #astarion bg3 #astarion x you #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #txt ☆ˎˊ˗

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cranity · 4 months

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tell us about Santos :3c...

My tav Santos!! He's a fighting x rogue class tiefling who's a bit worn out in life, but doesn't stop him from being the rock of the party. He's 143 years old and a seasoned weapons maker, tho it's been a few years since he's kept up with the craft. He dabbled a bit as a mercenary in his 90's, but ultimately ended up as a bartender in Baldur's Gate yearning to go back to guildwork. [Which is when he got abducted, after a shift]

Personality wise he's not the loudest nor quietest of the group (choosing to be the listener a bit more than be the talker). He can seem quite serious, but is relatively easy-going and is known to give some of his own snark back when need be. He's a realist with a good heart, but won't hesitate to lie himself (and party) out of situations and attempt questionable persuasive maneuvers to at least avoid some unnecessary bloodshed. (Tho sometimes he goes a little too far with the snappy remarks at enemies that leads to greater bloodshed)

He has a well of unwavering patience for his party members in the emotional sense, but gets incredibly exasperated by their antics and rivalry (looks at Shadowheart & Lae'zel, Gale & Astarion). He doesn't know what he's gonna do after they defeat the Absolute, but for now he'll just try and make sure that everyone in his party makes it out of this in one piece.

[Santos' tent, he collects enchanted weapons and borrows Lae'zel's grinder often]

Character Relationships:

He gets along very well with Jaheira since they have a very similar sense of humor, their friendly jabs turn into some very confusing flirting for the rest of the party. Likes to poke fun at Gale, who has a bit of a crush on him. Santos has some propensity for magic and spellcasting, but it's unrefined and he never bothered to do much with it, tho he does like to ask Gale to teach him a thing or two when they have the downtime and he has access to a wizard with knowledge that loves to talk. He rebuffed Astarion's advances quite quickly, especially since he realized why he was doing it, but they remained good friends regardless, which it seems Astarion really needed. He lets Astarion feed off of enemies since they're gonna kill them anyways, but offers himself in case if emergencies. He's really good friends with Wyll and Karlach and can be found sharing a drink often in their downtime, both of them having Santos barking with laughter. He's not much of a meddler, but he'll leave their hang outs to leave both of them alone in hopes it'll inspire something.

He and Lae'zel have an unspoken camaraderie as fighters and weapon masters, and she likes that he'll give her bullshit right back. He likes sparring with her bcs she has him eating shit and landing on his ass, but he learns a lot. He butts heads a bit with Shadowheart and Halsin, but they eventually remain on friendly terms and respect each other. Santos killed Minthara and has yet to meet Minsc.

#Here's my guy!!!!!!!!! i am too attatched to him idk if i can make another tav LOL #i technically made him in like highschool bcs me and my friend wanted to play dnd but didnt know anything about it #so we watched youtube videos for dnd character creation and left it at that bcs we didnt know anyone else that played it to make a party #i'll play dnd one day... after years of yearning to play #santos #ocs #my art

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blingblong55 · 2 months

Text

This town -Simon "Ghost" Riley

pic credits: @ave661 (middle and right)

Based on a request: (Its a long as so I'll link it so you can read the anons idea) Link here ---- F!Reader, childhood!friends, hidden feelings, angst, friends to strangers ---- A/N: Songs that also fit: Too Young- Louis Tomlinson, This Town- Niall Horan, Back to the Old House- The Smiths, Always you-Louis Tomlinson

It's a story to tell over at the old pub you and he used to hang around on the weekends. But how can a man begin to tell the sorrowful story? How can he explain in his bruised hands he holds the locket you gave him when you two were kids? He will maybe ask if this was a curse, the only curse an old soul like his has.

It could've been something, it would've been something, it should've been beautiful.

In this world, it was always he and you. Scraping your knees when jumping off the rocks near his home. Playing tag in the street until the moon greeted you and his mother would call his name. It's the kind of beginning all beautiful loves start with. Friends since childhood, went through life together and by 28, he would have proposed to the girl he had loved his whole life, 40s would be of dropping the kids at school, 50s of early retirement and 60s were for the potential grandkids, 70s would've been the stories shared of their early lives.

Would've...what a shit word that became in his life.

In the teenage years, after you had some glow-up, you became the girl everyone knew. The pretty, popular and funny girl the school knew of. He was the friend of the popular girl, the one people barely noticed or cared for. Simon was the same kid who always had a scar or bruise on his face, compliments from his father. One thing Simon hated more than the bastard of his father was the guy you were with. Bloke knows nothing but how to wank and fuck any living thing, he recalls.

Why were you with such a guy? It was a must. Like those cheesy movies where the pretty girl stays with the popular guy, all for the status of each other. Your feelings weren't real for that guy. He wasn't funny, wasn't smart and he wasn't Simon. The boy you shared a kiss with at age 7 because of an accidental bump whilst running through the grass.

It was during a small break between classes that you found him drinking water. You smile. He always did look good, even the stupid bruise on his jaw made him look so good.

"Y/N," he straightens up. "Simon," you smile cheekily. "Oh no, what's that smile for?" He crosses his arms over his chest and you can't help but get lost in his honey eyes. "Well...I was wondering if maybe we can...talk?" You say, unsure of how to word this confession. "Did my mum put you up to this?"

"No, this is...me just wanting to talk."

"Go on," his voice softens. Does he always do this for you?

You hesitate, but what is life without words? You breathe in and say, "I like you...there I said it and... don't stay quiet because you know I get nervous and I will continue to just talk and talk and talk and-"

He cuts you off by saying, "I'm sorry, Y/N, I... don't..think..this..well I just don't feel that way for you. We're friends, nothing more," he ends his part of the conversation, pats your back as he walks away and you are left in the corridor of the school alone.

As Simon walks to his classroom, his heart and mind fight the words that he had just said to you. Why was that mean? Did I even mean to say them? He thinks.

Graduation happens. You and he never talked after that day. Not even a congrats or a hug, life went on without him in your life. Throughout those last months in school, he felt a feeling of regret when he'd see you with that guys arm around you. He would occasionally walk around the old park just to see if you would still go on your daily walks.

By the time he was about to leave town, he found himself at the old house. He heard your parents moved to a new part of town, so if this was the last time he heard of you, it better be on his terms. And as he walks through the pavement, he finds himself looking at your window. He leans over a car, lights a cigarette and just waits to see if maybe you or some ghost roamed the home.

Was it the feeling of losing a friend that hurt or losing his one chance to feel something other than pain and hatred? Maybe it's just nervous, after all, he leaves tomorrow.

You were both just 16, it was puppy love, nothing would've lasted if he reciprocated those feelings, right?

And if it was, why does he feel some kind of hurt as he packs his bags? Why does he want to run to your new home and call your name? Is there a reason why? It's not love, it can't be love, he thinks. I'm not worthy of that, you've heard my dad, he says out loud. "Simon?" Tommy opens the door. "Tommy, not today," he looks back at his bag. "...Fuck" he whispers.

It's been a long nineteen years since he last saw you and heard your precious voice laugh at a cheesy joke of his. Nineteen years and the feeling in his chest is still there when he arrives home. Manchester was always home for him, it was the only place he knew best when he came back.

One day, as he was cleaning his closet, looking for his dog's leash, something fell and hit his head. "What the fu-" he looked down and there it was.

"Why give me this?" A thirteen-year-old Simon asked you. You smile, "You said you wish you could always be near me so you can feel safe...and since I'm going to my nans for the week, have this locket on you, and I swear I'll be there. Keep it safe, okay?" you kiss his forehead before entering the car. He nods and waves, "Call me, Y/N, please!" he calls out and you nod. "Every day!" you scream out as the car drives further away.

A smile falls on his silent lips, "...Y/N..." his thumb caresses the design. Once he opens it, he feels as if he is that young again. "Are you still there, Y/N?" He whispers and then, realisation hits. It was never nerves or whatever bullshit he told himself back then, it was love, always has.

All the dots are connecting. For the past nineteen years, he always had some love or whatever all those hookups and awful relationships were, but never did they stick around. Never did he feel more for them than what he has always felt for you. His cold heart still beating warm when he thinks of you. You are all he has ever known, the smiles, the late-night confessions, stories, the silly inside jokes, the feeling in his chest today.

He hasn't seen you in years, what if you don't remember him? What if when you see him, your heart doesn't call his name when he screams yours? Will you ever even forgive him? Will you wrap your arms around him and call him home like he has called you?

He must find you, so he calls and looks for you in every corner of this place. He finds nothing, just more lost hope at every corner he looks into. His heart and mind excited each other at the thought this would be some sappy romance moment. His mind creating a script, all truths, just finding better words to tell you he loves you, loved you the moment you kissed the similar scar on the knee at the park when he cried over the pain. He's loved you from the day he learned to say your name.

Why does he miss you so much today?

Why must you be the drug his body needs? God does he miss you and your addictive heart.

He has been around the world, where he could've found a good woman who made him happy but no, his heart has always belonged to one girl. You.

By the time he gets the street right, he finds you sitting down and as he smiles and nearly runs to you, he stops when he sees this image of you.

Sitting by the fountain, he sees you and a man. His arms wrap around your body, giving you darling kisses as you chuckle. It was then that Simon Riley knew this was it. He will spend his entire life wandering earth, looking for another soul like yours. You didn't see him of course, your fiance capturing all your attention. Simon was close to not caring and pulling you away from that man, but that would be cruel. And as he tries to make up excuses for this man being near you, he sees the ring.

Oh...oh you fool, he thinks.

His heart is near death. It screams your name, trying to find you so it can keep beating but when you don't whisper, Simon nods and lets his heart die. Let it rot, so it can learn its lesson, he thinks.

It would've never bloomed, Simon and you...right?

It's no use to even go and say hi. The locket that contained your picture was still in his fist. It'll be the last reminder of what was meant to be a life romancing in dark streets through town.

In his head, the home you dreamed of will forever be just a dream. No four kids, no library, no big kitchen so you and he can dance around at midnight. No you...no him...it'll all be stuck and dead in this town.

He crossed rivers, mountains, and enemies and survived wounds soldiers like him get, all to come home to you. And all this was for nothing. In his world, he would've married you, given you chubby babies and late Saturday mornings. No gun, no bomb and no other man would've kept him away from you.

In his mind, he is with you. In his dead heart, he sits by and watches that chubby baby learn to walk. He would've adored seeing you in a white dress, walking to him as he wiped tears away when he d his dream of a perfect life was minutes away from being real.

What a mess he is as he asks for another drink. A mess he never should have been if he had told you that your name is carved all over his body.

It was this town that saw him live and it'll be this town that sees him die because if he can't have you, at least he has this place.

A/N: Remember, I collect tears for potions, so please drop them by for collection, thank you. - The place of tears co.

Tags: @liyanahelena @mangowafflesss @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @Krinoid24 @iruzias @frazie99 @idklols @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @Juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @willowaftxn83-87 @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @queen-ilmaree @pbcartii @Llelannie @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @Nyx_Flower @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @kaoyamamegami @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @sleepyycatt @believeinthefireflies95

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